Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 94) (1881 08 30)
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é THE QUIET HEART. _ glafice, but, lightly stepping ote the ike stile, is ready to meet this welcoming figure which already calls to her, running down the garden to the little mossy wicket in the paling of the lower end. “July! July! you might have come to meet me,” said Menie. The air is so quiet that her soft girl’s voice rings over all the hill. July—but you must not look for anything like the gorgeous summer month, in this little timid slight figure running down the sloping way, with her light brown hair so soft and silky that it is al- most impossible to retain it in braid or curl, float- ing on the air behind her, and her gentle pale face faintly glowing with a little flush of pleasure. If there had been anything symbolic in the name, they had better called her February, this pooreittle July Home; but there is nothing symbolic in the name; only John Home of Crofthill, many a long year ago, had the hap to find somewhere, and bring triumphantly to his house on the hill, a pretty lit- tle sentimental wife, with some real refinement in her soft nature, and a good deal of the fantastic _ girl-romance, which passes muster for it among - the unlearned. Mrs. Home, who called her son Randall, called her little daughter Julia—Mrs. Home’s husband, who knew of nothing better than Johns and Janets, being quiescent, and kind- ly submissive. But, by-and-by, gentle Mrs. Home drooped like the pale little flower she was, and fell with the cold spring showers into her grave. Then came big Miss Janet Home from Mid-Lothian, where she had spent her younger days, to be niis- tress of her brother’s southland farm; and Miss Janet’s one nae for the flush of summer, and for her brother’s liitle motherless petted girl, was Ju- ley; so July came to be the child’s acknowledged name. . But July springs half into Menie Laurie’s arms, and they go up through the garden together, to where Miss Janet stands waiting on the threshold. In simple stature, Miss Janet would make two of her little niece; and though there is no other su- perfluous bulk about her, her strong and massive framework would not misbecome a man; though a verier woman’s heart never beat within the dain- tiest boddice, than this one which sometimes “thuds” rather tumultuously, under the large printed dark cotton gown of Miss Janet Home. “Eh, bairn, ’m glad to see you,” said Miss Ja- net, holding in her own large brown hand the soft fingers of Menie. “Come in, b’y, and get yoursel rested. You see there’s a letter from Randy this morning.” With many a fit of indignation had Menie re- sented this Randy, which contracted so uncerimo- niously her hero’s name; but the penitent Miss “Janet perpetually forgot, and immediately attri- buted the little cloud on her favorite’s brow to some jealousy of this same letter of Randy’s— and pique that it should came to Randy’s humble ‘home instead of to his lady-love. - “]'m aye sae uplifted about a letter,” continued Miss Janet, as she led her visitor in, “ though you that gets them every day mayna think—eh, Miss Menie, my dear! I mind noo it’s a’ me; but you needna gloom ‘at what was just a forget. T’ll “never ca’ him Randy again; but, you see, I mind im so weel in his wee coatie—a bit smout of a “bairn.” This did not exactly mend matters; but Menie had taken off her bonnet by this time, and found ‘her usual seat in the dim farm parlor, with its small windows and low-roofed green-stained walls. ‘It was one of the articles of Miss Janet’s creed, ‘that blinds looked well from without; so, although ‘there could never a mortal look in through the thick panes to spy the household economies of Croft- hill, only one narrow strip of the unveiled casement appeared between the little muslin curtain and the blind. The gable window, commanding as it did . half the level country of Dumfrisshire, was Jess protected; but the front one cast a positive , shadow upon the dark thrifty colored carpet, the hair-cloth chairs, the mahogany table, with its sombre cover, and gave to the room such an at- “mosphere of shrouded shadowed quiet, that the little bouquet of daffodils and wallflowers on the ‘side table hung their heads with languid melan- choly, and an unaccustomed spectator scarcely ven- ‘tured with more than a whisper to break the calm. But Menie Laurie was not unaccustomed, and __ knew very well where was the brightest corner, nor U had muctr hesitation in drawing up the blind. But Menie had grown very busy with the “ fancy” work she had brought with her, when Miss Janet approached with Randall’s letter in her hand. Randall said that Menie Laurie’s pretty fingers were never so industrious at home as they found it agreeable to be abroad, and Menie was coy and occupied, and put Randall’s letter aside. “My dear, if you’re busy I'll read it to you mysel,” said Miss Janet, who had no apprecia- tion of coyness, “and you can tell your father, July, that Miss Menie’s come, and that the tea’s just ready; and ye can gi’e a look beuto the kitchen as you’re passing, and see that Tibbie’s no forgetting the time; and now gang about quiet, like a good bairn, and dinna disturb me. I’m gaun to read the letter.” And Miss Janet smoothed down her apron, to lay this prized epistle safely on her knee, and wiped her glasses with affectionate eagerness. ‘“‘ My dear, ’m no a grand reader of Randall’s write mysel,” said Miss Janet, clearing her voice; “ and he’s getting an awfw’ crabbed hand, as you ken; but I've good will, and you'll just put up with me. , It would have been hard for anyone gifted with a heart to fail of putting up with Miss Janet as she conned her nephew’s letter. True, she had to pause now and then for a word—true, that she did not much assist Randall’s punctuation; but it was worth even a better letter than Randall’s to see the absorbed face, the affectionate care upon her brow, the anxiety that pondered over all these crabbed corners, and would not lose a word. Meunie Laurie had soul enough not to be impatient—even to look up.at the abstracted Miss Janet with a little dew in rH eye, though her. process of reading was very slow: But now came Tibbie, the household servant of Crofthill, with the tea; and now-a little stir in the passage intimated that the master, fresh from his hillside fields, was hanging up his broad- brimmed hatin the passage. Miss Janet seated herself at the tray—Menie drew her chair away from the window, and a little nearer to the table, and, heralded by July, who came in again like a quiet shadow, her little pale face appearing in the midst of a stream of soft hair once more blown out of its fastenings by the wind—John Home of Crofthill made his appearance, stooping under his low parlor door. And perhaps it was these low portals which gave to the lofty figure of the hillside farmer its habit- ual stoop; but John Home might have been a moss trooping chieftain for his strength—a baron of romance, for the unconscious dignity and even grace of his bearing. He was older than you would have expected July’s father to be, and had a magnificent mass of white hair, towering into a natural crest of curls over his forehead. The eyes were blue,something cold by natural color,but warm- th and kindly in their shining—the face full of shrewd intelligence, humor, and good judgment. He had been nothing all his life but the farmer of Crofthill—and Crofthill was anything but a cons siderable farm, nevertheless John Home stood in the countryside distinct as his own hill—and not unlike. A genius son does not fall to the lot of every southland farmer, and Randall’s aspirations had elevated, unawares, the whole tone of the family. Randall’s engagement, too, and the magic which made Mrs. Laurie of Burnside’s young lady- daughter, and not any farmhouse beauty near, so kindly and intimate a visitor in Crofthill; was not without its additional influence; but the house lost nothing of its perfectly unpretending: siin- plicity m the nigher aims to which it unconsciously opened its breast. “And what is this I hear of going to London ?” said Jonn Home, as ne took a seat «ut table. Self- respect hinders familiarity—the good farmer did not like to call his daughter-in-law elect by her own simple Christian name; so, half in joke and half to cover the shy, constitutional hesitation, of which even age had not recovered him, Menie bore in Crofthill, in contrast with the other name of July, habitual there, the pretty nick-name of May —‘Is it true that Burnside is to flit bodily, as July says? I ken ane that will like the change; but I must say that I ken some more, that will not be quite so thankful.” “Ye may say that, John,” said Miss Janet, with: * a sigh; “I’m sure, for his ain part, Miss Menie, he’ll