"If ye say a word to him," cried Drumcarro rising from his chair and shaking his clenched hand in her face, "one word! I'll just kill ye where ye stand! I'll drive ye from my doors. Neither bit nor sup more shall ye have in this house. Ye may go and tramp from door to door with a meal-pack on your shoulder."

"I would rather do that," cried Kirsteen, "far rather than make a false promise and deceive a good man. Oh, father, I'll do anything ye bid me. I'll be your servant, I'll ask for nothing; but dinna, dinna do this! for I will not marry Glendochart, not if you were to kill me, not if you were to turn me from the door."

"Hold your peace, ye lang-tongued -ye shall do what I bid you, that and nothing else."

"No, father, no, father!" cried Kirsteen trembling; "I will not-for nothing in the world."

"Go out of my sight," he cried, "and hold your tongue. Away this moment! Ye shall do just what I say."

Get

"None of your fathers to me. out of my sight, and make yourself ready to do what I tell ye. It shall be in a fortnight. That's all you shall make by your rebellion. Not another word, or I'll turn you out of my house."

Kirsteen retired as he made a step towards her with his hands raised to her shoulders, to put her out. His fiery eyes, the foam that flew from his lips, the fury of his aspect frightened her. She turned and fled from the room without any further attempt to speak.

CHAPTER XIII.

KIRSTEEN rushed out of the house with the instinct of passion, to shake off all restraint, to get into the free air, where an oppressed bosom might get breath. She flew like a hunted deer, flashing past the window where Mary, sitting at her seam, saw her hurried escape and divined more or less what was the meaning of it.

"Who's that?" said Mrs. Douglas, conscious of the flying shadow.

"It's Kirsteen, and my father will have told her, and she's just beside herself."

"Beside herself!" said the mother tranquilly over her knitting. "She may well be that; for who would have thought of such a prospect for the like of her, at her age." Mary was not so sure that the agitation was that of joy, but she said nothing. And Kirsteen was out of sight in a moment, darting by.

She went towards the linn, without knowing why. The stream was strong with the winter floods, and the roar of it as it poured down the rocky cleft was enough to make all voices inaudible, and to deaden more or less even the sound of one's thoughts buzzing in one's head with the passion and the sweep of them, themselves like a hurrying stream. like a hurrying stream. Kirsteen fled as to a covert to the "den," down which this passionate rivulet, swollen into a torrent, stormed and poured, flinging its spray over the wet and spongy turf into which her feet sank. She cared nothing for this in the absorption of her excitement, and flung herself down upon that damp slope, feeling the spray on her forehead and the roar of the water in her ears as a sort of relief from herself. Her feelings had been like to burst her heart and her brain together as she flew along, like some struggling things shut up in a space too narrow for them. She could not get her breath nor contain the hurry and confusion of her own being. But in that damp retreat where nobody would be likely to pursue her, where she could

scarcely even hear the thumping of her own heart nor any voice calling her, nor be subject to interruption of any kind, Kirsteen after a moment began to come to herself. The shock, the fright, the horror quieted a little; her mind became accustomed, as it does so rapidly, to the new alarm, to the frightful danger which had suddenly revealed itself. It was a danger which Kirsteen had not expected or foreseen. She had very well understood when she pledged herself to wait for Ronald what that meant. It was in all the traditions of romance with which she was acquainted-not waiting relieved by constant communication, and with a certain distinct boundary, but silent, unbroken, perhaps for life, certainly for years. In the beginning at least such a visionary burden may be taken up with enthusiasm, and Kirsteen had been proud of it and of the deep secret of which there was nothing to tell, which was in spirit alone, with no bond to be displayed in the sight of men. But it had never occurred to her that she might be bidden to foreswear herself as she said, that she might have to struggle against all about her for the right to keep her vow. This danger had never appeared before her as a possibility.

She had

not thought of any wooer, nor had any such presented himself to her consciousness. Without warning, without thought of precaution or self-defence, the danger had come.

