But as she looked at him, Eppie recovered herself. Her immense superiority of mind made itself felt. Whenever they had hitherto come into the direct stress of conflict, her moral and physical courage had made her his master. She was to win again to-night, always assuming, that is, that he had not meant fairly by her.

6

'Harry,' she said in a clear voice, coming up to where he stood shivering before the fire. Harry, look here. I winna say which of us is to blame-it may be me, it may be you-but you hae brocht me whar I sud na hae come. A lass maunna lippen to a man if she wud keep her gude name. Mine is gone. I canna gang back to Fontainbleau, except you mak me your wife. O, Harry, it wud hae been better for us baith if we had never met; but what maun be maun be. Harry, you must marry me to-night.'

She spoke with perfect distinctness in extremest simplicity. Her good name had been inestimably dear to Eppie: it was the one possession, besides her beauty, which ministered to her pride; and Eppie, as we know, was proud as Lucifer. Other girls might give themselves away if they chose; other girls had soft hearts and weak heads. But she! And yet this sulky booby of a lad had somehow contrived to compromise her as she fancied. There might be something of exaggeration in the fancy; she was for the moment weak, morbid, and unhinged. The excitement of the fever, which replaces the lethargy of despair, burnt in her blood. But at all hazards, this miserable sickness of shame which overcame her when she realised her position must be put an end to put an end to by some instant decisive antidote. A terrible fatality had driven her back upon her old self-hard, unloving, and unloveable; but that was no good reason why she should drift helplessly to utter shipwreck. The words utter shipwreck,' if applied to other girls of that place and time, would have been, I admit, a mere rhetorical expression, but to Eppie they meant that, and nothing less. There was no ideal element, as I have often said, in this girl; she had little or none of the shy reverence for the right, for what is pure and modest and of good report, which is the crown of womanhood. And yet her vestal hardness and coldness had truly expressed a natural attitude of her mind; she shrank from what was morally uncomely with critical annoyance and disapproval. And now there seemed to her only one method by which she could save herself from the ugly gulf that opened before her feet-Harry must marry her to-night. It must be done now, at once, without an hour's delay; thereafter, though her heart broke (if further breakage were possible), she could hold her head up again, and look the world straight in the facewith her clear unshrinking eyes, and in the arrogant simplicity of her rustic pride, as she had done before. Yes, she must be married to-night.

He stood before the fire-silent, looking down. He had never seen her so moved before; there was a thrill in her voice he had never heard before. But he did not reply-Mephistopheles was still at his

elbow. It was a pity that he did not reply; it forced her to shoot her last shaft.

"Look at me, Harry Hacket,' she exclaimed, after a long pause, her face lighting up brilliantly with anger-or was it scorn? I saw Liar Corbie after he had been wi' you at Yokieshill, and he tell't me something aboot your feyther.' Hacket started, and moved uneasily. You can tell me whether it be true

'It's a lie,' he said, in a hoarse broken voice.

Least-
I felt

'And he gaed me some papers.' Here he started again. wise I've got them-by fair means or by foul I've got them. that you were ill-used amang them, and my heart was softened to you. I thocht to do you a gude turn. Noo, Harry, I may be forced to bide here this nicht '-the rain was lashing against the panes'but Mrs. Catto will lat me sit in her room, I dinna doobt; and though I may be missed at hame '-(Alas! Eppie, there is no one to miss you now)—yet when I get to Corbie's to-morrow-wi' the papers

Reader, you must remember that this girl's moral nature had been utterly undeveloped, and that she was now at bay-a wild creature at bay. It seems to be assumed by many wise men among us that the conscience in each soul, like the Greek daughter of Zeus, is armed at every point from birth- a crowned truth.' It is not so: it needs to blossom, to expand, to mature: the sunshine and storm, the tears and laughter, the sorrow and sacrifice, of many a spring and summer, of many an autumn and winter, are needed to ripen it to perfect life. Eppie's moral education had only begun the other day; she had grown into a woman; but her conscience was still in its childhood, and love had been nipped in the bud. Do not let us hate her, because in her mortal terror she seized the nearest available weapon. She knew not what she did.

