"I'll go at once."

"Ye'd better hae a bite o' something to eat first and tak a dram. Ye look unco cauld and worn like."

He summoned his housekeeper, Mrs. Begg; and as soon as that worthy woman could recover from the surprise and pleasure of seeing James Falcon in the flesh again, she hastened to procure some food.

Falcon was really worse than he looked; for he had eaten nothing since the meal he had made at Girzie Todd's, and he had passed through much exhausting excitement. Strong as he was, even his constitution bent before the terrible emotions which had been raging in him for the last twenty hours, and the exposure to the cold on the beach. He was, however, as yet, too sick in mind to take any note of bodily fatigue or pain.

As soon as he had partaken of the plentiful repast which the kindly Mrs. Begg had placed before him, he started for Askaig, the Laird promising to visit him next day and give him any news he might have obtained regarding the movements of Carrach.

Askaig was distant, by the shortest road, which lay across the fields, five miles from Clashgirn, and about the same from Cairnieford. Although it was already dark, and a snow-storm threatening, Falcon took the shortest way; if he had thought at all of the danger of being caught in the storm before he had crossed the intervening hills, he was in the humour rather to have welcomed the prospect than to have gone round by the road to avoid it.

The Laird was singularly nervous: that was evinced by the hasty way in which he bade Mrs. Begg to tell one of the men to saddle his pony, and by the trembling way in which he grasped his staff. He muffled himself up carefully, however, with the assistance of his housekeeper. She ventured to say that it was a "wild-like nicht," and could he "no put off gaun out till the morn;" but he bade her mind her own business in such an angry way that she did not speak another word until he had ridden down the road.

"Confound him," he muttered, giving the reins a jerk, "wha would ever hae thought o' him turning up again, least of a 'wi' siccan a purpose. There'll be a fine ado if it gets win,' but it maunna―it shallna. I'll hae to get him out o' the country as quick as possible, and while he's in't I'll hae to keep him frae getting friendly words either wi' the agent or Robin Gray. Deil tak' him, can he no mind his ain business like other honest folk?"

By the time this monologue was concluded he had reached the junction of the road which led to Cairnieford, and he heard ringing along the hard frosty ground the hoofs of a horse trotting towards him from the direction of the town. There was light enough for him to distinguish the form of objects at a few paces distance; and presently he descried the outlines of a man and horse.

"A sharp nicht," said the horseman, riding past.

The Laird started in his saddle and suddenly drew rein. "Is that you, Cairnieford ?" he cried, hastily turning round. "Haud on a minute, I want to speak wi' you."

He rode quietly up to the side of Cairnieford, who had stopped just as he had been about to turn up the glen road. "You're late abroad, Laird. What was you gaun to say! y?" McWhapple laid his hand on the farmer's brawny shoulder, and spoke in a tone of friendly compassion.

"I hae news for you, Cairnieford-news that I'm feared will no be ower and above welcome."

"I would be surprised if it was, coming frae you, Gray's dry response, shaking off the Laird's hand.

“Man, I dinna ken what for ye hae sic an ill-will to me that ye canna speak a pleasant word, though I hae ay tried to be friendly wi' you in spite o' a' your thrawn ways."

"It's rather a cauld nicht to stand arguing that matter, Laird; sae tell's your news, and lets be jogging.'

"Aweel, aweel, be as dour's ye like, ye winna anger me, for I'm satisfied that some day ye'll ken me for the friend I am." "I'll be weel pleased when that day comes. But dinna forget that I hae ken'd ye, McWhapple, since ye were just a

factor, and I was a bit ragged callant rinnin' about. I hae had a lang while to mak' up my mind about ye."

"Aye, man, but you're proud," exclaimed the Laird with the sigh of a martyr, and all the humility of one who resigns himself to the justice of time; "but dinna ride ower high, or the fa' will be a' the greater."

"I never ken'd ye speak that way, McWhapple," said Cairnieford laughing, "but ye were ay sure o' being able to do or say something unpleasant. Out wi't then, let's ken the warst, for I'm feared o' naething that you or ony man can bring against me."

