With another wild laugh the man wheeled round, staggered out of the cottage, and went his way.

"You are not hurt, I trust?" said the lady, anxiously bending down over the poor old creature, who had remained calmly seated in her chair, without the slightest appearance of alarm.

"No, I'm not hurt, thank the Lord," she answered.

"Don't you think that that was an answer to our prayer?" asked the lady with some eagerness.

Old Molly shook her head dubiously. "It may be so," she replied; "but I hev often seen 'im i' that mind, and he has gone back to it again and again, like the soo that was washed, to her wallowin' i' the mire. Yet there did seem somethin' different aboot 'im the day," she added thoughtfully; "but it iss not the first time I hev prayed for him without gettin' an answer."

"Answers do not always come as we expect them," returned her visitor; "yet they may be granted even while we are asking. I don't know how it is, but I feel sure that Jesus will save your son."

Poor little Flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance of her favourite Ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight before, quietly slipped out of old Molly's hut and went straight to that of the keeper. She found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. Flo, who was naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He started and looked round.

"Bairn! bairn!" he said grasping her little head, and kissing her forehead, "what brings ye here?"

"Muzzer says she is sure Jesus will save you; so I came to tell you, for muzzer never says what's not true."

Having delivered her consoling message, Flo ran back at once to Molly's cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had told Ivor that he was going to be saved!

While Mrs Gordon and Flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of Drumquaich. The weather was magnificent. Not a breath of air stirred the surface of the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly reproduced in the concave below. The gulls that floated on the white expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the mirror by its oars.

"Most appropriate type of Sabbath rest," said Jackman.

"Ay, but like all things here pelow," remarked Ian Anderson, who possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, "it's not likely to last long."

"What makes you think so, Ian?" asked Milly, who sat in the stern of the boat between John Barret and Aggy Anderson.

"Well, you see, muss," began Ian, in his slow, nasal tone, "the gless has bin fallin' for some time past, an'—Tonal', poy, mind your helm; see where you're steerin' to!"

Donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations of Junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back button of MacRummle's coat, and tied him to the thwart on which he sat. Being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, Donald replied, "Oo, ay," and quickly corrected the course.

"But surely," returned Milly, "there is no sign of a rapid change, at least if we may judge from the aspect of Nature; and I am a fervent believer in Nature, whatever the glass may predict."

"I am not sure o' that, muss," said Ian. "You needn't pull quite so hard, Muster Mabberly; we hev plenty o' time. Tak it easy. Well, as I wass sayin', muss, I hev seen it as calm as this i' the mornin' mony a time, an' plowin' a gale at nicht."

"Let us hope that that won't be our experience to-day," said the laird. "Anyhow, we have a good sea-boat under us."

"Weel, the poat's no' a pad wan, laird, but I hev seen petter. You see, when the wund iss richt astern, she iss given to trinkin'."

"That's like Ivor," said Junkie with a laugh; "only he is given to drinkin', no matter how the wind blows."

"What do you mean?" asked Milly, much perplexed.

Barret here explained that a boat which takes in much water over the bow is said to be given to drinking.

"I'm inclined that way myself," said Jackman, who had been pulling hard at one of the oars up to that time.

"Has any one thought of bringing a bottle of water?"

"Here's a bottle," cried MacRummle, laughing.

"Ah, sure, an' there seems to be a bottle o' milk, or somethin' white under the th'ort," remarked Quin, who pulled the bow oar.

"But that's Milly's bottle of milk," shouted Junkie.

"And Aggy's," chimed in Eddie.

"Yes—no one must touch that," said Junkie.

"Quite right, boys," said Jackman; "besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst."

On search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it.

"Is that Eagle Cliff I see, just over the knoll there?" asked Barret.

"It is," answered the laird; "don't you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? My shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but I can't say that I sympathise with the shepherd. An eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country."

"I agree with you heartily," said Barret; "and I would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer."

"Quite as bad as a murderer!" said Milly with energy. "I am glad you speak out so clearly, Mr Barret; for I fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range."

"Pray don't look so pointedly at me, Miss Moss," said Jackman; "I assure you I have no intention of attempting murder—at least not in that direction."

"Och! an' it's murder enough you've done already for wan man," said Quin in an undertone.

"Oh! I say, that reminds me. Do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, Mr Jackman," cried Junkie.

"Not just now, my boy. It's a long story. Besides, we are on our way to church! Some other time I will tell it you."

"It would take half the romance away from my mother's visit if the eagle were killed," remarked Milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis.

"Has your mother, then, decided to come?" asked Barret.

"Yes. In spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home."

"How charming that will be!" said Barret.

"Indeed!" returned Milly, with a significant look and smile.

"Of course I did not mean that," returned Barret, laughing. "I meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. Is she likely to stay long?"

"I cannot tell. That depends on so many things. But I am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here."

Barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short.

About thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. They formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. The arrival of the laird's party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church.

The building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. It might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side.

A few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. After a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. Presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. Having heard the boy's message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent Giles Jackman from hearing all that passed. The minister's horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister's legs so that he could not officiate.

"Very awkward," returned the laird, knitting his brows. "What's to be done? It seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home."