no think the place is like itsel, and you away ; for if ever I saw a man” “Whist,” said Crofthill, hurriedly. The good man did not like his partiality spoken of in pres- ence of its object. ‘But I would like to hear when this terrible flitting is to be.” “My mother has not made up her mind yet,” said Menie. “It was yesterday the letter came, and I left her still as undecided as ever; for she is only half inclined to go, Mr. Home, and as for Jenny” “Tt will be worth while toy hear what Jenny says of London,” said John Home, with a smile ; “but the countryside will gather a cloud when we think May’s gone from Burnside. Well, July, speak out, woman; what is’t your whispering now ?” “J was saying that Randall would be glad,” said July, softly. July had a fashion of whisper- ing her share,of the conversation to her next neighbor, to be*repeated for the general benefit. “Eh, puir’ Jaddie!” exclaimed Miss Janet, with glistening eye. ‘I could find it in my heart to be glad too, Miss Menie, though we are to lose you, for his sake. I think I see the glint in his eye when he hears the good news.” And Miss Janet’s own eyes shone with loving, unselfish sympathy, as she repeated, ‘‘ Randy, puir callant! and no a creature heeding about him, mair than he was a common young man, in a’ yon muckle town!” “We'll let Randall say his pleasure himsel,” said his father, who was more delicately careful of embarrassing Menie than either sister or daughter —perhaps more, indeed, than the occasion requir- ed. ‘For my part, I’m no glad, and never would pretend to be; andif Mrs. Laurie makes up her mind to stay ”. “ What then ?” said Menie, looking up quickly, with a flush of displeasure. “Tl say she’s a very sensible woman,” said the farmer, ‘Ay, May, my Jassie, truly will I, for a’ that bonnie gloom of yours—or whatever my son Ra#iiall may have to say.” CHAPTER IV. “Ive Been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,”’ said Jenny, entering the parlor of Burnside with a determined air, and planting herself firmly behind the door. Jenny was very short, very much of one thickness, from the shoulders to the edge of the full round skirts under which pattered her hasty feet—and had a slight deformity, variously estimated by herself and her rustic equals according to the humor of the moment—being no more thian “a high shouther” in Jenny’s sunshiny weather,but reaching the length of a desperate “ thraw’” when Jenny’s temper had come to be as “thrawn ” as her frame. A full circle, bunchy, substantial, and comfortable, were Jenny’s woollen skirts, striped in cheerful colors; and you had no warrant for supposing that any slovenly, superfluous bulk in- creased the natural dimensions of the round, con- siderable waist, or stiff, well-tightened boddice, of which Jenny’s clean short-gown and firmly tied apron-strings defined the shape so well. Very scanty was Jenny’s hair, and very little of it ap- peared under her white muslin cap; and Jenny's complexion was nothing to boast of, though some withered bloom remained upon her cheeks. Her lips closed upon each other firmly; her brow was marked with sundry horizontal lines, which it was by no means difficult to deepen into a frown; and Jenny’s eyes, grey, keen, and active, were at this present moment set in the fierce steadiness and gravity ; while the little snort of her “ fuff,” and the little nod of her cap, with its full, well-ironed borders, gave timely intimation of the mood in which Jenny came. “Yes, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, laying down her work on her knee, and sitting back into her chair. Mrs. Laurie knew the signs and premoni- tions well, and lost no time in setting her back against the rock, and taking up her weapons of defence. “TI say I’ve been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,” repeated Jenny, still more emphati- eally ; “things have come a gey length, to my puir . thought, when it’s the youngest of the house that
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ae ante ee THE QUIET HEART. brings word of a great change to me! and I’m thinking the best thing we can do is to part friends as lang as we can keep up decent appearances ; so maybe ye’ll take the trouble, mem, if it’s no owre muckle freedom of me asking you, to look out for a new lass afore the term.” * Indeed, Jenny, Pll do no such thing,” said Mrs. Laurie, quietly. Jenny heeded not, but went on with a little nervous motion of her head, half- shake, half-nod, and many a snort and half-drawn breath interposed between them. “There’s been waur folk than Jenny, serving: in this house, I reckon. I’ve kent women mysel that did less wark with mair slaistry, and aye as muckle concerned for the credit-of the house; but I’m no gaun to sound my ain praise ; and I would like to ken whether I’m to be held to the six months’ warning, or if I may put up my kist and make my flitting like other folk at the term?” “ You can make your flitting, Jenny, when we make ours; that is soon enough, surely,” said Mrs. Laurie, with a half-smile. Jenny had not roused her mistress yet to anything but defence, so with a louder fuff than ever she rushed to the at- tack again. ‘For a smooth-spoken lass—believe hersel, she wouldua raise the stour without pardon craved—I would. recommend Nelly Panton. There’s no muckle love lost atween her and me—but she’ll say ony ill of Jenny—and aye have a curtsy ready. for a lady’s ca,’ and her een on the grund, and neither mind nor heart o’ her ain, if the mistress says no. Na, k wouldna say but Nelly Panton’s the very ane to answer, for she’ll never take twa thoughts of casting off father and mother, kin and country, whenever ye like to bid—though yell mind, mem, it’s for sake of the wage, and no for sake of you.” “Dear me, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, impatient- ly, ‘‘ When did I ask for such a sacrifice ? What makes ye such a crabbed body, woman? Did I ever bid a servant of mine give up father or moth- er for me? You have been about Burnside ten years how, Jenny, when did you know me do any- thing like that?” “A lady mayna mean ony ill—I’m no saying 4,” said Jenny; “‘ but ane may make a bonnie lock of mischief without kenning. I’ve been ten years about Burnside—ay, and mair siller !— and to think the mistress should be laying her odds and ends thegither—a woman at her time of life—to flit away to.a strange country, and never letting on a word toJenny, till the puir body’s either forced into the ship upon the sea, or thrown on the cauld world, to find her drap parritch at ony doorstep where there’s charity! Eh, sirs, what’s the favor of this world to trust to! But I’m no gaun to break my heart about it, for Jenny has «twa guid hands of her ain—nae thanks to some folk—to make her bread by yet.” “ Jenny’s an unreasonable body,” said her, mis- tress, with half-amused annoyance; “and if you were not spoken to before, it was just because my mind was unsettled, and it’s only since yesterday [ have thought of it at all. If I make up my mind to go, it’s for anything but pleasure to my- self—so you have no occasion to upbraid me, Jen- ny, for doing this at my time of life.” “Me!” exclaimed Jenny, lifting her hands in ap- peal, “me upbraid the mistress! Eh, sirs, the like of that! But, mem, will you tell me, if it’s no for your ain pleasure, you that’s an independent lady, what for would you leave Burnside ?” Mrs. Laurie hesitated; but Mrs. Laurie knew very well that nothing could be more unprofitable than any resentment of Jenny’s fuff—and her own transitory displeasure had already died away. ‘ You may say we’re independent at the present time,” she said, with a little sigh; “but did it never occur to you, Jenny—if anything happened to me—my poor lassie!—what’s to become of Menie then ?” ““Wavers!’