"There's nobody can bring anything against ye, I'm sure; and there's nobody would do't if they could. But whiles even the best o' us must bow the head to things they canna help. What I hae to tell ye will fear ye and make you wae too, or I'm mista'en."

"Then, in the deil's name, tell't and no stand licking your chaffs ower't" (testily).

"I'm loath to speak what'll grieve ye; but, as ye say, the sooner it's told the better, and it would never do for ye to gang hame the nicht without kenning o't. James Falcon wasna drooned as we a' thocht."

He bent close to Gray as he pronounced the words with. peculiar significance.

"I'm glad to hear't, for the lad's sake," exclaimed Gray heartily.

"Aye, but he has come back here, and he's been up at Cairnieford, and seen your guidwife; and the Lord only kens what'll happen.”

It was not so much what the Laird said as what he implied that startled Robin Gray, and sent a sickening thrill throughout his strong frame. That was the Laird's way; he never said anything direct, he did everything by implication.

'Happen?—what can happen ?" he exclaimed unsteadily. Od, there's nae saying; but it's an awkward business for you."

"I canna see that."

"Aweel, I hope ye'll never need to see't; but ye may count on me helping you in any way that I can.”

"Thank you" (gathering the reins hastily). "I'm glad ye told me before I got hame, as it'll help me to prepare mysel'. But the sooner I'm there the better noo. Guid nicht."

"I hope it winna make so much difference to you as I misdoubt it will; but

Robin had galloped away out of hearing before the sentence was finished.

McWhapple turned his pony's head and continued his way to the village with an especially complacent smirk on his yellow visage.

CHAPTER XVII.

DOUBTS.

"Dear child, how could I wrong thy name?
Thy form so fair and faultless stands,
That, could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty would make large amends."

-Hamilton of Bangour.

THERE was the murmur of the sea behind him, and the wild sweep of the wind up the glen pushing him forward, whilst the gaunt trees stretched out their bare trembling branches, moaning and forming ominous shadows across his path.

"Aye, the sooner I'm hame the better," he muttered as he galloped along the road; but the nearer he approached his own house the slower became the pace of his mare Jean, until at last she was permitted to walk.

In a vague way he was conscious of sea, and wind, and shadows-conscious that they were affecting him in a manner they had never done before. He had never on any former occasion fancied the moan of the sea so sad, the sough of the wind so eerie, or the shadows of the firs so gloomy. His character had been too sharply formed in the severe mould of practical life to permit him to know much of fancy, or to

regard nature at any time by its light. That was why the effect of those strange voices of nature, which echo our passions of joy or sorrow according to the humour in which we hear them, seemed so peculiar to him now.

When the light shining in the window of the parlourplaced there by Jeanie's hand to guide him home-became visible, he brought his mare to a stand, much against the animal's will, for she sniffed the stables, and knowing that supper was so near, did not care to linger.

My head's a

"Bide a wee, lass, bide a wee," said Robin gently, "let me think a minute and see gin I can look at the matter fair and straight afore I meet her. Puir Jeanie, puir wife-I doubt, I doubt I hae done you and him wrang. But wha was to ken o' this? No me, onyway. wee thing confused the nicht someway. Aiblins I took ower muckle drink, though I didna feel ony the waur o't till after I met McWhapple-confound his tongue; it seems to me as though it was made o' a gall-bladder that pooshins everything it touches."

He lifted his bonnet and passed his hand over his head abstractedly. His fingers touched the bald crown, and rested there.

"Aye, I'm an auld man," he muttered weariedly; "an' she's but a young lassie, and Jeamie's come hame. What's the upshot?-that she'll turn frae me to him ?-for she lo'ed him dearly."

His whole body shook under the violent emotion of the thought. How cold and cheerless seemed the glen with the drizzling snow falling softly about him, and the wind soughing in melancholy time to the sharp rippling of the burn. His eyes wandered drearily till they rested on the light shining in the window.

It was beckoning him home, and it seemed to inspire hope and courage.

"Hoots, I'm just an auld goose," he exclaimed, gathering himself up, as it were, and shaking off the forebodings which rendered him miserable. "Jeamie's come hame-what about