"Yes, sir, it iss akward," said the elder. "Could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel', sir, from the prezenter's dask?"

The latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount the pulpit.

"Me preach!" exclaimed the laird; "I never did such a thing in my life."

"Maype you'll read a chapter, what-e-ver," persisted the elder.

"Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born—in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?"

"So I would, sir, but my throat'll not stand it."

"Is there no other elder who could do it?"

"Not wan, sir. I'm afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation."

At this point, to the laird's relief and no little surprise, Jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, "If you have no objection, I will undertake to conduct the service."

The elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea—"Is he orthodox?"

"By all means, Mr Jackman," said the laird; "you will be doing us a great favour."

Accordingly Jackman went quietly to the precentor's desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk.

Profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small Bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. And it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the Bible seemed to be a well-worn one. Looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, Jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise—

"Friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the Gospel were few and far between, and where Christians were obliged to conduct the worship of God as best they could. Your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which I trust may not turn out to be serious, I shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts Godward, in dependence on the Holy Spirit. Let us pray."

The jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker's voice. The same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the Lord's Prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox.

Relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out—"I to the hills will lift mine eyes"—with rasping energy. At the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the Word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. The text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used Bible, Jackman said, "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."

Laying down his little Bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said—

"I have travelled in Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, and other places, and I never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. More than that, never in all my experience have I seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. The travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. In the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. Any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. Still further, I have noted that such travellers believed in their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given.

"But one journey I can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed— the journey from earth towards heaven. And here is our guide-book for that journey," said the preacher, holding up the little Bible. "How do we treat it? I do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the Bible. I ask those who call themselves Christians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their Christianity. Is it not true that many of us consult our Guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? We all wish to get on in life. The most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. Even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. Well, what says our Guide-book in regard to what is called 'getting on'? 'In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.' Now, what could be simpler—we might even say, what could be easier—than this? Him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as 'the Lord'—that is, Jesus, Immanuel, or God with us."

From this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the Great End of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the Lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore Him.

While Jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor'-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it.

Quietly, but promptly, Jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go.

"We hev that, sir," said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; "but we don't heed that, an' we are fery glad that we came, what-e-ver."

As the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. Waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off.

"I fear the sea is very rough," remarked Milly Moss, drawing close to Aggy Anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain.

"Oo, ay; it iss a wee rough," assented Ian, who now took the helm; "but we wull soon rin ower. Haud you the main sheet, Mr Mabberly, an' pe ready to let co when I tell ye. It iss a wee thing squally."

It was indeed a little more than a "wee thing squally," for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the Eagle Cliff. This was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. At the same time a blue line towards the nor'-east indicated an approaching squall.

"Had we not better take in a reef, Ian?" asked the laird anxiously.

"We had petter weather the pint first," said the boatman; "efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an'—but, ye're richt. Tak in a reef, Roderick an' Tonal'. Mind the sheet, Mr Mabberly, an' sit low in the poat, poys."

These orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. When it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but Ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety.

After that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. Still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of Kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

STIRRING EVENTS OF MORE KINDS THAN ONE.

The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.

Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.

"Come aft, poys," shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; "she's trinkin' too much; come aft, an' look sherp!"

The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.

Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.

Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly's waist and whisper, "Don't be afraid, beloved, I'll take care of you!" but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.

"Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye," said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.

An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.

"Tak anither haul o' the sheet, Maister Mabberly," cried Ian.

Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, "snorin'" past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.

Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.

"We're a' richt noo, what-e-ver," said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.

Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!

"Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an' help Rodereek to fend off," cried the boatman. "Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an' pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi' the halyards, Muster Airchie?"

"All right, Ian," replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.

They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.

"Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day," remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.

At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!

Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!

A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret's cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.

And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance, as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm's length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl's face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, "Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!" while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.

Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled "the Rescue," whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives—many of them in the manner above described.

Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.

But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.

Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself—who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork—came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal', who was not far behind him.

Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, "it was a queer way o' feenishin' off a fery extraor'nar Sawbath tay—what-e-ver!"

One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares—their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.

"I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill," observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, "but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a 'Woods and Forester.'"

"That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird," retorted Jackman, with a smile, "because it is quite possible for the 'Woods and Forester' to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles."

"Well, we shall see," returned his host. "And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?"

"I mean to have a little picnic—all by myself," said Milly; "that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson."

"D'you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?" asked Mrs Gordon.

"Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her."

"Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?" said the laird.

"Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions."

There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to make one more effort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning's discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.

Up in the nursery—that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys—poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, "I'll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an' I will go for a picnic too. Zere's plenty places for you an' me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an' we will let muzzer go wid us—if she's dood. So go, like a dood chile', an' get your things on."

As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly "dood chile," while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.

The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.

Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.

"Now I call this jolly!" said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.

"It is indeed," returned Milly; "but I don't feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart."

"To both," returned the boy, inarticulately.

"Do you think you could eat any more?" asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle—for Aggy was a facile giggler!

"No, I don't," said Junkie. "I'm stuffed!"

"Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it."

"How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly," grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.

"How old are you, Aggy?" asked Milly when he was gone.

"Sixteen last birthday," returned the girl.

"Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!" said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.

