He was weak, and they did not stay long.

"Don't judge my heart by my words, my dear scholars," he said. "My heart is right toward you, but I am too weary to show it. God bless you both. I may not see you again, Agnes, but I shall think of you there, and if I can do anything for you, be sure I will."

When they left the cottage, the twilight was halfway towards the night, and a vague softness in the east prophesied the moon. Cosmo led Agnes through the fields to the little hollow where she had so often gone to seek him. There they sat down in the grass, and waited for the moon. Cosmo pointed out the exact spot where she rose that night she looked at him through the legs of the cow.

"Ye min' Grizzle's rime," he said:

"'Whan the coo loups ower the mune, The reid gowd rains intil men's shune'?

"I believe Grizzie took the queer sicht for a guid omen. It's unco strange hoo fowk 'll mix up God an' chance, seein' there could hardly be twa mair contradictory ideas! I min' ance hearin' a man say,'It's almost a providence!'"

"I doobt wi' maist fowk," said Aggie, "it's only 'There's almost a God.' For my pairt I see nae room atween no believin' in him at a', an' believin' in him a' thegither an' lattin him du what he likes wi' 's."

"I'm o' your min' there, Aggie, oot an' oot," responded Cosmo.

As he spoke the moon came peering up, and, turning to Agnes to share the sight with her, he saw the yellow light reflected from tears. "Aggie! Aggie!" he said, in much concern, "what are ye greitin' for?"

She made no answer, but wiped away her tears, and tried to smile. After a little pause,

"Ony body wad think, Cosmo," she said, "'at gien I believed in a God, he maun be a sma' ane! What for sud onybody greit 'at has but a far awa' notion o' sic a God as you an' the laird an' Maister Simon believes in!"

"Ye may weel say that, Aggie!" rejoined Cosmo—yet sighed as he said it, for he thought of Lady Joan. A long pause followed, and then he spoke again.

"Aggie," he said, "there canna weel be twa i' this warl' 'at ken ane anither better nor you an' me. We hae been bairns thegither; we hae been to the schuil thegither; we hae had the same maister; we hae come throu dour times thegither—I doobt we hae been hungry thegither, though ye saidna a word; we hae warstlet wi' poverty, an' maybe wi' unbelief; we loe the same fowk best; an' abune a' we set the wull o' God. It wad be sair upo' baith o' 's to pairt—an' to me a vex forby 'at the first thing w'alth did for me sud be to tak you awa'. It wad 'maist brak my hert to think 'at her 'at cam throu the lan' o' drowth wi' me—ay, tuik me throu' 't' for, wantin' her, I wad hae fa'en to rise nae mair, sud gang on climmin' the dry hill-ro'd, an' me lyin' i' the bonny meadow-gerse at the fut o' 't. It canna be rizzon, Aggie! What for sud ye gang? Merry me, Aggie, an' bide—bide an' ca' the castel yer ain."

"Hoots! wad ye merry yer mither!" cried Agnes, and to Cosmo's fresh dismay burst into laughter and tears together. I believe it was the sole time in her life she ever gave way to discordant emotion.

Cosmo stared speechless. It was as if an angel had made a poor human joke! He was much too bewildered to feel hurt, especially as he was aware of no committed absurdity.

But Aggie was not pleased with herself. She choked her tears, crushed down her laughter, and conquered. She took his hand in hers.

"I beg yer pardon, Cosmo," she said; "I shouldna hae lauchen. Lauchin', I'm sure,'s far eneuch frae my hert! I kenna hoo I cam to du 't. But ye're sic a bairn, Cosmo! Ye dinna ken what ye wad hae! An' bein' a kin' o' a mither to ye a' yer life, I maun lat ye see what ye're aboot—I wadna insist owersair upo' the years atween 's, though that's no a sma' maitter, but surely ye haena to be tellt at this time o' day,'at for fowk to merry 'at dinna loe ane anither, is little gien it be onything short o' a sin."

"I hae aye loed YOU, Aggie," said Cosmo, with some reproach in his tone.

"Weel du I ken that. An ill hert wad be mine gien it didna tell me that! But, Cosmo, whan ye said the word, didna YOUR hert tell ye ye meant by 't something no jist the verra same as ye inten' it me to un'erstan' by 't?"

"Aggie, Aggie!" sighed Cosmo, "I wad aye loe ye better an' better."

"Ay, ye wad, gien ye cud, Cosmo. But ye're ower honest to see throu' yersel'; an' I'm no sae honest but I can see throu' you. Ye wad merry me 'cause ye're no wullin' to pairt wi' me, likin' me better nor ony but ane, an' her ye canna get! Gien I was a leddy, Cosmo, maybe I michtna be ower prood to tak ye upo' thae terms, but no bein' what I am. It wad need love as roon's a sphere for that. Eh, but there micht come a time o' sair repentance! Ance merried upo' you, gien I war to tak it intil my heid 'at I was ae hair i' yer gait, or 'at ye was ae hair freer like wi me oot o' yer sicht, I wad be like to rin to the verra back-wa' o' creation! Na; it was weel eneuch as we hae been, but MERRIED! Ye wad be guid to me aye, I ken that, but I wad be aye wantin' to be deid,'at ye micht loe me a wee better. I say naething o' what the warl' wad say to the laird o' Glenwarlock merryin' his servan' lass; for ye care as little for the warl' as I du, an' we're baith some wiser nor it. But efter a', Cosmo, I wad be some oot o' my place—wadna I noo? The hen-birds nae doobt are aye the soberer to luik at, an' haena the gran' colours nor the gran' w'ys wi' them 'at the cocks hae; but still there's a measur in a' thing: it wad ill set a common hen to hae a peacock for her man. My sowl, I ken, wad gang han' in han', in a heumble w'y, wi' yours, for I un'erstan' ye, Cosmo; an' the day may come whan I'll luik fitter for yer company nor I can the noo; but wha like me could help a sense o' unfitness, gien it war but gaein' to the kirk side by side wi' you? Luik at the twa o' 's noo i' the munelicht thegither! Dinna ye see 'at we dinna match?"

