With such like airy castle building John amused himself till he reached Mr. Scott's where he heard that Marion still continued very ill.

"I am so glad you have brought us the jelly," said Mrs. Scott, "for her throat is very sore, and our own minister's family are all gone to Edinburgh. The General Assembly is coming on, and he is a member this year." The General Assembly is a meeting of clergymen, chosen from the different districts of Scotland. They assemble at Edinburgh once a year, to judge and determine on the church affairs, that are brought before them, from all parts of the country.

John only waited to hear how Marion was, and then with a sorrowful heart, prepared to depart, when he saw Mr. Scott coming towards him. Mr. Scott had a bunch of cuttings, from the hot-house plants in his hands, and, holding them out to John, he said, "Here, yonker; You may have these, if you like to take the trouble of carrying them; and, if you take pains and put them into pots, they will grow and be very pretty; but you must water them regularly, and in cold weather keep them within doors. I dare say Mrs. Martin will thank you for them. If you will step with me into the tool-house, I will give you some pots; for, perhaps, there may not be any at the Minister's house."

John very thankfully accepted this offer, and Mr. Scott putting half a dozen within each other, contrived to stow them into the wicker basket. At first the delight which John felt at bringing home such a treasure, prevented him from feeling the great weight of the basket; but he had not walked far before he was obliged to put it down and stop to rest. He took it up again, but the further he walked the oftener was he obliged to stop; for Mr. Scott had considered more the size of the pots that his plants required, than the strength of the carrier. "Oh, dear!" said John, at last, "I do believe I shall be kept as long upon the road, with this heavy basket, as Archie Kerr was in going to Langholm. What shall I do with it? I cannot be so very ungrateful as to leave it on the road, after Mr. Scott has been so kind as to give the pots to me; and how I shall get it home, I am sure, I do not know. It will be dark night before I can reach the Manse."

Just as he took it up, to proceed a little farther, he heard the voice of some one singing near the spot where he was: he listened, and thought it came from the river side; but the trees that grew in that direction prevented him from seeing. He therefore put down his basket and ran across the road, to try if he could discover whether it was any one he knew; and, to his great delight, found it was Tom, David Little's son. Tom, as soon as he saw John, skipped up to him and shook hands most cordially. "I am so glad to see you," said he, "for you will tell Miss Helen that my chickens are all alive yet; and mammy says if they live another week, I shall then be pretty sure of rearing them, if I take care always to shut them up at night, to prevent the fox from getting at them. They are nasty, greedy, cruel creatures, these foxes and mammy says, I cannot be too watchful to preserve my chickens from them; for they are very cunning, and are always ready to seize the first opportunity of snapping up any thing that is left in their way." John agreed, that all Tom said was quite true; for he remembered, he had suffered himself from the depredations; having had a whole brood of young ducks devoured in one night, when he lived near Langholm. He then told Tom the distress he was in about his basket. Tom immediately cried, "O, I will tell you how we will manage. Do you take out three of the pots, and give them to me; and I will carry them as far as the Manse for you; for my mammy will not expect me home for two hours. She bade me go out and give Colly a walk; for he is quite stupid, and even ill, for want of his usual exercise on the hills; so I thought I would come down the glen and see the place where my daddy fell; and, do you know the sensible beast ran directly up to the place, and lifted up in his mouth my daddy's whip, which had been left there, I suppose, ever since that terrible night. Look at it. It is a good whip, and my daddy will be glad to have it back again; for he gave a shilling for it the last time he went to Langhold with his master's cart; and surely he grudged the price, but he was obliged to have it, for he could not drive the cart home without it." "Well," said John, "if you really think, Tom, that your mammy won't be frightened at your being so long, I shall be much obliged to you to help me with my load; and I shall perhaps be able, some day, to do you a favour, when you stand in as much need of assistance as I do now."

Having divided the load, they found they could now very easily get along; and they went on chatting, till all at once John recollected the measles. "My dear Tom," asked he, "pray, tell me, have you ever had the measles?"

"No," replied Tom, "I have never had them, and mammy is very particular in telling me, never go into any of the houses in the glen when they are there. All the children, round us, had them last summer, but mammy never let us go down the steps till they were quite gone, and so we escaped; but why do you ask?"

John was silent for a minute, thinking how nearly he had led the poor little fellow into a danger his mother had taken so much pains to guard him against: he then said, "Tom, we must stop, and you must go home directly. I dare say I shall manage to get the basket home some way or other; but you must, on no account, go near the Manse. Miss Helen has got the measles and is very ill. Besides," continued John, "poor Marion Scott has got them very bad indeed, and I think you had best go home directly and tell your mammy, for the disease will soon spread all around, and I think you will be safest up the steps at this time, as you were last summer." "I shall not like that at all," said Tom, "I was so tired living up there. I was just as Colly is, and I dare say it will be the believe, John, you are right; for it would never do for any of us to be ill when my daddy is in the bed, and we are all obliged, till he is better, to sleep on some straw, in the inner room, that we may not disturb him. But tell Miss Helen all about the chickens, and that I am very sorry to hear she is ill. Good bye to you, I hope you may meet somebody else who has had the measles, and then they need not be afraid of helping you home with the basket."

John was really glad when he saw Tom fairly gone. The consequences of the poor child catching the disease, at this time, appeared to him dreadful; and he began to think how fortunate he had been in recollecting the measles before he had brought him into the Manse. With this comfortable reflection, John trudged on with the basket, and, occupied with this own thoughts, he did not feel the weight so overpowering as he had done before he met Tom; he was however, obliged at last again to stop. As he was resting himself, he saw a girl, about twelve years old, running down the holm towards him. When she came up, she said "You don't know me, John Telfer; but I am Peggy Oliphant, Mr. Elliott's herd-girl, that lives up in that cottage, (pointing to the very cottage John had been planning for Master William,) and Tom Little, whom I met as I was coming down, asked me to run forward and help you with your basket, as I am going as far as Langholm, on an errand of my mistress; you need not be afraid to let me go to the Manse, for I have had the measles, and so has all my master's children; we all had them last year."

"Thank you, Peggy," said John, "it is very kind of you, and very attentive, in such a little boy as Tom is, to think of me and my basket; I am sure I shall be glad of your assistance, for I am quite tired with it." "Oh!" answered Peggy, "I shall do it with the greatest pleasure, that, or any thing else, for any one that belongs to our good Minister; I was sorely vexed to hear that Miss Helen was so bad. But have you heard the news?" "No," answered John, "what is it?" "As I was taking away the breakfast things this morning, Nanny being busy about something in the kitchen, I heard my master read in the paper, that Capt. Elliott, your mistress's brother, had been fighting with a French frigate, and had taken her; and that he had brought her into some port in England, but I forget the name. My master said he was glad of it, for the Captain was a brave fellow, and an honour to the name of Elliott: and my mistress added, now Mrs. Martin will get a sight of her only brother; in the last letter he wrote to her, he promised that the first time he came into port, he would endeavour to get leave of absence, to come down and see his old mother, from whom he had been absent now for ten years."

"This is news, indeed, Peggy," replied John. "I am sure I wish it may be true. I only hope he may not come before Miss Helen is better, for that would spoil all my mistress's pleasure." Peggy and John went chatting along till they reached the Manse, when they parted, John thanking her very heartily for the assistance she had given him in carrying the flowerpots.

As soon as he got in, he went and tapped at the study door. "Come in, John," said Mr. Martin, "I heard your voice in the kitchen. Pray, how is Marion?" "Very bad, indeed, Sir. Mrs. Scott said she had not slept all night, and was quite delirious this morning. Mr. Armstrong said, that he hoped the measles would be fully out by the evening, and he thought she would then be better." After John had finished delivering his message, he stood still and seemed hesitating whether to go or remain. Mr. Martin at last observed this, and asked him if he had any thing more to say. "Why, yes, Sir, if I thought that it would be right to tell you what I have heard; but as it was only Peggy Oliphant that told me, I am afraid it may not be true; as, I think, you or my mistress would have had a letter yourselves, if the news had been really what she says." "What is it, my dear, that you have heard? Peggy Oliphant's news I think cannot be of any great consequence." "Yes, but it is, Sir, should it be true; for she says her master read in the paper this morning that Capt. Elliott has taken a French ship and has brought her safe to England." "That is indeed important, John, and I must lose no time in ascertaining the truth of it. Have you mentioned this story to any one but me?" "No, Sir, not a word; I thought it best to come and tell it to you directly." "That is right, my man; now you must promise not to tell any other person a word of the matter till I return; I shall go up to Mr. Elliott's and see the paper myself, before I say any thing to my wife, least it should prove some mistake of Peggy Oliphant's."

