CHAPTER XXVII.

1

IN CHAINS.

ALAN DALZIEL continued to reside at Millheugh during the spring and summer. Yet in spite of the beautiful and hopeful ministries of these seasons, he was far enough from being contented. In the city, he would probably have longed for the country; but being compelled to hide in the country, he was often shaken by uncontrollable impulses, to rush down to the city, and brave its dangers, if only for a moment he could feast his hungry eyes on the charms of Christine Dundas.

It is needless to say that, after the adventure in Cadzow, Alan was more keenly tortured than ever about his parentage, and tried every means within his reach to find a clue. But having no leading idea or suggestion, he failed in every attempt. Even Mrs. Dalziel herself could give him no help. All she could tell him was that a young woman, apparently a servant, had visited her and her husband twenty years before, and induced them to take charge of a child-Alan himself-for a year, by telling a plausible and pathetic story, which proved all the more irresistible that the girl professed to come with a special recommendation from a well-known doctor

and a lady in Hamilton, the latter, presumably, the mother of the baby. This part of the tale was a fiction; and although they received the sum of ten pounds, with the promise of the same amount every six months, they never got a farthing more, and they never again saw the person who had brought the child.

They did not, however, regard her non-appearance as a calamity. Indeed, in the course of a year or two, as their affections began to wind about Alan, they were troubled with a secret fear that some day she might reappear, pay arrears of money, and carry off their new consolation-the little laughing cherub.

It occurred to Alan that the person who had brought him as a baby to Millheugh might be Swallow, the woman he had met on that stormy night in the ruins of Cadzow Castle, especially as she appeared to be more than merely acquainted with his origin. Again and again did he visit the forest, and at all hours, in the hope of meeting this mysterious personage, though he had no desire to encounter again his gigantic antagonist. But as both were by this time in the wilds of Perthshire, he did not and could not meet them in Cadzow.

At times the shadow of content seemed to descend upon Alan, but always when he was actively employed in the garden. When he gave rein to his imagination, in moments of day-dreaming, all the

springs of ambition were stirred within him, and often he was tempted to fling down spade, or hoe, or pruning-knife, and rush away to where there might be some stir and tumult of life. His present occupations seemed unworthy of a physical strength and a mind like his. For the present, however, he could only tug at the chains which bound him to the quiet spot.

One source of the torture which he endured arose from certain acute feelings of shame with which he was occasionally assailed-shame that his late confederates should be suffering all the miseries of prison life, while he was free and comfortable. In moments of sudden heroism the thought would flash upon him that he would go down to Glasgow, give himself up to the authorities, and thus share the fate of his fellow-patriots.

Yet it seemed so natural to be free, and he was so young, and so imperfect, that those patriotic resolves died almost in the thrill of conception.

How easy it is to think heroically!-how difficult to be a hero!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHRISTINE THE CONSOLER.

She

CHRISTINE DUNDAS had her own troubles. felt the absence of Alan acutely; yet, though she could not wholly conceal her distress of heart from the loving household eyes that were upon her, she made no audible moan, but went about whatever little duties came naturally in her way with unabated energy. Every now and then, however, Miss Walkingshaw would surprise the beautiful creature standing still and silent, as if she had been suddenly arrested by a vision which seemed to absorb her whole being; and occasionally, at night, when the household was gathered together, her father saw that she was visited by sudden little fits of silence and mental abstraction. These significant phenomena might possibly have occurred, even if Alan had been nonexistent. But unquestionably he was at the bottom of them.

A great fear had seized the heart of Christine. The cruel story of Alan's altered circumstances struck her with painful power; and all the springs of her love and sympathy leapt towards him with a more devoted and passionate intensity. Had it been permissible, she would have rushed to him, clasped him

to her breast, and showered upon him her inexhaustible treasures of love and tenderness. She would have told him that, however changed he might be to the world, he was not changed to her, and that she loved him more than ever, and all the more that the world might love him less. She would have comforted and consoled him, and made him abler to bear his sorrow, abler to see through the darkness, and wrestle with the cruelty of his fate.

Christine would have performed all these sweet miracles, and more; but custom arrested the impulses of her generosity and love. She was compelled to remain in Glasgow, and all she could do was to breathe to him, through the spiritual channels of prayer and pure desire, the wealth of grace with which she would have redeemed him from his distress.

But the black terror that cowered in Christine's breast?

She had desired keenly to know her father's sentiments with reference to the new chapter in Alan's history. These, however, she could not dare to learn by direct interrogation; and as both her father and Miss Walkingshaw appeared to be deliberately reticent on the subject, she could only guess at his possible views by putting together allusions and hints which reached her ear incidentally. There could, of course, be no sound reasoning from such shadowy premises; but they seemed to warrant the fear which