a sail the oars would not have been needed. How pretty she was with that scarlet flush upon her cheeks and her eyes sparkling! A mile-a mile and half we went. At last I really must go ashore, and pulled accordingly for the nearest point.

I was just saying good-byeperhaps for the second or third time-and telling her, also with repetition, that I really would remember her-her father's invitation, and come to Huinish again to try the yellow-yes, the yellow-trout again, when perhaps Colin, or, far better, if only you—

That sentence was never finished, for just at this moment Stanforth, with that lazy lounging swagger of his, and fishing-rod over his shoulder, came round the nearest point, a few yards from us. Sheila had taken the oars by this time; they were resting on the rowlocks, and she was keeping them down with one hand while holding the other to me on the shore, when he came upon us all at once.

'Good-bye,' I said to Sheila, stooping, and gently pushing off the boat, 'good-bye;' and she dipped her oars, and rowed straight for the centre of the stream.

I took no notice of Stanforth, but stood watching her till she was out of hearing. Then I turned and joined him. We walked together down the loch shore, silent for a minute or two, both of us.

'Ahem! your friend of the ford, I presume?' he said.

Yes,' I replied, 'my friend of the ford.'

'Perhaps the lady of the lilies as well?' he suggested alliteratively again. It certainly is a better day for writing letters than for angling; yet, strange to say, I have a fair basket.'

I did not pursue the subject.

It would never do to go to Huinish with Stanforth, after all. Not even, I mentally added, if Colin were to show him all the lochs in one direction, and Sheila to be my guide in the other. The island was beginning to be much too small for us.

Shortly afterwards it became rather too wet for us before any farther inland trips could be arranged, and leaving Huinish unrevisited. What is called in these parts the Lammas flood' set in, or rather broke out, upon us, and flooded stream and loch to such an extent that angling became impracticable. Our island became a great dismal swamp in three days, during which period we were prisoners in the inn, and Stanforth's Gaelic became limited to the imprecatory epithets of that copious language.

We arranged to go. The steamer, however, did not suit. We must travel by the sailing mail-packet to Skye, thence by Portree and Strome Ferry south. This packet, plying between Dunalein in Skye and Loch-na-Claver, is erratic in its movements and uncertain in its hours. It seems, during summer, to sail day and night, to keep the island supplied with mails. One whole day we waited its coming, despaired of it, and finally gave up hopes of it till morning. During the night, however, I was aroused by a tremendous hubbub, both inside of the house and outside, a perfect Babel of voices, Gaelic particularly audible outside. Pushing open the casement, I inquired of a passer-by, in the dim morning light, what was the matter. Pagh-ket!' he screamed, in two syllables.

An early and unexpected start; but there was no help for it, and, after a hurried breakfast, Stanforth and I embarked at the pier.

She was a well-built quick-sailing vessel, and, with a favouring breeze, swept down the bay, passed the Heads, and entered the Minch. Farewell to Loch-naClaver, as we sighted the Skye hills tinted with the coming dawn!

There were several passengers on board with us, but the stowing of our luggage in a handy place for landing took us some time, and we were fairly in the Minch before I had leisure to stroll on deck. There was a stretch of open deck aft, and a small dismal cabin also, which few cared to enter as the weather was fine. Stanforth and I had yet a coolness between us, and our stroll up and down was a separate one. The morning was chilly, and every one muffled up. Anxious to learn some particulars of the Skye land we were approaching, I turned and spoke to a young man standing beside me. His companion, a young girl, was close behind him. I asked him some questions, which he civilly answered, and, just as I moved away, after thanking him, the girl turned her head. Sheila it certainly was! It was her brother, the Colin aforesaid, she laughingly explained, who was going south from Dunalein with his fishing-smack to Oban and Corran Ferry, and she had been sent with him to transact some business at Dunalein and then return.

I thought she smiled as Stanforth, in walking up and down, peered suspiciously at us as he passed, but it may have been my fancy. He must have recognised her, I am sure. 'But we paid no attention to him. He

a fine, bronzed, blue-eyed fellow, this brother Colin of hers, and soon we were all three laughing and talking together. Perhaps I was a trifle anxious to

make Stanforth more madly suspicious than ever, if not jealous.

I lost sight of brother and sister at landing, having to look after my traps; but we met them again at Dunalein Inn. Honest Colin promised me good fishing tours with him if ever I returned. Once, when he went to the shore to see if the smack was ready, I had a chat with Sheila alone, near the shore, among the fairy shades of Dunalein Castle woods. She had lost her gaiety then, and was shy and reserved; only she said-not her father this timeI was to be sure to return-quite sure. Bonny Sheila!

It approached the hour at which Stanforth and I had to start with the mail-gig for Portree. While we were in the lobby of the inn, the McDonalds came up together to say good-bye, a ceremony your Highlander never omits. As Stanforth and I were busy putting our rods and traps into order, Colin stepped forward to say farewell, and I wished him heartily good luck in his fishing. Then Sheila, gentle Sheila, hung a little back, with her accustomed shyness before strangers. In the doorway stood the landlord. Stanforth paused in his packing operations. I saw him do so, as if to detect any tenderness in our farewell. It was a trying moment. I am not remarkably courageous, and I own it was highly rash and injudicious; but I was provoked at his past impudence, so, stepping forward, and taking Sheila's unresisting hand in mine, I bent down and kissed her rosy lips.