To marry Glendochart: Glendochart -there burst through Kirsteen's distressful thoughts a sudden picture of the old gentleman descending the side of the linn guided by her hand, the safe places selected for him; and then his little plunge, his slip, her cry, “Oh, Glendochart, you have hurt your self!" and there burst from her in the midst of her trouble an irrepressible laugh, which rang into the roar of the linn and went down with it into the depths echoing among all the rocks. Kirsteen had been ashamed to laugh when that accident happened for fear of hurting his feelings, but all the ludicrousness of the incident burst

upon her now. He had got so red, poor old gentleman! he had seized upon a thorn bush to pull him up, rather than take her hand. He had said that it was nothing, nothing, though her keen young senses, compunctious of their own perceptions, had seen how he limped up the bank again. She had not dared to offer her support any more than to laugh, seeing it hurt his feelings. And it was because he wanted to marry her, her-Kirsteen, troth-plighted to her own lad—and him as old as her father. Oh, for shame, for shame!

That laugh did Kirsteen good. It liberated her soul; she escaped as from the hand of fate and became able to

think. And then a wild anger swept over her mind against her father, who wanted nothing but to get her, as he said, off his hands, and against Glendochart for daring to think that she would take him, an old, old man. All the sense of his kindness disappeared in this illumination as to his motives: indeed the more Kirsteen esteemed him before, the more she despised and hated him now. She thought of auld Robin Gray, but that was too good for him. The old, ill man, to tell her a story of faithfulness and make her cry and mix him up in her mind with Ronald and her own love, and then to betray her, and want to marry her,— doubly faithless, to her that died for him, and to Kirsteen that had wept for him! It was for constancy and pity and true love that the girl had been so sorry, so touched in her heart, so wishful to please him and make him smile. And now to turn upon her, to try to tear her from her own lad, to make her mansworn! There was nothing that was too bad for him, the old ill man! Kirsteen saw herself stand before him indignant, her eyes flashing with injured honour and a sense of wrong.

But then suddenly all this sustaining force of anger went from her as Glendochart's kind and gentle face so full of feeling came before her imagination. Oh, he knew better than that! If she could but speak to him, and

tell him! perhaps show him that little blue Testament, whisper to him that there was One-away with his regiment, fighting for the King, like Glendochart himself, like the story he had told her! Tears filled Kirsteen's eyes. Her father might be dour and hard, but Glendochart would understand. It was just his own story; he would never let her break her heart and die on her wedding-day like his own lass. Oh, no! oh, no! he would never do that. He would never let it happen twice, and all for him. With a quick gleam of her imagination, Kirsteen saw herself in her white wedding-gown, lying at his feet, the second bride that had burst her heart! Oh, no! oh, no! Glendochart would never do that the tears streamed from Kirsteen's eyes at the thought, but her quivering mouth smiled with generous confidence. No, no! She had only to speak to Glendochart and all would be well.

:

But then came her father's threat, his blazing fiery eyes, his hand clenched and shaken in her face, the fury of his outcry: "I'll just kill ye where ye stand-I'll put you to the door." Kirsteen remembered Anne, and her soul sank. Anne had a husband to take care of her, she had a house, wherever it was; but Kirsteen would have nothing. And what would become of her if she were put to the door? Where would she go to find a shelter? Another grotesque visionbut not so grotesque to her imagination-of the poor beggar-woman with a meal-pack on her shoulder which her father had evoked, flitted before her mind. No, she would not be like that. She would take care of bairns, or keep a house, or even make muslin gowns like Miss Macnab. There were plenty of things she could do!-it would be long, long before she need come to the meal-pack. But then there burst over Kirsteen's mind another revelation: the shame of it! She, a Douglas -one of the old Douglases, that had been the lords of the whole land, not only of poor Drumcarro- -a gentlewoman of as good blood as the Duchess

