tongue. Jenny, thus left alone to explain, told her the unvarnished truth, while, with her floury hands, she re-arranged her disordered locks.

"A gey likely story, truly," quo' Eppie. "Tammas Tait's no the man to gie ony sic orders, to the scandaleezin' o' his ain flesh an' bluid, an' mair especially to a servin' man. Na, na, ye needna tell me ony sic story; but yer faither 'll sune be in for his twal' hours, an' then we'll hear the richts an' the wrangs o't."

Tammas had hardly steeked the kitchen door behint him when Eppie yoked him by saying, in rather peremptory tones"What for, guidman, did ye gang an' tell that fallow Geordie to rin awa' in to the hoose and ask a kiss frae Jenny there?"

"Ask a what!" quo' Tammas. "Me tell Geordie to gang an' dae ony sic thing! What puts sic nonsense i' yer heid, woman?"

To this Eppie replied by telling him the whole story of Geordie's delinquency.

"Weel," quo' the laird, "if that disna cowe the gowan! Deil be on his impidence to say ony sic thing; a' that I said was that he was to rin in to the hoose, an' Jenny wad gie him a drink o' sour dook."

"A queer kin' o' sour dook," quo' Eppie, bitin' her lip to prevent lauchin' ootricht.

"An' as queer a kin' o' drouth," quo' Tammas, wi' a loud guffaw, in which his wife could not help joining.

Hoot, toot, guidwife," quo' the laird, recovering his dignity, "it's nae lauchin' maitter, I can tell ye, an' it maun be put a stop to this very day, sae jist open ye the aumry, Jenny, an' han' me owre my cash-box." This peremptory order Jenny rather unwillingly executed, while Tammas, taking a small key from his watch chain, opened the box, and took out a roll of bank notes, saying as he carefully unfolded them-"The loon's fee is twal' pounds i' the hauf-year, an' there it's ready for him. True, it wants maist a month yet to the term, but that's neither here nor there, an' the suner we get redd o' him the better. Sae rin, Jenny, roun' to the hoose-en', and let him ken that he's wanted, an' that this very meenit; dae ye hear?"

"But, faither," Jenny ventured to say, "ye're surely no gaun to pit the lad awa' for sae sma' an affair? it was only fun on his part."

"Fun! sma' affair, lassie! dae ye imagine ?—but be aff wi' ye at ance, an' hoy him in when I bid ye.'

"But, faither," persisted Jenny, "a-a-I like him, an' wadna hae ye to pit him awa'."

"Oh, ye like him, dae ye? Weel nae doot that alters the complexion o' things-in your een at least, if no in mine-sae be aff, I tell ye, an' cry him in this very meenit."

Jenny saw there was no help for it, so with heavy step, and still heavier heart, she set out to obey the laird's orders. But when she got within sight of Geordie her heart was too full to speak, far less cry to him, so she waved her hand as a signal that he was wanted. Geordie saw and understood at once that there was mischief a-brewing, and so made up his mind for the worst. When he entered the kitchen, and saw the laird sitting with his cash-box before him, and a number of bank notes in his hand, he knew at once that his fate was sealed, so with cap in hand, and without saying a word, he resolved to await his sentence.

"Geordie Tulloch," began Tammas, in his sententious way, "there's yer fee up till the term. It wants a month o' the time yet, but that's neither here nor there; it'll gie ye the mair time to look oot for anither place. I needna tell ye what for I hae been forced to tak' this disagreeable step, as yer ain conscience will hae dune that already, an' I wad fain hope that this will be something o' a lesson to ye in the time to come, an' be the means o' makin' ye a wee thocht mair discreet in yer conduct. Sae there's yer siller; coont it, and see that's it's a' richt."

Geordie said nothing, but took the proffered notes, which he slowly counted over, and then casting a last, longing, lingering look on Jenny, he put on his cap, and was about to turn away, when Tammas said

66

Stop! bide a wee.

Ye hae been a guid an' faithfu' servant to me, Geordie, an' on that account I dinna want to be hard upon ye, sae, an' ye hae a min' to bide still, ye are welcome, but on this ae condition-namely, that ye tak' Jenny there an' What sae ye?"

mak' her

wife. yer Geordie, sadly dumfoundered, looked at the roll of notes he held in his hand, then at Jenny, standing with her apron at her eyes; then throwing the notes at Tammas, he exclaimed

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Hae, laird, tak' back yer siller, and I'll tak' Jenny, wha is

worth a thoosan' o' yer creeshy bank notes; that is, gin she will consent to tak' me. What sae ye, Jenny lass ?"