? cried Jenny, loudly. “1 mean—T ask your pardon—bat. what's gaun to happen to you this twenty years and mair?” “Twenty years is a lifetime of itself,” said her mistress ; “it might not be twenty days nor twenty hours, The like of us have no right to reckon our time.” “Tt’s time for me to buckle my shoon to my feet, and my cloak to my shouthers, if you're thinking upon your call,” said Jenny. . “ But no to be ill-mannered, putting my forbears in ae word with yours, we’re baith come of a lang-lived race— and you’re just in your prime, as weel as ever ye was; and ’deed, I canna think it onything but a reflection upon myself, that maybe might get to the kirk mair constant if I was to try, when I hear ye speaking like that to puir auld wizened Jenny, that’s six-and-fifty guid, no to speak of the thraw she’s had a’ her days.” And a single hot tear of petulent distress fell upon Jenny’s arm. “Well, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, “one thing we'll agree in, I know—you could not wish so ill a wish to Menie, poor thing, as that she might leave this world before her mother. You would think it in the course of nature, that Menie should see both you and me in our graves. Now, if I was taken away next week, or next year—what is my poor bairn to do?” And Jenny vainly fuffed to conceal the little fit of sobbing which this idea brought upon her. “Do! she'll be married upon her ain gudeman lang years afore that time comes; and Randall Home’s a decent lad, though T’ll no say he would have just taken my fancy, if onybody had askit me; and she'll hae a hunder pound or twa to keep her pocket, of what you’re aye saving for her; and I have twa-three bawbecs laid up in the bank mysel.” “Ay, Jenny, so have I,” said her mistress ; “but two or three hundred pounds is a poor provision for a young friendless thing like Menie; and I have nothing but a life-rent in Burnside; and my annuity, you know, ends with me. No doubt there’s Randall Home to take into consideration ; but the two of them are very young, Jenny, and many a thing may come in the way.- I would like Menie to have something else to depend on than Randall Home.” “Bless me, mem, ye’ve a mote in yer een the day,” said Jenny, impatiently. ‘ What’s the puir callant dune now? They tell me he’s as weel- doing a lad as can be, and what would onybody have mair?” “Hush, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, “and hear me to.anend, This lady has a better income than I have, and she says we may lay our savings together for Menie—a very good offer; and Menie can get better education, whatever may happen to her; and we can see with our own eyes how Randall Home is coming on in the world; for you see, Jenny, I have a kind of right to be selfish on Me- nie’s account. I’ye tried poverty myself in my day; and Menie is my only bairn,”’ The tears came into the mother’s eyes. Menie had not always been her only bairn; and visions of a bold brother, two years. older than her little girl, and natural protector and champion of Menie, flashed up before her in the bright air of this home room, where ten years ago her first-born paled and sickened to his early. death. “I wadna gang—no a fit,” exclaimed Jenny, breaking into a little passion of anger and tears. “Wha’s trusting in Providence now—wha’s leav- ing the ane out of the question that has a’ in his hands—and making plans like as if He didna re- main when we were a’ away? I didna think there had been sae little mense—I couldna have believed there was sae little grace in a house like this— and J wadna gang a fit—no me—as if I thought Providence was owre puir an inheritance for the bairn ! And Jenny hurried away to her kitchen, to ex- pend both tears and anger; but Jenny’s opposition to the London “flitting,” in spite of her indignant protest, died from that hour. CHAPTER V. Tux sun is dipping low into the burning sea far away, which Criffel’s envious shoulder hides from us; and the last sheaf of rays, like a handful of golden arrows, strike down into the plain, grazing this same strong shoulder with {ineffectual fire as they pass. Touches as of rosy fingers are on all the clouds, and here and there one hangs upon the sky in an ecstacy, suspended not upon the common air, but on some special atmosphere of light. The long attendant shadows have faded from the trees, the roadside pools have lost their brilhant glimmer, and a wakeful whis- pering hush about the hedgerows and ld haw- thorns stir all those curious budded watchers, to hear the slow lounging steps of rustic laborers on the road, and wait for the delicate gleam out of the east which shall herald the new-risen moon. And light are your home-going steps, May Marion, upon this quiet road, which breathes out fresh evening odors from all its dewy neighbor fields—not slow, but lingering—arrested by a hun- dred fanciful delays. Before you is no great. range of prospect—the two ash-trees, holding up their united arms, very much as the children of the Brigend, playing under them, hold up ‘their small, clasped hands arched over the merry troop who are rushing yonder “through the needle e’e” —the hamlet’s meditative houses, standing about the road here and there, in the pleasand vacancy of the slow-falling gloaming, the burn rumbling drowsily under the bridge, the kye coming home along the further way, and furthest off of all, the grave plantation firs, making a dark background for your own pleasant home. The purple shadows are fading into palmer gray upon the hills behind, and the hills themselves you could almost fancy contract their circle, and grasp each other’s hands in closer rank, with a manful tenderness for this still country, child-like and unfearing, which by- and-by will fail asleep at their feet. Your heart scarcely sings in the hush, though you carry it so lightly ; its day’s song is over, Menie Laurie, and the quiet heart comes down with a little flutter of sweet thought into the calm of its kindly nest. The light is fading when Menie reaches the Brigend ; and by the door of one of the cottages, Nelly Panton, in her close bonnet and humble en- veloping shawl, stands beside the stone seat on which an older woman, who holds her head away with pertinacity, has seated herself to rest. “She'll no take heart whatever I can do,” says : the slow, steady voice of Nelly, from which the elastic evening air seems to droop away, throwing it down heavily upon the darkening earth. “Tm sure I couldna say mair, auntie, nor do mair to please her than I aye try, in my quiet way; bute . morning and night she murns after Johnnie, mak- ing nae mair account of me than if I were a stranger in the house. And what should ail John- nie? for I dinna ken what would come of folk in our condition if we were aye wiite-writing from ae hand to anither, like them that have naething else to do. If onything was wrang, we would hear fast enough. I’m saying, mother!” “Tf you would but let me be!” groaned the old- er woman; “I’m no complaining to you. If I anxious in my mind, I’m no wanting to publish’t — afore a’ the parish. Fm meaning nae offence to you, Marget, but I think this lassie’s tongue will drive me out of my wits.” ~ Ne gh. “That’s just her way,” said Nelly, with mourn- ful complacency. “Instead of taking it kind when I try to ease her, ye would think I was doing — somebody an injury; and I’m sure it’s a fashious temper, indeed, that canna put up with me, for I’ve aye been counted as quiet a lass as there is in the hail countryside, and never did ill to onybody a’ my days. From morning till night I’m aye doing my endeavor to get comfort to her—hearing of the lads that have done weel in London, and aye stand- ing up for Johnnie that he’s no so ill as he’s ¢a’ed, though he mayna write as often as some do; and just yesterday I gaed mysel to Burnside, a guid mile of gate from our house, to ask Miss Menie Laurie to write to Randall Home for word about Johnnie, and I sure what ony mortal’ could do mair, I canna tell.” “What business has Miss Menie Lanrie, or Randall Home either, with my trouble ?” exclaimed the mother, indignantly. “Am Ino to daur shed a tear in my ain house, but.a’ the toun’s to hear o't? Yes, Miss Menie, I see it’s you, but I canna help it. I’m no meaning disrespect either to you or ony of your friends; but naebody could thole to have their private thoughts turned out for a’ the world to see, and she’ll put me daft if she gets en. couragement to gang on at this rate.” “Must I not ask about Johnnie, Mrs. Lithgow ?” said Menie; “ Nelly said it would comfort you,” “Nelly’s aye saying ces eee to aggravate a puir woman out of both life an Nelly’s mother; you see, and she hasna the interest in him she might have, I’m sure I canna tell how she came to be a daughter of min,” “continued the poor patience,” said _ “and he’s just her half-brother,