"Why?" asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.

"Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age."

"How old are you now, Miss Milly?" asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.

"Nineteen," replied the other with a sigh.

Again Aggy's pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.

"Here's the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?"

"Yes, quite enough," laughed the highly convalescent invalid.

"Well, then, come along wi' me and I'll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn't come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an' we won't be long away."

"Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return."

She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.

Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the "rare specimens" that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.

Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle—which was watching him suspiciously—downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!

At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret's power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised—if not alarmed—the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare "specimens" under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.

Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then—ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that "but then" often comes in to seal our fate—"fix our flints," as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!—but then, was not the opportunity unsought—quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?

Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.

Milly heard him rushing—in reality, walking—and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing—well—She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.

"Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago," said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. "I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!" he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; "just look at all this!"

"It is very kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret," said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. "And, oh, what a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am."

"Indeed! Do you expect her soon?"

"Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now."

Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret's face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.

Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.

Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!

Serenity was stamped on the old man's brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the "Woods and Forester." The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.

From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen debris of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.

"Ha! my puss, is that you?" he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. "I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the 'rare plants' you are so mad about. I think it is you, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you— and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you are a dear!"

He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.

"Yes, I'm right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can't make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It's so far off that—hallo!"

A sudden frown clouded the laird's face as he gave vent to that hallo.

"The rascal!" he muttered between his compressed lips. "He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!"

The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.

"For shame, you young scamp!" he continued to mutter, "taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permitted but for that ridiculous science. Ha! they've let the whole concern fall—serves 'em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do you dare to grip my niece's hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round—Stop!" shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.

That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.

"Certainly, sir," said the laird sternly; "and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation with you."

Barret was not a little surprised at the old man's tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.

"And now, Mr Gordon," added the youth, earnestly, "I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss' sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love—Oh! you know well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!"

The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.

But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth's confession.

"Observe, Mr Gordon," continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, "the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable— but I have no fear of that!"

The laird's features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.

"Well, well, Barret," he said, "since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend," he added, in more serious tones, "I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child's life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I'm glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A CHAPTER OF CATASTROPHES.

It was the very next day after the conversation in the library that the waggonette was sent over to Cove to meet the steamer and fetch Mrs Moss, who was expected to arrive. As Ian Anderson and Donald with the ragged head had to return home that day, they were offered a lift by their friend Roderick.

"I wad raither waalk, Rodereek," said Ian; "but I dar' say I may as weel tak a lift as far as the Cluff; chump up, Tonal'."

Donald was not slow to obey. Although active and vigorous as a mountain goat, he had no objection to repose under agreeable conditions.

"What think ye o' the keeper this time, Rodereek?" asked the boatman as they drove away.

"Oo, it wull be the same as last time," answered the groom. "He'll haud on for a while, an' then he wull co pack like the soo to her wallowin' i' the mire."

"I doubt ye're richt," returned Ian, with a solemn shake of the head. "He's an unstiddy character, an' he hes naither the fear o' Cod nor man pefore his eyes. But he's a plees'nt man when he likes."

"Oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. He hes given it up more than wance before, an' failed. He will co from pad to worse in my opinion. There iss no hope for him, I fear."

"Fery likely," and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a "tram" together.

Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. Curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of Ian and the groom.

"They say this is not the first time that poor Ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces," said Barret. "I fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. From all I hear I have little hope of him. It is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, Aggy Anderson."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Giles, laughing; "a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, I suppose, for I had not observed that interesting fact. But why do you speak in such pitiful tones of Aggy?"

"Because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. Sufficient reasons, I should think."

"No, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor Ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom Jesus Christ died. I have great hopes of him."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, Jackman, though I don't see that the fact of our Saviour's dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. Are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don't seem likely to be?"

"That is unquestionably true," rejoined his friend; "but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trusting only in our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation—hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe, has been brought to that condition—a condition which insures success—hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, 'Mither, I've lost all hope o' mysel' noo,' to which the old woman answered, 'That's the best news I've heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.' Ivor's reply to that was, 'I believe ye're richt, mither.' Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts."

At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.

"We separate here," said Jackman. "I need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! Botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. Oh! John Barret, my friend, may I not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet,—

"Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain, And this reciprocally that again?"

"Your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, Jackman, and, in saying that, I don't compliment you. Pray, may I ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?"

"Because of amiability—pure and simple. You know I don't care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning MacRummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and—I might almost add—his river. Wasn't it generous of him? So I'm off to have a try for 'that salmon,' and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. Good-bye, old fellow—a pleasant day to you."

Left alone, Barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. It was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if "rare specimens" knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly.

It was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! To be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that God had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for Milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity!

It is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. It is not necessarily so. Happily, it is not always so. Indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion.

Barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of Milly Moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. It was tied up in a little square paper package. There was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. It was near the stone where he had met Milly, and had given way to precipitancy. Not far from the spot also where he had made Milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards Kinlossie. No place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. He would go there.

Descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. Looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. He experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. Milly would be sorely disappointed!

"Mrs Moss has not come, I see," he said, as the groom reined up.

