said I, "never you be feared; and, besides, he's only a servant man. Annie, Annie, think what you're doing."

Instead of answering me by reasonable arguments, she came away close to me, and put her arms round my neck; so that, before I was aware, I found myself speaking as if I was quite pleased with Robbie, and ready to take him into the family in a minute. I am far too easy in my disposition-far too yielding-as Lexie has told me many a time; but I am too old to mend now.

CHAPTER VII.

It was a very quiet night that, with us. Annie sat silent at her seam, and never lifted her eyes; and except that Lexie now and then gave a groan, and me sometimes a sigh, I think there was scarcely a sound in the room. My sister was much softened to see Annie so quiet; but Annie, as I think, was occupied with other cogitations besides grief for our displeasure;-it was natural, poor thing-and it was not to be denied that this Robbie was a wise-like lad.

When I went into my own room, after having had a conversation with Lexie, I found Annie Orme not in her bed, though she had left the parlour about an hour before. When I came in, she had a little book in her hand, which she put away in a great hurry-no doubt it was some keepsake-so I asked no questions about it.

"Now, Annie," said I, having just been speaking to Lexie about the whole matter, "you must have a stout heart for this, my dear. You've done a very wrong thing in taking up with this young man, and you must be done with him, Annie Orme. Mind, I've seen your mother break her heart, because she did not take good advice, and break off in time. Its an awful undertaking, Annie, the like of this. Many a thing else you may make a mistake in, but everything else can be mended; and, Annie, Annie, my dear, just you think what a desolate thing it must be to repent after its done, when nothing in this world can deliver you except death, which it is a sin to seek for yourself, let alone another."

Robbie is-" When Annie had said this, she stopped, and laughed out; so that I was feared Lexie would hear her.

"Robbie is better than his neighbours-no doubt you think so, Annie," said I; "but wait a little till he grows a coarse man, and you're married upon him. Mind, I'm only supposing a thing that's never to happen; for neither Lexie nor me would ever consent to it."

Annie put her arms round my neck again, and leaned her head upon my shoulder. She did not speak a word except "Bonnie auntie!" but what could I say to her after that. She used to call me 66 bonnie auntie," when she was a little bairn, and wanted something; I aye yielded then, and I am feared I never will learn to refuse anything to Annie Orme.

Just as we were standing in this way, speaking about him, and me myself (being a fool, and nothing else) praising Robbie, and saying what a wise-like lad he was, we heard Lexie's foot in the passage. Both of us started and ran-me to begin to take off my net-cap, and Annie to hide herself behind the curtains, for fear her aunt should see that she was not sleeping.

"Rechie," said my sister, very low, just looking in at the door-and, seeing she waved upon me with her hand, I went out to her; and what do you think Lexie had brought-I said she was not hard-hearted-that I, knowing her so well, should say the like of that!— I ought to have told the real truth, that there scarcely ever was as kind a heart and as good a head as Lexie's put together, in spite of all she has had to vex her, poor woman, one time and another, all her life through.

She was carrying in her hand the little pink china jug full of negus, which she had just been making with her own hands in the kitchen.

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Is Annie sleeping?" said my sister. "How do you think she could sleep, Lexie," said I," after what has happened this night."

"Poor thing!" said Lexie, "though she's done anything but her duty to us, we must not fail, Rechie, of our duty to her. Make her take this-it'll do her good; and if you think she's feverish, give her some out of this bottle. She can expect nothing else, after her behaviour; but I would not have her ill either, if I could help it. Try and get her to sleep, Rechie; I must speak to her the morn." And with a sigh Lexie went away.

When I went to Annie Orme, she had hidden her face in the pillow, and was crying bitterly; I had near cried myself; for though Lexie

looked hard sometimes, it was strange to see the tenderness and mindfulness of her, even when she had been greatly angered.

The next morning, I went out early to do some errands, and left my sister and Annie alone. I had a fear about it; but still, after all, I thought it best.