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+ * for my young son, away yonder his lane. « try round. THE QUIET HEART =o 5 Z & = é - a ealsae: , = : rrr LAD woman, rising and turning away to address her- self, rapidly and low, to Menie’s particular ear. “T would do mony a thing afore I would have my ain troubled thoughts, or so muckle as a breath on Johnnie’s credit, kent in tne countrystde; and I’m no so anxious, no near so anxious as that cuttie says; but Miss Menie, you’re an innocent lassie, Vil trust you. I have a tremble in my heart No that Johnny has ony ill ways—far from that—and a better son to his mother never was the world owre; but an innocent thing like you disna ken how a puir laddie’s tempted; and there’s no a creature near hand to mind him of his duty, aud naething but a wheen careless English that disna ken our kirk nor our ways, at every side of him, and I charged him he was to gang to e kirk but our ain. I’m sure I dinna ken —whiles things folk mean for guid counsel turn out snares—and I’m sair bewildered in my mind. If you'll just write, Miss Menie—just like as it was out of your ain head, and bid the young gentleman—I hear he’s turned a grand scholar, and awfu’ clever—take the pains to ask how Johnnie’s winning on—but no to say you have heard ony ill of him. I wouldna have him him think his mother was doubtful of him, no for a’ Kirkland’s parish—and_ he’s aye in the office of that muckle paper that a’body’s heard about—at least as far as I ken. Eh, Miss Menie, it’s a sair thing to have so many weary miles of land and water, and sae muckle uncertainty between ain’s ane heart, and them ane likes best.” With gravity and concern Menie received this confidence, and gave her promise; but Menie did not know how “sair” and terrible this uncertainty was—could not comprehend the wavering paleness of terror, the sickly gleams of anxiety which shot over the poor mother’s face—and a wistful mur- mur of inquiry, a pity which was almost awe, were all the echoes this voice of real human suffering awoke in Menie’s quiet heart. _ And when she had soothed, and comforted, and promised, this gentle heart went on its way—its flutter of sweet thoughts subdued, but only into a fresh reposing calm, like stillness all bedewed and starry which gathered on the dim home-coun- Wisdom of the world—Experience chill and sober—Knowledge of human kind—grim sisterhood, avoid your twilight way—and by your- self all fearless and undaunted, hoping all things, ‘believing all things, thinking no evil, you are brave enough to go forth, Menie Laurie, upon the world without a tremble ; by-and-by will come the time to go forth—and Heaven send the lion to guard this quiet heart upon its way. In her own chamber, when the night had fully fallen, Menie wrote her letter. Many a mile of Jand and water, many a new-developed thought on one side, lay between Menie Laurie and Randall Home; but uncertainty had never sickened the blithe child’s hope within her; an ample country, _ full of mountain peaks and rocks of danger— burning with hidden breaks of desert, with wells of Marah treacherous and insecure, was the soul which fate had linked so early to Menie Laurie’s soul. She knew the sunny plains that were in it— the mounts of vision, the glens of dreamy sweet romance; but all besides, and all that lay deepest in her own unexplored mind, remained to be dis- covered. But what she did not know she could “not fear, PART II.—CHAPTER VI. _S JENNY, Jenny, canna ye open the door—it’s just _ “Tt’s just you, mischief and mischief-maker, as ye are,” muttered Jenny, in answerto Nelly Pan- ton’s soft appeal ; “ and what are ye wanting here ?” - But Jenny could not be so inhospitable as to shut out with a closed door the applicant for ad- “mission, especially as a rapid April shower was just then flashing out of the morning skies. Nelly came in breathless, shaking some bright raindrops off her dingy shawl; but neither the rain upon her cheeks, a } be 4 7 nor the fresh wind that carried it, nor even the ! haste of her own errand, sufficed to bring any ani- mating color to Nelly Panton’s face. “Ym no to stay a minute,” she said, breathless- ly. ‘No a creature kens I’m here; and you’re no * to bid me stay, but just to gie me your advice and Lite } ae ai r let me rin—I maun be hame before my mother kens.” “T have nae will to keep ye; ye needna be afeard,” retorted Jenny. ‘And what’s your pleas- ure now, that you’ve got so early out to Burnside ?” “Nane of the ladies ll be stirring yet,” said Nelly, looking round cautiously. “It was just a thing I wanted to ask you, Jenny—I ken you’re aye guid friend.” “ Sorrow !”? muttered Jenny between her teeth— but the end of the sentence died away ; and whether the word was used as an epithet, or whether it was “Sorrow take you!” Jenny’s favorite ban, Nelly, innocently confiding, did not pause to inquire. “For I heard in the Brigend that you had been kent to say that you wouldna gang a’ the gate to London if the mistress ga’e you triple your wage,” said Nelly, “and that you would recommend her to a younger lass. My auntie, Marget Panton, even gaed the length to say that ye had been heard to mention my name; but I wouldna have the face to believe that, though mony thanks to you for the thought ; and I just ran out whenever I rose this morning to say, do ye think I might put in an ap- plication, Jenny, aye counting on you as guid friend ?” “Wha ever gave ye warrant to believe that I was a guid friend?” exclaimed Jenny. “ My pa- tience | you taking upon you to offer yoursel for my place. My place! And wha daured to say I wanted to leave tle mistress? Do ye think wage, or triple wage, counts with me? Do ye think I’m like yoursel, you pitiful, self-seeking creature ? Do ye think ony mortal would ever be the better of you in ony strait, frae a sair finger to a family mis- fortune? Gae way wi’ ye! My place, my certy! Would naething serve ye but that?” “ You see I’m no taking well wi’ hame,” said the undismayed Nelly. “ My mother and me canna put up right, and me being sae lang away before, she’s got out of the use of my attentions, and canna understand them, But I’m real attentive for a’ that, Jenny, and handy in mony a thing that wouldna be expected frae the like of you; and I could wait on Miss Menie, ye ken, being mair like her ain years, and fleech up the mistress grand. I ken I could—besides greeting with the stranger servants, which it’s no to be expected you would do, being aye used to your ain way. But for my part, I’m real quiet and inoffensive—folk never ken me in a house; and I have my ain reasons for want- ing to gang to London, baith to look after John- nie, and ither concerns of my ain—-and I would aye stand your friend constant, and be thankful to you for recommending me, and I’m sure afore the year was done the mistress would be thankful too for a guid lass, and I could recommend you to a real fine wee cottage agveen Kirklands and the Brigend, with a very cheery window looking to the road, that would do grand for a single woman ; or my mother would be blithe to take you in for a lodger, and she’s guid company when she’s no thrawn—and Jenny, woman ”——— j “Gang out of this house,” said Jenny, with quiet fury, holding the door wide open in her hand, and setting down her right foot upon the floor of her own domain, with a stamp of absolute suprem- acy. ‘No anither word; gang out of this door, and let me See your face again if yedaur! Gang to London, fleech up the mistress—wait upon Miss Menie! My patience! and you'll ca’ a decent wo- man thrawn to me! Gang out of this house, ye shadow ! the sight of you’s enough to thraw ony mor- tal temper. Your mother, honest woman !—but I canna forgive her for being art or part in bringing the like of you to this world. Are you gaun away peaceably, or I’ll put ye out by the shouthers with my ain twa hands.” “ Eh, sic a temper!” said Nelly Panton, vanish- ing from the threshold as Jennie made one rapid step forward. “I’m sure I forgive you, Jenny, though I’m sure as weel, that if the rain hadna’ laid a’ the stour, mony a ane has shaken the dust off their feet for a testimony against less ill usage than you’ve gi’en me; but I’m thankful for my guid disposition. I’m thankful there’s nae crook in me, and I leave you to your ain thoughts, Jenny Durward ; it’s weel kent what a life thae twa puir ladies lead with ye, through a’ the countryside.” The kitchen-door violently shut, by good fortune drowned for Jenny this last vindietive utterance, and Nelly Panton, unexcited, drew her shaw] again close over her elbows, and went with stealthy steps upon her way—a veritable shadow falling dark across the sunshine, and without a spot of brightness in her, within or without, to throw back reflection, or answer to the sunny morning light which flashed upon all the glistening way. But no such quietness posessed the soul of Jen- ny of Burnside ; over the fresh sanded floor of her bright kitchen her short vigorous steps pattered like hail. Cups and saucers came ringing down from her hands upon the tray, which she was crowding with breakfast “things.” The bread- basket quivered upon the table where her excited hands had set it down. She turned to the hearth, and the poor little copper kettle rang upon the grate—the poker assaulted the startled fire—the very chain quaked and trembled, hanging from the old-fashioned crook far back in the abyss of the chimney. Very conspicuous in this state of the mental atmesphere became Jenny’s high shoul- der. It seemed to develop and increase with every additional fuff, and the most liberal and kindly commentator could not have denied this morning the existence of the “ thraw.” And not without audible expression, over and above the hard-drawn breath of the “ fuff,” was Jenny’s indignation. ‘“ My place, my certy! less wouldna serve her !’’