"Oo, ay, sir, she's come. But she iss a queer leddy. She's been chumpin' in an' oot o' the waginette a' the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. When we cam' to the heed o' the pass she chumped oot again, an' telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o' the first hull for her. She's no far ahint."

"I'll go and meet her. You can drive on, slowly."

Barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. She might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in "admiring the scenery." There would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her "chumpin'" in and out of the waggonette.

He was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in London!

To say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently—the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red—is to give but a feeble account of the situation.

"Young man," she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, "you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies."

"Madam," explained the youth, growing desperate, "you are right. I certainly have a talent—at least a misfortune—of that sort—"

He stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say.

"It is sad," continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, "that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. It was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded—not that I cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for I was not hurt—though I might have been killed—but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. Oh! it was disgraceful."

Poor Barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on.

"Spare me, madam," he cried, in desperation. "Oh; if you only knew what I have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! Believe me, it was not cowardice—well, I cannot say that exactly—but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. It was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of—of—and—then I felt ashamed before I had fled more than a few hundred yards, and I returned to the spot, but you were gone, and I had no means of—of—"

"That will do, young man. There is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. You are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, I suppose?"

"Yes. I am living in the neighbourhood," said Barret bitterly.

"Well, I am going to stay at Kinlossie House. You know Kinlossie House, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, I know it."

"There is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. I am going to be at Kinlossie for some time. If you choose to call there, I shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for I have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. Meanwhile, I wish you good morning."

Saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on.

For a considerable time Barret stood motionless, with folded arms, "admiring the scenery" with a stony stare. A stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. He suddenly kicked that violently into space. Had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! Then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride.

Mrs Moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs.

"What a dreadful young man!" she muttered, hurrying forward.

She thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found Roderick to be a very taciturn Highlander. He had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her English—or Anglicised—ears. She re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. Roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the "young shentleman" had not returned with the "leddy." But that was none of his business "what-e-ver."

As the little old lady brooded over the matter, she resolved to say nothing of the meeting to Milly. She happened to possess a spice of humour, and thought it might be well to wait until the youth should call, and then, after forgiveness sought and obtained, introduce him at Kinlossie as the young man who ran her down in London!

Meanwhile Barret walked himself into a better state of mind, clambered to a nook on the face of one of the cliffs, and sat down to meditate and consider what was best to be done.

Although he had not gone out that day to shoot, but to botanise, he carried a light double-barrelled shot gun, in case he might get a chance at a hare, which was always acceptable to the lady of Kinlossie.

While the incidents just described were being enacted at the base of the Eagle Cliff higher up, on a distant part of the same cliff, MacRummle might have been seen prowling among the grey rocks, with the spirit of Nimrod, and the aspect of Bacchus.

It was the habit of MacRummle, being half blind, to supplement his vision with that peculiar kind of glasses which support—or refuse to support—themselves on the human countenance by means of the nose. These, although admirably adapted for reading, and even for quietly fishing by the river-side, he found to be miserably unsuited for sporting among the cliffs, for they were continually tumbling off as he stumbled along, or were twitched off by his rifle when he was in the act of making false points.

Perseverance was, however, the strong point in the old man's character— if it had a strong point at all. He replaced the glasses perpetually, and kept pointing persistently. He did little more than point, because the thing that he pointed at, whatever it was, usually got out of the way before MacRummle obtained a reliable aim. With a shot gun he might have done better, for that weapon admits of snap-shooting, with some chance of success, even in feeble hands. But the old man was ambitious. His object was to "pot" something, as he expressed it, with a single ball. Of course it was not all pointing. He did fire occasionally, with no other result than awaking the echoes and terrifying the rabbits. But the memory of his former success with the same weapon was strong upon him, and perseverance, as we have said, was rampant. On the whole, the fusillade that he kept up was considerable, much to the amusement of Barret (before meeting Mrs Moss!), who rightly guessed the cause of all the noise.

About midday, like Barret, he prepared to comfort himself with lunch, and, unlike our unfortunate hero, he enjoyed it in comfort, sitting on a green patch or terrace, high up near the summit of the cliffs, and a full mile distant from the spot where the peculiar meeting took place.

Like a giant refreshed MacRummle rose from lunch, a good deal more like Bacchus, and much less like Nimrod. A rabbit had been watching him from the cliff above nearly all the time he was eating. It moved quietly into its burrow when he rose, though there was no occasion to do so, because, although within easy rifle shot, MacRummle did not see it. When the sportsman was past, the rabbit came out and looked after him.

Fixing his glasses firmly he advanced in that stooping posture, with the rifle at the "ready," which is so characteristic of keen sportsmen! Next moment a rabbit stood before him—an easy shot. It sat up on its hind legs even, as if inviting its fate, and gazed as though uncertain whether the man was going to advance or not. He did not advance, but took a steady, deadly aim, and was on the point of pulling the trigger when the glasses dropped off.

MacRummle was wonderfully patient. He said nothing. He merely replaced his glasses and looked. The rabbit was gone. Several surrounding rabbits saw it go, but did not follow its example. They evidently felt themselves safe.

