seamen against beginning a voyage on a Friday, had no friends there. Two of his hands had openly refused to join him as soon as his intention to sail next day had been made known.

Girzie was back to her bargaining again in a minute, and so she did not seem to observe James Falcon, who came up to the seaman who had declared his resolve not to sail in the Colin, and asked if he knew where Carrach might be found.

"I saw him up at the Port Inn wi' Clashgirn,” answered another of the men, and Falcon immediately wheeled about.

The Port Inn was the larger of the two hostelries in the village, and was situated about half-way up the main street. It was squat, old-fashioned, whitewashed, and red-tiled; surrounded by stables and sheds, and having a large open space in front, which, on market-days, was crowded with carts and gigs.

The Laird was mounting his Shetland pony, and Carrach was assisting him, as Falcon approached.

"Ye understand, then, Carrack," McWhapple was saying in an undertone, whilst his eyes twinkled on the skipper, "it would be nae great loss to you or me if onything happened the brig; and the lad's meddlesome and micht do you harm."

"I'll know all about it," answered Carrach, slowly, and with a strong Highland twang.

"Od, it's extaordinar', here's the lad himsel'," said the Laird, observing Falcon. "I have spoken to Carrach, Jeamie, and arranged everything for you wi' him. But you can speak to him yoursel' now, and I'll see you when you come hame for your claes. Guid day to you, Carrach, and a safe voyage." McWhapple's pony moved away with its master at a douce jog-trot pace.

"So, you are the lad," said Carrach, giving his shaggy red head a jerk, which was intended for a nod of recognition.

He was a broad-built fellow, with fiery red hair, whiskers, and beard, which gave his bovine-like eyes and pug nose the appearance of features planted in the midst of a huge sunflower.

"I suppose so," answered Falcon, "will I do ?”

The calf's eyes of the man rolled over him as if measuring his height, weight, and strength.

"You'll no be feart to sail on a Friday ? "

"No."

"Then you'll to; and as I want to clear the port afore twelve if it's possible, shust to quiet thae gomerils wha are feart of the Friday, the sooner you are on poard the petter,— pe-tam."

The latter words were the usual termination of any observation the skipper desired to render emphatic.

The Laird, in his character of generous patron, had evidently arranged matters so completely with Carrach that there remained nothing for the young man himself to do but to get on board.

It puzzled him for a moment to comprehend why McWhapple should take so much interest in his affairs after what had passed between them, and the unpleasant manner in which they had parted. But the riddle was solved as soon as he remembered that it was the Laird's policy in every unpleasant transaction to do his utmost to bring matters into such a focus as to enable him to play the martyr. Thereby he obtained new credit for his meek, suffering, injured innocence. The whole conduct of the man was plain to Falcon when he recollected that. So he laughed and hurried back to Clashgirn. He made up his clothes in a bundle-he had not many, and he did not take more than he thought he would positively need-and then he proceeded to take his leave of the folk about the place.

First, there was Mrs. Begg the housekeeper--a buxom widow, who had long lived in the hope of one day becoming Mrs. McWhapple. The dame's breath was taken away by Jeamie's announcement of his departure; and the next minute she was filling his pockets with whangs of cheese and farls of oatcake, so that he should not starve on the first stage of his journey at any rate.

Next, there was the Laird, who played the martyr as Falcon had expected, and even pretended to be deeply affected at the

sudden separation, assuring him again and again that it was no desire of his that he should leave the comfortable house in which he had been brought up and tenderly cared for. He was beginning what threatened to be a long lecture of paternal counsel, well larded with text, when Jeamie stopped him with an abrupt reminder of their recent conversation.

"Od, it's extro'rdinar!" exclaimed the Laird, with a sigh of resignation, and taking a pinch of snuff, but not in the least abashed; "aweel, aweel, gang your ain gate, Jeamie lad; but ye'll travel a day and a nicht afore ye find a hame like the ane you're flinging frae ye."

"For what you have done, Laird, you have my thanks," answered Jeamie frankly; "for what you might have donewell, I had no right to expect it.”