"A' that wad be naething gien ye loed me, Aggie."

"Gien YE loed ME, say, Cosmo—loed me eneuch to be prood o' me! But that ye dinna. Exem' yer ain hert, an' ye'll see 'at ye dinna.—An' what for sud ye!"

Here Aggie broke down. A burst of silent weeping, like that of one desiring no comfort, followed. Suddenly she ceased and rose, and they walked home without a word.

When Cosmo came down in the morning, Aggie was gone.



CHAPTER LX.

REPOSE.

Cosmo had no need of a very searching examination of his heart to know that it was mainly the wish to make her some poor return for her devotion, conjoined with the sincere desire to retain her company, that had influenced him in the offer she had been too wise and too genuinely loving to accept. He did not fall into any depths of self-blame, for, whatever its kind, his love was of quality pure and good. The only bitterness his offer bore was its justification of Agnes's departure.

But Grizzie saw no justification of it anywhere.

"What I'm to du wantin' her, I div not ken. NO BECOMIN', quo' he, FOR A LASS LIKE HER TO BIDE WI' A BACHELOR LIKE HIMSEL'!

"H'ard ever onybody sic styte! As gien she had been a lady forsooth! I micht wi' jist as muckle sense objec' to bidin' wi' him mysel'! But Is' du what I like, an' lat fowk say 'at they like, sae lang as I'm na fule i' my ain e'en!"

"I'm ower white, Mr. Gled, for you. Ow na! ye're no that, bonny doo."

But by degrees Cosmo grew gently ashamed of himself that he had so addressed Agnes. He saw in the thing a failure in respect, a wrong to her dignity. That she had taken it so sweetly did not alter its character. Seeming at the time to himself to be going against the judgment of the world, and treating it with the contempt it always more or less deserves, he had in reality been acting in no small measure according to it! For had there not been in him a vague condescension operant all the time? Had he not been all but conscious of the feeling that his position made up for any want in his love? Had she been conventionally a lady, instead of an angel in peasant form, would he have been so ready to return her kindness with an offer of marriage? There was little conceit in supposing that some, even of higher position than his own, would have accepted the offer on lower terms; but knowing Aggie as he did, he ought not to have made it to her: she was too large and too fine for such an experiment. This he now fully understood; and had he not been brought up with her from childhood as with an elder sister, she might even now have begun to be a formidable rival to the sweet memories of Joan's ladyhood. For he saw in her that which is at the root, not only of all virtue, but of all beauty, of all grandeur, of all growth, of all attraction. Every charm—in its essence, in its development, in its embodiment, is a flower of the tree of life, whose root is the truth. I see the smile of the shallow philosopher, thinking of a certain lady to him full of charm, who has no more love for the truth than a mole for the light. But that lady's charm does not spring out of her; it has been put upon her, and she will soon destroy it. It comes of truth otherwhere, and will one day leave her naked and not lovely. The truth was in Agnes merely supreme. To have asked such a one to marry him for reasons lower than the highest was good ground for shame. Not therefore even then was he PAINFULLY ashamed, for he felt safe with Agnes, as with the elder sister that pardons everything.

It was some little time before they had any news of her; but they heard at last that she had rented Grannie's cottage from her grand-daughter, her own aunt, and was going to have a school there for young children. Cosmo was greatly pleased, for the work would give scope to some of her highest gifts and best qualities, while it would keep her within reach of possible service. Nothing however can part those who are of the true mind towards the things that ARE.

Cosmo betook himself heartily to study, and not only read but wrote regularly every day—no more with the design of printing, but in the hope of shaping more thoroughly and so testing more truly his contemplations and conclusions. I scorn the idea that a man cannot think without words, but Cosmo thus improved his thinking, and learned to utter accurately, that is, to say the thing he meant, and keep from saying the thing he did not mean.

The room over the kitchen, which had first in his memory been his grandmother's, then became his own, and returned to his disposal when James Gracie died, he made his study; and from it to the drawing-room, with the assistance of a village mason, excavated a passage—for it was little less than excavation—in the wall connecting the two blocks, under the passage in which had lain the treasure.

The main issue Grizzie's new command of money found was in a torrent of cleaning. If she could have had her way, I think she would have put up scaffolds all over the outside of the house, and scrubbed it down from chimneys to foundations.

On the opposite side of the Warlock river, the laird rented a meadow, and there Grizzie had the long disused satisfaction of seeing two cows she could call hers, the finest cows in the country, feeding with a vague satisfaction in the general order of things. The stable housed a horse after Cosmo's own heart, on which he made excursions into the country round, partly in the hope of coming upon some place not too far off where there was land to be bought.