Proceeding cautiously onward, the sportsman again caught sight of one of the multitude that surrounded him. It was seated on the edge of its burrow, ready for retreat. Alas! for that rabbit, if MacRummle had been an average shot, armed with a shot gun. But it was ignorant, and with the characteristic presumption of ignorance, it sat still. The sportsman took a careful and long—very long—aim, and fired! The rabbit's nose pointed to the world's centre, its tail to the sky, and when the smoke cleared away, it also was gone.

"Fallen into its hole! Dead, I suppose," was the remark with which the sportsman sought to comfort himself. A bullet-mark on a rock, however, two feet to the left of the hole, and about a foot too high, shook his faith a little in this view.

It was impossible, however, that a man should expend so much ammunition in a region swarming with his particular prey without experiencing something in the shape of a fluke. He did, after a time, get one shot which was effectual. A young rabbit sat on the top of a mound looking at him with an air of impudence which is sometimes associated with extreme youth. A fat old kinsman—or woman—was seated in a hollow some distance farther on. MacRummle fired at the young one, missed it, and shot the kinsman through the heart. The disappointment of the old man when he failed to find the young one, and his joy on discovering the kinsman, we leave to the reader's imagination.

Thus he went on, occasionally securing something for the pot, continually alarming the whole rabbit fraternity, and disgusting the eagle, which watched him from a safe distance in the ambient atmosphere above.

By degrees he worked his way along till he came to the neighbourhood of the place where poor John Barret sat in meditative dejection. Although near, however, the two friends could neither see nor get at each other, being separated by an impassable gulf—the one being in a crevice, as we have said, not far from the foot of the cliff, the other hidden among the crags near the summit. Thus it came to pass that although Barret knew of MacRummle's position by his noise, the latter was quite ignorant of the presence of the former.

"This is horrible!" muttered the youth in his crevice below.

"Now I call this charming!" exclaimed the old man on his perch above.

Such is life—viewed from different standpoints! Ay, and correctly estimated, too, according to these different standpoints; for the old man saw only the sunny surrounding of the Present, while the young one gazed into the gloomy wreck of the Future.

Being somewhat fatigued, MacRummle betook himself to a sequestered ledge among the cliffs, and sat down under a shrub to rest. It chanced to be a well concealed spot. He remained quietly there for a considerable time, discussing with himself the relative advantages of fishing and shooting. It is probable that his sudden disappearance and his prolonged absence induced the eagle to imagine that he had gone away, for that watchful bird, after several circlings on outstretched and apparently motionless wings, made a magnificent swoop downwards, and again resumed its floating action in the lower strata of its atmospheric world. There it devoted its exclusive attention to the young man, whose position was clearly exposed to its view.

As he sat there in gloomy thought, Barret chanced to raise his eyes, and observed the bird high above him—far out of gunshot.

"Fortunate creature!" he said aloud; "whatever may be the troubles of your lot, you are at least safe from exasperating rencontres with your future mother-in-law!"

We need not point out to the intelligent reader that Barret, being quite ignorant of the eagle's domestic relations, indulged in mere assumptions in the bitterness of his soul.

He raised his fowling-piece as he spoke, and took a long, deliberate aim at the bird.

"Far beyond range," he said, lowering the gun again; "but even if you were only four yards from the muzzle, I would not fire, poor bird! Did not Milly say you were noble, and that it would be worse than murder to kill you? No, you are safe from me, at all events, even if you were not so wary as to keep yourself safe from everybody. And yet, methinks, if MacRummle were still up there, he would have the chance of giving you a severe fright, though he has not the skill to bring you down."

Now it is well-known to trappers and backwoodsmen generally that the most wary of foxes, which cannot by any means be caught by one trap, may sometimes be circumvented by two traps. It is the same with decoys, whether these be placed intentionally, or place themselves accidentally. On this occasion Barret acted the part of a decoy, all unwittingly to that eagle or to MacRummle.

In its extreme interest in the youth's proceedings the great bird soared straight over his head, and slowly approached the old man's position. MacRummle was not on the alert. He never was on the alert! but his eyes chanced to be gazing in the right direction, and his glasses happened to be on. He saw it coming—something big and black! He grasped his repeater and knocked his glasses off.

"A raven, I think! I'll try it. I should like it as a trophy—a sort of memorial of—"

Bang!

The man who was half blind, who had scarcely used gun or rifle all his life, achieved that which dead shots and ardent sportsmen had tried in vain for years—he shot the eagle right through the heart, and that, too, with a single bullet!

Straight down it fell with a tremendous flutter, and disappeared over the edge of its native cliff.

MacRummle went on his knees, and, craning his neck, replaced his glasses; but nothing whatever could be seen, save the misty void below. Shrinking back from the giddy position, he rose and pulled out his watch.

"Let me see," he muttered, "it will take me a full hour to go round so as to reach the bottom. No; too late. I'll go home, and send the keeper for it in the morning. The eagle may have picked its bones by that time, to be sure; but after all, a raven is not much of a trophy."

While he was thus debating, a very different scene was taking place below.

Barret had been gazing up at the eagle when the shot was fired. He saw the spout of smoke. He heard the crashing shot and echoes, and beheld the eagle descending like a thunder-bolt. After that he saw and heard no more, for, in reaching forward to see round a projecting rock that interfered with his vision, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong from the cliff. He had not far to fall, indeed, and a whin bush broke the force of the shock when he did strike; but he was rendered insensible, and rolled down the remainder of the slope to the bottom. There he lay bruised, bleeding, and motionless on the grass, close to the road, with his bent and broken gun beneath him, and the dead eagle not more than a dozen yards from his side!

