WITHOUT, the sun, just risen, fired the sky above with splendour, and spread a dazzling path of glory over the sea.

Within, the lamps flared and flickered, and the very rafters of the cottage dirled to the merry sound of the fiddle, and the rapid rhythmic tread of the reel. Faster and faster flew the bow; but the dancers were untiring, and at last, with a hoolichan more wildly shouted than any before, the revel ended in a tumult of mirth and laughter, as the weary fiddler owned himself outdone.

"That's you, John Scott!" "Weel played, Jockie!" "I thocht we wad dance ye doon, man."

"Dinna stop; tak' ten minutes' law and anither chance, Jock!" cried the dancers, loath to cease. But the bridegroom's father, a hale and hearty old grey-head, who had acted as master of ceremonies all night, interfered with good-humoured authority: "Na, na, bairns, there's a time to a'thing; Mistress Soutar here'll gie us a cup o' tea, and then hame wi' ye a'!"

The bride, smiling in response to her unaccustomed title, set to work, aided by the matrons of the party, to fill again the big teapots which had been in frequent demand all night. "Gie's a sang some o' ye," she remarked, "or it's ready."

up yer pipes, Rob!" But where was Robin? Out in the garden.

When the last wild reel ended, Robin and his partner escaped, unobserved, from the rest of the bridal party who thronged the little one-roomed house. Robin was exultant; for was not Jean Silva fairest of the fair maids gathered to grace his brother's wedding-and as bridesmaid next to the bride in request as a partner? and yet, from chance or choice, she had danced oftener with him than with any one else. She had listened not unkindly to his ardent if somewhat awkward compliments; and now she had stolen away with him from the throng of merry-makers, and was therefore no doubt willing to listen to the outpourings of his love.

The tiny patch of garden in which the cottage stood had been reclaimed from the bent-grown sea-links; and a short path led between dewy leaved cabbages and dwarf berry-bushes to a low gate and a few rude steps giving access to the beach.

The unbroken stillness and freshness of the morning laid at first a spell of silence on the lovers. Jean drew a long breath of cool air, and then, shading her eyes from the glitter and radiance of the level sunlight, sauntered down the path to the gate, Robin at her side. She was a tall, strikingly handsome girl of eighteen, superior in manner and appearance to her companions, with wonderful dark eyes and hair, and a clear pale complexion, now flushed to an unusual, and, as her lover

thought, enchanting degree. He could not take his eyes off her beautiful face. As they stood, a little breeze blew a tress of her already ruffled hair before her eyes. By a sudden impulse Robin smoothed it back with trembling fingers. Jean turned to meet his gaze. "Well?" she asked, smiling, and then he gathered courage

and told his tale of love.

But not uninterrupted, for be

fore he had won a word from her in response, the cottage door was opened, and one of those halfgrown lads who hang on the skirts of most entertainments, embarrassingly anxious to be useful, appeared in search of him.

"Here he is!" he shouted. "Come awa', Robin; they want ye to gie them a sang."

"Let them want," said Robin, impatiently; "I'm no' comin'."

"I'll gar them come oot, then," suggested the imp. "It's fine ootbye," he continued, returning to the company. "Robin says he'll no' sing unless ye come oot." And out they all trooped accordingly into the little garden-clamorous for just one more song from their favourite singer.

"Weel, what is't ye want, then?" said Robin, good-naturedly acquiescing in the inevitable (all the more willingly because he had found time to tell Jean that he must see her home, and she had not said him nay). "Ye ken a' my sangs-what are ye for?"

"Gie us what ye like," was the

answer.

Robin thought a moment. "Div ye ken 'Oh gin I were a baron's heir'?" he asked Jean, with an air of mingled shyness and understanding, not lost upon his old father, who was watching them as they sat together among the other wedding-guests, who were grouped about the steps and the low wall of the garden.

"Sing it," said Jean, with easy imperiousness; and he sang, watching her face all the time for some emotion answering to that which made his voice almost tremble as he threw his heart into the words"Oh gin I were a baron's heir, An' could I braid wi' gems your hair, An' mak' ye braw as ye are fair,

Lassie, wad ye lo'e me?"