Just on the bridge, I met Robbie; I scarcely knew him, for he had on his Sabbath dress, and looked in every way liker a laird than a hind. He was carrying a box with his things -honest man, it was not a very heavy one— and when he saw me, he stopped to speak to me, though he had never done it before.

"I am going away, Miss Rechie," said Robbie; "and though I am not going far, and its better for me, I am sorry to leave Lasswade."

"How far are you going?" said I—but I could not call him Robbie, and I did not know his last name.

"Only to Edinburgh," he said; "I am waiting to put my box on the coach, but I'll walk myself. Good-bye, Miss Rechie; you'll may-be hear of me again."

He held out his hand, and I gave him mine -him a common serving lad! He lifted his hat to me when he went away-neither Thomas Mouter nor Peter Braird would have done more than nodded-and I stood still and looked after him. It did not look like his Sabbath dress; he was as easy in it as I am in my old green merino gown; and, indeed, I did not wonder at Annie, for he was just as little like a farm servant as Thomas Strang, the smith (I could see the red glow of the smiddy, and half a dozen boys round it, at the corner of the street-that is what put him into my mind), was like a minister.

I went up all the way home, thinking of what Phemie Mouter said. He might be a great gentleman, or even a lord in disguise; but I soon saw that was not likely, for he had no motive; and though a great lord might pretend to be a landscape painter, as Annie was reading to me in a ballad the other day, I have great doubts whether it would be as good diversion to pretend to be a farmer's man.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Miss Rechie," said young Mr. Mouter, "will you come in to your tea to-morrow night -you and Miss Annie Orme? It's the last night of the year, you know-Hogmenay, as the bairns call it—and there will be just one or two more-all neighbours, Miss Rechie." "Well, Mr. Mouter," said I, "I am sure I

have no objection; we'll see what Annie says."

I have passed over all the time between October and the end of the year, because there was nothing in it of moment to anybody. We were all going about in our ordinary way, and nothing had happened in the town but what happens every day-a bairn coming home here and there, and an old person dropping off like the last leaves. And touching Robbie nothing was now said, he having clean departed, and nobody in Lasswade, as it seemed, minding about him at all; so that Lexie was again keen about Peter Braird, and I, I confess, began to think that young Mr. Mouter had a chance after all. So I ironed Annie's best collar and her fine sewed cuffs, that she got in a present, and made her put on her new blue merino, with a ribbon round the waist; and, having made up my own good cap, we dressed ourselves, and went down to Mr. Mouter's to our tea. It was not very cold for the season, so that it was pleasant going down the road, seeing the lights shining through the windows, and hearing the bairns singing at the doors. Little Katie Hislop has a miracle of a voice for singing, and she is so very wee a thing, that you cannot believe when you hear it, that such a wonderful sound is coming from a creature that you could almost hold in your hand. There she was, poor little thing, with an old table-cloth tied round about her waist, half full of oat-cakes, and slices of bread, and bits of short-bread, standing at Mrs. Thomson's window, singing one of the longest Hogmenay rhymes-or, rather, it was two or three of them joined together, and sung at the very height of her voice. There were two or three more with her, and just as they ended

"But we are bairns come out to play,

Get up and gi’es our Hogmenay.”

Mrs. Thomson opened the window, and gave them I cannot tell how many cakes and scones, and a great lump of fine, rich short-bread to Katie herself.

"Now, we'll go to Mr. Mouter's, and then we'll gang hame," said Tomima Hislop, Katie's big sister; "we needna bide lang there--he'll no gie us ony short-bread. Katie, sing."

But they scarcely waited to sing-they just gathered about the door in a cluster, and cried, "My feet's cauld, my shoon's thin, Give me a piece, and let me rin," when they all ran away; but whether it was that Mr. Mouter had the cakes ready for them, or whether they were feared to face him (being so sedate a young man), I cannot tell.

"You see, auntie, the bairns ken," said Annie Orme to me; "they would not have run that way from our door."

"Nor from your door either, my dear," said I, "when you have a house of your own; but how is a man to ken ?"