"It is not like Barret to be late," observed the laird that evening, as he consulted his watch. "He is punctuality itself, as a rule. He must have fallen in with some unusually interesting plants. But we can't wait. Order dinner, my dear, for I'm sure that my sister must be very hungry after her voyage."

"Indeed I am," returned the little old lady, with a peculiar smile. "Sea-sickness is the best tonic I know of, but it is an awful medicine to take."

"Almost as good as mountain air," remarked MacRummle, as they filed out of the drawing-room. "I do wish I had managed to bring that raven home."

At first the party at dinner was as merry as usual. The sportsmen were graphic in recounting the various incidents of the day; Mrs Moss was equally graphic on the horrors of the sea; MacRummle was eulogistic of repeating rifles, and inclined to be boastful about the raven, which he hoped to show them on the morrow, while Milly proved herself, as usual, a beautiful and interested listener, as well as a most hearty laugher.

But as the feast went on they became less noisy. Then a feeling of uneasiness manifested itself, but no one ventured to suggest that anything might have occurred to the absentee until the evening had deepened into night. Then the laird started up suddenly. "Something must have happened to our friend," he exclaimed, at the same time ringing the bell violently. "He has never been late before, and however far he may have gone a-field, there has been more than time for him to return at his slowest pace. Duncan," (as the butler entered), "turn out all the men and boys as fast as you can. Tell Roderick to get lanterns ready—as many as you have. Gentlemen, we must all go on this search without another moment's delay!"

There is little need to say that Barret's friends and comrades were not slow to respond to the call. In less than a quarter of an hour they were dispersed, searching every part of the Eagle Cliff, where he had been last seen by Giles Jackman.

They found him at last, pale and blood-stained, making ineffectual efforts to crawl from the spot where he had fallen, both the eagle and the broken gun being found beside him.

"No bones broken, thank God!" said Giles, after having examined him and bound up his wounds. "But he is too weak to be questioned. Now, lads, fetch the two poles and the plaid. I'll soon contrive a litter."

"All right, old fellow! God bless you!" said Barret, faintly, as his friend bent over him.

Roderick and Ivor raised him softly, and, with the eagle at his side, bore him towards Kinlossie House. Soon after, their heavy tramp was heard in the hall as they carried him to his room, and laid him gently in bed.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SUSPICIONS, REVELATIONS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages—it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies!

She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.

Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a "clean breast of it," as he had at first intended to do.

"Oh! Mr Barret," she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, "I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly's life. Now, don't say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do—"

"But, dear madam," interrupted the invalid, "allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours—"

"Sail under false colours! Explain!" repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. "What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, and she is not given to colouring things falsely."

"Excuse me, Mrs Moss," said Barret; "I did not mean that. I only—"

"I don't care what you mean, Mr Barret," said the positive little woman; "it's of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won't listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence."

Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.

So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.

"Milly," said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, "have you mentioned it yet to your mother?"

"Yes, John," replied Milly, blushing in spite of—nay, rather more in consequence of—her efforts not to do so. "I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove."

"Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me—since this morning?"

"Yes, John."

"And she is still of the same mind—not shocked or shaken by my appearance?"

"She is still of the same mind," returned Milly; "and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles—I—I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts."

"I'm glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else."

"Indeed!" said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.

"Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?"

"Yes; she wrote to me about it," replied Milly, with an amused smile. "You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?"

"Milly," said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, "I am that cowardly man!"

"Now, John, you are jesting."

"Indeed—indeed I am not."

"Do you really mean to say that it was you who ran against my—Oh! you must be jesting!"

"Again I say I am not. I am the man—the coward."

"Well, dear John," said Milly, flushing considerably, "I must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain."

"I will explain," said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly's affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter.

"And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?" she asked.

"Not the remotest."

"Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character."

Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.

There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind—"and so modest" withal!

Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed—

"Talking of insolence, my dear—"

"Were we talking of insolence, mother?" said Milly, with a surprised smile.

"Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?"

"No—no. I—I only want to get the light a little more at my back—to keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about? I'm anxious to know."

If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming!

"Well, of course you remember about that young man—that—that cowardly young man who—"

"Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes, I know," interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. "I remember well. The monster! What about him?"

"You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him here—in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again—all but." She added the last two words in order to save her veracity.

"You don't really mean it?" exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. "With a bicycle?"

It was the mother's turn to laugh now.

"No, you foolish thing; even I have capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous—frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable—I had almost said detestable—youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at such a pace that, as I have said, he all but ran into my arms and knocked me down."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief.

"Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!"

As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!

"Why do you laugh so much, child?" asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits.

"Well, you know, mother, if you will compare a man's laugh to a hundred hyenas—"

"I didn't compare the man's voice," interrupted Mrs Moss; "I said that the cliffs—"

"That's worse and worse! Now, mother, don't get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked—this dreadful young man. What was he like?"

"Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour—nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him."

