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It was sixteen miles of a ride. The moon went down, and the last of my journey was very dark, for the night was cloudy, but we arrived in safe.y, just as the dawn was promising to come as soon as it could. No one in the town seemed up, or thinking of getting up. I had learned a lesson from John, however, and I knew Martha's window, which happily looked on the street. I got off Zoe, who was tired enough to stand still, for she was getting old and I had not spared her, and pro

the curtain, and looked out. There was light enough from the moon to let me see a man looking up at the window, and love enough in my heart to make me recognize him at once. How he knew the window mine, I always forgot to ask him. I would have drawn back, for it vexed me sorely to think him too weak to hold to our agreement, but the face I looked down upon was so ghastly and deathlike, that I perceived at once his coming must have its justification. I did not speak, for I would not have any in the house hear; but put-ceeded to search for a stone small enough ting on my shoes and a big cloak, I went softly down the stair, opened the door noiselessly, and ran to the other side of the house. There stood John, with his eyes fixed on my window. As I turned the corner I could see by their weary flashing, that either something terrible had happened, or he was very ill. He stood motionless, unaware of my approach.

"What is it?" I said under my breath, putting a hand on each of his shoulders from behind.

He did not turn his head or answer me, but grew yet whiter, gasped, and seemed ready to fall. I put my arm round him, and his head sank on my shoulder.

Whatever might be the matter, the first thing was to get him into the house, and make him lie down. I moved a little, holding him fast, and mechanically he followed his support; so that, with some difficulty, I got him round the house, and into the great hall kitchen, our usual sitting-room; for there was fire that would only want rousing, and, warm as was the night, I felt him very cold. I laid him on a wide, comfortable sofa, covered him with my cloak, and ran to rouse old Penny. The aged sleep lightly, and she was up in an instant. I told her that a gentleman I knew had come to the house, either walking in his sleep or delirious, and it would have been murder not to let him in; she must come and help me with him. She struck a light and we went back to the kitchen.

John lay with his eyes closed, in a dead faint. We got him to swallow some brandy, and he came to himself a little. Then we put him into my warm bed, and covered him with blankets. In a minute or so he was fast asleep, and had not spoken a word. I left Penny to watch him, and went and dressed myself, think ing hard-the result of which was, that, having enjoined Penny to let no one near him, whoever it might be, I went to the stable, saddled Zoe, and set off for Wittenage.

to throw at the window, which was not easy to find. The scared face of Martha showed itself almost immediately.

"It's me!" I cried, no louder than she could just hear; "it's me, Martha; come down and let me in."

Without a word of reply, she left the window, and after some fumbling with the lock, opened the door, and came out to me, looking grey with scare, but none the less with all her wits to her hand.

"How is my uncle, Martha?" I said.
"Much better," she answered.
"Then I must see him at once."
"He's fast asleep, child. It would be

a world's pity to wake him."
"It would be a worse pity not," I re-
turned.

"Very well; must-be must," she answered.

I made Zoe fast to the lamp-post; the night was warm, and hot as she was, she would take no hurt. Martha had waited, and I followed her up the stair.

But my uncle was awake, and having heard a little of our motions and whisperings, lay in expectation of something.

"I thought I should hear from you soon," he said. "I wrote to Mr. Day on Thursday, and was wondering I had no reply. What has happened? Nothing serious, I hope."

"I hardly know, uncle. But John Day is lying at our house unable to move or speak.'

My uncle started as if to spring from his bed, but fell back again with a groan.

"Don't be alarmed, uncle!" I said. "He is, I hope, safe for the moment, with Penny to watch him; but I am very anx ious Dr. Southwell should see him."

"How did it come about, little one?" "There has been no accident, so far as I understand. But I scarcely know more than you," I replied and told him so far as I could what had taken place.

He lay still a moment thinking.

"I can't say I like his being there with only Penny to take care of him!" he said.

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"He must have come seeking refuge. I don't like the thing at all. He is in some danger."

"I will go back at once, uncle," I said, and rose from the bedside, where I had seated myself a little tired.

"You must, if we cannot do better. But I think we can. Martha shall go, and you will stay with me. Run at once and wake Dr. South well. He will come directly." I ran all the way it was not far - and pulled the doctor's night-bell. He answered it himself. I gave him my uncle's message, and he was at the inn a few min. utes after me. My uncle told him what had happened, and begged him to go and see the patient, and carry Miss Martha Moon with him in his gig.

The doctor said he would start at once. My uncle warned him that things were worse than uncomfortable for the poor fellow at home, and begged him to give strictest orders that no one was to see him, whoever it might be. Martha heard, and her face grew like that of a colonel of dragoons, ordered to charge with his regi

ment.

In less than half an hour they started at a pace that delighted me.