All that was known of the change in his circumstances was that he had come into a large fortune by the death—date not mentioned—of a relative with whom his father had not for years had communication, and Cosmo never any. Lord Lick-my-loof, after repeated endeavours to get some information about this relative, was perplexed, and vaguely suspicious.

How the spending of the money thus committed to him was to change the earthly issues of his life, Cosmo had not yet learned, and was waiting for light on the matter. For a man is not bound to walk in the dark, neither must, for the sake of doing something, run the risk of doing wrong. He that believeth shall not make haste; and he that believeth not shall come no speed. He had nothing of the common mammonistic feeling of the enormous importance of money, neither felt that it laid upon him a heavier weight of duty than any other of the gifts of God. And if a poet is not bound to rush into the world with his poem, surely a rich man is not bound to rush into the world with his money. Rather set a herd of wild horses loose in a city! A man must know first how to USE his money, before he begin to spend it. And the way to use money is not so easily discovered as some would think, for it is not one of God's ready means of doing good. The rich man as such has no reason to look upon himself as specially favoured. He has reason to think himself specially tried. Jesus, loving a certain youth, did him the greatest kindness he had in his power, telling him to give his wealth to the poor, and follow him in poverty. The first question is not how to do good with money, but how to keep from doing harm with it. Whether rich or poor, a man must first of all do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with his God; then, if he be rich, God will let him know how to spend. There must be ways in which, even now, a man may give the half, or even the whole of his goods to the poor, without helping the devil. Cosmo, I repeat, was in no haste: it is not because of God's poverty that the world is so slowly redeemed. Not the most righteous expenditure of money will save it, but that of life and soul and spirit—it may be, to that, of nerve and muscle, blood and brain. All these our Lord spent—but no money. Therefore I say, that of all means for saving the world, or doing good, as it is called, money comes last in order, and far behind.

Out of the loneliness in which his father left him, grew a great peace and new strength. More real than ever was the other world to him now. His father could not have vanished like a sea-bubble on the sand! To have known a great man—perhaps I do not mean such a man as my reader may be thinking of—is to have some assurance of immortality. One of the best of men said to me once that he did not feel any longing after immortality, but, when he thought of certain persons, he could not for a moment believe they had ceased. He had beheld the lovely, believed therefore in the endless.

Castle Warlock was scarcely altered in appearance. In its worst poverty it had always looked dignified. There was more life about it and freedom, but not so much happiness. The diamonds had come, but his father was gone, Aggie was gone, Mr. Simon was going, and Joan would not come! Cosmo had scarce a hope for this world; yet not the less did he await the will of The Will. What that was, time would show, for God works in time.



CHAPTER LXI.

THE THIRD HARVEST.

As the days went by, Cosmo saw his engagement to Mr. Henderson drawing near, nor had the smallest inclination to back out of it. The farmer would have let him off at once, no doubt, but he felt, without thinking, that it would be undignified, morally speaking, to avoid, because he was now in plenty, the engagement granted by friendship to his need. Nor was this all, for, so doing, he would seem to allow that, driven by necessity, he had undertaken a thing unworthy, or degrading; for Cosmo would never have allowed that any degree of hunger could justify a poor man in doing a thing disgraceful to a rich man. No true man will ever ask of fellow creature, man or woman, on terms however extravagant, the doing of a thing he could not do himself without a sense of degradation. There is no leveller like Christianity—but it levels by lifting to a lofty table-land, accessible only to humility. He only who is humble can rise, and rising lift.

In thus holding to what he had undertaken, a man of lower nature might have had respect to the example he would so give: Cosmo thought only of honourable and grateful fulfilment of his contract. Not only would it have been a poor return for Mr. Henderson's kindness to treat his service as something beneath him now, but, worst of all, it would have been to accept ennoblement at the hands of Mammon, as of a power able to alter his station in God's world. To change the spirit of one's ways because of money, is to confess onesself a born slave, a thing of outsides, a knight of Riches, with a maggot for his crest.

When the time came, therefore, Cosmo presented himself. With a look of astonishment shadowed by disappointment, the worthy farmer held out his hand.

"Laird," he said, "I didna expec' YOU!"

"What for no?" returned Cosmo. "Haena I been yer fee'd man for months!"

"Ye put me in a kin' o' a painfu' doobt, laird. Fowk tellt me ye had fa'en heir til a sicht o' siller!"

"But allooin', hoo sud that affec' my bargain wi' you Mr. Henderson? Siller i' the pooch canna tak obligation frae the back."

"Drivin' things to the wa', nae doobt!" returned the farmer. "I micht certainly hae ta'en the law o' ye, failin' yer appearance. But amo' freen's, that cudna be; an' 'deed, Mr. Warlock, gien a body wad be captious, michtna he say it wad hae been mair freen'ly to beg aff?"

"A bargain's a bargain," answered Cosmo; "an' to beg aff o' ane 'cause I was nae langer i' the same necessity as whan I made it, wad hae been a mere shame. Gien my father hed been wi' me, an' no weel eneuch to like me oot o' 's sicht, I wad hae beggit aff fest eneuch, but wi' no rizzon it wad hae been ill-mainnert, no to say dishonest an' oongratefu'. Gien ye hae spoken to ony ither i' my place, he s' hae the fee, an' Is' hae the wark. Lat things stan', Mr. Henderson."

"Laird!" answered the farmer, not a little moved, "there's no a man I wad raither see at my wark nor yersel'. A' o' them, men an' women, work the better whan ye're amo' them. They wad be affrontit no to haud up wi' a gentleman! Sae come awa' an' walcome!—ye'll tak something afore we fa'tu?"