It is possible indeed that she was unnecessarily terrified, and that her lover had not designed to harm her. So at least he declared, and I am willing to believe him-for once.

You need not fear me, Eppie,' he said, raising his eyes at last. 'I always meant you to be my wife.'

Marriage in Scotland is not attended with any unnecessary preliminaries. Go into the next room, and declare before your landlady and her guests that you are man and wife, and the thing is done. You are married past redemption; the Archbishop of Canterbury with all his deans and archdeacons could not tie the knot tighter. In some such primitive fashion, Harry Hacket and Euphame Holdfast were made man and wife.2

2 A suspicion of the validity of the ceremony was sometimes expressed: but Corbie knew better. 'Consensus non concubitus facit matrimonium,' said Corbie; ' and though it's undeniable, Mr. Drumly, that only the ostler and the kitchen-wench, forbye Mrs. Catto, were ben, yet nae plea against the credibility o' the witnesses has been proponed. And as has been judiciously observed by Mr. Erskine in his Institute o' oor law, whilk like that o' a' civileesed nations is imported from the

It was a wild and stormy night for a wedding; but it would have been even darker to Eppie had she known all. But it was not until the ceremony, such as it was, had been completed, that an officer of the law, buffeted by the storm, but bringing a warrant for the apprehension of Harry Hacket of Yokieshill, on the charge of wounding Adam Meldrum to the danger of life, entered the inn.

Poor Eppie!

XXIX.

It was too true-dear old Uncle Ned had been wounded to the death. He was stupefied by the blow, and quite unconscious while they bore him to Achnagatt, the nearest farm-house. He was carried into the best bedroom, where, in addition to prints of the storming of Seringapatam and of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, Mrs. Mark's Pre-Raphaelite sampler, a chef d'œuvre of the MacWhistler school of the period, was suspended over the fire-place. They put the old man to bed, and before the surgeon arrived consciousness had returned. His wound was bound up; but the surgeon shook his head. Adam had lost a deal of blood; the shock to the system had been tremendous; he was over seventy. No: he might linger for a week; he would suffer no pain; but his days were numbered.

His friends gathered about him as he lay there serene and composed. Kate was a deft nurse, Alister got leave of absence from the Commodore, Dr. Caldcail was a constant visitor. The old boatbuilder was wonderfully happy with his friends, young and old. His bed was placed beside the window, whence he could see down to the river, where the sandsnipe were piping to each other as they swept swiftly, like the shadow of a cloud, across the sand. One wild windy day a broken rainbow touched the clouds all morning, now melting into mist, anon growing vivid and consistent again. To the dying man it seemed in its perfect comeliness of colour, in its perfect shapeliness of outline, an earnest, a foretaste of the good things that were in store. It compasseth the heaven about with a glorious circle, and the hands of the Most High have bended it.' He never wearied of repeating these words; which are indeed very great words simply realistic, yet vitally ideal-as some great painter who puts a band of light round the head of the Redeemer. The hands of the Most High have bended it.

"Indeed, my bairns,' he said (it was Alister and Kate now, not Alister and another), if Shakespeare hadna been born, I could have been weel content with the natural history o' the Auld Testament. But then, you see, the poets and prophets of the Hebrew people lived

Erskine, I say, has weel remarked that it is not essential to marriage that it be celebrated by a clergyman, or even by the shirra-the consent o' parties being plainly expressed before credible witnesses; for it is the consent o' the parties which alone constitutes marriage.'

in a different warld; whereas Shakespeare is, as it were, ane o' oorsels. But they had undootedly a great enjoyment of nature. Beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings. Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there? He kept him as the apple of his eye. But unto you that fear my name, shall the Son of Righteousness arise with healing in his wings. Ay, bairns, the men who wrote thae words were wayfarers who had abided wi' Nature in her secret places, until the sleepy magic of her music suffused their souls. With healin' in his wings! Dear me-it minds me somehow of the saft fa' o' the cushey's wings as she settles on her nest.'

At another time he would discuss with the Doctor the conditions of that mysterious existence on which he was about to enter.