or any grand lady, and one that could not be hidden or made to appear as if she were a common person! And the scandal of it, to open up the house and all its concerns to ill talk-to make it open to all the world to say that Drumcarro was an ill father, and the house a cruel house, or that the Douglas lassies were not what ladies should be, but lightheaded and ill-conducted, rebels against their own kith and kin. This was the most terrible thought of all. The others seemed to open up a way of escape, but this closed the door; it is an ill bird that files its own nest. How could Kirsteen do that? shame her family so that even Sandy and Nigil and Charlie and Donald in India, even little Robbie, should hear of it and think shame-so that he should hear that Kirsteen had let herself be talked about? so that Drumcarro should be lightly spoken of and all its secrets laid bare? new suggestion brought back all the passion and the confusion that the influence of the air and the freedom out of doors, and the quiet time to think had calmed down. To endure is always possible if you set your heart to do it, whatever happens; but to shame and to expose your own house!

This

"Where have ye been, Kirsteen ?" said Mrs. Douglas. "I never saw a person like you for running out when you're most wanted. You should not take your walks in the forenoon when we're all at work."

"Did you want me, mother? I was not fit to sit down to my work. I had a-buzzing in my head."

"'Deed I think ye have always a buzzing in your head. Sometimes I speak to ye three times before ye answer me."

"She's uplifted with her prospects," said Mary, "and no wonder. I think ye should excuse her this day."

Mary intended to be very kind to Kirsteen. She had made up her mind to be a very frequent visitor at her sister's house.

"Well, well," said Mrs. Douglas, "that may be true enough; but I think she might have come and told me the

news herself, instead of letting me find it out through your father-not that I had not judgment enough to see what was coming this many a day."

Kirsteen was still trembling with the results of her self-argument at the linn-which indeed had come to no result at all save the tremor in her frame and the agitation in her heart. She had knelt down by her mother's side to wind the wool for which it appeared Mrs. Douglas had been waiting, and she was not prepared with any reply.

"She doesn't seem to have much to say to us now, mother," said Mary.

"Kirsteen, you should not be so proud. You will be a finer lady than ever your mother was, with a carriage and horses of your own, and no doubt everything that heart can desire; for an auld man is far more silly than a young one."

Kirsteen gave the wool a jerk which tangled it wildly. "Mother, I just wonder what you are all havering about," she said.

"Kirsteen, I'm well used to rude speaking," cried the mother, ready to cry at a moment's notice; "but not from my own bairns."

"Oh, mother, I beg your pardon. It was not you that was havering. Dinna speak to me, for I cannot bear it. My heart is just like to break."

"With pleasure?" said Mary in her soft tones.

Kirsteen darted a glance of fire at her calm sister, but turned nervously to her occupation again and answered nothing. She had enough to do with her yarn which, in sympathy with her confused thoughts, had twisted itself in every possible way and refused to be disentangled. Her mother remarked the tremor of her hands.

"Ye have got the hank into a terrible tangle, and what are ye trembling at, Kirsteen-is it the cold?"

"I'm not trembling, mother," said Kirsteen.

"Do ye think I am blind or doited and cannot see? Na, I'm a weak woman, sore held down with many infirmities; but I'm thankful

to say my eyes are as good as ever they were. Ye're all trembling, Kirsteen; is it the cold?"

"She has gotten her gown all wet, mother. She has been down by the linn, it's no wonder she's trembling. She ought to go and change her things."

Are your feet wet, Kirsteen ?" "Oh," said Kirsteen springing to her feet," if ye would just let me alone; I'm neither wet nor cold, but my heart's like to break. I don't know what I am doing for misery and trouble. If ye would only have peety upon me and let me alone!"

"Dear Kirsteen, how can ye speak like that? Where will ye get any person you can open your heart to like your mother? Just tell me what's wrong and that will ease your mind. What can Mary and me mean but what is for your good? Eh, I never thought but what you would be pleased, and a blithe woman this bonny day."