Mr. Martin set out immediately for Mr. Elliott's, saying to his wife, he was going to take a little walk. And John, having asked how Miss Helen was, and heard she was continuing better, set about planting his greenhouse slips. He found he had two or three different kinds of geraniums, a rose-bush, and one or two myrtles. "O," said he to Nelly, who stood by while he planted them, "I wish they may thrive, I shall have such pleasure in giving them to Miss Helen, when she is better. Do you think the Minister would let them stand in the study window, if I was to ask him? for the sun shines best there, and I will take great care not to make any dirt when I water them in the evening; you know, Nelly, I am to come here every night to read to the Minister, and I can water them then." "You come here every night to read to the Minister! You are surely dreaming, child; what can you mean?" "Indeed and in very truth, I am saying nothing but what he told me himself; and besides that he has settled it all with Mr. Laurie; I am sure it is very kind of him: but, Nelly, do you know, I am half afraid to come to him as a scholar, for when my poor father used to teach me, I was sometimes very stupid and could not understand what he told me? Now, if I should be so with the Minister, what will become of me? I cannot expect him to have the patience with me that my father had; and if he should be very angry with me, I shall be so frightened I shall wish I had refused his kind offer; it must be a fearful thing to make the Minister angry." "It is both a fearful thing and a wicked thing," answered Nelly; "but there is one comfort for you, it is not very easily done. If it really is as you say, that master his own self will condescend to teach you, James Telfer, the shoemaker's son, to read! you must try, with all your might, to learn as fast as you can, that you may give him as little trouble as possible. Refuse, indeed, such an offer! you would have made him angry in good earnest then, I believe, and with some reason. But," continued she, "above all things, be obedient, and do all he desires you." Then, after being silent a little, she said, as if to herself, "I should think he might have had enough of teaching, after all the trouble and sorrow his own son cost him. I am sure, if that little violent monkey had not been sent to school, he would have been the death of my master. I never wish to hear of his teaching boys again, so little like sweet Miss Helen; but it is all out of charity, I see that very well; just like his kind heart."

Nelly proceeded now to prepare for dinner, and John, after planting his slips, carried them to the green, and set them all in a row, that Mr. Martin might see them, and give him an opportunity of asking his leave to place them on the outside of his window. He had but just got them all ready, when seeing Mr. Martin walking very quick up the lane, he ran to open the gate. "It is all true, John." said his master. "Capt. Elliott has really gained a great victory. It will be quite a cordial to your mistress in the midst of her present uneasiness." So saying, without observing John's plants, he hastened into the house, and went up to rejoice his wife's heart with the good news. Helen was too unwell to be told any thing of the matter at that time, as her mother was afraid of agitating her.

After dinner Mr. Martin observed from his window the flowerpots standing on the green. "Where can these great flowerpots have come from?" asked he. "Look at them, my dear, I cannot think who can have put them there." "I am sure I don't know," said she, "how they came there, but we can soon ring and ask." John was upon the watch, and as soon as he understood what was wanted, came forward and made his request. "Certainly, my dear, you may place them where you please; they are very pretty, and I think from their appearance, they are likely to do you credit. Helen will be very proud of her present; but how did you get the pots? I really did not know I had such a thing in the garden." "I brought them with me from Mr. Scott's," said John. "He gave me them with the plants." "Why, you surely did not carry these heavy pots all that long way." "No, Sir, I cannot say that I carried them all the way, for Tom Little carried some of them, until I thought of the measles, and then I sent him back. Peggy Oliphant helped me down the holm, and it was then she told me the story of Capt. Elliott." "Upon my word, John, you are a very active little fellow, and deserve to succeed in what you undertake, you are so persevering; I only hope I shall find you equally industrious when you begin your reading lessons with me; you remember we are to keep school for the first time tomorrow evening." "Yes, Sir, I shall be sure to remember," said John as he left the room.



CHAP. VII.

In the evening he took leave of Mr. Martin's family, with a very sorrowful heart, and set off for Mr. Laurie's. When he reached the house, the maid bade him come in and sit down near the fire. The other servants began to assemble, and in about ten minutes the supper was ready. It consisted of boiled potatoes and whey, the common supper for farm servants. Jeannie, the cook, then pressed John to eat: "he is shy yet, poor thing; but you need not be afraid, if you are a good boy. Our master will be very kind to you; and Will, the shepherd, is one of the drollest and best natured fellows in the dale, and will keep you laughing all day long, when he goes to the hill with you. You had best take care of his tricks, however, for he is very fond of playing them off upon people, but they are always harmless." Just as she finished this consoling address the door opened, and in came Will, the shepherd. He was a stout, sun-burnt, good-looking man of about thirty years of age, fun and good nature being strongly expressed in his face. "Ah! have you all begun, and not waited for me? I think that is not very good manners, considering that I am the life of the company," he said, laughing, as he drew his chair near the table: "and whom have we among us in this corner, looking so grave? I dare say it is my new herd-boy, that our master was talking about this morning. Come, man, cheer up, we shall be as merry as grigs to-morrow on the hill. You'll never have a grave face in my company, I promise you, long together." "I have been telling him, Will," said Jeannie, "I was sure you would be kind to him, so that he had no need to be frightened. And indeed," continued she, in a sort of whisper, "who would not be kind to a poor orphan boy like him?" "Now my lad," said Will, "I must try what you are good for, and send you on your first errand. Go into the stable for me; it stands on the left hand as you go out, and at the back of the door you will see a coat hanging up; put your hand in to the pocket, and bring me a whistle you will find there. I have been making it, Jeannie, for your nephew, Tom Little; poor fellow, he was so good natured the other day, in running down to help me to drive the sheep over the hill; he is too young yet to be a herd; but if he live he will be a fine, active, spirited fellow, some day. I promised him a whistle, and I never break my word."

John found the whistle where Will had directed him to look, and brought it to him. "Now, that is a clever fellow; and I think the least I can do, in return, is to play you a tune. I hope you like music; it is the chief pleasure we shepherds have; and it seems to me that it never sounds so sweetly as it does up among the hills." So saying, he began to play a pretty Scotch air upon Tom's whistle. When he had finished, John, whose eyes were sparkling with delight (for he did, indeed, like music), lost part of his timidity, and starting up said, "And did you make that whistle all yourself?" "That I did, my man; and I am glad it has made you find your tongue; for I began to be afraid that master had got a dumb boy for a herd; and that would not suit me at all. If I find you a brisk, merry fellow, that can sing a song, and dance a reel at times, you shall have a whistle too; and, perhaps I may teach you to make it yourself; but it will all depend upon your good behaviour. If you were always to look as grave as you were when I first saw you, I don't think I should ever trouble my head about you; but we had better go to bed. Mind that you be ready for me tomorrow morning; I do not like to be kept waiting."

In the morning, John took good care not to keep Will waiting; but was up and standing at the door when he made his appearance. "So you are ready, I see, my lad; that's well: but take care you continue alert; for that stupid boy, Sandy Laing, whom we had last, was the plague of my life, he never was ready; and somehow he contrived always to put me out of humour before we began our day's work; and then all went wrong." Will led John across a little wooden bridge that was near the farm, and after walking three miles over the hills, they came to the place were the sheep were penned. Another shepherd had been left with the dogs to guard them through the night, who, immediately after giving up his charge, set off to bed. After letting the sheep out to feed, and giving John all the necessary instructions how to manage both them and the dogs, which, when well-trained, are of the most singular importance to the shepherd, Will asked John what he had brought with him to do all day? John very innocently said, he never had thought of doing any thing, but watching the sheep. "Watching the sheep!" cried Will, "that to be sure you must do; but, if you take care to direct the dogs right, they will do that, without giving you much trouble. It will never answer for you to have nothing but that to employ yourself on. You must either bring a book with you, if you can read well enough, or else you must learn to knit, or make a whistle; or, in short, any thing but being idle. No herd of mine, that I care a farthing for, shall ever be a lazy fellow if I can help it; so, if you can keep a secret, I will tell you one. I have in my pocket some knitting needles and some worsted, which I will lend you. Knitting is easily learnt, and you may then help me to work some stockings for David Little, that met with that ugly accident the other day. When he begins to go about, he will want stockings to keep his poor broken leg warm. But you need not speak of this down at the farm; mind that, or I shall never trust you again with any of my secrets; it would spoil all the pleasure of my present." John promised faithfully to be silent, as to the stockings; and, having accepted the offer of being taught to knit, succeeded far better than he had expected himself, as he was a willing boy. "Very well, John," said Will, "you will make a famous knitter in your time; and you will, perhaps, thank Will Oliver all your life, for having taught you to be so useful. When you have become expert at it, you may always keep yourself neat and tidy about the legs, on Sundays and handsel Mondays. Besides, you will dance the better, when a wedding comes round; and I should be ashamed, at my wedding, which will perhaps be sooner than some folks know of," added he, laughing, "if my herd were to dance in any thing but hose of his own working."

Thus encouraged, John persevered; and, by dinner-time, he had learned the stitch perfectly. Meanwhile, the sheep had wandered farther up the hill, and Will thought it proper to follow them; so, sometimes whistling, sometimes singing, he beguiled the time, till they reached the very top of the highest hill. When John had got thus far, he was surprised, on looking down, to see that he was almost directly opposite to Mr. Scott's, at Craigie Hall. "Oh dear," said he, "what would I give to know how poor Marion is." "What is that you are saying, boy?" said Will, "Do you know any thing of Mr. Scott's family?" "That I do," said John; and immediately related all that had passed the day he had been there with Mr. Martin. He hesitated a good deal when he got to that part of the story about the spurs; but Will, who saw there was some sort of secret in the way, soon contrived to get it out of him, and laughed so loud and so long at poor John's mishap, that the latter was vexed at having said any thing about it. But when Will had his laugh out, he said, "Well, John, since you are anxious to hear of Marion, I will wait for you here; and you can easily run down the hill. You will find stepping stones across the river, almost exactly opposite the house, so that you may go and be back to me in half an hour. Off with you, my boy, and let me see if you can be trusted." John lost no time in reaching Mr. Scott's, where he learnt, to his great consolation, that Marion was now doing well, and that Mr. Armstrong considered her out of danger.