The table in Mr. Mouter's parlour was set out very fine, with beautiful china, and silver teaspoons, marked all T. M., his own initialsI thought to myself, if he got Annie, they would have plenty of silver things to begin with; for I knew my sister would not let her go to her own house without a good dozen of spoonsand there was short-bread and a great rich bun, and biscuits and bread of every kind. For company, there was Annie and me, and the two Miss Thomsons, and young William Wood and his wife, besides Phemie and Nicol, and Mr. Mouter himself.

"When are we to hear of a mistress to this fine house of yours, Mr. Mouter?" said young Mrs. Wood. 66 Its a pity to see such a bonnie little room, and no a wife to put into it: we have been looking for it these three months and more."

"Its a serious business; I am not a man that undertakes anything rashly; but there's no saying, ladies-there's no saying," said Mr. Mouter, briskly; and he looked straight round at Annie.

What did Annie do, think you? I was feared she would have laughed: instead of that, she held up her head, and asked Mr. Wood, as grave as if she had been Lexie, when he was last in Edinburgh.

"When I was last in Edinburgh,” said Mr. Wood, "you'll no guess, Miss Annie, who I saw. Do you mind the young man that used to drive the Butterbraes' cart? Robbie something-but I never heard his last name. Well, I met him in a little street near the college, dressed in black, as well as anybody need be, and walking with a gentleman. I never was more astonished; but I did not speak to him, for I thought, if he had got any rise in the world, he would not like to be minded that he was once only a servant-man."

"It was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Wood," said I.

"Eh, and was't Robbie ?" said Phemie Mouter, "what way did you no follow him, Mr. Wood? I would have gaen step for step, if it had been five miles-and there's nae saying what grand house he might have led you to in the end."

"Dear me, will somebody have left him siller?" said Miss Christina Thomson.

But Annie Orme never spoke a word, though

when I looked at her, I saw her eyes dancing, and such a crowd of smiles into every line of her face, that my heart was moved to see her pleasure. The two Miss Thomsons were come of very comfortable folk, and would both have portions so would Phemie Mouter; but when I looked at Annie Orme, I could not help seeing the difference, though Annie would have no portion, and was an orphan, poor thing, with only two single women, Lexie and me, all the friends she had in the world.

And as I thought upon my sister, the water came into my eyes. When did Lexie seek a pleasure to herself, or when did she spare herself an hour's work that was to better one of us? I have worked with her all my days-it may be thought I am taking a share of the honour, but anybody that knows me may know it is not so. Many a one has thought Lexie hard, even when she was toiling for them, and I question if any mortal but me, so much as guesses what kind of heart she has, or, indeed, if she knows herself.

And there was Annie Orme-little wonder that we were both proud of her little wonder that we both would have had her well wedded, if we could; but the lad she liked best herself -what if he did turn out some great man after all?

"Annie," said I, when we were on our road home, "is this lad, Robbie, a greater person than he looks? tell me, is he some rich gentleman guisarding in this fashion? for, if he is, I'll tell Lexie, and we must instantly leave this place, and never be within knowledge of him more."

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No, auntie, he is not a great gentleman," said Annie Orme, "no, he's may-be no quite what he looked like, but he's a true man; and by and bye he'll tell you everything himself— but you're no to ask me."

I was confused and bewildered, I could not tell what to think.

When we got home we heard a sound of voices in the parlour, and there was Peter Braird sitting with my sister. He had been getting a glass of wine-Lexie never offers folks drams-and there was a plate of our newyear's short-bread on the table.

"Dear me, Mr. Peter," said I, "are you going up to Windlestrae at this time of night."

Peter gave a great laugh, and turned red in the face, "I want to be somebody's first-foot in Lasswade here; I came out on purpose; but I'm not going home to night, Miss Rechie.”

"Well,” said I, "you are paying somebody a great compliment, coming out all the way or a cold night. Who is it, Mr. Peter?"