—“ Handier than could be ex- pected frae the like of me!”—“ Stand my friend constant !”’—“ A cothouse atween Kirklands and the Brigend!”’ A snort of rage punctuated and separated every successive quotation, till, as Jenny cooled down a little, there came to her relief a variety of extremely complimentary titles, all very eloquent and expressive, conveying in the clearest language, Jenny’s opinion of the good qualities of Nelly Panton, which last, by-and-by, however, sof- tened still further into the milder chorus of “a bonnie ane!” with which Jenny’s wrath gradually wore itself away. All this time the sunshine lay silent and un- broken upon the paved passage, with its strip of matting, and the light shone quiet in Mrs. Laurie’s parlor. The petulant rain had ceased to ring upor the panes, though some large drops hung there still, clinging to the frame-work of the window, and gradually shrinking and drying up before the light. The branches without made a sheen through the air, almost as dazzling as if every tree were a Highland dancer with a drawn claymore in his right hand, end the larch flung its spray of rain upon Menie Laurie’s chamber window, bidding her down to the new life and the new day which brightened all the watching hills. And now comes Mrs. Laurie steadily down the stairs with her little shawl in her hand, and traces ofa mind made up and determined in her face; and now comes Menie, with ‘a half song‘on her lipsy and a little light of amusement and expectation in her eyes, for Menie has heard afar off the sound of Jenny’s excitement. But Jenny, too decorous to invade the dignity of the breakfast table, says nothing when she brings in the kettle, and does not even add to its fuff the sound of her own, and Menie has time to grow composed and grave, and to hear with a more serious emotion Mrs. Laurie’s decision. Not without a sigh Mrs, Laurie inti- mates it, though her daughter knows nothing of the one reason which has overweighed ‘all others. But the ruling mind of the household, having de- cided, loses no time in secondary hesitations. “We will try to let Burnside as it is, Menie,” said Mrs. Laurie, looking round upon the familiar room. “Tf we can get a careful tenant, it will be far bet- ter not to remove the furniture. If we make it known at once, the house may be taken beforethe | term; and I will write to your aunt and say that we accept her offer. It is a long journey by land, and expensive; I think we will go to Edinburgh first, Menie. The weather is settled and should be fine at Whitsunday ; then to London by sea.” Menie did not trust herself to express in words the excitement of hope and pleasure with which she heard this great and momentous change brought down into a matter of sober, everyday arrange- ment; but it was not difficult to understand and translate the varying color on her cheek, and the sudden gleam of her sunny eyes. As it happened, however, with a natural caprice, the one objection which her mother’s will could not ‘set aside sud- denly suggested itself to Menie. She looked up
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with a slight alarm—‘ But Jenny, mother, ?” Me- nie Laurie could not realize the possibility of leay- ing Jenny behind. Mrs. Laurie’s hand had not left the bell. Jenny, at the door caught the words with satisfaction. But Jenny did not cheose to acknowledge herself subject to any influence exercised by the “young- est of the house ;” and Jenny, moreover, had come prepared, and had no time to lose in preliminaries. “There’s twa or three things to be done about the house before onybody can stir out of this,”’ said Jenny, emphatically, pausing when she had half-cleared the breakfast-table. “I want. to ken, mem, if it’s your pleasure, what time we're to gang away.” “I have just been thinking—about the term, Jenny,” said her mistress, accepting Jenny’s ad- hesion quietly and without remark ; “if we can get atenant to Burnside.” “T thought you would be wanting a tenant to Burnside,” muttered Jenny, “to makeevery table and chair in the house:a shame to be seen, and the place no fit to live in when we come back ; but it’s nane o’ Jenny’s business if the things maun be spoiled. I have hada woman at me this morning with an offer to gang in my place. [ve nue busi- néss to keep it out of your knowledge, so you may get Nelly Panton yet, if it’s your pleasure, instead of me. I’m speaking to your mother, Miss Menie ; the like of you has nae call to put in your word. Am I to tell Nelly you would like to speak to her, mem—or what am I to say ?” And Jenny again planted her right foot firmly before her, again expanded her irascible nostril, and, with comic perversity and defiance, stood and waited for her mistress’s answer. ' “ Away you go, Jenny, and put your work in or- * der? said Mrs. Laurie; ‘get somebody in from the Brigend to help you, and let everything be ready for the flitting—you know I don’t want Nelly Panton—no, you need not interrupt me— nor anybody else. We'll all go to London to- gether, and we'll all come back again sometime if we're spared. I don’t know how you would man- age without us, Jenny; but see, there’s Menie with open eyes, wondering what we should do without you.” “Na, the bairn has discrimination,” said Jenny, steadily ; “that’s just whatI say to mysel. Nae doubt it’s a great change to a woman at my time of life, but I just say what could the two ladies do, mair especially a young lassie like Miss Menie, and that’s enough to reconcile ane to mony athing. Weel, I'll see the work putten in hands; but if you take my advice, mem, ye’ll see’ baith mistress and maid afore ye let fremd folk into Burnside. It’s no ilka hand that can keep up a room like this, for I ken mysel the things were nae mair like what they are now, when I came first, than fir wood’s like oak; and what, the matter of twa or three pounds, by the month, for rent, in comparison with ruining a haill house of furniture ? —though, to be sure, its nae business of mine; and if folk winna take guid counsel when it’s offered, naebody can blame Jenny.” So saying, Jenny went briskly to her kitchen, to set on footimmediate preparations forthe removal, leaving her “ guid counsel” for Mrs, Laurie’s con- sideration. Mrs. Laurie found little time to de- liberate. She had few distant friends, and no great range of correspondents at any time, and another perusal of Miss Annie Laurie’s epistle set her down to answer it with a puzzled face. A little amusement, a little impatience, a little annoy- ance, drew together the incipient curve on Mrs. Laurie’s brow, and Jenny’s advice got no such justice at her hands as would have satisfied Jenny, and was summarily dismissed when its time of consideration came. CHAPTER VIL. - “Jounnre Lirucow exists no longer.” The words chased the color from Menie Laurie’s cheek, and drew a pitying exclamation from her lips. Alas, for Johnnie Lithgow’s mourning mother! But Menie read on and laughed and was consoled. “There is no such person known about the office of the great paper; but Mr. Lithgow, the rising eritic, the leader of popular judgments, and writer of popular articles, is fast growing into fame and notice. The davs of the compositor are over, and THE QUIET HEART. I fear the author must be a little troubled about the plebeian family who once rejoiced the poor young printer’s heart. Yet the heart remains a very good heart, my dear Menie—vain, perhaps, and a, little fickle and wavering, not quite knowing its own mind, but a very simple kindly heart in the main, and sure to come back to all the natural duties and loves. I give you full warrant to com- fort the mother. Johnnie has been somewhat feted and lionized of late and is. not, per- haps, at present exactly what our sober unexcit- able friends call steady. His head is turned with the unusal attention he has been receiving, and perhaps a little salutary humiliation may be neces- sary to bring him down again; but I have no fear of him in the end. He 1s very clever, writes ex- tremely well, and is one of the most wise and sen- sible of men—in print. I almost wonder that I have not mentioned him to you sooner, for he and I have seen a good deal of each other of late, and Johnnie is a very good fellow, I assure you—not without natural refinement, and very fresh, and hearty, and genial; moreover, a rising man, as the common slang goes, and one who has made a won- derful leap in a very short time; so we must par- don him in his first elation if he seems a little negligent of his friends.” A slight flush of color ran wavering over Menie’s cheek as ‘a little salutary humiliation may be necessary,” she repeated under her breath, and, starting at the sound of her own voice, looked around guiltily, asif in terror lest she