When Zoe was put up and attended to, and I was alone with my uncle, I got him some breakfast to make up for the loss of his sleep. He told me it was better than sleep to know me near him.

What I went through that night and the following day, betwixt fear and hope, I need not recount. Any one who has loved one in danger and out of her reach, will know what it was like. The doctor did not make his appearance until five o'clock, having seen some other patients on his way back. The young man, he reported, was certainly in for a fever of some kind he could not yet pronounce which. He would see him again on the morrow, he said, and by that time it would have declared itself. Some one in the neighborhood must watch the case; it was impossible for him to give it sufficient attention. My uncle told him he was now quite equal to it himself, and we would all go together the next day. You may imagine my delight at the proposal, and my satisfaction that the doctor made no objection to it.

For joy I scarcely slept that night; I was going to nurse John! But I was anxious about my uncle. He assured me, however, that in one day more he would in any case have insisted on returning. If it had not been for a little fever, he .said, he would have gone much sooner.

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"That came because you were uncomfortable about me, uncle." I answered with contrition.

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Perhaps," he replied; "but I had a blow on the head, you know!"

"There is one good thing," I said; "you will know John all the sooner from seeing him ill. But perhaps you will count that only a mood, uncle, and not to be trusted."

He smiled. I think he was not very anxious about the result of a nearer acquaintance with John Day. I believe he had some faith in my spiritual instinct.

Uncle went with the doctor in his brougham, and I rode Zoe. The back of the house came first in sight, and I saw the window-blinds of my room still down. The doctor had said it was the fittest for the invalid, and would not have him moved to the guest-chamber Penny had prepared for him.

So in the only room I had ever occupied as my own, I nursed John for a space of three weeks.

From the moment he saw me, he began to improve. My uncle noted this, and I fancy liked John the better for it. He did not fail to note the gentleness and gratitude of the invalid.

CHAPTER XXI.

A FOILED ATTEMPT.

THE morning after my uncle's return, came a messenger from Rising with his lady's compliments, asking if Mr. Whichcote could tell her anything of her son; he had left the house unseen, and as he was ill, and she had no tidings of him, she was in great anxiety, and making inquiry about him everywhere. My uncle wrote in answer that he had come to his house in a high fever, unable to account for the proceeding; that he had been under medical care ever since; and that he hoped in a day or two he might be able to tell what had befallen him. The doctor thought it doubtful, however, if he would remember anything about it. If he expressed the least desire to see his mother, he would immediately let her know, but in the mean time it was imperative that he should be kept in utter quiet.

From this letter, Lady Cairnedge must have seen that her relations with her son were at least suspected. Anyhow, in two hours came another message- that she would send a close carriage to bring him home the next day. Then indeed were my uncle and I glad that we had come. For though Martha would certainly have

defended the citadel to her utmost, she could not have acted with the authority of a man in his own house; and it seemed very possible his mother might attempt to carry him away by force. My uncle in reply begged her not to give herself the useless trouble of sending to fetch her son; it would be tantamount to murder to remove him, and he would not be a party to it.

When I yielded my place in the sickroom to Martha, and went to bed, my heart was not only at ease for the night, but I feared nothing for the next day with my uncle on my side- or rather on the side of John.

Just as we had finished our early dinner, for we were old-fashioned people, up drove a grand carriage, with two strong footmen behind, and a third on the box by the coachman. It pulled up at the door, and the man on the box got down and rang the bell, while his fellows behind got down also and stood together a little way behind him. My uncle went at once into the hall, but only just in time, for there was Penny on her way to open the door, and that would not do. He opened the door himself, and stood on the threshold. The footman addressed him :

"If you please, sir," he said, not without arrogance, "we're come to take Mr. Day home."

"Tell your mistress," returned my uncle, "that Mr. Day has expressed no desire to return, and is much too unwell to be informed of her ladyship's wish."

"That's of no consequence, begging your pardon, sir," said the man. "We've got her ladyship's orders to bring him. We'll take every possible care of him. The carriage is very easy, and one of us'll sit inside with the young gentleman. If he ain't right in his head, he'll never know nothink till he comes to himself in his own bed."

My uncle had let the man talk; he wanted to gather from him as much as he might. His anger was fast rising, but he kept hold of it.

"I cannot let him go. I would not send a beggar to the hospital in the state he is

in."

"But indeed, sir, you must! We have our orders."

"If you imagine I will dismiss a guest of mine at the orders of any human being, were it the queen's own Majesty," said my uncle- I heard the words, and in my mind's eye saw the blue flash of his eyes as he said them -"you were never more mistaken."

"I'm sorry," said the man quietly, "but I have my orders. Let me pass, please. It is my business to find the young gentleman, and take him home. There's no man can have a right to detain him against his mother's will, when he's not in a fit state to judge for himself."

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Happily I am in a fit state to judge for him," said my uncle coldly. "I dare not go home without him," said the man. "Let me pass."