Jenny was too much overcome to reply in words, but she took his proffered hand, and returned its fervent pressure; then, ere she could prevent him, he threw his arms around her, gave her a hearty smack, and on releasing her said

"Mony thanks to ye, laird, for yer drink o' sour dook."

"Noo, noo, bairns," quo' Tammas, "seeing that maitter's settled an' dune wi', be aff to yer wark, an' lea' the soor dook to a mair befitting occasion. What sae ye, guidwife?"

"Jist this," quo' Eppie, "it's an ill win' that blaws naebody guid; an' gin ye're a' pleased, sae am I."

Geordie an' Jenny were soon made man an' wife, an' mair than happy in each other's love. And now that the auld folks hae gane to their rest, Geordie is noo Laird Tulloch, the faither o' a braw family o' sons and dochters, an' a thriving man to the bargain. And even yet, when he comes in frae the hairst, or hay-field, for a drink, Jenny, wi' a pawkie look, will say"Is't to be soor dook, guidman?"

THE LAST SHOT.

A LEGEND OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.

BY J. D. REID ("KALEIDOSCOPE").

Three to ride and to save, one to ride and be saved-
That's the key of my tale, boys, deep on my heart engraved.
With death before and behind, through dangers many and nigh,
Four to ride together, and three of the four to die.

There was the Captain's daughter, a young and delicate girl, With her baby face and shining eyes, and hair of sunniest curl; She looked like a beautiful flower, too slight to be even

caressed,

Yet never had hero braver heart than beat in that girlish breast.

And then there was Sergeant Gray, a martinet old and grim'; The worst of tyrants that ever lived was a lamb compared to

him;

Ne'er-dae-weel Douglas next, a Borderer born and bred,

With a sin on his soul for every hair that grew on his handsome head.

And then there was Fighting Denis-Denis the stout of heart,

Foremost in every row and brawl, skilled in the "manly art ;" Take the three altogether, the truth is, old and young,

They were three o' the greatest scamps, boys, that ever deserved to be hung.

What was she doing, you ask, alone with fellows like these,
Down on the Ganges' bank, hid 'mong the mango trees?
Well, she couldn't help herself, could only wait and pray,
And they, they were doing their duty as well as they knew the
way.

Slowly the red moon rose, and then the sergeant spoke"Pat, look to the horses' girths; Graham, give the lady this

cloak ;

Now, Miss, be your father's daughter, our lads are close below,

The horses are fresh, the road is clear, and we've only five miles

to go."

Then spoke the Captain's daughter, and her voice was weak but clear

"I want you to promise, brave friends, while we're altogether

here,

That you'll keep the last shot for me-when each heart of hope despairs;

Better to die by hands like yours than be left alive in theirs."

The sergeant cleared his throat, and turned his face away;
Denis, the stout of heart, had never a word to say;

And Douglas grasped his hilt with a look and gesture grim, While he watched the face o' the girl with eyes grown suddenly blurred and dim.

"Oh, you'll promise me, will you not?" the weak voice pleaded again,

"You will not leave me to them-you-soldiers-my father's men? For the sake of my mother in Heaven-and God and death so

near

Oh, father, father, you would, I know, if only you were here."

"I promise." "And I."

and low,

"And I." The voices were hoarse

And each man prayed, I ween, that the task he might not know, As out on the plain they rode swiftly and silently

Four to ride together, and three o' the four to die.

The sergeant's charger led with a long and raking stride,
And her Arab's lighter bound kept the lady by his side,

While hanging on either flank, the watchers, steady and strong, Swept on through the clouds of dust that rose as the leaders thundered along.

Fire to the right and left, fire in front and rear,

As the dusky demons broke from their lurking ambush near— Noo, Denis, boot tae boot-keep close between, you twa— We've cut her a road through waur than this, an'-Charge! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

As the lightning cleaves the cloud, as the tempest rends the oak, The comrades headlong rush, the gathering miscreants broke; Unharmed through the yelling horde the Captain's daughter fled, While thick and fast in fierce pursuit the Sirdar's horsemen sped.

Up on the crest o' the rise where Cawnpore's curse of blood
Hushes with horror yet the wide and rolling flood,

Douglas reeled in his saddle, and whispered brokenly

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Gray, dinna let her ken, but it's near a' ower wi' me."

“ Hit ?”—“ Ay, here in the side.”—“ Bad ?"—" Aye bad, but— pshaw !

I'll face yon hounds on the brae, it may gain ye a minute or twa— Tak' my horse-ye may need it for her. Steady, there!

woa, there, Gem!—

Dinna forget your promise-yon lassie's no for them."