"Did he not say he was sorry?" asked Milly in some surprise.

"Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena."

"You said a hundred hyenas, mother."

"No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don't interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving."

"I know it well, dear mother!"

"So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come."

"No, and he never will come!" said Milly, with a hearty laugh.

"How do you know that, puss?" asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.

Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.

"Strange girl!" muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious—we might almost say captious—operations before the looking-glass. "The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!"

She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question—in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent—when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret's sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.

"Milly," said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, "what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?"

"Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt."

As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levees costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.

Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.

One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.

"I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me," she said; "yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don't think I ever did hear a voice in a dream."

Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied—

"I don't know," he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, "that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don't you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs—each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before."

"Philosophically put, Barret," said Mabberly; "I had no idea you thought so profoundly."

"H'm! I'm not so sure of the profundity," said the little old lady, pursing her lips; "no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman's voice, and Mr Mabberly's, and the laird's, and everybody's."

"Well said, sister; you have him there!" cried the laird with a guffaw; "but don't lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?"

"Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories."

"Oh!" exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, "he hasn't told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?"

"No, not yet, Junkie," returned Barret; "he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present."

"Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I'll go an call Eddie and Archie," pleaded the boy.

"You will call in vain, then," said his father, "for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late—What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!"

"That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?" asked MacRummle.

"Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried 'Now,' for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two—I don't know how many—and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an' shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen."

"Oh, it'll be the same as usual," remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. "There's always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, and he wagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an' I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It's a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won't you tell about the elephants to us, Mr Jackman? There's plenty of us here—please!"

"Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it—some wet day, perhaps."

"Then there'll be no more wet days this year, if I've to wait for that," returned the urchin half sulkily.

That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.

"Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother," said Giles.

"That will not I," said Milly with a laugh.

"I have decided what to do," said Barret. "I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in—"

"She's alone now," said Milly. "I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know."

"Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes."

Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.

"'Richard's himself again!' Allow me to congratulate you," cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. "But, I say, don't you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?"

Barret looked at Milly.

"I think not," said Milly. "As uncle often says of dear mother, 'she is tough.'"

"Well, I'll go," said Barret.

In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; "there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with."

"I thought, madam," said Barret in a low voice, "that you would know me better with my cap on—"

He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.

"Forgive me," cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.

"Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I've knocked her down again!" he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.

They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.

"Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock," she said, in a faint voice.

"Indeed it has been, darling mother," returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother's hair; "and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?"

"I don't feel hurt, dear," returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; "and don't you think that if I were hurt I should feel it?"

"Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are so much hurt that they can't feel it."

"True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see— no thanks to that—th-to John Barret."

"Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it—"

"No wonder," interrupted the old lady. "To think of my being violently knocked down twice—almost three times—by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us—I might almost say mixed up with us."

"But, mother, he never meant it, you know—"

"I should think not!" interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic laugh.

"No, indeed," continued Milly, with some warmth; "and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account—"

"Milly," cried Mrs Moss quickly, "is all that I have suffered on his account to count for nothing?"

"Of course not, dear mother. I don't mean that; you don't understand me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done."

"Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his conscience is not himself. People cannot avoid what conscience says to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, 'we are all that you call us, and more.'"

"Well, that is exactly what John has done," said Milly, with increasing, warmth. "He has said all that, and more to me—"

"To you?" interrupted Mrs Moss; "yes, but you are not his conscience, child!"

"Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I'm not, I am next thing to it, for he says everything to me!" returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush. "And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened."

"Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been," returned Mrs Moss. "However, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I have a great opinion of that young man's knowledge of medicine and surgery, though he is only an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire forgiveness."

Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message.

After careful examination and much questioning, "Dr" Jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.

It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot, Quin remarked to the housemaid,—"Sure, it's a quare evint entirely," with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.

"Aunt Moss is a buster," was Junkie's ambiguous opinion, in which Flo and the black doll coincided.

"Tonal'," said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, "the old wumman iss a fery tough person."

To which "Tonal'" assented, "she iss, what-e-ver."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

ELEPHANTS AGAIN—FOLLOWED BY SOMETHING MORE AWFUL.

There came a rainy day at last at Kinlossie House. Such days will come at times in human experience, both in metaphor and fact. At present we state a fact.

"It will bring up the fush," was Roderick's remark, as he paused in the operation of cleaning harness to look through the stable door on the landscape; "an' that wull please Maister MacRummle."

"It will pe good for the gress too, an' that will please Muss Mully," said Donald, now permanently appointed to the stables.

"H'm! she wull pe carin' less for the gress, poy, than she wass used to do," returned the groom. "It iss my opeenion that they wull pe all wantin' to co away sooth pefore long."

We refer to the above opinions because they were shared by the party assembled in Barret's room, which was still retained as a snuggery, although its occupant was fully restored to normal health and vigour.

"You'll be sure to get 'that salmon' next time you try, after all this rain, MacRummle," said Mabberly. "At least, I hope you will before we leave."

"Ay, and you must have another try with the repeater on the Eagle Cliff, Mac. It would never do to leave a lone widdy, as Quin calls it, after murdering the husband."