had been overheard. But there was no one to overhear—no one but her own heart, which, suddenly startled out of its quiet, looks around too with a timid, troubled glance, as if a ghost had crossed its line of vision, and hears these words echoing softly among all the trees. Well, there is no harm in the words, but Menie feels as if, in whispering them, she had betrayed some secret of her betroth- ed, and with an uneasy step and clouded face she turns away. Why—or what has Randall done to call this shadow up on Menie Laurie’s way? But Menie Laurie neither could or would tell, and only feels a cloud of vague vexation and unexplainable dis- pleasure rise slowly up upon her heart. Yet it is not very long time till Mrs, Laurie hears the news, unshadowed by any dissatisfaction, and very soon after Menie is speeding along the Kirk- lands road restored to all her usual cloudlessness, though it happens somehow, that, after a second bold piunge at it in the stillness of her own room, which reddened Menie’s cheek again with involun- tary anger, she skips this objectionable paragraph in Randall’s letter, and asking herself half audibly, what Johnnie Lithgow is to her, solaces herself out of her uneasiness by Randall’s exultation over her own last letter. For Randall is most heartily and cordially rejoiced to think of having his betrothed so near him, there can be no doubt of that. And here upon the hillside path, almost like one of those same delicate beechen boughs which wave over its summit, July Home comes fluttering down before the wind, her soft uncertain feet seareely touching the ground, as you can think, her brown dress waving, her silky hair betraying itself as usual, astray upon her shoulders. Down comes July, not without a stumble now and then, over boulder or bramble, but looking very much as if she floated on the sweet atmosphere which streams down fresh and full from the top of the hill, and the elastic spring air could bear her well enough upon its sunny current for all the weight she has. Very simple are the girlish salutations exchanged when the friends meet. ‘Eh, Menie, where are you going?” and “Is that you, July ? you can come with me.” - And now the road has two shadows upon it in- stead of one, and a murmur of low-toned voices running like a hidden tinkle of water along the hedgerow’s side. “Johnn‘e Lithgow, eh? I’m glad he’s turned clever,” saia little July; “ he used to come up the hill at nights when nobody ever played with me; and I think, Menie, you’ll not be angry—he had more patience than Randall, for I mind him once carrying me, when I was just a little thing, all the way round the wood to the Resting Stane, to see the sunset, and minding what I said too, though I was so wee, I’m glad, Menie, I'm sure I’m very glad; but Randall, being clever, Ao wernt me himself, might have told us about Johnnie Lith- gow before.” “You never can think that Johnnie Lithgow is as clever as Randall,” said Menie, indignantly. “That’s not what I mean either. Randall’s not clever, July. You need not look so strange at me. Clever! Jenny’s clever; I’m clever myself at some things ; but Randall, I call Randall a genius, © July.” Aad Menie raised loftily the face which was now glowing with a flush of affectionate pride. Witha little awe July assented ; but July still in her in- most heart asserted Randall te be clever, and rather avoided a discussion of this perplexing word genius, which July did nct feel herself quite com- petent to define or understand. é And now the road begins to slope upwards, the hedgerow breaks and opens upon braes of close grass, marked here and there by bars and streaks of brown, like stationary shadows, and rich with little nests of low-growing heather and hillside flowers. An amphitheatre of low hills opens now from the summit of this one, which the road mounts. Bare, unwooded slopes, falling away at their base into cultivated fields, and rising upward in stretches of close-cropped pasture land; soft, - luxurious grass, sweet with its thyme and heather, with small eyes of flowers piercing up from under its close-woven blades, soft as summer couch need be, and elastic as ever repelled the foot of passing herdsman ; but looking somewhat bare in its pie- bald livery, as it breaks upon the bright spring sky above, And the road dives down—down into the hol- lows of the circle, where gleams a winding burn, and rises a village, its roofs of tile and thatch bask- ing serenely in the sun. A little church, holding up the little open belfry against the hillside, as if entreating to be lifted higher, stands at the en- trance of the village; and you can already see the little span-broad bridges that cross the burn, and the sign boards which hang above the doors of the cottage shops in the main street. Here, too, keep- ing the road almost like an official of equal au- thority, the smithy glows with its fiery eye upon the kirk ; for the kirk, you will perceive, is almost'a, new one, and has little pretetisions to the hereditary reverence of its small dependency, standing there bare and alone, without a single grave to keep watch upon; whereas the smiddy’s antique roof is heavy with lichens; and plows and harrows, re- splendent in primitive red and blue, obtrude them- selves a little way beyond the door, with the satis- faction of conscious wealth. And here is a cottage turning its back upon the burn, and modestly setting down its white door- step upon the rude causeway; the door is open, and some one sits at work by the fireside within; but in a corner stands a sack of meal, and a little humble counter interposes sideways between the fire and the threshold. Some humble goods lie on the window-shelves, and the counter itself has a small miscellany—dim glasses, full of “sweeties ;” dimmer still with balls of cotton, blue and white, with stiffly twisted sticks of sample worsted, and red and yellow stalks of barley-sugar, scarcely to be distinguished from the thread. Al- together the counter, with its dangling scales, the half-filled shelves, that break the light from the window, and a few drawers behind, fit out the vil- lage shop where Mrs. Lithgow does a little dail: business, enough to keep herself, alone and Wie. owed, in daily bread. ¥ . For Nelly Panton, sitting behind at the fie, is a mantua-maker, and maintains herself. By good fortune, this maintenance is very cheaply accom- plished; and Nelly’s “drap parritch” and cup of tea are by much the smallest burden which her go- ciety entails upon her mother. Decent lass as Nelly is, she has come through no small number of vicissitudes, and, swayed between household ser- vice, and this same disconsolate mantua-making of hers, like the discontented pendulum—not to of two or three occasions past, when Nelly has been just on the eve of being married, a consummation which even the devout desire of Mrs, Lithgow has not yet succeeded in bringing peacefully to pass—for Nelly and her lovers, as Mrs. Lithgow la ments pathetically, ‘can never gree lang enough,” and some kind fairy always interposes in time to prevent any young man of Kirklands from accom. plishing to himself such a fate, =~
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4 ¥ ¥ IP oa Sea oe, ee a te een SY ey a) ger oY ee Te ee oe _ her letter. THE QUIET HEART. Mrs, Lithgow’s dress is scarcely less doleful than her daughter; a petticoat of some dark woolen stuff, and a clean white short gown, are scarcely enlivened by the check apron, bright blue and white as it is, which girds in the upper garment ; but the close cap which marks her second widow- hood encloses a face fresh, though careworn, with lines of anxious thought something too clearly de- fined about the brow and cheeks. A little per- plexity adds just now to the care upon the widow’s face; for upon her counter stands a square wooden box, strongly corded and sealed, over which, with much bewilderment, the good woman ponders, Very true, it is directed to Mrs. Lithgow, Kirklands, and Kirklands knows no Mrs. Lithgow but herself ; but. with a knife in her hand to cut the cord, and a little broken hammer beside her on the counter, with which she proposes to “ prise” open the se- curely nailed lid, the widow still hangs marvelling over the address, and the broad red office-seal, and wonders once again who it can be that sends this mystery to her. “Pye heard of folk getting what lookit like a grand present, and it turning out naething but a wisp 0’ straw, or a weight of stanes,” said the per- plexed Mrs, Lithgow, as her young visitors saluted her; “but this is neither to ea’ very heavy nor very licht ; and it’s no directed in a hand of write that ane might have kenned, but in muckle printed let- ters like a book; and I’m sure I canna divine, if I was thinking on a’body I ever kent a’ my days, wha