When John returned, Will, making a known signal to the dogs, ordered them to bring in the sheep, that they might be penned for the night; and John, to his surprise, saw the two dogs instantly set off to execute their task, with extraordinary sagacity. The sheep were scattered all about the side of the hill; and the dogs wore them in (for such is the word used to express this curious operation), by running all round the outside of the flock, barking, and driving the stragglers towards the centre, but never hurting one of them; and thus, at length, every sheep was got safe into the fold; the shepherd merely overlooking his dogs, and giving them, from time to time, the necessary word of command. "You are surprised," said Will, "to see the dogs understand so well what I say to them. They have been well-trained, and are of a particular breed, only common on these hills. I can make them bring me any one particular sheep that I describe to them out of the flock directly. We never should be able to bear the fatigue, if we had not these faithful creatures with us. The going up and down the hills so often after the sheep, would wear out any man's strength, long before the day was over. You will soon learn the way of managing them; and they, in time, will become accustomed to your voice. At present, they know the sheep, and will allow no harm to happen to them."

Will now sent John home, as he himself was to remain till the other shepherd came to his relief. John reached the farm, when it was nearly dark, and having washed his face and hands, set out for the Manse. He found Mr. Martin waiting for him in the study. "Well, John, how do you like herding?" asked he, as his young scholar entered the room. "Very well, Sir; much better, indeed, than I expected: the shepherd has been very kind to me, and shown me every thing I have to do; and I think, Sir, I shall be able very soon to learn the business." "I have no doubt, if you take pains, you will very soon do so; but come, let us begin our evening task." When this was over, John asked how Miss Helen was. "She is much better, John; and I hope, in a few days, she will be able to come down and admire your pretty flowers. I really think they are taking root." John was glad to hear this; and having watered them, and shaken hands with his friend Nelly, he told her he should never again be afraid to encounter his reading; "for," said he, "the Minister has so much patience, and explains every thing to me so clearly, that I must be a dunce indeed not to understand him, and a very bad boy if I do not take pains to remember what he says."

John continued this kind of life without interruption for two months, in the course of which time he had become very expert in the management of his sheep; and Will was so much pleased with his diligence, that he taught him both to make and also to play upon the same sort of whistle on which he was himself so skilful a performer. John could now play, very tolerably, the old Scottish air of "the Ewe-buchts, Marion!" a very particular favourite of his, although Will said he thought it rather the name than the tune which had caught the boy's fancy. His reading had likewise improved wonderfully. Mr. Martin had lent him a common copy of Robinson Crusoe (for the elegant one with the plates was too valuable to be carried to the hill), and this book, which had first excited his desire of learning, now became the constant companion of his leisure moments. Indeed it would have entirely driven the whistle, the knitting, and everything else out of his head, if Will, who was somewhat proud of his scholar, had not insisted on his continuing to work at his stockings some part of every day, and to display his progress in music to his fellow-servants every evening.

Helen and Marion had by this time both recovered, though Marion was still delicate. The latter, however, had found out that John's sheep grazed very often just opposite to her father's house; she therefore, more than once, made her way across the water to listen to John's whistle, which she greatly admired; and she at the same time convinced him that she could sing, and, according to his taste, very sweetly.

Little offerings of friendship were continually passing, on these occasions, between the children. Sometimes Marion would save the fruit which her father was permitted to give her out of the hall garden, and she would carry it over, in a cabbage-leaf, to share it with John. He, in return, wishing to procure a basket for her greater accommodation, got his friend Will to teach him how to make one, like that which the shepherds in general use for carrying their provisions to the hill, and which is shaped something like a pouch, and slung by a strap over the shoulder. To make the basket the more acceptable, John filled it with the prettiest mosses that he could find on the hills. These mosses are remarkably fine in Eskdale, and very much in request among the ladies, who ornament their garden seats and bowers with them. The frames being made of a sort of basket-work, the moss, when fresh gathered, with the roots unbroken, is twisted into the frame so as to leave the green part only visible. Thus they take root, and if carefully watered, in a very little time have the appearance of having grown there naturally. They are called fogg houses, and are very common. Seats and tables are likewise added, as furniture to the fogg house, and for this purpose the most beautiful moss is always reserved. The greater the variety of shades, the more it is prized; and they are sometimes seen shaded, from the darkest green to the most beautiful rose-colour. This last colour is the most rare, and is only found on one particular moor, at the top of a distant hill. John contrived, one afternoon, to coax Will to take his place with the sheep, and let him go in search of his much-coveted prize; which, having succeeded in obtaining, he arranged all the various sorts he had picked up in the basket, taking care to place the rose-coloured just at the top, and carried it over to Mr. Scott's.

On John's arrival, it was unluckily damp, and Marion's mother had desired her not to go out. He therefore peeped around the house a long time to no purpose, and was at last obliged to go up and knock boldly at the door, in order to deliver his present; otherwise he would have had to take it home and return another day with it, which he thought would be a pity, as the beauty of the moss would be impaired if immediate precaution were not taken to prevent it. Mrs. Scott opened the door herself. "John Telfer, I declare!" cried she. "What can possibly have brought you here so late? I hope no accident has happened that you are not gone to the Minister's as usual." "No," said John, "there is no accident; the minister could not have me to read to-night, for the family are all occupied with the arrival of Capt. Elliot. He was expected to dine there to day, and I took the opportunity, with Will Oliver's leave, to go up to the black moor to get some moss for Marion. She told me she wanted to make a table for her bower, and I have brought her this, which I hope she will accept."

"Oh!" cried Marion, who had been reading to her father, "what a beautiful sight! Did you ever see so much pink moss together?" "Indeed," said Mr. Scott, taking the basket out of his hand, "I have seldom seen so fine a specimen. I think, if you take pains with your table, it will surpass that which the ladies at the lodge have made, and theirs is reckoned the most beautiful in the country. I am sure, John, you must have had a great deal of trouble and fatigue to get at this. Pray, wife, give the boy something to eat, he must be hungry." "I don't mind the trouble a bit," said John, "if Marion is pleased; but I can't stop to eat any thing, for it is growing late, and I must run home as fast as I can, that I may be in time to play to Will, or he will be angry, and never let me go again." So saying he ran off, and scarcely slackened his pace till he reached Mr. Laurie's.



CHAP. VIII.

Captain Elliott, mean time, had arrived at the Manse. He was a fine good-looking young man, excessively attached to his sister and her family; and having been absent so long from his native country, had so much to hear and see, that he completely occupied every moment of their time. Helen was only a baby in arms when he left the country, but William was between three and four years old. After talking to them all some time, he turned to Mrs. Martin and said, "but where is young Pickle, that I do not see him? My mother wrote me something about his being a violent-tempered boy; but I suppose it is nothing else but that, having a little more spirit than his father, you think him a dragon. There never was in the world, I believe, so even-tempered a man as my good brother-in-law, and Helen looks as if she were his own child." While he was speaking, Mrs. Martin became quite grave, and her brother fancied she changed colour. Her husband, however, looked pleased at this remembrance of William; and taking her hand, said, "Come, come, my dear, you must not, by looking so serious, make your brother fancy William worse than he really is. The truth is, he has given us a great deal of uneasiness by the violence of his temper; but Mr. Lamont, with whom he is, at Kelso, writes me word that he has good hopes of getting the better of the boy's little failings in time. He is a most excellent scholar, always at the head of his class, which is a large one; and, in short, I trust he will do very well by and bye." "God grant you may not be deceived in your hopes, my dear husband," said Mrs. Martin, solemnly; "but I have my fears. His little faults, as you call them, were great ones in a boy of his age; at least they appeared in that light to me. I hope I may be mistaken." The truth was, William, when a child, had been the idol of his parents' hearts; quick, lively, and entertaining, full of trick and fun, they had no idea of contradicting him in any of his whims, they were so amused with what they called his little oddities. But, in a short time, his mother, who was of a very superior understanding, thought she perceived symptoms of a spirit beginning to appear in him of a most alarming tendency. His father, who was indeed the mildest of human beings, would not believe that there were the slightest grounds for her fears; and for several years he retained that most dangerous of all errors which parents are apt to fall into, namely, delaying to correct faults, under the notion of a child's being too young to understand its duties. At last, one morning, his sister, who was three years his junior, happened to take up one of his playthings, and was amusing herself with it in one corner of the room, when William, who had a book of prints to look at from his father, suddenly perceived her, and called out in a very peremptory tone to order her to lay it down. Poor Helen, who was not more than three years old, did not immediately obey him. He suddenly started up; and with eyes and face flaming with rage, he caught hold of her and dashed her poor little head, with all the strength he possessed, against the wainscot. His father, who was writing, had scarcely observed what was going on, till Helen's screams drew his attention. What a sight met his eyes, when he looked towards where his children stood! Helen lying on the carpet, her head streaming with blood, and William standing beside her, silent, and frightened at what he had done! This was, I may say, the most painful moment that Mr. Martin had ever endured. It completely opened his eyes to the violence of William's temper; and from that day, for the next four years of his life, he laboured indefatigably in endeavouring to control a spirit that was likely to have so pernicious an effect on his son's future happiness.