And he broke away, the exclamation, "Od, it's extro'rdinar," reaching his ears as he closed the door.

Next to the byre where the lasses were milking, and then to the stable where the lads had just come from the fields and were "sorting" their horses for the night. Lasses and lads were astounded and grieved too; for he had been a kindly taskmaster and a true friend to them all. They gave him a hearty good speed when, after shaking hands with the men and—yes, though his heart was full of Jeanie-kissing the lasses, he hurried down the road. All the good qualities he had possessed, and a few he had not possessed, were canvassed regretfully that night in the bothy and the cots.

By ten o'clock he was at the Port again, and as he was making his way to the brig, guided by her lights, his arm was suddenly grasped by somebody who darted upon him from the darkness.

"Holloa, who's that?"

"Deed an' it's just me, Girzie Todd," was the answer, in the brisk tones of the fishwife; "an' here hae I been waiting a whale hour this mirk nicht expeckin' ye."

"Waiting for me!-Why, Girzie ?"

Her hand tightened upon his arm as if she were labouring with some strong emotion.

“Adam Lindsay tanid me ye were to sail in the Colin.”

I'm going on board now, as she sails to

“I wanted to warn ye no to gang with Ivan Carrach,” she said, drawing him close to her, and speaking in his ear with a strange earnestness.

"And why not, for Guid's sake?"

He was almost inclined to laugh at her singular conduct. "Ye'll maybe think it's just an auld wife's clavers," she answered in the same serious tone, “but tak' tent; ye want to come back an' marry Jeanie, an' ye'll never come back if ye gang in that boat."

"Toots, Girzic, why should I not go in the Colin as well as any other?"

"Because the Colin's doomed!"

Falcon was not sure whether to laugh outright or take alarm. Her words were serious, her manner impressive, but he could not throw up his duty for mere words, which might or might not be spoken in jest.

"How do you happen to ken a' this?" he asked.

She seemed to divine the incredulence with which her warning had been received, and she flung his arm from her.

"I canna tell ye ony mair, an' I winna," she answered sharply, drawing her short cloak around her; if it hadna been for Jennie's sake, I wouldna hae said as muckle. But gang ye i' the Colin, an' ye'll never be guidman tae Jeanie Lindsay."

"If any danger threatens the brig, that's all the more reason why I should bo aboard, for if I can save her it'll maybe repay some of the debt I owe Clashgirn."

Girzio uttered a low contemptuous laugh.

"Ino your way; I hae dune a' I can to save ye."

'Good-bye, Girzie; I'll come back to Jeanie, tell her, whatever befa' the Colin."

There was no answer. Girzie had moved away before he had finished speaking, and in the darkness had disappeared immediately.

There was a general bustle and flitting of lights on board

when Falcon stepped on the deck. He was set to work at once, and the excitement soon drove Girzie's words out of his mind. There was a stiff breeze in their favour, and the brig was soon out of port.

"Heave ahead,” shouted Carrach hoarsely, "and tam ta Friday-we've cheated her this time."

So they had, for as the sails were filling to the breeze they heard faintly on the waters the bell of the Portlappoch steeple tolling midnight.

CHAPTER IV.

FOREBODINGS.

"The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast.
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

I see it driving o'er the plain."-Burns.

SINCE early morning the clouds in dense grey masses had been shifting restlessly. Heavy showers had descended at intervals, sweeping the streets of the town, and drenching the crowds of farmers and their wives-the latter having skirts carefully tucked up-soaking the groups of grain merchants, farm servants, cattle-dealers, drovers, and the miscellaneous characters with barrowfuls of "sweeties" who usually assembled on the market day.

Business was dull as the day except at the inns, which were reeking with the fumes of toddy and the steam off the wet garments of the customers. Knots of men stood under the shelter of sheds and doorways chaffering, and the cattle stood dripping in the market-place. Men and cattle were "drookit" and uncomfortable. So the necessary business of the day was hurried over, and all who could manage it started early for home.

Fishermen's wives cast anxious glances toward the glistening sea, which, as if in sympathy with the clouds, rolled and