being afflicted with too many ideas at a time—which might have led to the suggestion that the plaid belonged to somebody else he at once concluded that it was hers, and became as pompously proud to be able to present corroboration of her testimony as he might have been to throw doubt on it.

He made the most of his discovery to the few farmers and townsfolk whom he was disposed to admit to any degree of confidence on this important occasion. It really proved of some little advantage in the long chain of evidence which had been welded together through so many remarkable events.

There seemed to be no chink by which the culprits might hope to escape; and much as the Laird had been looked up to in the town as a man of means and an elder, there was little sympathy expressed for his miserable position, even amongst those douce bodies with whom he had most associated. It was hard, perhaps, but it was none the less just; all the years he had spent in greedy striving after respect had only obtained for him the outward show of it, and that not from many. There was no heart in it; there had been none in his own hard dry nature to influence that of others by the magical attraction of sincerity. He had offered to his little world a mockery of piety and truth, and he obtained in return a mockery of respect.

Those who had disliked him and openly shown it in the day of his prosperity were mercifully silent now. But those who had disliked him and restrained their tongues, either in consequence of his position or in doubt of their own convictions, spoke now in many voices. Those who had bartered with him, and consulted with him on affairs of kirk or burgh, marvelled that they had been so long deceived by him. None pitied him.

But everybody pitied Girzie Todd. All day there were little groups of fishers, townsfolk and country folk, at the cross, about the market-place, at door-steps, and down at the Port, in grave consultation about the whole business. A few kindly neighbours sought Girzie, with the hope of "cheering her a wee;" but her cot was empty; and Dawnie, the cuddie,

was ungratefully taking advantage of the occasion, to make a raid through the patch of garden, and feast on the green "curlies." He was driven into his shed, and made fast. One sensible dame, who had been the first to enter Girzie's house, finding the little heap of money on the table, had, after a moment's wonder at the wealth which was thus carelessly exposed to the first rogue who might happen to enter, gathered it up, replaced it in the old stocking which was lying beside it, and hid the precious parcel under the bed, to be ready for the rightful owner when she might return.

There was no doubt entertained as to the cause of Girzie's absence. She had gone to Clashgirn to watch by dead Wattie's side, until the morning came when he was to be buried.

As soon as she had seen her attempt to enable McWhapple to escape frustrated, she had turned away with the bitter resignation of one who feels that a judgment has fallen, and who is conscious that all effort to withstand it is futile. It did not surprise her; she had expected it from the moment she had learned the truth from Mrs. Begg; and although she had tried to save the man, she had done so with little hope of success. Now she was satisfied; there was nothing left for her to do but submit to the fate in which she recognized the retribution of the past.

She had crept up to the dark room where the body was lying, and crouched down beside it. She uttered no moan, no despairing wail now. In a sort of stupor she remained; and to everybody who ventured to look in on her with kindly intent to offer her food or comfort, she would not answer otherwise than by a dull absent stare, which frightened the simple folks. Even Falcon could not obtain more from her than a piteous request that he would leave her alone with her bairn. He obeyed her; for he saw that the attempt to console only irritated her.

He was himself in a state of irritation, which all the efforts of Hutcheson failed to soothe. In a rough hearty way the sailor endeavoured to present a cheery view of the future to his comrade; for his own part he could not understand how a

man coming into a considerable fortune, as Falcon was, could hang his head and look discontented.

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'Man, what's the use o' fortune," exclaimed the master of Clashgirn, "when one has lost the power to enjoy it? What's the use o' a horse to a man that can neither ride nor drive?" "He can learn to do baith," answered Hutcheson readily. Falcon turned away from him abruptly: it was impossible to make him see or feel as he did. But he was sensible that his conduct must appear contradictory to other persons, and he did not blame Hutcheson for being puzzled by it. He had striven so hard to achieve a certain end, and now that it seemed so near realization, he was behaving as if he would have liked to undo all that he had done. That did seem ridiculous.