Cosmo accepted a jug of milk, half cream, from the hand of Elsie.

The girl was much improved, having partially unlearned a good deal of the nonsense gathered at school, and come to take a fair share with her sisters in the work of the house and farm—enlightened thereto doubtless by her admiration for Cosmo. It is not from those they marry people always learn most.

When Cosmo reached the end of the first bout, and stood to sharpen his scythe, he was startled to see, a little way off, gathering after one of the scythes, a form he could not mistake. SHE had known he would keep his troth! She did not look up, but he knew her figure and every motion of it too well to take her for another than Aggie.

That she thus exposed herself to misrepresentation, Aggie was well enough aware, but with the knowledge of how things stood between her and Cosmo, she was far above heeding the danger. Those who do the truth are raised even above defying the world. Defiance betrays a latent respect, but Aggie gave herself no more trouble about the opinion of the world than that of a lower animal. Those who are of the world may defy, but they cannot ignore it.

She had declined being a party to Cosmo's marrying his mother, but was not therefore prepared to expose him undefended to any one whatever who might wish to take him, even should she be of age unobjectionable; and she knew one who would at least be hampered by no scruples arising from conscious unfitness. Agnes might well have thought it better he should marry the cottar's than the farmer's daughter! Anyhow she was resolved to keep an eye on the young woman so long as Cosmo was within her swoop. He was chivalrous and credulous, and who could tell what Elsie might not dare! Her refusal to be his wife did not deprive her of antecedent rights. And there she was, gathering behind Cosmo, as two years ago!

The instant she was free, Aggie set out for home, not having exchanged a word with Cosmo, but intending to linger on the way in the hope of his overtaking her. The Hendersons would have had him stay the night, but he had given his man orders to wait him with his horse at a certain point on the road; and Aggie had not gone far before he got up with her.

Whatever was or had been the state of her feelings towards Cosmo, she had never mistaken his towards her; neither had she failed to see that his heart was nowise wounded by her refusal of his offer: it would have been a little comfort to her, having to be severe with herself, to see some sign of suffering in him, but she had got over much, and now was nowise annoyed at the cheery unembarrassed tone in which he called out when he saw her, and turning greeted him with the same absence of constraint.

"An' sae ye're gaein' to tak the bairnies un'er yer wing, Aggie!" said Cosmo, as they walked along. "They're lucky little things 'at'll gang to your schuil! What pat it i' yer heid?"

"Mr. Simon advised it," answered Aggie; "but I believe I pat it in his heid first, sayin' hoo little was dune for the bairnies jist at the time they war easiest to guide. Rouch wark maks the han's rouch, and rouch words maks the hert rouch."

"The haill country-side 'ill be gratefu' to ye, Aggie.—Ye'll lat me come an' see ye whiles?"

"Nane sae welcome," answered Aggie. "But wull ye be bidin' on, noo 'at ye haena him 'at's gane? Winna ye be gaein' awa', to write buiks, an' gar fowk fin' oot what's the maitter wi' them?"

"I dinna ken what I'm gaein' to du," answered Cosmo. "But for writin' buiks, I could do that better at hame nor ony ither gait, wi' a'thing min'in' me o' my father, an' you nearhan' to gie me coonsel."

"I hae aye been yours to comman', Cosmo," replied Aggie, looking down for one moment, then immediately up again in his face.

"An' ye're no angert wi' me, Aggie?"

"Angert!" repeated Aggie, and looked at him with a glow angelic in her honest, handsome face, and her eyes as true as the heavens. "It was only 'at ye didna ken what ye war aboot, an' bein' sae muckle yoonger nor mysel', I was b'un' to tak care o' ye; for a wuman as weel's a man maun be her brither's keeper. Ye see yersel' I was richt!"

"Ay was ye, Aggie," answered Cosmo, ashamed and almost vexed at having to make the confession.

He did not see the heave of Aggie's bosom, nor how she held back and broke into nothing the sigh that would have followed.

"But," she resumed, after a moment's pause, "a' lasses michtna ken sae weel what was fittin' them, nor care sae muckle what was guid for you; naebody livin' can ken ye as I du! an' gien ye war to lat a lass think ye cared aboot her—it micht be but as a freen', but she micht be sae ta'en' wi' ye—'at—'at maybe she micht gar ye think 'at hoo she cudna live wantin' ye—an' syne, what ye du than, Cosmo?"

It was a situation in which Cosmo had never imagined himself, and he looked at Aggie a little surprised.

"I dinna freely un'erstan' ye," he said.

"Na, I reckon no! Hoo sud ye! Ye're jist ower semple for this warl', Cosmo! But I'll put it plainer:—what wad ye du gien a lass was to fa' a greitin', an' a wailin', an' fling hersel' i' yer airms, an' mak as gien she wad dee?—what wad ye du wi' her, Cosmo?"

"'Deed I dinna ken," replied Cosmo with some embarrassment. "What wad ye hae me du, Aggie?"

"I wad hae ye set her doon whaur ye stude, gien upo' the ro'd, than upo' the dyke, gien i' the hoose, than upo' the nearest chair, and tak to yer legs an' rin. Bide na to tak yer bonnet, but rin an' rin till ye're better nor sure she can never win up wi' ye. An' specially gien the name o' the lass sud begin wi' an' E an' gang on till an L, I wad hae ye rin as gien the auld captain was efter ye."