It unfortunately happened, that, about this time, Mr. Martin had a very serious illness, which rendered it impossible for him to continue his instructions and watchful vigilance. On this account Mrs. Martin's mother, who doted on her grandson, persuaded them to send the child to her; and added, as an inducement, that he might attend the school at Melrose. Mrs. Martin very strongly opposed the plan. She knew her son, and she feared the effects of the good old lady's indulgence; but at last, as her husband seemed to fret, and continually regret that his boy would forget all he had learned, she was persuaded to send him to his grandmother, an event which, in all probability, finally fixed the destiny of William. He remained at Melrose two years, attending the school regularly, and sleeping and eating at Mrs. Elliott's. For the first year, though often very obstreperous, he yet stood in some degree of awe both of his master and grandmother; and on his promising good behaviour for the future, Mrs. Elliott very unfortunately forbore mentioning to his parents, either by letter or when they paid their annual visit in August, any part of his bad conduct; and as he took care to appear to them, whilst they remained, a very good boy, they went home quite delighted with the thoughts that he was entirely cured of his bad habits. In the course of the next year he became so perfectly unmanageable, that at last his grandmother, though greatly unwilling to complain of him, as well knowing he would be removed directly, thought it her duty to impart the real state of the case to his parents. They hastened their visit on this account, and went to Melrose a month sooner than they were expected; and before William had an opportunity, by better behaviour, which he had planned in his own mind (going home being the last thing he desired), to prevail on his indulgent grandmother to entreat that he might be once more left with her.

On his return to the Manse, his father again began the arduous task of subduing a temper, which was likely to be of such fatal consequence, both to his own happiness, and likewise to all those connected with him. But William was now twelve years old, and had indulged himself in such uncontrolled liberty of spirit for the last twelve months, that, though Mr. Martin tried every means he could think of, endeavouring sometimes to convince his reason, laying before him the baneful consequences that must ensue from such conduct, and at other times by more violent methods, yet he made very little or no progress towards a cure; so that, at last, Mrs. Martin became perfectly convinced that, if William remained at home much longer, the father would be sacrificed for the son, as she saw that the continued struggle and exertion he was obliged to live in began materially to affect his health. In this state of affairs, she thought at last of consulting Mr. Lamont, the schoolmaster at Kelso, under whom her brother had been educated. He was a man of superior understanding, had long been in the habits of teaching, and had, as he very well merited, acquired great celebrity. Both Mr. and Mrs. Martin had a high opinion of his judgment, and knew that, when the truth was full laid before him, he would give them his candid advice on what was best to be done; and Mrs. Martin hoped he would be able to convince her husband, that it became a duty in him not to sacrifice his own health in an attempt which, it was quite evident, could obtain no success.

Mr. Lamont's answer was, that without seeing the boy he could not so well judge; and that, as his holidays were just commencing, he would come over and spend some days with them at the Manse. Accordingly he came, and remained a fortnight, during which time he was fully convinced that what Mrs. Martin apprehended would infallibly be the case; that Mr. Martin's health was already injured, and that, if a speedy remedy were not found, in all probability it would end fatally. He therefore one morning, when walking out with Mr. Martin, took the opportunity of some reference which his father made to William's unhappy temper, to propose to undertake the charge of him for the next twelve months.

"I am well used to all kind of tempers," said he; "and though William has great and alarming faults to combat, yet I am not without hope that I shall be able to succeed in managing him better than you are doing. He knows the mildness and affection of your nature, and most ungenerously takes advantage of it to torment you, in hopes of wearing you out, and making you, in the end, cease from opposing him. It will be quite a different thing with me; he will find one uniform system of restraint and punishment, in my school, practised towards all those who dare to act otherwise than they are all directed. No violence or opposition on his part will ever be able to make me yield in a single instance. One stipulation, however, I must insist on making, that no excuse is to be strong enough for taking him away from me, till I can with safety assure you that I can trust him from under my own eye." Mr. Martin said he would consider over the subject with his wife, and give him an answer next day; telling him, at the same time, that he fully appreciated the kindness of the offer, for he knew too well, that this poor unhappy boy was not a pupil from whom Mr. Lamont was likely to derive much credit.—"He is, however," added he, "a good scholar, and, as far as his lessons go, you will never have any fault to find. It is his temper alone that is in fault, at least I hope so; I do not think there is any thing wrong in the heart." "I hope you are right," answered Mr. Lamont, "my dear Sir; by we must lose no time, for, unless this temper be corrected, it will soon lead to corrupt both heart and principles."

Next morning, Mr. Martin informed Mr. Lamont that he found Mrs. Martin so extremely anxious for removing William, that he would very thankfully accept his offer. It was therefore settled that Mr. Lamont should remain a few days longer at the Manse, and that Mrs. Martin would, during that time, get her son ready to accompany him; which accordingly took place.

William had now been at Kelso nearly a year, and his conduct, upon the whole, was rather better than Mr. Lamont had expected; the latter, however, put a decided negative upon his pupil's visit, either to the Manse, or, what he more ardently desired, to his grandmother, during the ensuing holidays; a determination which excited the greatest possible indignation on the part of William. A day or two after Captain Elliott's arrival, while they were sitting at breakfast, Nelly came in and said, "Miss Helen, a little boy wishes to see you. He has a basket in his hand; but he won't tell me what is his business. He says, he must see you your own self." Helen rose and went out to speak to him, wondering who it could be. When she got to the door, she found it was Tom Little. "Ah! Miss Helen," said the boy, "you see I have kept my word, I have brought the chicken I promised you; and mammy thought, as you had company at the Manse, you would like two; so, here they are; and nice plump things indeed." "I am very glad, Tom," said Helen, "to see you here, and very much obliged to you for your chickens; but I won't kill them. I shall keep them to lay eggs; for I am very fond of eggs, though I should not like to give so much money for them as you say they do at the hall. Come in, and let mamma see your pretty present." Tom stept forward, and stood at the study door till Mrs. Martin called to him to come in. He then displayed his chickens, and told the company that their mother laid more eggs than any fowl in the dale; and that he was very glad to hear Miss Helen say she would not kill them, as he thought it would be a pity, they were so very beautiful. Helen then said, "How lucky it is, mamma, that Tom has come down here to day; for I was thinking I must find time to ride up to his father's cottage, with my little present this morning; and I have so much to do, I did not well know how to manage it. Now Tom will take it, when he returns, and save me the trouble!" She then went up stairs, and returned, bringing a couple of frocks, of coarse woollen stuff, which she had made herself, and a little jacket and trowsers, made out of an old coat of her brother's which she presented to Tom, telling him that it was for him to wear when he went to church. The frocks were for his two little sisters; and Mrs. Martin added an old gown of her own, for his mother.

Tom was in such an extacy of delight, that it was with great difficulty he could be prevailed on to stay to eat some breakfast; though he owned he had come away before his porridge was ready. Helen, however, insisted on his going with her into the kitchen, and getting Nelly to supply his wants. Whilst he was eating, Helen enquired after his father. "He is a great deal better, Miss Helen, and begins now to walk about with the help of a stick. Only think how kind Will Oliver has been, and John Telfer, that was with you at the cottage. They came up the glen, last Monday evening, and brought each of them a pair of nice warm worsted stockings, for my father, of their own working. Was not that kind? And Will says that, when I am big enough, he will take me to his herd, and teach me to knit stockings, just as he had done John. I should like to be Will's herd better than any other shepherd's in the dale; he is such a merry fellow, and so good natured. He made me a whistle a little while ago, but I cannot play on it so well as John does yet. Will says John is very clever, and can do every thing well. I suppose that is with the Minister's teaching. Don't you think it is?" Helen laughed; but she very much doubted whether the Minister's teaching had much to do with John's playing on the whistle. When she returned to the parlour, her mother said, "Now, my dear Helen, you must go and pack up your little parcel, that we may be all ready for our journey early to-morrow morning."

"Your uncle and I are going in the stage to Kelso, as he wishes to see your brother, and I am glad of an opportunity, too, my dear, of seeing William." "Oh," said Helen, "how much I wish that poor William could be with us; for when he was here, he was always speaking of uncle Elliott, and what he would do when he came home." On saying these words, Helen left the room. She soon returned, holding a frock in her hand. "See mamma," said she, "I have trimmed up my frock with a piece of new ribbon. I think it looks very neat. I am so glad that I did not buy a new dress, instead of the frocks for the poor children. How happy they will be when Tom gets home!" "My dear child," said her mother, "they will be happy, I have no doubt, with your present; but I think you must feel much more so, from the reflection that you have clothed them by your own self-denial. I have been very much pleased with your whole conduct, for you have bought them what is essential, and nothing more; and, at the same time, have tried to make yourself neat, to please your good grandmother." "I am glad, mamma, I have pleased you. I am sure I am a very happy girl;" and she kissed her mamma as she said so. Two or three years before she would have cried, with the same feelings she now had; but Helen was quite cured of shedding tears upon every occasion, and she now only pressed her mamma closely round the neck, and then ran off to pack up her parcel, and was heard singing all the morning afterwards.