But he had no desire to undo it; nay, he said to himself that, if the circumstances were to be repeated, he could not act otherwise than he had done. It was only the reaction of the excitement he had been undergoing which made him restless and gloomy. Whilst there had been work for him to do, whilst Robin Gray's fate was uncertain, and Jeanie's pale anxious face was spurring him to exertion, he had not had time to think much of the future. But the work accomplished, the strain relaxed, and he saw that with his own hand he had helped to raise the mountain which separated him for ever from the one creature in the world who could have given his life purpose and joy. He would not have been human if some of the old bitterness had not returned to disturb his peace. He wished with all his soul that there had never been such a person as Robin Gray in the world, although he could not wish that he had refused his help in saving him from an unmerited doom.

"Look here, mate," said Hutcheson-they were down by the shore, the only place where Falcon felt at all at ease; "I ken what's wrang wi' ye. You're in a way about your auld lass. Weel, wha kens whether she mayna be a widow ere lang."

Falcon started and looked angry at this utterance of a

thought which had once occurred to himself, and which he had manfully cast from him.

"I'm owing you one or two good turns, Hutcheson," he said, griping him by the arm and shaking him to make his words more emphatic ; "but if ye say that again we'll hae a quarrel."

"As broken ships hae come to land," muttered Hutcheson, but he discreetly kept the opinion to himself.

"I would be ashamed for mysel' if I could find ony pleasure in waiting for a dead man's shoon," Falcon went on proudly, but with more of sorrow than anger in his tone now. "No, Hutcheson, if ever I'm to ken what pleasure is again, it'll be out yonder on the sea amidst storm and battle."

"Do ye mean to say ye're gaun to sea again, now that ye hae got a fortune and can do as ye like ?”

"I'm going as soon as ever my affairs are settled, and Mistress Gray's guidman is safe delivered from jail."

Hutcheson began to whistle, remembering that it was Sabbath he checked himself, but said nothing. He liked Falcon more and more every day, and he had his own opinion about the whole business, which was that it might have been better for all parties if it had been Cairnieford who had tumbled over the Brownie's Bite instead of daft Wattie Todd. He had a presentiment that something might happen yet to alter the present aspect of affairs, and so he held his tongue and waited.

CHAPTER LI.

IN PRISON.

'Brightest climes shall mirk appear,

Desert ilka blooming shore;

Till the fates, nae mair severe,

Friendship, love, and peace restore."-Anon.

THE sudden revulsion from doubt to confidence which had taken place in Robin Gray's breast at the revelation of Jeanie's faith in him, left him in utter shame of the cruel ignominy he had cast on her; in utter shame of the passion

which had betrayed him, and transformed a man of some common sense into a mad blind fool. He had smarted sharply for it all after she had left him, and there was scarcely an epithet of contempt which he had not applied to himself. But the revulsion had given him hope, too. He had, previous to her visit, been indifferent as to how the charge might stand against him; he did not mean to make the least effort to save himself, and had not Mr. Carnegie taken up the case promptly on his own authority, the person most concerned would not have instructed him to do it.

But now he was like a man who had been shut up in a dark cell, and who is suddenly lifted out to the broad glare of the sun. The light dazzled him at first, and he scarcely knew what he was to do. She had said, "Dinna be dooncast," and "Take courage!" and the words and the voice remained with him, cheering and comforting him.

He did take courage, and the first act of his new spirit was to get the fiscal to send for Jeanie that he might have her forgiveness before he made any effort to save his life. Until he knew that she would forgive him, he did not care to live; if she refused, it would be easier for him to accept the fate which threatened him than to endure perhaps years of torture.

The fiscal good-naturedly sent a messenger to the lawyer's office to inquire for Mrs. Gray; but she had gone from there, and Mr. Carnegie begged that she might not be interfered with at present.

Cairnieford had waited impatiently for the return of the messenger, and he would have had him start again in search of Jeanie; but the fiscal advised him to be calm and wait, especially as there was no time then to seek her. He yielded, because he could not help himself, and that afternoon he was conveyed to the county prison to await the issue of events.

He had little fear that the result would prove his innocence, however strong the proof might appear against him then. It was not the verdict of judge and jury he dreaded. It was Jeanie's verdict which concerned him most. If she could only see him then; if she could only hear him whilst the