"I hae had sma' occasion," said Cosmo, "to rin fra HIM."

And therewith, partly to change the subject, for he now understood Aggie, and did not feel it right to talk about any girl as if she could behave in the manner supposed, partly because he had long desired an opportunity of telling her, he began, and gave her the whole history of the discovery of the diamonds, omitting nothing, even where the tale concerned Lady Joan. Before he got to the end of it, they were at the place where the man was waiting with his horse, and as that was the place where Aggie had to turn off to go to Muir o' Warlock, there they parted.



CHAPTER LXII.

A DUET, TRIO, AND QUARTET.

The next day things went much the same, only that Elsie was not in the field. Cosmo, who had been thinking much over what Aggie had said, and was not flattered that she should take him for the goose he did not know himself to be, could hardly wait for the evening to have another talk with her.

"Aggie," he said, as he overtook her in a hollow not many yards from the verge of the farm, "I dinna like ye to think me sic a gowk! What gars ye suppose a lass could hae her wull o' me in sic a w'y 's you? No 'at I believe ony lass wad behave like that! It's no like yersel' to fancy sae ill o' yer ain kin'! I'm sure ye didna discover thae things i' yerain hert! There's nae sic a lass."

"What maitter whether there be sic a lass or no, sae lang as gien there was ane, she wad be ower muckle for ye?"

"That's ower again what I'm compleenin' o'! an' gien it war onybody but yersel' 'at has a richt, I wad be angry, Aggie."

"Cosmo," said Agnes solemnly, "ye're ower saft-hertit to the women-fowk. I do believe—an' I tell ye't again in as mony words—ye wad merry onylass raither nor see her in trible on your accoont."

"Ance mair, Aggie, what gies ye a richt to think sae ill o' me?" demanded Cosmo.

"Jist the w'y ye behaved to mysel'."

"YE never tellt me ye couldna du wantin' me!"

"I houp no, for it wadna hae been true. I can du wantin' ye weel eneuch. But ye allooed ye wasna richt!"

"Ay—it was a presumption."

"Ay! but what made it a presumption?"

Cosmo could not bear to say plainly to the girl he loved so much, that he had not loved her so as to have a right to ask her to marry him. He hesitated.

"Ye didna loe me eneuch," said Aggie, looking up in his face.

"Aggie," returned Cosmo, "I'm ready to merry ye the morn gien ye'll hae me!"

"There noo!" exclaimed Aggie, in a sort of provoked triumph, "didna I tell ye! There ye are, duin' 't a' ower again! Wasna I richt? Ye're fit to tak care o' onybody but yersel'—an' the lass 'at wad fain hae ye! Eh, but sair ye need a sensible mitherly body like mysel' to luik efter ye!"

"Tak me, than, an' luik efter me at yer wull, Aggie; I mean what I say!" persisted Cosmo, bewildered with embarrassment and a momentary stupidity.

"Ance mair, Cosmo, dinna be a gowk," said Agnes with severity. "Ye loe ME ower little, an' I loe YOU ower muckle for that."

"Ye're no angry at me, Aggie?" said Cosmo, almost timidly.

"Angry at ye, my bonny lad!" cried Aggie, and looking up with a world of tenderness in her eyes, and a divine glow of affection, for hers was the love so sure of itself that it maketh not ashamed, she threw her two strong, shapely honest arms round his neck; he bent his head, she kissed him heartily on the mouth, and burst into tears. Surely but for that other love that lay patient and hopeless in the depth of Cosmo's heart, he would now have loved Aggie in a way to satisfy her, and to justify him in saying he loved her! And to that it might have come in time, but where is the use of saying what might have been, when all things are ever moving towards the highest and best for the individual as well as for the universe! —not the less that hell may be the only path to it for some—the hell of an absolute self-loathing.

Just at that moment, who should appear on the top of a broken mound of the moorland, where she stood in the light of the setting sun, but Elsie, neatly dressed, glowing and handsome! A moment she stood, then descended, a dark scorn shadowing in her eyes, and a smile on her mouth showing the whitest of teeth.

"Mr. Warlock," she said, and took no notice of his humble companion, "my father sent me after you in a hurry as you may see," —and she heaved a deep breath—"to say he doesn't think the bear o' the Gowan Brae,'ill be fit for cutting this two days, an' they'll gang to the corn upo' the heuch instead. He was going to tell you himself, but ye was in such a hurry!"

"I'm muckle obleeged to ye, Miss Elsie," replied Cosmo. "It'll save me a half-mile i' the mornin'."

"An' my father says," resumed Elsie, addressing Agnes, "yer wark's no worth yer wages."

Aggie turned upon her with flashing eyes and glowing face.

"I dinna believe ye, Miss Elsie," she said. "I dinna believe yer father said ever sic a word. He kens my wark's worth my wages whatever he likes to set me til. Mair by token he wad hae tellt me himsel'! I s' jist gang straucht back an' speir."

She turned, evidently in thorough earnest, and set off at a rapid pace back towards the house. Cosmo glanced at Elsie. She had turned white—with the whiteness of fear, not of wrath. She had not expected such action on the part of Aggie. She would be at once found out! Her father was a man terrible in his anger, and her conscience told her he would be angry indeed, angrier than she had ever seen him! She stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the retreating form of the indignant Agnes, who reached the top of the rising ground, and was beginning to disappear, before the spell of her terror gave way. She turned with clasped hands to Cosmo, and murmured, her white lips hardly able to fashion the words,

"Mr. Warlock, for God's sake, cry her back. Dinna lat her gang to my father."