In the evening, Mrs. Martin and Captain Elliot proceeded to Langholm, to wait for the stage; and early the next morning, Mr. Martin, accompanied by Helen on her pony, and a little boy to carry the parcel, left the Manse; and, directing their route across the hills which separate Eskdale from Ewesdale, reached the small village of Ewes in time for breakfast. There was no inn here, but merely a small public house. Our travellers, however, did not require to go thither for the clergyman having heard that they intended coming that way, was upon the look out for them all the morning. After breakfast, Helen again mounted, and continued talking on many different subjects all the way to Moss Paul. The road runs along the course of the Ewes, between a double range of mountains, quite green, and covered with sheep; but there is very little variety in the scenery; and, altogether, from scarcely a cottage being to be seen, it has a very desolate appearance. Moss Paul, where they were obliged to stop, is one of the poorest small inns that are to be met with in Scotland. The contrast was so great from the richly wooded cheerful dale which Helen had always lived in, that she told her father the very looking at those hills made her melancholy; and she was sure, if Melrose was not more lively than Moss Paul, her grandmamma had much better come and live in Eskdale altogether. For her own part, she almost wished herself back again already. After an hour's rest they again moved on; and, in a little time, the country began to wear a more favourable appearance. They now descended into the dale, watered by the river Tiviot; and passed by several gentlemen's country houses, which, being seen from the road, added much to the beauty of the view. Mr. Martin pointed out to Helen Carlinrigg, the place where, John's song said, Johnnie Armstrong was executed. Soon afterwards, Helen beginning to feel fatigued, her father said he thought they had better stop at the next small inn they should come to, and rest till the afternoon. They were to sleep at the town of Hawick, and he thought they had plenty of time. Helen at last, with some difficulty, made out her day's journey; and was very happy to find herself in a comfortable bed, at Hawick. In the morning, Mr. Martin thought it best that she should rest that day, and not proceed to Melrose till the next, as she was more fatigued than he had expected. Mr. and Mrs. Murray, the clergyman and his wife, did all they could to make the day pass pleasantly. Mrs. Murray walked out with our travellers towards Wilton, to admire the banks of the Tiviot, which are very beautiful. The country is fertile and rich, and the view more extensive than any that Helen had ever seen. She thought it pretty; but still it did not seem to her to equal her native Eskdale. Next morning she and her father left Mr. Murray's early, and reached Melrose to dinner. Nothing could equal Helen's surprise when she came in sight of the Abbey. It is deservedly the most admired remain of gothic architecture in Scotland, and has, indeed, been since celebrated by one of the first living poets, in one of the most beautiful of his descriptive passages, which Helen, long afterwards, copied into her memorandum book, as recalling to her recollection a scene endeared to her, not only by its own beauty, but by the happy days which she had spent with her beloved grandmother. The old lady's house was almost close to this venerable pile; and the window of the little room appropriated to Helen, commanded a view in which she could distinguish all the striking parts of the building, so picturesquely described in the Lay of the last Minstrel.

The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou wouldst have thought, some fairy's hand, 'Twixt poplars straight, the ozier wand, In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.



CHAP. IX.

When Mrs. Martin and Captain Elliott arrived at Kelso, they went directly to Mr. Lamont's. They were received in his study, by himself and his wife; and William was immediately summoned to attend them. He was playing at golf (a game something resembling cricket) on the school green, and came in glowing with health, and the exercise he had been taking; his colour, perhaps, a little heightened by the pleasure he felt in seeing his mother. Mr. Lamont, wishing to give him an agreeable surprise, had not mentioned Captain Elliott. When William entered the room, his uncle was perfectly astonished at his appearance. He was tall and proportionably stout for his age; his features almost too regular and delicate for a boy; with large sparkling eyes, which spoke the greatest delight and affection for his mother. Altogether, Captain Elliott thought he had never seen so fine a creature; and could not help conceiving, in his own mind, that what had been told him of his nephew's disposition must have been greatly exaggerated.

When William had kissed his mother, almost a dozen times, he suddenly turned round, and said, "but, where is my dear father? I thought he was here also:" and, looking in his mother's face, with a transient blush, "would he not even come and see me?" "My dear," answered his mother, "your father will be here to-morrow, or next day; he is gone to Melrose, with your sister. It would have been too far for her to ride all this long way round, and so he will place her in safety first, and then join us here; but you take no notice of this gentleman, who has kindly brought me to see you." "I am sure," said William, "I am very much obliged to you, Sir, and beg your pardon for being so rude as not to speak to you before; but, really I was so delighted with seeing mamma, and thinking about papa, that I did not remember there was any one else in the room." "Oh, your apology quite gains my forgiveness, William; but now, that you have found me out, let us shake hands and become friends. You have few warmer ones, I assure you, than I am inclined to become: who do you think I am, that have come so far to see you?" William looked some time at him. There was a particular expression in Captain Elliot's face, when he smiled, which strongly resembled that of his sister. William caught it, as he was considering; and instantly sprung forward to him. "It is my own uncle Elliot, I am sure." Charmed by such an artless, affectionate recognition, his uncle pressed him to his breast with feelings of the warmest affection; and from that moment an attachment, as strong as it was lasting (for it was broken only by death) took a firm hold of both their minds.

William, during the two years he had spent with his grandmother, had been in the constant habit of listening to the praises of this her only son. He was the best, the bravest of men; and there was no wonder that he should have been the principal subject of conversation between the good old lady and a grandson whom she so much wished to resemble him. It was, therefore, the first object of William's ambition, to see this wonderful uncle; and no sooner were his wishes accomplished, than he determined to leave no means untried to be allowed never to quit him.

He pretty well knew that both his parents would oppose his going to sea, but he hoped, by a private application to his uncle, to get him round to his side of the question; and, in short, he had resolved to gain his point by some means or other. When Mr. Martin joined them at Kelso, he found William and his uncle on the best terms possible. He was a very clever boy, had read a great deal for his age, and, as he possessed a happy turn for sketching from nature, he had drawn several of the beautiful scenes near the junction of the Tweed and Tiviot. The venerable abbey of Kelso, too, though not so light and elegant a structure as that of Melrose, had also furnished exercise for his pencil; and he presented his uncle with a very well executed drawing of this ancient pile. These little attentions, together with the constant good humour and propriety of behaviour which William was careful to maintain in the presence of a relation whom he so much wished to please, did not fail of their intended effect. Captain Elliott was absolutely charmed with his nephew, and was almost affronted that neither father nor mother could be prevailed on to alter their determination, of not taking William to Melrose. Mr. Lamont was decided in his opinion; and therefore they justly thought, that, in fairness to him, they ought not to yield. They however extended their stay at Kelso to a day longer than was at first intended.

That day William and his uncle set out on a walk by themselves, Mr. and Mrs. Martin being engaged to pay some visits with Mr. and Mrs. Lamont. They were no sooner out of the town, than William ventured to make his wishes known to his uncle, of going to sea with him. Captain Elliott was too much attached to his sister and her worthy husband, to listen a moment to this proposal. He combated all his nephew's arguments with the greatest possible gentleness. William, however, remained perfectly unconvinced; and finding that he could make no impression upon his uncle by any arguments he could use, he thought it best to pursue the conversation no further, resolving in his own mind to gain his point in another way. Indeed, he felt it politic to change the subject, as his passionate temper was within a hair's breadth of displaying itself; and he was well aware that that would not tend to accelerate his wishes. He therefore began talking on different subjects, and managed matters so well, that his uncle, who had observed his heightened colour, and was prepared for a gust of passion, was quite convinced he had now gained a command over the only failing he had ever heard he possessed. When they returned home, Captain Elliott took an opportunity of congratulating his parents on what he had observed, but he did not mention the subject which had given him an opportunity of noticing the improvement.

On taking leave the next morning, his uncle shook hands with William, saying he should expect him to be a constant correspondent. "Oh, certainly," answered William; "but, that is well thought of—pray give me your address in London, for I shall have plenty of time to write to you in the vacation; and since I must remain here, it will be the greatest amusement I can have."—"I am glad, then," answered Captain Elliott, "that I thought of it; here is my address," giving him his card, "and here is likewise something to buy paper and pens (slipping a guinea into his hand). The oftener I hear from you the better I shall be pleased."

After spending a very happy fortnight at Melrose, old Mrs. Elliott's visitors were obliged to take their leave, Captain Elliott being to join his ship by the middle of September. Helen found the journey home more pleasant than her first excursion across the hills; but when she came in sight of her native dale, she exclaimed "Oh, my dear papa, there is nothing after all like our own dear home, in the whole world!" Her father smiled, and said, "Long may you think so, my sweet child. Had I the power of choosing for you, I should wish you never to leave it; but as that is not the case, you should accustom your mind to contemplate the possibility of a change, and always remember, that the foundation of happiness in this world, is to reconcile our minds to the events which the great Author of our being thinks fit to bring to pass, and endeavour to be contented in whatever situation we may be placed."

Capt. Elliott remained only a couple of days at the Manse; the parting was a melancholy one. He expected to be sent to India, where he was sure to remain at least six years. He had heard twice from William, since leaving Kelso; and at his departure, he put a letter into Helen's hand directed for her brother, which he desired her to be sure and forward by the next day's post. "I promised him, poor fellow, that I would be sure to let him hear from me the very day I left Eskdale, and I must keep my word." Then, shaking his sister's hand, he added, "I prophecy that William will be both an honour and a comfort to you yet, for all his trifling faults and imperfections."