He raised his voice a little as he said it, and approached the steps as if he would force his way in.

I ought to have mentioned that, when my uncle went to the door, he took from a rack in the hall as he passed it, a whip he generally carried when he rode. It had a bamboo handle, which he told me he had bought in Paris. His answer to the man was a smart blow with it across his face. They were too near for the thong; he had to use the handle. The man staggered back, pressing his hand to his face; he had, however, only lost a loose tooth by the blow. His fellow,servants, during the colloquy, had looked on with a gentleman. like imperturbability; but when they saw my uncle defend his house with his whip, they made a simultaneous step forward. Instantly, however, they recoiled. My uncle had drawn a small, sword-like weapon from the handle of his whip, which I had not known to be there. I had never seen him look as he did now, his weapon in his left hand, and his pale face pale no longer, but flushed with anger. He gave one swift glance behind him, and cried, "Orba, shut the door," for I was in the hall at his back. I shut him out, and ran to the window. Never till that moment had I seen the natural look of anger, the expression of pure anger. There was nothing mean or ugly in itnot an atom of hate. But how his eyes blazed!

"Go back," he cried, in a voice far more stern than loud. "If one of you set foot on the lowest step, I will run him through."

The men saw he meant it, and stood. The door was closed, and my uncle there with his back to it. They brought their heads together in consultation, while the coachman sat immovable on his box. I saw this much from the window. Then they mounted all three, and the carriage drove away.

I ran and opened the door. My uncle came in with a smile. He went up the stair, and I followed him, to the room where the invalid lay, both anxious to know if he had been disturbed.

He was leaning on his elbow, listening, | guished, whom the favor of a monarch, or and looking more like himself.

"I knew you would take care of me, sir," he said, with a respectful confidence which could not but please my uncle.

"You did not want to go home-did you?" he said.

"I should have thrown myself out of the carriage window," answered John.

My uncle did not mention that such an accident had been provided against.

"But please tell me, sir," he went on, "how it is I find myself in your house. I have been puzzling over it all the morning, and cannot understand it. I have no recollection of coming."

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"You understand, I fancy," rejoined my uncle with a smile, "that one of the family has a notion she can take better care of you than anybody else. Is not that enough to account for it?"

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"How do you know that? Belorba is a terrible creature to deal with when she is roused. But you have talked enough for the present. Lie quiet, and don't trouble yourself to recollect, and as you get stronger it will all come back to you, and you will be able to tell us, instead of asking us to tell you. I will fetch Belorba. Oh, here she is! I might have known she was not far off!"

He left us together, and I quieted John by reading to him, and absolutely declining to talk.

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You are in an enchanted castle," I said. Speak a single word and you will find yourself in your own room instead of here."

He looked at me a moment, closed his eyes, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. He slept for two hours, and when he woke was quite himself. But he was very weak. When the doctor came, he found the fever was gone: We had now only to feed him up, and keep him quiet.

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a lucky turn of fortune's wheel brought into brief and brilliant prominence, were governing families. Natural barriers, in the shape of Drum Alban and the Mounth secluded the Gordons from taking that leading part in lowland politics to which, from their estates, their abilities, their ambition, and their position as chiefs of a great clan, they were apparently entitled. But from the Grampians to the Moray Firth, from Aberdeenshire on the east, to Inverness-shire on the west, the head of the house of Gordon - whatever might be the title he bore was the "Cock of the North," and no one-hardly even the crown itself was able to dispute his power. The old house of the Huntlys, in the middle of the Bog o' Gight, with its tall grey tower, its causeway, and its drawbridge, was the centre of all authority "benorth the Tay "for generations before its name was changed to Gordon Castle, and it became the "world of a house" that we see it now and the Highland home of a powerful duke. And it never lost anything of its prestige. Political tempests might rage, the forces of faction and religious prejudice might combine against it, it weathered every storm, it emerged uninjured from every attack. It came safe through the Scylla and Charybdis of the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. The legislation which resulted from them and which brought down its neighbors on every side, left it untouched. Its territorial, and consequently its social importance for the "Gudeman o' the Bog was not only a great feudal lord, but the head of a powerful Highland clan

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was too great to be annihilated by any mere act of Parliament. In 1700 the number of the Duke of Gordon's vassals in Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, amounted to no less than one hundred and seven, and twenty-seven of these were his clansmen. In the list is to be found a large proportion of the best and oldest blood in the north. Lumsdens, Maitlands, Forbeses, Baillies, Macintoshes, Macphersons, Camerons, Grants, all owed allegiance to the head of the Gordon clan. Nor were they likely to repudiate it. For all, but a very small minority, claimed kinship with him as well; and with the Gordons, blood was ever thicker than water. No Duke of Gordon was ever known to oppress his vassals or his tenants, or to take advantage of the necessities of his friends. "The duke," * says a private letter writ

* Cosmo, George, third Duke of Gordon.