"Was the thing ye said no true?" asked Cosmo.

"Weel," faltered Elsie, searching inside for some escape from admission, "maybe he didna jist say the verra words,—"

"Aggie maun gang," interrupted Cosmo. "She maunna lat it pass."

"It was a lee! It was a lee!" gasped Elsie.

Cosmo ran, and from the top of the rise called aloud,

"Aggie! Aggie! come back."

Beyond her he saw another country girl approaching, but took little heed of her. Aggie turned at his call, and came to him quickly.

"She confesses it's a lee, Aggie," he said.

"She wadna, gien she hadna seen I was gaein' straucht til her father!" returned Agnes.

"I daursay; but God only kens hoo to mak the true differ 'atween what we du o' oorsel's, an' what we're gart. We maun hae mercy, an' i' the meantime she's ashamed eneuch. At least she has the luik o' 't."

"It's ae thing to be ashamed 'cause ye hae dune wrang, an' anither to be ashamed 'cause ye're f'un' oot!"

"Ay; but there compassion comes in to fill up; an' whan ye treat a body wi' generosity, the hert wauks up to be worthy o' 't."

"Cosmo, ye ken maist aboot the guid in fowk, an' I ken maist aboot the ill," said Aggie.

Here the young woman who had been nearing them scarce observed while they talked, came up, and they turning to go back to Elsie, where she still stood motionless, followed them at her own pace behind.

"I beg yer pardon, Aggie," said Elsie, holding out her hand. "I was ill-natert, an' said the thing wasna true. My father says there isna a better gatherer i' the countryside nor yersel'." Aggie took her offered hand and said,

"Lat by-ganes be by-ganes. Be true to me an' I'll be true to you. An' I winna lee whether or no."

Here the stranger joined them. She was a young woman in the garb of a peasant, but with something about her not belonging to the peasant. To the first glance she was more like a superior servant out for a holiday, but a second glance was bewildering. She stopped with a half timid but quiet look, then dropped her eyes with a flush.

"Will you please tell me if I am on the way to Castle Warlock?" she said, with a quiver about her mouth which made her like a child trying not to smile.

Cosmo had been gazing at her: she reminded him Very strangely of Joan; but the moment he heard her voice, which was as different from that of a Scotch peasant as Tennyson's verse is from that of Burns, he gave a cry, and was on his knees before her.

"Joan!" he gasped, and seizing her hand, drew it to his lips, and held it there.

She made no sound or movement. Her colour went and came. Her head drooped. She would have fallen, but Cosmo received her, and rising with her, as one might with a child in his arms, turned, and began to walk swiftly homeward.

Aggie had a short fierce struggle with her rising heart, then turned to Elsie, and said quietly,

"Ye see we're no wantit!"

"I see," returned Elsie. "But eh! she's a puir cratur."

"No sae puir!" answered Aggie. "Wad YE dress up like a gran' leddy to gang efter yer yoong man?"

"Ay wad I—fest eneuch!" answered Elsie with scorn.

Aggie saw her mistake.

"Did ye tak notice o' her han's?" she said.

"No, I didna."

"Ye never saw sic han's! Did ye tak notice o' her feet?"

"No, I didna."

"Ye never saw sic feet! Yon's ane 'at canna gather, nor stock, nor bin', but she's bonny a' throu', an' her v'ice is a sang, an' she'll gang throu' fire an' waiter ohn blinkit for her love's sake. Yon's the lass for oor laird! The like o' you an' me sud trible heid nor hert aboot the likes o' HIM."

"Speyk for yersel', lass," said Elsie.

"I tellt ye," returned Aggie, quietly but with something like scorn, "'at gien ye wad be true to me, I wad be true to you; but gie yersel' airs, an' I say guid nicht, an' gang efter my fowk."

She turned and departed, leaving Elsie more annoyed than repentant: it may take a whole life to render a person capable of shame, not to say sorrow, for the meanest thing of many he has done.

And now, Aggie's heart lying stone-like within her as she followed Cosmo with his treasure, her brain was alive and active for his sake. Joan was herself again, Cosmo had set her down, and they were walking side by side. "What are they going to do?" thought Aggie. "Are they going straight home together? Why does she come now the old laird is gone?" Such and many other questions she kept asking herself in her carefulness over Cosmo.

They passed the turning Aggie would have taken to go home; she passed it too, following them steadily.—That old Grizzie was no good! She must go home with them herself! If the reason for which she left the castle was a wise one, she must now, for the same reason, go back to it! Those two must not be there with nobody to make them feel comfortable and taken care of! They must not be left to feel awkward together! She must be a human atmosphere about them, to shield them, and make home for them! Love itself may be too lonely. It needs some reflection of its too lavish radiation. —This was practically though not altogether in form what Agnes thought.

In the meantime, the first whelming joy-wave having retired, and life and thought resumed their operations, they had begun to talk.

"Where have you come from?" asked Cosmo.

"From Cairntod, the place I came from that wild winter night," answered Joan.

"But you are. . . . when were you. . . . how long. . . . have you been married?"

"MARRIED!" echoed Joan. "Cosmo, how could you!"

She looked up in his face wild and frightened.

"Well, you never wrote! and—"

"It was you never wrote!"