"Every thing in its right time, Rechie," said my sister, who was looking uncommonly pleased. It was clear that Lexie expected that he had come to be first-foot to Annie Orme.

"I met a gentleman on the South-bridge the other day, Miss Rechie," said Peter, "and he asked kindly for you. He used to give me a lift in his cart, sometimes, on the Saturday nights, when I was coming home wearied, and a fine lad he is—Robert Scott-you mind him? -he was at the Butterbraes."

"And, Mr. Peter, do you keep company with the like of him?" said my sister, with a kind of horror.

"When I met him he was better dressed than me," said Peter, looking down upon his own coat, which was not quite so well brushed as it might have been, "and I am sure he speaks as good English; but I don't just to call keep company with him, Miss Lexie, for I never saw him but this once."

"Let not the name of any such person be mentioned to me again," said Lexie, "what do I care about his good dress-if somebody had even left him a fortune, what would he be for all that, but an uncultivated hind? No, Mr. Peter, as a man's breeding is, so is he-you may take my word for that."

"But its past eleven, and I'll have to be on the watch, or I'll be cheated after all," said the young man," and I said I would let nobody be before me. Good-night to ye all, and a happy new-year when it comes; don't say I was here, Miss Lexie, if my mother comes down the morn."

Saying which, Peter went away, to the great astonishment of my sister, who tried to persuade herself he was coming back again after all. But I knew very well that Peter Braird cared nothing about Annie Orme-the great redheaded lout-as if he had discrimination for that.

When Annie went ben the house, to tell Beenie that she was to come to the parlour just before the clock struck twelve, and get a spoonful of toddy, and a bit short-bread, and wish us a good new-year, as was our custom, Lexie looked up to me with a concerned face. "Rechie," said my sister, "do you believe that Annie is still thinking about that lad?”

"I do not ken, Lexie," said I-for I durst not say an untruth either one way or the other.

Rechie-just you see if I am not a sooth prophet-he'll have got somebody to lend him siller, and before we ken where we are, he'll be setting up an inn or public-house at our very doors, and asking us for Annie. I'll never consent-no, if it killed me to refuse, Rechie Sinclair, I'll never consent to the like of that!"

"There's worse things than keeping an inn, if he had got that length," said I, "and, besides, Lexie, folk need licenses for many an innocent trade; it might be only a grocery shop-it might be-"

"Never let me hear his name again,” cried out my sister, and at that moment the clock warned twelve, and Annie and Beenie came into the parlour, and there was not a word more spoken till after the twelve strokes of the clock, when every one of us wished the other a happy new-year.

But no first-foot crossed our door-stone that night.

CHAPTER IX.

ABOUT three or four months after that-it was in April, and pleasant weather-there came a letter to us one day, inquiring if the two of us-being addressed just as "Misses Sinclair, Lasswade "—were called by the christian names of Alexina and Rachel, and were of kin to one Ninian Sinclair, dead in London, who had willed-being a poor old solitary man, though he left a great sum behind him--a legacy of a hundred and fifty pounds to the two daughters of his cousin, Johnstone Sinclair, of Lasswade. Now this being our father, and these being our names, besides that we knew of a cousin Ninian he had in London, Lexic immediately wrote to the law gentleman, in Edinburgh, who asked the question, saying it was us; and there came back an answer from him, telling some ceremonics he would have to go through, and appointing a day for us to come to his office to receive the legacy.

It is not to be supposed we could hear of a great sum like this without some elevation of spirit, and Lexie said immediately to me, "this will furnish a house for Annie Orme," and we were as glad about it as we could be about money. We put on blacks, of course, for the poor old man—I call him poor, not because he was dead, but because he had departed without one to grieve for him—and I thought it in a measure right to mention to folk who we were in mourning for, and what he was, just that he might not be defrauded altogether of some natural notice by the living, of the great end he had undergone.

Just a day or two after this, Annie came in

one day, in a great haste, and ran into the parlour breathless. And what was this but to tell us that Peter Braird and Phemie Mouter had run away together, and had come back married folk, and were even now coming up the town with white gloves and white ribbons, on their road to Windlestrae-though what kind of reception they would get there I cannot tell.