coull send such a thing to me.” “ But if you open the box you'll see,” cried July Home. “Eh! I wish you would open it the time we're here; for I think I ken it’s from Johnnie, and Menie Laurie has grand news of Johnnie in I was as glad as if it was me. He’s turned clever, Mrs. Lithgow; he’s growing to be a great man like our Randall. Eh! Menie what ails her ?” . ~ Something ailed her that July did not know—a trembling thrill of apprehensive joy, an intense realization for the moment of all her terrors and sorrows, suddenly inspired, and flooded over with the light of a new hope. The color fled from Mrs. Lithgow’s very lips; the little broken’ hammer fell with a heavy clang upon the floor at her ‘feet. Her eyes turned wistfully, eagerly, upon Menie; the light swam in them, and yet they could read so clearly the expression of this face. ‘And Menie, conquering her blush and hesitation, took out her letter and read bravely so much of it ‘as was suitable for the mother’s ear. The mother forgot all about the mysterious box, even though it seemed so likely now to come from Johnnie. She sat down abruptly on the wooden chair behind the counter; she lifted up her checked apron, and ‘pressed it with both hands into the corners of her eyes. “My puir laddie! my puir laddie!” You could almost have fancied it was some misfortune to Johnnie which caused this swelling of his mother’s heart. - “ And he’s in among grand folk, and turning a muckle man himsel,” said Mrs. Lithgow, softly, etter a considerable pause. ‘Was that what the letter said ?—was that what the folk telled me ?— “and he’s my son for a’ that—Johnnie Lithgow, my ain little young bairn.” - “T think, mother, ve may just as weel let me ‘open the box,” said Nelly, coming forward with her noiseless step. ‘“ We'll ken by what’s in’t if : “he’s keeping thought of us; though I’m sure it’s no muckle like as if he was, keeping folks anxious so lang, and him prospering. [ll just open the box. I wouldna be ane to hang at his tails if ‘Johnnie thought shame of his poor friends ; but still a considerate lad would mind that there's mony @ little thing might be useful to Kirklands. _T’ll open the box and see.” The mother rose to thrust her away angrily. “Ts it what he sends I’m heeding about, think ye?” ‘she exclaimed, with momentary passion. ‘I’m his mother; I’m seeking naething but his ain welfare and well doing. Was’t gifts I wanted, or profit by ‘my son? But ane needna speak to you.” “Eh! but there’s maybe a letter,” said July Home, with a little natural artifice, “ Mrs. Lith- ” gow, I would open it and see.” ~ And Mrs. Lithgew, with this hope, cut the cords vigorously, though with a trembling hand—reject- jing, not without anger, the offered assistance of Nelly, who now crossed her hands demurely on her apron, and stood, virtuous and resigned, looking on. Little July, very eager and curious, could not restrain her restless fingers, but helped to loose the knots involuntarily with a zealous aid, which the widow did not refuse; and Menie, not quite sure that it was right to intrude upon the mother’s joy, but very certain that she would greatly like to see what Johnnie Lithgow sent home, lingered with shyer and less visible curiosity, between the counter and the door. But Mrs. Lithgow’s hands trembled with anxie- ty, and excitement of great joy, and the little thin fingers of July, never very nervous at any time, made but slow progress in their work; and poor July even achieved a scratch here and there from refractory nails before it was concluded. When the lid had been fairly lifted off, a solemn pause ensued. No letter appeared; but a brilliant grown piece of cotton lay uppermost, the cover and wrap- per of various grandeurs below. Mrs. Lithgow pulled out these hidden glories hurriedly, laying them aside with only a passing glance; a piece of silk, too grand by far for anybody within a mile of Kirklands ; ribbons which even Menie Laurie beheld with a flutter of admiration; and a host of other articles of feminine adornment, so indisputably put together by masculine hands that the more indif- erent spectators were tempted to laughter at last. But Mrs. Lithgow had no leisure to laugh; no time to admire the somewhat coarse shawl which she could wear, nor the gay gowns which she could not. Down to tlie very depths, and, conclusion of all, to the white paper lying iu the bottom of the box; but not a scrap of written paper bade his moth- er receive all these from Johnnie. The gift came un- accompanied by a single word to identify the giver. Mrs. Lithgow sat down again in her chair, subdued and silent, and Menie had discernment enough to see the bitter tears of disappointed hope that gath- ered in the mother’s eyes ; but she said nothing,eith- er of comment or complaint, till the slow business- like examination with which Nelly began to turn over these anonymous gifts, startled’ into sudden provocation and anger the excitement which, but for pride and jealous regard that no one should have a word to say against her son, would fain have found another channel. “Eh! Mrs. Lithgrow, isn’t it bonnie?” cried simple Little July Home, as she smoothed down with her hands the glittering folds of silk. Mrs. Lithgow had laid violent hands upon it, to thrust it back into the box out of Nelly’s way; but as Ju- ly spoke her own womanish interest was roused, and now, when the first shock had passed, the tears in the widows eyes grew less salt and bitter; she looked at the beautiful fabric glistening in the light ; she looked at the little pile of bright rib- bons; at the warm comfortable shawl, and her heart returned to its first flush of thankfulness and content. “It’s far owre grand for the like of me,” she said at last; “it would be mair becomingsome of you young ladies ; but a young lad is no to be ex- pected to ken about such things; and he’s bought it for the finest he could get, and spent a lock of siller on’t to pleasure his mother. I’m no sur- prised mysel; it’s just like his kind heart; but there’s few folks fit to judge my Johnnie; he was never like other callants a’ his days.” But still Mrs. Lithgow could not bear Nelly’s slow matter of fact perusal and comment on her new treasures. She put them up, one by one, re- stored them to the box, and carried it away to her own room in’ her own arms, to be privately wept and rejoiced over there. “Randall never sent home anything like yon,” said July, softly, to herself, as they returned to Burnside, “ and Randall was. clever before John- nie Lithgow. 1 wonder he never had the thought.” “Randall knows better,” said Menie. “ When Randall sends things, he sends becoming things; its only you, July, who have not the thought, if Johnnie Lithgow had been wise, he would not have sent such a present to Kirklands.” But just then a line of a certain favorite song crossed Menie’s mind against her will. “ Wisdom sae cauld;” and July looked down upon her own printed frock, and thought a silken gown, like ‘Johnnie Lithgow’s present, might be a very be- coming thing. At seventeen—even at twenty—| ain bairn.” re *- one appreciates a piece of kindly folly fully better than an act of wisdom. CHAPTER VIII. Bur Menie Laurie was by no means satisfied that even simple little Julyshould make comparison so frequent between Randall,her own hero,and the alto- gether new and sudden elevation of Johnnie Lith- gow. Johnie Lithgow might be very clever, might be a newspaper conductor, and a rising man; but Randall—Randall in spite of the little chilluess of that assumed superiority which could think hu- miliation necessary to bring his youthful country man down in spite of Menie’s consciousness that there lacked something of the frank and generous with tone which onevhigh spirit should acknowledge the excellence of another—Randall was still the ideal genius, the something so far above ‘clever ” that Menie felt him insulted by praise so mean as this word implied. There was little time for speculation on the subject, yet many a mood of Menie’s was tinged by its passing gleam, for Menie sometimes thought her bethrothed unappreciated, and was lofty and scorn- ful, and disposed in his behalf to defy all the world. Sometimes impatient of -the estimation, which, great though it was, was not great enough, Menie felt not without a consoling self-satisfac- tion that she alone did Randall perfect justice. Johnnie Lithgow! what though he’ did write ar- ticles! Menie was very glad to believe, conde- scendingly, that he might be clever, but he never could be Randall Home. “You'll hae heard the news,” said Miss Janet, sitting very upright in one of the Burnside easy- chairs, with her hands crossed on her knee; “they say that you and our Randall, Miss Menie, my dear, were the first, between you, to carry word of it to his mother, and her