Yes, thought Jean, that would be love worth having; but what was the use of all these fine words, when he couldn't do any of the things he sang about-when he was only a poor under-gardener? She scarcely heard the next verse; but now Robin's voice was so soft and tender she listened again—

"But I hae nought to offer thee, Nae gowd frae mine, nae pearl frae Nor am I come o' high degree,

sea,

Lassie, but I lo'e ye!

An' when the braw moon glistens o'er Oor wee bit bield on heathery moor, Wad ye no greet that ye're sae puir, Lassie, though I lo'ed ye?"

His tone compelled her to look up, and slight as her capacity of affection was compared to his, no woman could be so wooed and re

main untouched. In the glance that met his, Robin read and not untruly that in her way she loved him.

"Wha's for a cup o' tea noo?" called the bride from the cottage, where the lamps had been extinguished, the shutters opened, and the room hastily put in order. Jock Scott, the fiddler, was already seated making a meal, "a' the breakfast he would see," as he explained, before setting off on a six miles' tramp to his day's work. Yawning and sleepy, now that the excitement of the night's festivity had spent itself, most of the company flocked in to join him, while, bidding farewell to her old schoolfellow the bride, who was so occu

pied with the duties of hospitality as scarcely to notice her, Jean took her way home from the Ferry to Elie, escorted by Robin.

Again, and sure of his opportunity, as alone they crossed the shining stretches of sand left bare by the sea, he urged his suit. And Jean, whose heart had been half-won already, could no longer withstand his urgent pleadings. "Yes," she admitted, she loved him; she would marry him-some day, but not yet—and he must tell no one.

66

Robin, in a rapture of delight, was ready to promise silence; indeed his happiness was too sacred and heartfelt to make comment and criticism tolerable as yet. Jean loved him, that was enough; and pacing slowly the length of

the silent street in which she lived, they plighted troth, and kissed each other, loath to part.

Footsteps, quickly nearing, cut short their farewells. Jean opened the unlocked door of her father's house and was gone, while Robin turned homewards whistling to appear at his ease, as he met the new-comer. It was his mother's cousin, old Katie Scott the fishwife, and chief newsmonger of the village, starting on her rounds. It was just as well she had not seen him walking with Jean, thought the simple fellow to himself.

"He's ta'en that lassie hame frae the wedding," surmised the old woman as they exchanged a passing greeting. "Aweel, aweel, he'll no' hae his sorrow to seek."

The westering sun, shining through the deepset windows of the Shore House drawing-room, touched with red gold the white panelled walls, sparkled dimly among the twisted leaves and jewelled flowers of an old Venetian mirror above the fireplace, lit up with transient expression the simpering smile of one pictured lady, explored curiously the network of cracks in the stern visage of another, and touched with its furthest rays the dainty lace cap and the soft grey hair of Miss Susan Dundas as she sat quietly knitting by the fire.

Straying lower, the sunbeams kissed the faint roses of her cheeks so persuasively that, laying aside her work, she was fain to go out and enjoy the lingering beauty of the summer evening, when certain wheezy preparations for striking on the part of the old clock in the next room, seconded by an

approaching sound of footsteps, changed her intention.

"Well, David, you did not go out with the minister after all?" she said cheerily, rising to greet her brother as he entered, and shifting the position of his favourite chair a little, that he might sit, as he preferred, with his back to the light.

Captain David Dundas, "the Captain," as he was generally called in Elie, seated himself slowly, resigned to his sister's ready hand the stick he usually walked with, leant back in his chair, resting one elbow on the arm, while with his thin hand he still further shaded his eyes from the light, and then answered her. "He was going further than I had thought, and as he seemed in haste, he was better without me.'

"Perhaps," she said, cheerily; "but he would have been glad of your company, David: he aye likes a crack."

The brother and sister contrasted strangely. Miss Susan, although much the older, was so alert and active in her movements- there was such a bright readiness in her speech and manner, and in her pleasant face-that it was difficult to believe in the twenty years of difference between their ages.

Hard foreign service in the navy from his boyhood, until five years ago he had been invalided home, and the irrecoverable effects of sunstroke and fever, had prematurely wrecked his energies, both bodily and mental; so that when these two, the solitary survivors of a large and happy household, met again, Miss Susan scarcely recognised her brother.

