impression that Alan must necessarily have explained the authorship of the deadly epistle in giving a history of the whole case. This idea, together

with the fact that Christine had checked his advances to herself, kept him for some time outside the walls of Cockmylane. But his sisters continued to visit Christine; and after a while, as he saw or heard nothing which could lead him to believe that his treacherous conduct had been made the subject of domestic criticism, at least before the lady of his secret idolatry, he became gradually easier in mind on that score, and more and more anxious to revisit the mansion from which he had been so long selfexcluded.

There was in reality no obstacle to his revisiting Cockmylane, except perhaps an occasional doubt, vaguely but ineffectually suggested by his still-surviving conscience, as to the propriety of presenting himself in a family to one of whom he had done a cowardly injury. But it is a common circumstance in human history that one infatuation changes the aspect, and often the very meaning of another. Loving Christine in his own peculiar way, and regarding Alan as little better than an interloper in the Dundas household, Andrew's logic led him to the conclusion that a trick, like that of the letter to Strathern, was a very good joke-as permissible in love as shooting a man in war. With such ideas, it

was natural that he should regain sufficient courage to think of once more trying to get within the charmed circle of Cockmylane, which he had often of late surveyed from the outside in the cold.

The method he adopted was to go in company with his sisters, whose presence drew from his own something of the obtrusiveness which his single figure would have had. He was careful also to visit, if possible, in the absence of Alan. To the rest, he found that his presence was not so unwelcome as he suspected it might be, although it is but fair to say that, for herself, Christine would have preferred his permanent absence.

Alan's apparent descent to a mechanical profession gave Andrew considerable satisfaction, and he sincerely hoped his rival would commit still more destructive blunders-wickedly dreaming and wishing that, at least, if he could not win Christine for himself, Alan also might forfeit all claim to her through the folly of his conduct. Nor did this young gentleman, looking so anxiously before and after, fail to perceive, and pray for, the remote possibility that Alan's failure might pave the way for his own success. These hints may be taken as conveying a fair idea of Andrew Semple's condition at this time.

But Andrew Semple's visits to the Dundas family were suddenly brought to a close.

He had not been to Cockmylane for more than

a week, and when he next appeared, about the middle of February, along with his sister Aggie, there was a red scar on the left side of his nose, while his left eye bore distinct marks of some recent and severe punishment. According to the account given of the origin of these ugly symptoms, Andrew was returning home down the Saltmarket from a week-day evening sermon, when half-a-dozen of roughs fell upon him, ill-used him dreadfully, picked his pockets, and stole his cap. It was all that the poor fellow could do to crawl home, bare-headed, bruised, and bleeding.

This narrative at once elicited the sympathies of Christine and Miss Walkingshaw; but Mr. Dundas, who sat at the fire studying a newspaper, looked over the top of it for a moment at Andrew, and then asked,

'Did you give the police notice of the assault?' 'Yes.'

And have they discovered anything about the matter?'

'Nothing as yet.'

'But have they any notion of who the scoundrels were likely to be ?'

6

'Their strongest suspicion is,' said Andrew, with some reluctance, that it probably was a party of low Radicals-some of those who are disturbing the peace of the city just now.'

'Indeed! Radicals!'

'Low Radicals, please,' said Miss Walkingshaw,

'Did you say that the assault took place in a close in the Gallowgate ?' asked Lewis, in a tone of innocence.

"No!' answered Andrew quickly, his whole face breaking into a flame of fire; it was in the Saltmarket.'

Mr. Dundas looked broadly and steadily into Andrew's burning face, repeating deliberately,

'The Saltmarket! Yes, you said so; I remember now.'

Andrew Semple was evidently distressed about something, and would fain have gone home; but at that moment Alan Dalziel entered, and saluted the company gaily with his tongue, his eyes, however, resting all the while on the face of Christine, who gave him the fond recognition which he expected. He might have been justified in ignoring the presence of Semple altogether; yet he looked as if he could have taken Andrew to his bosom, so exuberantly kind were the first words he spoke to him. Andrew himself felt surprised, and Mr. Dundas

watched the scene from the ambush of his newspaper. After a little, Alan looked earnestly into the enemy's face and said:

'But what is wrong with your face, Andrew? You look as if you had been at the wars.'

'So he was,' replied his sister Aggie quickly; 'and you see how the barbarians have sent him home with a broken nose, a black eye, an empty purse, and no helmet.'

Andrew was now thoroughly annoyed, and still more profoundly so when Miss Walkingshaw volunteered to relate anew the version of the story already given.

'Did they actually pick your pockets?' Alan asked; but Andrew only gave a vague nod, which might have meant 'no,' as well as 'yes.'

' And stole your cap?'

No reply.

'And the Radicals did it?'

'Low Radicals,' repeated Miss Walkingshaw.

Of course, the Radicals are all low; a base, wretched, good-for-nothing set-men who dare to complain when they have no work, who actually get hungry from want of meat, and who have the impudence to die when they are starved.'

'Do you hear the turn-coat, Christine?"

'No, auntie; Alan is doing a bit of comedy just now.'