I ran to the door in a minute, to wish them joy; but Lexie sat still in her chair, and would not move, and I saw she was just shaking. I was sorry for Lexie, for she had aye thought so much of this lad, though I did wonder how she could ever even the like of him to Annie Orme.

When the two young fools and their train had passed-for they were behaving just like foolish persons, Peter, especially, looking half out of his senses, though Phemie behaved a little better-and we were back again into the parlour, and at our work, Lexie sat silent for a long time, after which she began to speak to Annie Orme, and to call her " "my dear"-a thing most uncommon for Lexic-as if she thought the news about Peter Braird would be a disappointment to Annie.

"I have been thinking, Rechie," said my sister, "that this poor bairn, Annie Orme, is held far too close to one place, and that a change would do her good. So it struck me, that when we went into Edinburgh for this siller, we might take a room for a day or two at Miss Clephane's, and take Annie with us, and just go about and see what was to be scen. May-be, if there was a very beautiful, quict day, we might go across to Fife, and back again, for a sail, and just let Annie have a little pleasure like others of her age, poor thing." "Thank you, Aunt Lexie," said Annie, "I should be very glad."

"Would you be very glad, my dear? then we'll go, Annie, and you may think that settled, for ill would I like this day to refuse you anything that would make you glad, my poor bairn."

Oh, Annie Orme! the tear was in your eye for my sister's kindness, but the laugh was on your lip for her deceiving herself. Do you think I did not see the half-dimple on your cheek, or do you think I did not know that you were no more disappointed about Peter Braird than I was?-you need not deny it, Annie Orme.

So it was settled, that on the Friday nextthat was a week from the time we were speaking-we should all go into Edinburgh, and that we should stay, perhaps, a week away

from home.

That same night, Annie went out to get a

walk by herself, for I was busy; and not long after she went away, I heard a rap at the door, and immediately Beenie showed in Mr. Mouter into the parlour. He was dressed more carefully than usual, and had a white lily of the valley in his button hole, and white gloves in his hand—but being a careful lad he had not put them on.

He got a very cold reception from Lexie; so, thinking myself bound to pay more attention to him on that account, and having, besides, aye an idea that he might turn out Annie's goodman after all, I was very kind to him, and we began to speak about what had happened in the morning.

"It could not be a greater surprise to you, than it was to me, Miss Rechie," said Mr. Mouter. "I have observed some stir going on for a day or two-bits of white ribbon lying about, and frills and collars, and things of that kind, which I suppose Phemie had gotten from Nicol, who is very careless of his money, like most seafaring men; but when there was no appearance of her at breakfast-time this morning, I thought she had gone in to Mrs. Thomson's, or was standing havering with some of the women about, and never troubled myself on the subject. As the day went past, I got more anxious, but still I thought it was only Phemie's nonsense; so you may judge how I was struck when I saw a post chaise stop at Mr. Trotter's door, and out of it came a couple in white gloves. My first thought was, that they were strangers, and I went to the door to see-when, behold! who was it but Phemie Mouter and young Windlestrac."

"Not young Windlestrae; Sinclair Braird is married upon a gentlewoman like himself," said Lexie, sharply, "you mean Windlestrac's young son, that silly callant, Peter, Mr. Mouter."

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Silly, or no silly, he's my brother-in-law, Miss Lexie," said Mr. Mouter, a little illpleased, "and I would not like to hear him spoken of otherwise than civilly."

"He was my second cousin's son twenty years before he was your brother-in-law, Mr. Mouter," returned my sister, "and one of the family may speak, as I believe, from her ain knowledge, without asking any permission from a fremd person. Windlestrae, poor man, will be tried this day-I must go up to-morrow and ask for the family."

"For you see, Mr. Mouter," said I, being feared for Lexie hurting his feelings, "a marriage like this is a trial to both the families, both his and hers. If they had only been prudent, the rash young things, and let their