"I did not, but my father did, and got no answer."

"I wrote again and again, and BEGGED for an answer, but none came. If it hadn't been for the way I dreamed about you, I don't know what would have become of me!"

"The devil has been at old tricks, Joan!"

"Doubtless—and I fear I have hardly to discover his agent."

"And Mr. Jermyn?" said Cosmo, with a look half shy, half fearful, as if after all some bolt must be about to fall.

"I can tell you very little about him. I have scarcely seen him since he brought me the money."

"Then he didn't. . . . ?"

"Well, what didn't he?"

"I have no right to ask."

"Ask me ANYTHING."

"Didn't he ask you to marry him?"

Joan laughed.

"I had begun to be afraid he had something of the kind in his head, when all at once I saw no more of him."

"How was that?"

"I can only guess: he may have spoken to my brother, and that was enough."

"Didn't you miss him?"

"Life WAS a little duller."

"If he HAD asked you to marry him, Joan?"

"Well?"

"Would you?"

"Cosmo!"

"You told me I might ask you anything!"

She stood, turned to the roadside, and sat down on the low earth-dyke. Her face was white.

"Joan! Joan!" cried Cosmo, darting to her side; "what is it, Joan?"

"Nothing; only a little faintness. I have walked a long way and am getting tired."

"What a brute I am!" said Cosmo, "to let you walk! I will carry you again."

"Indeed you will not!" she answered, moving a little from him.

"Do you think you could ride on a man's saddle?"

"I think so. I could well enough if I were not tired. But let me be quiet a little."

They were very near the place where Cosmo's horse must be waiting him. He ran to take him and send the groom home with a message.

To Joan it was a terrible moment. Had she, most frightful of thoughts! been acting on a holy faith that yet had no foundation? She had come to a man who asked her whether she would not have married his friend! She had taken so much for understood that had not been understood!

When Joan sat down Agnes stopped—a good way off: till the moment of service arrived she would be nothing. Several times she started to run to her, for she feared something had gone wrong, but checked herself lest she should cause more mischief by interfering. When she saw her sink sideways on the dyke, she did run, but seeing Cosmo hurrying back to her, stopped again.

Before Cosmo reached her Joan had sat up. The same faith, or perhaps rather hope, which had taken shape in her dreams, now woke to meet the necessity of the hour. She rose as Cosmo came near, saying she felt better now, and let him put her on the horse.

But now Joan was determined to face the worst, to learn her position and know what she must do.

"Has the day not come yet, Cosmo?" she said. "Cannot you now tell me why you left me so suddenly?"

"It may come with your answer to the question I put to you," replied Cosmo.

"You are cruel, Cosmo!"

"Am I? How? I do not understand."

This was worse and worse, and Joan grew rather more than almost angry. It is so horrid when the man you love WILL be stupid! She turned her face away, and was silent. A man must sometimes take his life in his hand, and at the risk of even unpardonable presumption, suppose a thing yielded, that he may know whether it be or not. But Cosmo was something of the innocent Aggie took him for.

"Joan, I don't see how I am wrong, after the permission you gave me," persisted he, too modest. "Agnes would have answered me straight out."

He forgot.

"How do you know that? What have you ever asked her?"

Joan, for one who refused an answer, was tolerably exacting in her questions. And as she spoke she moved involuntarily a step farther from him.

"I asked her to marry me," replied Cosmo.

"YOU ASKED HER TO MARRY YOU!"

"Yes, but she wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't she?"

Joan's face was now red as fire, and she was biting her lip hard.

"She had more reasons against it than one. Oh, Joan, she IS so good!"

"And you are going to marry her?"

Instead of answering her question, Cosmo turned and called to Agnes, some thirty yards behind them:

"Come here, Aggie."

Agnes came quickly.

"Tell Lady Joan," he said, "what for ye wadna merry me."

"'Deed, my lady," said Agnes, her face also like a setting sun, "ye may believe onything he tells ye, jist as gien it war gospel. He disna ken hoo to mak a lee."

"I know that as well as you," replied Lady Joan.

"Na, ye canna du that,'cause ye haena kent him sae lang."

"Will you tell me why you would not marry him?"

"For ae thing,'cause he likit you better nor me, only he thoucht ye was merried, an' he didna like lattin' me gang frae the hoose."

"Thank you, Agnes," said Joan, with a smile nothing less than heavenly. "He was so obstinate!"

And with that she slipped from the saddle, threw her arms round Aggie's neck, and kissed her.

Aggie returned her embrace with simple truth, then drawing gently away, said, putting her hand before her eyes as if she found the sun too strong, "It's verra weel for you, my lady; but it's some sair upo' me; for I tellt him he sudna merry his mither, an' ye're full as auld as I am."

Joan gave a sigh.

"I am a year older, I believe," she answered, "but I cannot help it. Nor would I if I could, for three years ago I was still less worthy of him than I am now; and after all it is but a trifle."

"Na, my leddy, it's no a trifle, only some fowk carry their years better nor ithers."