Nobody said anything; there was a dead silence; nobody even coughed. coughed. The McDonalds left immediately, and we did the same shortly afterwards.

Stanforth and I scarcely spoke on the voyage south. Once, indeed (at Inverness, I think), he

6

CHAPTER I.

WHETHER TO DIE OR LIVE?

'Whither shall I fly? Where hide me and my miseries together?

O Belvidera! I'm the wretchedest creature

E'er crawled on earth! Now, if thou hast virtue,

Take me into thy arms, and speak the words of peace

To my divided soul, that wars within me, And raises every sense to my confusion. By Heaven, I'm tottering on the very brink

Of ruin, and thou art all the hold I've left!' OTWAY.

SINCE novel-writing began, was there ever a story which, having been ended honestly and in good faith, all things being wound up, should of its own persistency start off again? I had written 'The End; I truly believed that the last of the story had been told; yet here I sit this sunny August morning, pen in hand, and my mind full of the most extraordinary sequel.

Why should I not give you an odd example? Suppose, strolling one summer day in Hampton churchyard, you read on a tombstone, 'Here lie the mortal remains of Dr. John Book, who lived in the parish, boy and man, for a matter of sixty-five years, more or less." Presently (after delivering yourself of a sigh for auld acquaintance) you walk down the street. There, sauntering along the shady side in a new coat and hat, you meet your humble servant! That would be a fine surprise, I take it. Now here, you observe, is the novel of

VOL. XLVI. NO. CCLXXIII.

Tumbledown Farm, which expired July 31st, 1884, and was buried, tombstoned, and forgotten; and behold Tumbledown Farm on foot again, trudging down the long lane of life, that seems to have many a turning, but never an end.

But how shall I tell the remainder story? Shall I tell it in the order of its occurrence to myself? or shall I throw the narrative into the order of time, leaving you to guess how and when each bit came to my knowledge? I shall tell it in the order of time, and not trouble myself or you with explanations, which any one who thinks for an instant can supply for himself; while those who don't think, you observe, will never raise the question.

Just one word in your ear. The first part of this story, I told you, was written by me, assisted by Miss. Now, if the whole truth were told, this second part ought to be headed, "Written by Miss, assisted by me;" for most of the facts following reached me through my young lady, and are related in her own pretty language. If you could but see the free flowing handwriting of some leaves, and the crooked crabbed pothooks and hangers of other leaves, you would feel no surprise when one paragraph reads like old Dr. Book's parlour, and the other like Miss Millicent Hervey's.drawing-room. Have I said enough?

Vanity had been dangerously wounded. The ball had entered her side, and the doctors had

X

great trouble in extracting it. The patient suffered much; and from weakness she dropped into fever, and lay flushed and moaning and wandering in her mind right on to the time of the falling of the leaves. The physicians said she would die, in all probability; but she rallied, and, with a weary heart-sick look upon her face, turned, as it were, up the toilsome road leading back from still death to the life that now is. A lady was nursing in the hospital who was what I used to call a nun-only I believe now the saying is 'sister,' in consequence of belonging to our Church, and not to the Papists. She was, in point of fact, a Puseyite. This lady I did not like, being myself a member of the Protestant religion, and not caring for newfangled ways during the matter of, let us say, five or ten years which I have to live. Besides, the ladies will forgive me for saying-being an old man and past meaning harm-that when their Maker has been good enough to provide them with pretty faces, I cannot see why they should be squeezing their cheeks between the two leaves of a poke bonnet. I tell you plainly, I took a dislike to this lady. Having warned you so far, I must now say, for the lady in question, that, in spite of her dress, she was agreeable to the eye-when, that is to say, the eye got a fair chance. She might have been a matter of forty or forty-five years of age, tall, with fair hair, good complexion, and most extraordinary white teeth. Besides, she was the brightest cheerfullest woman you ever saw. Whether the Popish gown and bonnet made the face brighter by contrast or not, I can't say; but, without a doubt, the lady was pleasant to see, providing, you observe, that you looked at her,

and not at what she wore. I never saw that woman out of temper. I never saw her in a hurry. Never saw her without a fine, healthy, hearty smile, as if, to put it in my way, she had eaten a good breakfast, and was ready for the day's work. And they do tell me that sometimes when there was a bad case, or one of great suffering, her goodness was uncommon, and that the very touch of her hand on a throbbing forehead seemed to cool it. prayers she would say were wonderful; enough to make one think that all parties might find themselves right when they got right up to the doors of the good place. For all that, we must be careful to maintain the Protestant religion.

The

This lady, then, was at the hospital when Miss Vanity was brought in, and she heard all the awful story; and really she seemed to be drawn to the young woman by what she was told. The doctors had their own notions about Vanity, which is little wonder; and remarked upon her beauty; and gave each other the whisper; and were tolerably sure that she was a knowing one. Somehow this lady, Sister Catherine, never took that view of things, but treated the sick girl like a daughter; never let fall a hint that she was not as good as herself. Anyhow, she found the way to Vanity Hardware's heart.

Poor Vanity Hardware! Wounded in body, and utterly broken in spirits, she clung to her new friend like a child, and told her all the story of her life. How her mother had been good and true through all her sufferings, until her death. How, when dying, she had called Vanity to her side, and put a little faded white flower into the child's hand, saying,

'There, darling, I laid that