Never had sick man a more kind and skilful nurse, and when he had regained such a measure of strength as he was likely to reach, and had not, as was evident, regained that clearness of mind, the ready wit, the conversational power, that had marked all her recollections of his early days, and had made the arrival of Davie's letters pleasant epochs in the family life of old; with tender sisterly enthusiasm she devoted herself to the difficult task of cheering and interesting, soothing or stimulating, as might be required, his enfeebled and stricken mind.

With indignant scorn she had repudiated the doctor's suggestion, that a care so exhausting and unceasing should be deputed to, or even shared by, any hired assistant. Any one might be proud, she declared, to be in her place, to be a solace and companion to one who had done and suffered so bravely for his country. If she had risked her life and nearly died of sunstroke, instead of living in selfish comfort all her days, would David have wearied in taking care of her she asked. Dr Fleming

thought it highly probable, but did not say so; like most men, he felt unequal to the light skirmishing an argument with women requires. He therefore dropped the subject, and contented himself by aiding her ministrations to the best of his ability.

No one, except herself, would have dreamt of describing Miss Dundas's life hitherto as one of selfish comfort. At the beck and call of any one among her large circle of friends who needed her, Cousin Susan's sweet face, angelic in its look of perfect self-forgetfulness and quick sympathy, brought sunshine in trouble, and comfort in sadness, wherever she went. So that now, indeed, when almost all her time was perforce occupied in attendance upon her invalid brother, those who had hitherto made large demands on her help and companionship grumbled loudly, and considered themselves illused. The children had all got through measles now, and ought to have a few weeks' change of air, if only Cousin Susan had been free to go with them! or the girls wanted to go to Edinburgh for a few weeks' gaiety-what a pity Cousin Susan couldn't come and look after their cross and gouty father to let them go! and so on. But Susan, who would have sacrificed herself with delight, could not interfere with David's comfort, and was therefore not to be tempted by the undoubted attractions of these and similar invitations.

David was her only thought. When his often vague and wandering attention seemed engrossed by anything of public interest, she led the doctor or the minister (their only frequent visitors) to discuss it again and again. Or, as they sat alone she would draw him on to tell stories of his fighting days, listening with unfeigned pride to his modest narrative; and

often her hopes were crushed by those painful signs of his malady, which had become so sadly familiar the sudden pause in his voice, the few disconnected words that followed, as, pressing his hand to his head to recall the memory that had so treacherously failed him, he looked to his sister in a distressed appeal for help. With a tact as ready and delicate as if she were screening him from public humiliation, instead of from his own vague self-consciousness, she on these occasions would supply the missing thought or suggest some other topic, and use every endeavour to banish from his face the sadness apt to settle there.

Of late her brother's mental powers had appeared decidedly appeared decidedly stronger, and Miss Susan's hopes of his recovery, so often disappointed, had again revived.

"It is such a fine evening," she remarked, as her little whitecapped maid, having arranged the tea-table, left the room. "After

tea, we might go out together. I am not such a walker as the minister; I believe, when you get quite strong, you will easily tire

me out."

"It is too cold," he replied, watching her as she perched the kettle on the fire, which burned summer and winter alike for his benefit, and gave her an excuse for making his tea herself.

"Cold, David! I wonder at you old Indians," she rejoined, briskly. "I suppose you'll tell me next we have had no fine days this summer."

VOL. CL.- -NO. DCCCCXIV.

"No smiling.

"Well, well," said Miss Susan,

you can't say they were not fine to look at. I am sure many a day, sitting here and looking out, I might have thought myself becalmed in the Indian Ocean." The figure was a just one, for from the drawing-room hearth, the outward view was of the sea and the sea alone. It was only when you stood in the window recesses that you perceived below you the little weather-beaten garden in which the Shore House stood, and the strong rampart of masonry that kept back the encroaching sea. "Not but that I can imagine myself in the Bay of Biscay sometimes," she added, smiling, as she placed her brother's teacup beside him, and supplied his wants. He accepted her ministrations silently as usual; and it was only when he lifted his cup once or twice, and replaced it absently without tasting its contents, that she guessed he was trying to collect his thoughts in reference to something he wished to say.

She tried one or two leading questions on what she thought likely topics, but without success, and then waited in silence. At last the words came

"Susan, don't you think it is time I was getting married?"

Never in her life had Susan Dundas been so thoroughly astonished.

"Are you thinking of it, David?" she said, after a perceptible pause.

Her surprise impressed him pain