'Here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come, said the Apostle. And anither saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down from God oot o' heaven. Weel, Doctor, you and me may not have any sic veevid eemage of the New Jerusalem; for the warld is greatly changed since John lived in Patmos. Poor John! he must have got verra weary o' his bit rock, with the constant thud-thud o' the sea in his ears, and I canna wonner that he could na thole it in the New Jerusalem. And there was no more sea! Indeed, Doctor, I canna say that I fear death; it is rayther that I am ashamed o' it, it being, as our freen o' Norwich observes, the verra disgrace and ignominy of our nature. Yet death, as he says in anither place, is the cure o' all diseases-nectar and a pleasant potion of immortality. But the lang habit of livin' indisposeth us for dying. That's it, Doctor; we are the verra creatures of habit. I wonner what Elisha thocht when he saw Elijah fleein' into heaven like a laverock? He must have been simply dumfoonded. But if the haill business was a cunnin' deceit, as your freen Mr. Hume contens, it was maist extra-ordinar' clever o' the auld writer to mak' him louse his mantle. And Elisha took up also the mantle of Elijah which fell from him. For wha can help believin' it after that?'

So he rambled on gently and sweetly to his friends beside him ; until, as his strength failed, delirium came and took him back into the past.

Sit doun beside me, Rachel, and sing me a bit sang. I'm uncommon weary this nicht.-It's a rale bonny bird, the grey plover. What-Rachel-gone? Ay, the bells are ringing the folk are at the kirk door-she's in the Laird's seat. See how the sunshine o' heaven touches her brown hair. She sits abune the lave like a saint in glory! But sic a woman-like smile, sic a bird-like twitter o' a laugh, when she meets me in the yard. "Surely, Adam, surely," she says softly. How caller the air, how the birds sing, this Sabbath mornin'! "And, Adam, mind ye bring me a sprig o' heather from Benachie!" I was on my way to the hielan's for a week-for a week only. Ay, darlin', a hatfu' o' heather, and a heartfu' o' love! And

He paused and looked about him, and then the old story was resumed.

'A week thereafter I stood again in the doorway. I had tellt the corries o' the joy that was in store for me-the heather had taen a rarer bloom, sic gowd in the sunset, sic purple glooms in the gloamin', I had never beheld before. I waited a moment in the trance, for an unaccountable dread cam' suddenly upon me. Even as I waited a woman clad in black passed oot-her eyes red wi' weepin', her cheeks soiled wi' tears. I kent my doom before a word was spoken. She looked at me--I had the bit sprig o' white heather in my han' -wi' sad, pitiful eyes. "It is all over," she said, "Rachel is in

heaven."

He fell back upon the pillow, the eyes bright with fever gazing blankly into the sky, until, after a strained pause of inquiry, they cleared, and he added softly, 'A great crood that nae man can number-an endless thrang o' warlds-but Love will bring the beloved.'

So it went on, in broken snatches, until the end came-the gentle and peaceful end of a gentle and peaceful life. The delirium had left him, and he had bidden farewell to the Doctor-not without a touch of the old humorous twinkle in his eyes. 'Gude-bye, my auld freen', gude-bye—

If we do meet again, why we shall smile;

If not, why then this parting was well made.

And Alister-my dear, dear boy-you will keep the birds, but gie Eppie the buiks. Puir Eppie!' Then the voice sank to a whisper, Rachel!-Rachel!-nineteen and seventy-three-dootless, a lang reckonin'-but-this maks-these odds-a' even.'

So with the unforgotten name, and a scrap from the beloved book on his lips, Uncle Ned passed away.

XXX.

THE High Court of Justiciary was crowded by ten o'clock on the morning of the last day of the year One. Harry Hacket was to be tried on that day for the killing of Adam Meldrum, and the prospect of the trial had excited considerable interest in the northern metropolis. The social position of the accused, the audacity of the outrage, the growing feeling against the severity of the Excise laws, rumours about the romantic circumstances in which the irregular marriage with Eppie Holdfast had been contracted, had contributed to draw a crowd of idlers to the dingy court-room. Corbie, propitiated by payment of his account (with legal interest), had insisted on coming all the way from Peelboro' to instruct counsel, and was now seated