Here Cosmo set Joan up again, and a full explanation followed between them, neither thinking of suppression because of Aggie's presence. She would indeed have fallen behind again, but Joan would not let her, so she walked side by side with them, and amongst the rest of the story heard Cosmo tell how he had yielded Joan because poor Jermyn loved her. Agnes both laughed and cried as she listened, and when Cosmo ceased, threw her arms once more around him, saying, "Cosmo, ye're worth it a'!" then releasing him, turned to Joan and said,

"My lady, I dinna grudge him to ye a bit. Noo 'at he's yours, an' a' 's come roon' as it sud, I'll be mysel' again—an' that ye'll see! But ye'll mak allooance, my lady; for ye hae a true hert, an' maun ken 'at whan a wuman sees a man beirin' a'thing as gien it was naething,'maist like a God, no kennin' he's duin' onything by or'nar,' she can no more help loein' him nor the mither 'at bore her, or the God 'at made her. An' mair, my lady, I mean to loe him yet; but, as them 'at God has j'ined man nor wuman maunna sun'er, I winna pairt ye even in my min'; whan I think o' the tane, it'll be to think o' the tither, an' the love 'at gangs to him 'ill aye rin ower upo' you—forby what I beir ye on yer ain accoont. Noo ye'll gang on thegither again, an' I'll come ahin'."

It was now to Aggie as if they were all dead and in the blessed world together, only she had brought with her an ache which it would need time to tune. All pain is discord.

"Ye see, my lady," she said, as she turned aside and sat down on the bordering turf, "I hae been a mither til 'im!"

Who will care to hear further explanation!—how Joan went to visit distant relatives who had all at once begun to take notice of her; how she had come with them, more gladly than they knew, on a visit to Cairntod; and how such a longing seized her there that, careless of consequences, she donned a peasant's dress and set out for Castle Warlock; how she had lost her way, and was growing very uneasy when suddenly she saw Cosmo before her!

"But what am I to do now, Cosmo?" she said. "What account of myself can I give my people?"

"You can tell them you met an old lover, and finding him now a rich man, like a prudent woman, consented at once to marry him."

"I must not tell a story."

"Pray who asks you to tell a story?"

"You do, telling me to say I have a rich lover."

"I do not. I am rich."

"Not in money?"

"Yes, in money."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I forgot. How could I think of riches with you filling up all the thinking-place!"

"But what am I to do to-night?"

"To-night?—oh!—I hadn't thought of that!—We'll ask Aggie."

So Aggie was once more called, and consulted. She thought for a minute, then said,—

"Cosmo, as sune's ye're hame, ye'll sen' yer manstrauchtawa'upo'the horse to lat my lady's fowk ken. She better write them a bit letter, an' tell them she's fa'en in wi' an auld acquaintance, a lass ca'd Agnes Gracie, a dacent yoong wuman, an' haein' lost her ro'd an' bein' unco tired, she's gaein' hame wi' her to sleep; an' the laird o' Glenwarlock was sae kin' 's to sen' his man upo' his horse to cairry the letter. That w'y there'll be nae lees tellt, an' no ower muckle o' the trowth."

Cosmo began to criticise, but Joan insisted it should be as Aggie said.

When they arrived at the castle, Grizzle was not a little scandalized to see her young master with a country lass on his horse, and making so much of her. But when she came to understand who she was, and that she had dressed up to get the easier to Castle Warlock she was filled with approbation even to delight.

"Eh, but ye're a lass to mak a man prood! I cudna hae dune better mysef' gien I had been a gran' lady wi' a' the wits o' a puir wife! Sit ye doon, my lady, an' be richt walcome! Eh, but ye're bonny, as ever was ony! an' eh, but ye're steady as never was leddy! May the Lord bless ye, an' the laird kiss ye!"

This outbreak of benediction rather confused Cosmo, but Joan laughed merrily, being happy as a child. Aggie turned her face to Grizzie in dread of more; but the true improviser seldom, I fancy, utters more than six lines. They had supper, and then a cart came rumbling to the door, half full of straw, into which Joan got with Aggie. A few things the latter had borrowed of Grizzie to help make the former comfortable, were handed in and they set out for Muir o' Warlock. In the morning Lady Joan declared she had never slept better than in old Grannie's box-bed.

They were married almost immediately, and nobody's leave asked. Cosmo wrote to acquaint Lord Mergwain with the event, and had in return, from his lordship's secretary, an acknowledgment of the receipt of his letter.

Of what they had to tell each other, of the way they lived, of how blessed they were even when not altogether happy—of these matters I say nothing, leaving them to the imagination of him who has any, while for him who has none I grudge the labour, thinking too he would very likely rather hear how much Cosmo got for his diamonds, and whether, if Lord Mergwain should not marry, Cairncarque will come to Lady Joan. But such things even he is capable of employing his fancy upon, and it would be a pity to prevent him from doing what he can.

I will close my book with a little poem that Cosmo wrote—not that night, but soon after. The poet may, in the height of joy, give out an extempore flash or two, but he writes no poem then. The joy must have begun to be garnered, before the soul can sing about it. How we shall sing when we absolutely believe that OUR LIFE IS HID WITH CHRIST IN GOD!

Here is my spiritual colophon.

All things are shadows of thee, Lord; The sun himself is but a shade; My soul is but the shadow of thy word, A candle sun-bedayed!

Diamonds are shadows of the sun; They drink his rays and show a spark: My soul some gleams of thy great shine hath won, And round me slays the dark.

All knowledge is but broken shades— In gulfs of dark a wandering horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades— And lo, thy garment, Lord!

My soul, the shadow, still is light, Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright, And home flit shadowy.

Shine, shine; make me thy shadow still— The brighter still the more thy shade; My motion be thy lovely moveless will I My darkness, light delayed!

(THE END.)