About a week after Capt. Elliott had left the Manse, the family were sitting at tea, conversing very comfortably together, when the study door opened, and to their astonishment Mr. Lamont walked in. All expressed their surprise at so unexpected a visitor; Mrs. Martin alone sat still, her eyes fixed on Mr. Lamont's face, seeming to dread what she was to hear. Mr. Lamont, however, spoke cheerfully, and after looking round the room sat down, only saying a little private business required him to come unexpectedly into Eskdale. Mrs. Martin was not satisfied; she remained silent a few minutes, and then said, "Mr. Lamont, I know something has happened: tell me at once what it is, I cannot be deceived; this state of suspense is intolerable." "Madam, I find it is impossible to blind the eyes of a mother so anxious and attached as you are; William has given me a little uneasiness, but I hope there is no occasion for serious alarm." He was proceeding when he perceived Mr. Martin almost gasping for breath; he handed him a glass of water, and when Mr. Martin had drank it, he waited about a minute, and then said, "Pray Mr. Lamont proceed, I am prepared now to hear what you have to tell us." Mr. Lamont then began by saying that, from the time they had parted from William at Kelso, he had observed a most remarkable change in the boy. He no longer opposed any thing he was desired to do, however disagreeable it might be to him; he was never out of his place; his lessons were always attended to; in short, he had flattered himself that an impression had been made on the boy's mind which promised to be lasting. "About a week ago," continued Mr. Lamont, "I observed him to be uncommonly grave, and once or twice he complained of a head-ache, and asked leave to go to bed earlier than his usual hour. Mrs. Lamont, upon one of these occasions, being anxious about him, happened to go into his room to enquire how he was before she went to bed. He told her the next morning he was much obliged to her for her attention, but that she had awakened him by the light of her candle, and he had not been able to sleep any more all night. Last Friday evening he complained in the same way of his head, and went to bed, saying, as he left the room, 'Pray, madam, don't awake me to-night if you please, for my head aches more than usual.' Accordingly, when we went to bed, we did not go into his room, but only in passing shut the door gently, observing, it was odd he had left it open when he was so much afraid of noise. Next morning, when the school assembled, William did not make his appearance. I became alarmed lest his headache had increased, or been the forerunner of some other complaint, and I therefore hastened in search of him; when, to my great dismay, I found his room empty, and the bed evidently bearing the appearance of never having been slept in. After a general search through the house and the town, and making every possible inquiry of every creature we could meet with, we heard from a man who had been fishing in the Tiviot the evening before, that he had seen one of my scholars walking quickly along the road to Edinburgh, with a small parcel in his hand, much about the time when William pretended to be going to bed." Mr. Lamont went on to inform the miserable parents, that, on this information, he had traced William as far as the end of Princes Street, in Edinburgh, but there he had lost him; and though both himself and one of the ushers had continued their search for two days, they had not yet been able to get the slightest intelligence of him; that he had then thought it his duty to come himself to inform Mr. Martin, in order that they might consult together what was best to be done.



CHAP. X.

When Mr. Lamont had made an end of his narration, Mrs. Martin (who had borne up while he was speaking), seemed so overpowered as to be quite unable to make any remarks; she sighed heavily, and Mr. Lamont thought she would have fainted. Mr. Martin spoke to her, but she returned no answer; at last, after using every means they could think of to get her to shed tears, they became so alarmed that, though they by no means wished to let William's disappearance be known, they thought it absolutely necessary to send for Mr. Armstrong. Helen ran and called John (who was just come in for his usual lesson) to go off directly to Langholm, as he was a quick messenger, and could be trusted.

When Mr. Armstrong arrived, he deemed it proper to have Mrs. Martin bled, which being done, she seemed to take more notice, but still spoke not, lying perfectly quiet, only sighing often. Her husband felt that to leave her in that state was impossible; he was therefore obliged to trust to Mr. Lamont's exertions to search for the wretched boy who had been the cause of all this misery. The worthy schoolmaster accordingly left the Manse early the following morning, by which time Mrs. Martin was in the height of a brain fever, knowing no one, and screaming every instant for William. Poor Helen now found the lessons which she had been early taught, of subduing her feelings, were but too necessary to be put in practice. Her father never quitted her mother's bed-side; and in all probability would have fallen a sacrifice to the unremitting fatigue and anxiety he was enduring, had not Helen, with persevering good sense and composure far superior to her years, waited on him herself, watching every favourable moment to bring him nourishment, and using all the little winning ways she could think of or remember to have seen her mother employ when she thought he required that sort of attention.

A whole fortnight passed in this sort of way; Mrs. Martin's disease had in some measure subsided, but it left her in such a state of exhaustion as to give them very little hope of ultimately being able to save her life. Her husband, worn out both with fatigue and misery, almost dreaded to hear her able to ask a question, for fear that that question should be one which he could not answer, for no accounts yet came of William. Helen, dear Helen, was his only comfort; dreading, even more than her father, lest some fatal accident had happened to her brother, for the innocency of her own mind did not allow her to think for a moment that he had intentionally inflicted this misery upon them all, she had nevertheless the courage to conceal her apprehensions from her father, and kept continually cheering him, by whispering that she was sure William would be heard of very soon.

One evening, when almost despairing of being able to comfort him, as he seemed almost ready to sink under his accumulated misfortunes, a thought crossed her mind, and she caught her father's arm, saying; "My dear papa, what if William has gone in search of uncle Elliott's ship?"—"My darling comforter!" cried her father, starting from the chair in which he was sitting, and effectually roused from the stupor in which he seemed sunk, "that thought has never once occurred to me, and yet it appears by far the most probable thing that has been suggested; but how can the unhappy boy ever reach his uncle, without money, and without a guide?" said he, despondingly. "Perhaps, papa," answered Helen, "William was not entirely without money; for I know that grandmamma sent him a guinea on his birthday, as an encouragement for the good account you brought her of his behaviour, and to make up, in some degree, for his disappointment in not coming to Melrose: and uncle Elliott gave me a guinea when he went—now I think it very likely that he gave William the same, so that I doubt not he must have at least two guineas; and perhaps he may have saved up some of his usual pocket-money besides. It is therefore very probably, that he may have had money enough to pay his passage up to London, or nearly so, for I heard the housekeeper at the hall telling Mrs. Scott one day that it cost her three guineas to come by the smack; perhaps they might take a little boy for less." Mr. Martin, struck with the good sense of Helen's reasoning, folded her to his heart, the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Yes, my Helen, you are right, William has certainly gone to his uncle. Whether he will succeed in arriving at his intended place of destination in safety still remains a doubtful point, for there are many difficulties in his way; at all events, my mind is greatly relieved, by having some clue to his conduct. I will write to his uncle and Mr. Lamont directly; the one will make every enquiry in London, the other may perhaps pick up some information at Leith, whither in all probability he went; Mr. Lamont at least may learn what ships sailed about that time. Do you sit down here by your mother, and watch her, while I go and write my letters, for not an instant must be lost."

Helen sat down as her father directed, her mind dwelling on the possibility that William was really gone to her uncle. In thinking thus, she shuddered, and blamed herself for having so wicked a thought as to suppose her brother could have been guilty of premeditated cruelty to such indulgent parents as they were blessed with. Engrossed with her own thoughts, she was startled by hearing her mother, in a weak low voice, pronounce her name; she listed, and it was again repeated. It was the first time she had spoken distinctly from the commencement of her illness. Helen drew aside the curtain, and perceived that her dear mother knew her. Mr. Armstrong had warned her father, in Helen's hearing, to be extremely careful, whenever this should happen, not to allow her to speak more than could be helped, and to keep the room as still and quiet as possible; she therefore stooped down and kissed her cheek, and then was going to close the curtain. Her mother looked anxious, and whispered, "Not yet." Helen thought she said "your father." Helen immediately answered, "He is writing, mamma, down stairs; he is quite well." Her mother then endeavoured to articulate a "William." This was a trying moment for the poor girl; she scarcely knew how to act; but seeing her mother's eyes watching her, she said, "We hope with uncle Elliott; but, mamma, I must not speak." She had said these words so low, that her mother had only heard the sound of her brother's name, and therefore believed Helen had said William was really with him; she raised her eyes to heaven, and seemed inwardly to thank God: no more was said, and she remained quite quiet. From that moment it was evident that she was gaining strength, but so slowly as to be scarcely perceptible. Her sweet little girl now became almost her only nurse; none administered her medicines, none shook her pillows, none understood her looks so well and so quickly as Helen. Her father, who was constantly in the room with them, watched his darling's attention with the most lively feeling of delight, and thanked God he was the father of such a child.

Two days after Mr. Martin had written to Capt. Elliott, Helen came up into her mother's room in the morning. She opened the door very gently, and made a sign for her father to go down stairs; she then sat down by her mother, and endeavoured to compose herself. This was no easy task, but she felt it was necessary, therefore she had the resolution to sit quietly for nearly half an hour, without ever showing the slightest impatience, though she knew there was not only a letter from her uncle below in the parlour, but likewise, she firmly believed, one from William himself. It was a great trial of patience for a girl little more than eleven years old; but Helen's mind was so habituated to be ruled by reflection and duty, that she acted entirely as she thought her mother would have done under similar circumstances.