"She'll maybe open her mind best between you two, if I were away," said Mary rising. She was really full of good feeling towards her sister, with no doubt an anticipation of good to come to herself, but yet a certain amount of solid sympathy genuine enough of its kind.

66

Now, Kirsteen, my bonny woman, just tell me what's the maitter," said Mrs. Douglas when Mary was gone.

66

'It seems you know what has happened, mother, and how can you ask me? Am I likely to be a blithe woman as ye say when it's just been told me?"

"That a good man and a good house are waiting for ye, Kirsteen? And one that's very fond of ye, and asks no better than to give ye all ye can desire?"

"That I'm to be turned out of the house," cried Kirsteen; "that I'm no more to see your face; that I'm to go from door to door with a meal-pack like a beggar woman!"

"Whisht, whisht, and don't speak nonsense that will be some of your father's joking. Whiles he says things

bring all this upon ye, Kirsteen? You will be the Leddy of Glendochart and an honoured woman, holding your head as high as ainy in the whole county, and silk gowns as many as ye desire, and coaches and horses; and what ye'll like best of all, my bonny bairn, the power to be of real service and just a good angel to them that ye like best."

"Oh mother, mother," cried Kirsteen, burying her face in her mother's lap, "that is the worst of it all! Oh, if ye have any peety don't say that to me!"

"But I must, for it's all true. Oh, Kirsteen, I hope I'm not a complaining woman; but just you think what it would be to me to have my daughter's house from time to time to take shelter in. Many and many a time have I been advised change of air, but never got it, for who dared name it to your father? I have been thinking this whole morning it would make me just a new woman. To get away for a while from this hole-for it's just a hole in the winter though it may be bonny at other times, and to see my bairn sitting like a queen, happy and respectit."

"Not happy, mother!
!"

"That's just your fancy, my dear. You think he's old, but he's not really old, and as kind a face as ever I saw, and full of consideration, and not one that ever would say ye had too many of your own folk about ye, or that ye ought to forget your father's house. Oh, Kirsteen, it's very little a lassie knows ye think of a bonnie lad, a bright eye or a taking look, or a fine figure at the dancing, or the like of that. But who will tell ye if he may not be just a deevil in the house? Who will tell ye that he may not just ding ye into a corner and shame ye before your bairns, or drive ye doited with his temper, or make your bed

No. 361.-VOL. LXI.

and your board a hell on earth? Oh," cried poor Mrs. Douglas in accents of deep conviction, "it's little, little a lassie kens! She thinks she will please her fancy, or she listens to a flattering tongue, or looks to a bonny outside. And all the time it's just meesery she's wedding, and not a bonny lad. But, Kirsteen," she said, giving a furtive little kiss to the rings of hair on Kirsteen's milk-white forehead, "Kirsteen, my bonny woman, when ye take a man that everybody knows, that is just kent for a good man and a kind man, and one that loves the very ground you tread on, oh, my dear! what does it maitter that he's not

And

just that young? Is it anything against him that he knows the world and has had trouble of his own, and understands what it is to get a bonny lass and a good bairn like you? oh, Kirsteen, think what ye can do for us all if you take him, for your sisters and for the callants, he's just made the house a different thing already; and though that's scarcely worth the thinking of, for I'm very near my grave and will want nothing long,Kirsteen, for me, too!-"

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried the girl with her face still hidden in her mother's lap, "ye just break my heart."

"Na, na," said Mrs. Douglas in soft quick tones like one who consoles a child, "we'll have no breaking of hearts. Ye will not be a month marriet before ye'll think there's no such a man in the world. And there's nothing he will deny ye, and from being of little account ye'll be one of the first ladies in the country side. Whisht, whisht, my darling! Ye'll make him a happy man, and is not he worthy of it? Kirsteen! Rise up and dry your eyes. I hear your

father coming. And dinna anger him, oh! dinna anger him, for he never minds what ill words he says!"

C