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ten in 1800, by one who had ample oppor- | 1643 had signed the Solemn League and tunities of knowing, "would have lent Covenant in the Kirk of Rothes along with money to any Gordon who wanted it, from his parishioners. His son - also a Robthe purest motives of kindness and gener-ert- married Janet Anderson, portioner osity. His father, Duke Alexander, was of Nether Dallachy. Alexander, better fitted for the rough times in which eldest son of this marriage, acted for some he lived, but I do not recollect that he time as the Duke of Gordon's Baron Baibought the estate of any Gordon." No lie; married a daughter of Leslie of Baldoubt the chivalrous loyalty to a superior nageith and "conquest" a considerable which underlay the feudal system and amount of property in his day. He pur. for the matter of that the clan system of chased the lands of Finfan, and held the Highlands as well- and which is one Auchenhalrig in wadset from the duke, of the very rare instances where a mere and these, along with his feu at Nether sentiment has been converted into a legal Dallachy, he left to his son Alexander, obligation, contributed largely to the main- who married his full cousin, a Leslie of tenance of the dignity and importance of Balnageith also. Of the twenty children the house. But more far more than is of this marriage, only three survived. generally believed depended upon the The eldest of them, Alexander, - father personal qualities of its chiefs † The of William Tod,-was, like his son, facproof of this is to be seen in every page of tor for the duke for the Enzie, and died in the correspondence from which we pur-1705 in the fiftieth year of his age. Wilpose in the present paper to make copious extracts. And we venture to think that while amply instructing this deduction, the correspondence now before us will also throw not a little interesting light on the social characteristics and daily life of the community over which the Gordons exercised such willing and undisputed sway, as well as on the modes adopted to extend their family and gentilitian influence over all the north of Scotland.

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In the middle of the eighteenth century, William Tod, "tacksman" of Auchenhalriga farm of one hundred and thirty-four acres, between two and three miles from the gates of Gordon Castle was factor for Alexander, fourth Duke of Gordon for the Enzie district of Banffshire, as well as for his Highland estate on Speyside. He came of an old and respectable stock, which had been settled in Moray and Banffshire for many generations, and many members of which had, like himself, been in the service of the Gordon family. His great-great-grandfather, Robert Tod, was minister of Rothes in 1642; ‡ and in

Second duke, succeeded 1716-died 1728- -well

known for his Jacobite tendencies. He was out" in the rebellion of 1715 and made a narrow escape from

attainder.

† Burton, indeed, asserts that the Gordon influence in the North was largely due to their extensive use of bonds of manrent. We have been unable to find any authority for this statement. That the Gordons, like all the leading families of the day, employed bonds of manrent to consolidate and to cement their influence is undoubted. That they made a larger use of them than their neighbors remains as yet to be proved.

He was removed to Urquhart in 1662. If all tales are true, he justified the family surname, and was a very "wily tod" indeed It is said that he applied for an augmentation of his stipend upon the ground that he had nine sons, and every one of them had a sister. The natural conclusion was that he had a family of eighteen; as a matter of fact he had only nine sons and one daughter.

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liam Tod's mother died. -a very aged woman - in 1809, and among his papers we find several memoranda showing the expense of her interment. The wright's charge for the coffin is a guinea; the requisite furnishings. - flannel, screws, coffin-handles, laceing," ropes, rosin, tallow, and piper, come £1 7s. 8d. Three shillings were paid for the use of the mortcloth, and there is also a charge of five shillings for the bellman. William was born in 1745 and died in 1821. But of the incidents of his long, eventful life we know very little. He seems to have lived in and for his factorial duties only, and there is no positive evidence that he was ever beyond the limits of his native district. He married a sister of Professor Ogilvie of King's College, Aberdeen, who was proprietor of the neighboring little property of Pittensair, and by her be had a family of seven sons and seven daughters. The sons, many of whom received commissions in the army through the Gordon interest, all, more or less, prospered in life. One was lieutenantcolonel of the 29th Foot; another was captain and pay master of the 40th Regiment; a third, "Dr. Robert," was surgeon

Mr. Ogilvie, who was professor of humanity, was born in 1740, and died in 1819, and the following obituary notice of him appeared in the Times of 23rd February of that year: "Died on 14th instant, at Aberdeen, in the 82nd year of his age, Professor William Ogilvie of the King's College of that city. Mr. Ogilvie was one of the most accomplished scholars of the age; his talents were of the first order; his taste was of the most correct and refined nature; and the whole of his very prolonged life was passed in the ardent pursuit of knowledge. He died universally admired for his valuable acquirements and esteemed by all who knew him in private life, for the benevolence of his heart, and the faithful discharge of every social duty.

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