Her father at last came up stairs; he seemed very much agitated, and, as if afraid to speak he pointed to Helen to leave the room. She almost flew down stairs into the study, where lay the two letters on the table, which her father had placed there for her inspection, a confidence she had well earned by her dutiful and affectionate conduct.

Capt. Elliott informed Mr. Martin, that on calling at his agent's one morning, he was told that a boy had been enquiring for him the day before, and that they had given him his address on board the Amazon frigate, at Chatham. Upon asking still further, he was told that the boy was a genteel good-looking lad, and one of the clerks remarked that he spoke with the Scottish accent. "I know not," continued he, "what put it into my head, but William rose to my thoughts. I believed it next to impossible that it could be he, yet I felt a sort of uneasiness, which induced me to return to Chatham that night, contrary to my intention in the morning. On going on board, I made enquiry whether a lad of that description had been there. The lieutenant, who commanded in my absence, said, 'Yes, he has been here, Sir, but he would neither wait for your arrival nor give his name, but promised to call again to-morrow morning.' I really could not sleep for anxiety that night, as the description which I received from all who saw him almost confirmed my suspicions. I gave orders to be informed the moment he came next day; and accordingly, about nine o'clock in the morning I was told he was come alongside. I desired he might be sent into my cabin, and in a few minutes William himself stood before me."

"I begged to know what was his business with me, treating him exactly as I would have done a perfect stranger. My young gentleman was rather confounded with this reception at first, but he gradually took courage, and informed me he had made up his mind and nothing would alter his determination of going to sea; that if I was resolved not to receive him, nor to allow him to remain in my ship, he could not insist on it, but he would certainly go on board another, and he had no doubt he would find other captains who would not reject him. I told him that his conduct had been so extremely cruel and unfeeling, that it would be serving him as he richly merited to throw him off, and let him provide for himself in any way he chose, and that if he alone were considered I would certainly do so; but as his parents were too dear to my heart to allow me to act in this manner, the only thing I felt I could do was to write to you information of what had passed, and be entirely regulated by your answer in what way he should be disposed of. He has appeared extremely sulky. I am told, ever since (for he is not permitted to enter my company), but you may be quite satisfied I take good care he shall not escape." Capt. Elliott then went on to say that, if he might offer any advice on the subject, he thought it might perhaps be best to yield to the boy's wishes of making the sea his profession; nothing else would satisfy him, and in all probability he would do better in that line than he ever could now do ashore. He then finished by earnestly desiring an answer as soon as possible, and by giving his sister every assurance of his care and affection for the boy; "at the same time," he added, "I must break this disobedient spirit, or he will do no good any where, and it appears to me that the discipline of a ship is as good a remedy for bad temper as any other that can be found."

Helen shed many tears over this long letter. "Poor William," said she aloud, "he little knows how nearly he has been the death of mamma, and how much he has made us all suffer. Oh! if papa do let him go with my uncle, how much I wish he may be allowed to come home and see us all before he sails; I am sure he can never be happy to go away for six whole years without having one kiss of forgiveness from his dear parents." She then took up the other letter, it was indeed from William; he told his father that he hoped he would forgive him, but that he had quite resolved to chuse the sea for his profession; that, having done, so, he despaired of being able to procure either his or his mother's consent to it, as he had accidentally overheard a conversation some time before, in which they both declared that nothing could induce them to agree to such a thing. He therefore thought it the best and surest way to proceed as he had done, knowing that, if he lost this opportunity, he would most probably have to go entirely with strangers, which he supposed would be still more disagreeable to them than his being with his uncle. He had gone to Leith, and got on board one of the smacks, which was just sailing as he got to the pier; and finding that his funds did not allow him to be a cabin passenger, he had gone into the steerage; in short, he had only one sixpence left by the time he saw his uncle. He finished by imploring their forgiveness, promising that if they would in this instance gratify him, he would never again give them the least reason to complain of him.

Helen folded up the letters, and sat for a few minutes considering on their contents. Her own good sense and feelings of obedience to her parents pointed out to her in how very improper a style her brother wrote; but her love and affection for William made her try to excuse him. "Boys are so different from girls!" thought she, "William has been away so much, too, from home; and besides, he must chose a profession, and it would be hard not to leave him at liberty to be what he thinks himself fit for."

In the evening of this day Mrs. Martin felt herself better, and, for the first time since her illness, spoke to her husband on the subject of William. Mr. Martin told her he was with her brother, and likewise that he had heard from himself; he then stated what Captain Elliott had said as to William's being allowed to remain with him, but owned he was very averse to this plan. Mrs. Martin answered very calmly: "My dear husband, as far as my judgment goes, I perfectly agree with my brother. I would not certainly have chosen that William should be a sailor if I could have prevented it; but, as he has acted, I think it is the best thing we can now do. He will be under my dear brother's care; and I shall now," continued she, looking at her husband with tenderness, "die in peace on his account, convinced that Elliott will exert every means to correct and improve my poor boy, the last legacy of a dying sister." Mr. Martin, quite alarmed by this address, asked her if she felt herself worse, and rose to send for Mr. Armstrong. She laid her hand gently on his arm; "My dearest love," said she, "I am not worse; but I own I have been watching for an opportunity of preparing your mind for what I believe myself to be inevitable; I do not say I shall die immediately, yet I am convinced my constitution is so shattered, that a very short time will now be allowed me to prepare for my awful change. I have thought that, by letting you know what my own opinion is, your mind would be better able to bear the stroke when it happens than if it came upon you suddenly; beside, my beloved husband, I have much to say to you with regard to Helen. At present, I must have done, my strength will not permit me to continue the conversation; only write, my dearest love, to my brother, and tell him I consign my son entirely to his management, and I trust he will endeavour to guard his father from all future anxiety on his account; he has cost him quite enough already." The last words were spoken so low, that they were evidently not meant for her husband's ear.

He had remained quite motionless all the time she was speaking. When she ceased, he became almost convulsed with agony for some minutes; but a violent shower of tears relieved him, and most probably saved either his reason or his life, or indeed perhaps both. Helen's coming into the room showed him the necessity of composure; and hastily passing her, saying he must send answers to his letters, he left the room and shut himself up in his study, there to implore compassion and resignation from a being, who is never deaf to the petitions of the humble and sincere believer.

A few days showed plainly that Mrs. Martin knew her own situation but too well; she appeared gradually, though slowly sinking. One evening, she asked her husband to raise her up a little; and then, desiring Helen to bring her pen and ink, she insisted on being allowed to write a few lines. "I shall write very little," said she, "but it is a duty that must not be longer delayed." She then wrote what appeared to be only a short note, which she sealed, and addressed to William; and putting it into her husband's hand said, "send this, my love, when all is over, not before. It may comfort him, poor fellow; he will require comfort then."

Mr. Martin now felt it his duty to inform his dear Helen, of the state her mother was really in, but it was some time before he could gain sufficient courage to break it to her. One evening, however, seeing his wife worse than usual, he was apprehensive that, should her death take place while Helen was unprepared, it might have fatal effects upon the poor girl's health. He therefore followed her into her room, when she went to prepare for bed, and there in the gentlest manner informed her of the truth. Helen at first was in such a state of violent grief, that she could listen to nothing her father said, and indeed for some hours was utterly incapable either of reasoning or exertion; but at last, lifting up her head, and seeing her poor father, pale and exhausted, leaning over her, she started up, and throwing herself into his arms, cried "Forgive me, my dearest father, for being so selfish! I will indulge in this almost criminal conduct no longer. Leave me for a few minutes; you may trust me; I will then join you, and endeavour to perform my duty, both in attending the last moments of my precious mother, and in being a comfort, not a burthen, to my equally dear father." Mr. Martin thought it best to comply with her request, and retired to try and subdue his own feelings, that he might be able to attend to his wife.

In half an hour Helen and her father were at Mrs. Martin's bedside; she smiled faintly when she perceived them. Holding out her hand, she thus addressed her husband: "My dear, I wish much to see my mother; pray write for her, she will, I am sure, gratify me." Mr. Martin immediately left the room, to send off a messenger to Melrose. Mrs. Martin then took hold of Helen's hand, and said, "My dearest girl, I wish to say a few words to you, but it must be when you are composed enough to listen to me. I have endeavoured, both by precept and example, to fortify your mind; and you will not, I trust, now disappoint my hopes, of having made you capable of overcoming your feelings for the sake of those most dear to you."

Helen, whose heart was almost bursting, pressed her mother's hand. "Give me a few moments, mamma, and then I will attend to all you have to say. I will not occasion you an uneasy thought, if I can help it; you shall be convinced, that your lessons have not been thrown away." She then retired to the window, and in about five minutes returned to her mother with her features perfectly composed, and sitting down, said, "Now, mamma, if you wish to speak to me, I am ready." Her mother made no comments, but immediately began by saying, it was her ardent desire that she might be able to prevail with Mrs. Elliott to give up her house at Melrose, and come and live at the Manse. "She, my dear girl, will best supply my place, both to you and your dear father. At present, my love, you are too young to take the charge of the family. My mother is still active, and loves you both with the truest affection. Should I be so fortunate as to succeed in settling this plan, I shall be comparatively easy; but you must promise me, my dear, the most perfect obedience to her wishes and directions in every particular, even though they may appear to you to differ from what you have been accustomed to receive from me; and if it please God, my child, you must likewise promise to supply my place to her in her old age. I need not, my dear, desire your attention and obedience to your father; on that point I am easy. Your whole conduct through life, and more particularly during my long protracted illness, has convinced me that I have nothing to fear there, and it would be only harassing you to say a word on the subject; but there is one more point that I must mention, I mean your feelings towards your brother. Never, my own love, allow yourself to dwell a single moment on conduct which may appear to have shortened my life: I have forgiven him from my heart, and left him a mother's blessing. I make it my last request to you, that you never will either evince by your behaviour, or harbour in your inmost thoughts, the slightest resentment towards him. And now, my love," continued she, preventing Helen from speaking, "I have only to add my advice as to your own personal conduct. In all circumstances be guided by your father's wishes and opinions, at least as long as it pleases Providence to spare him to you; and never, my beloved girl, separate from him or your grandmother, while they require your dutiful attention."