"Perhaps I may have another day there," answered the old gentleman, with a pleased smile; for although they roasted him a good deal for mistaking an eagle for a raven, and only gave him credit for a "fluke," it was evident that he congratulated himself not a little on his achievement.

"Archie is having an awful time skinning and stuffing it," said Eddie, who sat by the window dressing trout flies.

Junkie, who was occupied at another window, mending the top of his rod, remarked that nothing seemed to give Archie so much pleasure as skinning and stuffing something. "He's always doing it," said the youngster. "Whatever happens to die, from a tom-cat to a tom-tit, he gets hold of. I do believe if he was to die, he would try to skin and stuff himself!"

At that moment Archie entered the room.

"I've got it nearly done now," he said, with a pleased expression, while he rubbed his not-over-clean hands. "I'll set him up to-night and photograph him to-morrow, with Flo under his wings to show his enormous size."

"Oh! that minds me o' the elephants," cried Junkie, jumping up and running to Jackman, who was assisting. Barret to arrange plants for Milly. "We are all here now—an' you promised, you know."

A heavy patter of rain on the window seemed to emphasise Junkie's request by suggesting that nothing better could be done.

"Well, Junkie, I have no objection," said the Woods-and-Forester, "if the rest of the company do not object."

As the rest of the company did not object, but rather expressed anxiety to hear about the hunt, Jackman drew his chair near to the fire, the boys crowded round him, and he began with,—"Let me see. Where was I?"

"In India, of course," said Junkie. "Yes; but at what part of the hunt?"

"Oh! you hadn't begun the hunt at all. You had only made Chand somethin' or other, Isri Per-what-d'ee-call-it, an' Raj Mung-thingumy give poor Mowla Buksh such an awful mauling."

"Just so. Well, you must know that next day we received news of large herds of elephants away to the eastward of the Ganges, so we started off with all our forces—hunters, matchlock-men, onlookers, etcetera, and about eighty tame elephants. Chief among these last were the fighting elephants, to which Junkie gave such appropriate names just now, and king of them all was the mighty Chand Moorut, who had never been known to refuse a fight or lose a victory since he was grown up.

"It was really grand to see this renowned mountain of living flesh towering high above his fellows. Like all heroes, he was calm and dignified when not in action—a lamb in the drawing-room, a lion in the field. Even the natives, accustomed as they were to these giants, came to look at him admiringly that morning as he walked sedately out of camp. He was so big that he seemed to grow bigger while you looked at him, and he was absolutely perfect in form and strength—the very Hercules of brutes.

"The trackers had marked down a herd of wild elephants, not three miles distant, in a narrow valley, just suited to our purpose. On reaching the ground we learned that there was, in the jungle, a 'rogue' elephant—that is, an old male, which had been expelled from the herd. Such outcasts are usually very fierce and dangerous. This one was a tusker, who had been the terror of the neighbourhood, having killed many people, among them a forester, only a few days before our arrival.

"As these 'rogues' are always very difficult to overcome, and are almost sure to injure the khedda, or tame elephants of the hunt, if an attempt is made to capture them, we resolved to avoid him, and devote our attention entirely to the females and young ones. We formed a curious procession as we entered the valley—rajah and civilians, military men and mahowts, black and white, on pads and in howdahs—the last being the little towers that you see on elephants' backs in pictures.

"Gun-men had been sent up to the head of the valley to block the way in that direction. The sides were too steep for elephants to climb. Thus we had them, as it were, in a trap, and formed up the khedda in battle array. The catching, or non-combatant elephants, were drawn up in two lines, and the big, fighting elephants were kept in reserve, concealed by bushes. The sides of the valley were crowded with matchlock-men, ready to commence shouting and firing at a given signal, and drive the herd in the direction of the khedda.

"It was a beautiful forenoon when we commenced to move forward. All nature seemed to be waiting in silent expectation of the issue of our hunt, and not a sound was heard, the strictest silence having been enjoined upon all. Rich tropical vegetation hung in graceful lines and festoons from the cliffs on either side, but there was no sign of the gun-men concealed there. The sun was—"

"Oh! bother the sun! Come on wi' the fight," exclaimed the impatient Junkie.

"All in good time, my boy. The sun was blazing in my eyes, I was going to say, so, you see, I could not make out the distant view, and therefore, can't describe it," ("Glad of it," murmured the impertinent Junkie); "but I knew that the wild elephants were there, somewhere in the dense jungle. Suddenly a shot was heard at the head of the valley. We afterwards learned that it had been fired over the head of a big tusker elephant that stood under a tree not many yards from the man who fired. Being young, like Junkie, and giddy, it dashed away down the valley, trumpeting wildly; and you have no conception how active and agile these creatures can be, if you have seen only the slow, sluggish things that are in our Zoos at home! So terrible was the sound of this elephant's approach, that the ranks of the khedda elephants were thrown into some confusion, and the mahowts had difficulty in preventing them from turning tail and running away. Our leader, therefore, ordered the gladiator, Chand Moorut, to the front. Indeed, Chand ordered himself to the front, for no sooner did he hear the challenge of the tusker, than he dashed forward alone to accept it, and his mahowt found it almost impossible to restrain him. Fortunately the jungle helped the mahowt by hiding the tusker from view.