Helen now, in a quiet composed voice, went over every circumstance her mother had enumerated, and added a sacred promise never to disobey her last commands, in thought or deed. When she had so done, her mother, clasping her in her arms, gave her in a solemn manner that most precious of all gifts to a dutiful child, a dying mother's blessing. She then asked for a little jelly; and, on her husband's coming into the room, advised Helen to take a turn in the garden and recruit herself by getting a little fresh air. She obeyed, and after a shower of tears became composed enough to return to her mournful duties within doors.

Mrs. Elliott arrived the next day, when Mrs. Martin had the satisfaction of gaining her consent to give up her house at Melrose, and come to live at the Manse. Mr. Martin assured her that she should ever be considered by him as his own mother. His wife joined their hands, exclaiming, "My work is finished in this world, I have now only to look forward to another and a better." Her work in this world did indeed seem finished. The next day, without any apparent change for the worse, as her mother and Helen were sitting by the bed-side, and her kind anxious husband was supporting her in his arms, she laid her head on his shoulder and seemed to fall asleep: it was some minutes before he was aware that she was gone for ever.

Thus perished one of the best and most exemplary of mothers, entirely from anxious solicitude about a son, who, in spite of all admonition and remonstrance, had allowed the growth and practice of disobedience for several years to embitter his kind parents' lives; and whose headstrong violence and self-will at last brought the being whom he most loved on earth to a premature grave!



CHAP. XI.

For some days after this melancholy event had taken place, the family, and indeed all the inhabitants of the dale, were in the utmost state of distress. Mrs. Martin had been universally beloved by all ranks in the neighbourhood of her residence; and there was not a single individual for ten miles round, that did not, in some way or other, show a sympathy in the minister's affliction.

Helen struggled with her feelings; and this exertion was of infinite service both to herself and her father, who, struck by seeing so much fortitude in so young a girl, felt it his duty to encourage her by example, at least in her presence; and Helen, aware of this, took good care to be with him continually.

Her grandmother was perfectly astonished at her conduct; and took every opportunity of praising her when they were alone. "My Helen," would she say, "you will be the means, through the blessing of God, of saving your father's life. I really feared for him for the first week or two; but he begins now to look more like himself, and I think, by a continuance of the same attention and unobtrusive kindness, you will in time reconcile him in some degree to his loss, and bring him again into his former habits of employment and usefulness."

On one of these occasions, Helen caught her grandmother's hand, saying "Hush! no more, dear madam; I cannot hear praise on this subject. I am only endeavouring to follow the precepts and example of the best and most beloved of mothers. Her advice, and the solemn promise I gave her a few hours before her death, are never out of my mind; but it is a subject too sacred for me to bear hearing it talked of;" and straining her clasped hands across her chest, she added solemnly, "No! that I cannot do." Her grandmother folded her to her breast, saying, "My Helen, pardon me, I will never distress you on this subject again; we now perfectly understand each other."

Helen for many months continued the same mild, quiet, but unceasing attention to her father; who at length had acquired composure, and even began to smile at his daughter's little sallies of humour. She had became his pupil in drawing, and this tempted him to resume their usual walks and rides when the weather would permit, so that by the end of the summer, content, and even cheerfulness, had in some degree again appeared at the Manse. Helen, however could never bring her mind to mention her mother's name to any one but her father; and only to him, from observing that it would deprive him of a great enjoyment, which he evidently had, in talking of her and her virtues.

William had sailed before he heard of his mother's death. For the present, therefore, he had been spared the punishment of his disobedience; but Mr. Martin had written both to him and his uncle, and inclosed his mother's last legacy. Helen likewise had thought it her duty to write to William, and assure him how kindly and affectionately her mother had spoken of him before her death, and how much she wished to impress on both their minds love and confidence in each other. She then entreated him to write soon, and often, as their father was not in a state to bear much anxiety; she durst not say a word about her grandmother, for the old lady had positively refused to allow her name to be mentioned to him, and it evidently gave her pain whenever she heard Helen and her father conversing about him.

At this time, Mrs. Scott, the gardener's wife at Craigie Hall, was obliged, by the sudden illness of her father, to go to Edinburgh. Her husband was to accompany her, and leave her there if necessary, but they knew not exactly what to do with little Marion. Mr. Martin and Helen happening to call in one of their daily walks, he asked them to send Marion to the Manse. "She will be much better with us, Mrs. Scott, than being left here; and I am sure my daughter will take care to make her attend to all that she has learnt from you during your absence." Helen, also, was quite pleased with the plan, and pressed Mrs. Scott to agree to it. "I am sure, Sir," said Mr. Scott, "my wife can have no objection, unless it be the thought of giving you and Miss Helen trouble: but Marion is a good little girl, and will trouble you as little as possible; and therefore, as you are kind enough to ask her, Sir, I really think we ought to accept the offer; the advantage of being near so good a daughter, and seeing how she conducts herself, may be of use to her all her life." Accordingly, the next day Marion was brought down to the Manse by her father; and John was not a little surprised and pleased to find her established there when he came in the evening. Marion was but a short while under Helen's care, when her grandmother perceived she was of the greatest use, both to her health and spirits; she was a tractable child, with a very feeling heart. She had heard from her parents the continued praises of Miss Martin's conduct, from the time of her mother's death, and Marion fancied her the first of human beings; she therefore had the greatest ambition to please her. She watched even her looks to anticipate which she thought might be her wishes, and if ever a cloud of sorrow came over Helen's face, Marion was sure, by some little winning attention, to endeavour to direct her thoughts into a different channel. She remained at the Manse nearly three months, and returned home, to the great regret of all the family; from that time, however, she was a constant visitor, and a sincere attachment took root between her and Helen, which has lasted all their lives.

Very little change took place in the dale after this, for the space of several years. Mr. Martin had in some degree recovered his health and spirits; but a shock had been given to his nerves, which rendered him more delicate, and requiring more care than he did before; and it was not likely, Mr. Armstrong said, that he would ever be otherwise. Mrs. Elliott still enjoyed good health, though from rheumatism she was obliged to live more within doors. Helen was their comfort and support; she was now fast approaching womanhood, and never was there a more amiable creature; her dear mother's lessons and instructions had indeed not been thrown away. She had unfortunately known sorrow in early youth; but it had acted upon her for good, in teaching her the proper regulation of her mind and she now felt the comfort of having done so, by being the friend and confident both of her father and grandmother.

John had gone on under Will the shepherd, performing his duty as a servant in the day, and improving his mind with Mr. Martin in the evening; for though he had learned all that was necessary for him to know, yet Helen encouraged his constant attendance in the study, as she thought it amused her father's mind. John was now becoming a stout lad, almost too big for the hills, and on some occasion, when Mr. Martin happened to mention that he thought he must begin to consider whether he meant to be a shepherd all his life, John answered directly, "No, Sir, not if I can help it;" but recollecting himself immediately, he added, "in that as in every thing else, I feel it is my duty to be regulated by your advice. I certainly have formed a wish to see a little more of the world, and if I could go into the service of some gentleman who would have patience with my awkwardness, I think I should prefer that, at least for a few years, to settling here immediately for life. I have wished to speak to you, Sir, upon this subject, as my time is out next summer with Mr. Laurie; but if you think I am wrong, I will give up all thoughts of leaving the dale, and hire myself out as a shepherd. I have no doubt any of the farmers around will engage me, as I am well known among the hills; and Will's herd-boys are always preferred, as he takes so much pains to teach us our duty." Mr. Martin replied, "My dear John, I am rather unprepared to give you an answer; but I will think of the subject, and talk it over with you before your time is out with Mr. Laurie. You are a good lad, and will, I am sure, be guided by reason."

The day after this conversation took place a letter arrived from Capt. Elliott, saying that he was safely arrived in England; that he was now at Portsmouth, and he hoped in a very few weeks to be in Eskdale. He gave a most flattering account of William, who was now all that his warmest friends could wish. His poor mother's death had had a most astonishing effect upon his whole conduct. When he first received the sad tidings, he was so affected, that his uncle feared for his reason, and could scarcely ever trust him out of sight; but at length he became calm and composed, and from that time was never seen, even in a single instance, out of humour. For the first two years this appeared to cost him great mental exertion, his colour often rising when any thing displeased him; but he always on those occasions left the cabin, or retired to a corner away from every one, and on his joining the company again appeared with a placid countenance. Now all appearance of passion, or any thing approaching to it, had entirely vanished; his uncle entreated that his father, for his own sake, would allow him to come down with him to the dale, as he was quite sure he would be delighted to witness so complete a reformation.