breaking her heart about her son. But Mrs. Lithgow’s got- ten a letter from Johnnie noo, a about how grand he is, and Thear he’s paying a_haill guinea by the week for his twa rooms, and see- ing a’ the great folk in the land, no to say he’s writing now the paper he ance printed, and is great friends with our Randy. Randy was aye | awfw particular of his company. I was saying mysel it was the best sign I heard of Johnnie Lith- gow that Randall Home was taking him by the hand; I’m no meaning pride, Mrs. Laurie. I’m sure I ken so weel it’s a’ his ain doing, and the fine nature his Maker gave him, that I aye say we've nae right to be proud; but it would be sin- ning folks’ mercies no to ken—and I neyer saw a lad like Randall Home a’.my days.” Menie said nothing in this presence. Shy at all times to speak of Randall, before her own mother and his aunt it was a thng impossible, but she glanced up hastily with glowing eyes, and a flush of sudden color, to meet Miss Janet’s look. Miss Janet’s face was full of affectionate pride and ten- derness, but the good simple features had always a little cloud of humility and deprecation hovering over them. Miss Janet knew herself liable to at- tack on many points, knew herself very homely, and not at all worthy of the honor of being Ran- dall’s aunt, and had been snubbed and put down a great many times in the course of her kindly life— so Miss Janet was wont to deliver her modest sen- timents with a little air of half-troubled propitia- tory fear. ‘ Mrs. Laurie made little response. She was busy with her work at the moment, and, not without little angles of temper for her own share, did not always join in this devout admiration of Randall Home. Menie, “thinking shame,” said nothing either, and, in the momentary silence which en- sued, Miss Janet’s heart rose with a flutter of ap- prehension; she feared she had said something amiss—too much or too little; and Miss Janet’s cheeks grew red under the abashed eyes which she bent so anxiously over the well-known pattern of Mrs. Laurie’s carpet. “Tm afeard you're thinking it’s a vain glory that gars me speak,” said Miss Janet, tracing the outline with her large foot; “and it’s very true that ane deceive ane’s-sel in a thing like this; but it’s no just because he’s our Randall, Mrs, Laurie; and it’s no that I’m grudging at Johnnie Lithgow for being clever—but I canna think he’s like my —
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THE QUIET HEART. “A merry little white-headed fellow, with a wisp of curls,” said Mrs, Laurie, good-humoredly—“ No, he’s not like Randall, Miss Janet—I think I’ an- swer for that as well as you; but we'll see them both, very likely, when we get to London, Strange things happen in this world,” continued Menie’s mother, drawing herself up with a little conscious pride and pique, which the accompanying smile showed her own half amusement with. ‘ There’s young Walter Wellwood, of Kirkland will never be anything but a dull country gentleman, though he somes of a clever family, and has had every ad- vantage; and here is a boy out of Kirkland’s par- ish-school, taking up literature and learning at his own hand!” Miss Janet was slightly disturbed, and looked uneasy. Randall, too, had begun his career in the parish-school at Kirklands; there was a suspicion in this speech of something derogatory to him. “But the maister in Kirklands is very clever, Mrs. Laurie,” said Miss Janet anxiously; “he makes grand scholars. When our Randall gaed to the grammar school in Dumfries, the gentlemen a’ made a wonder of him; and fora’ his natural parts he couldna have gotten on so fast without a guide teacher; and it’s no every man could maister Randy. I mind at the time the gentlemen couldna say enough tocommend the Dominie. Tl warrant they a’ think weel of him still on account of his guid success, and the like of him deserves to get credit with his laddies. I’m sure Johnnie Lithgow, having had nae other instructions, should be very grateful to the maister. “he maister will be very proud of him,” said Menie ; “though they say in Kirklands that ever sO many ministers have been brought up in the school. But nevermind Jonnnie Lithgow—every- body speaks of him now; and, mother, you were to tell Miss Janet about when we are going away.” “T think John will never look out of the end window mair,” said Miss Janet. “I can see he’s shifting his chair already—him that used to be so fond of the view; and I’m sure [’ll be very dreary mysel, thinking there’s naebody I ken in Burnside ; but what if you dinna like London, Mrs. Laurie ? It’s very grand I believe, and you’ve lived in great towns before, and ken the ways of the world bet- _ ter than the like of me; but after a country life, I would think ane would weary of the toun; and if you do, will you come hame ?” Mrs. Laurie shook her head. “I was very well content in Burnside,” she said. ‘With my own will I never would have left it, Miss Janet; but I go for good reasons, and not for pleasure; and my reasons will last, whether I weary or no. There’s Menie must get masters, you know, and learn to be accomplished—or Miss Annie Laurie will put her to shame.” “JT dinna ken what she could Jearn, for my part,” said Miss Janet, affectionately, “ nor how she could weel be better or bonnier, for a’body can see the. genty lady-breeding Miss Menie’s got; and there’s naebody atween this and the hills needs to be telt of the kind heart and pleasant tongue, and the face that every creature’s blithe to see; and I’m sure I never heard a voice like her for singing ; and a’ the grand tunes she can play, and draw landscapes, and work ony kind of bonnie things you like to mention. Dinna you draw a likeness of Jenny, Miss Menie, my dear? And I’m sure yon view you took from the tap of our hill is just the very place itsel—as natural as can be; and for my part, Mrs. Laurie, I dinna ken what mortal could desire for her mair.” Mrs. Laurie smiled; but the mother was not dis- pleased, though she did think it possible still to add to Menie’s acquirements, if not to her excel- lence; and Menie herself went off laughing and blushing, fully resolved in her own mind to de- stroy forthwith that likeness wherein poor Jenny’s by high shouther ” figured with an emphasis and dis- tinetness extremely annoying to the baffled artist, whose pencil ran away with her very often in these same much-commended drawings, and who was sadly puzzled in most cases how to make two sides of anything alike. And Menie knew her tunes were anything but grand, her landscapes not atall remarkable for truth—yet Menie was by no means distressed by Miss Janet's simple-hearted praise. _The evening was spent in ynuch talk of the de- parture. July Home had follawed her aunt, and sat in reverential silence, listening to the conver- sation, and making a hundred little confidential eommunications of her own opinion to Menie, which Menie had some trouble in reporting for the general good. It was nine o’clock of the moon- light April night when the farmer of Crofthill came to escort his “womankind” home. The clear silent radiance darkened the distant hills, even while it lent a silver outline to their wakeful guardian range, and Menie came in a little sad- dened from the gate where the father of her be- trothed had grasped her hand so closely in his good-night. ‘No mony mair good-nights now,” said John Home. “I'll no get up my heart the morn, though it is the first day of summer. You should have slipped up the hill the night to gather the dew in the morning, May; but I'll learn to think the May mornings darker than they used to be, when your ain month takes my bonnie lassie from Burnside. Weel, weel, ane’s loss is anoth- er’s gain; but I grudge you to London smoke, and London crowds. You must mind, May, my woman, and keep your hame heart.” Your home heart, Menie—your heart of simple trust and untried quiet. Is ita good wish think you, kind and loving though the wisher be? But Menie looks up at the sky, with something tremb- ling faintly in her mind, like the quiver of this charmed air under the flood of light— and has note of unknown voices, faces, visions, coming in upon the calm of her fair youth, unknown, un- feared ; and so she turns to the home-lights again, with nothing but the sweet thrill of innocent ex- pectation to rouse her, secure in the peace and tranquil serenity of this home heart of hers, which goes away softly, through the moonlight and the shadow, through the familiar gloom of the little hall, and into the comforts of the mother’s parlor, singing its song of conscious happiness, under its breath, CHAPTER IX. Lert behind! July Home has dried her eyes at last; and out of many a childish fit of tears and sobbing, suddenly becomes. silent like a child, and standing on the road, looks wistfully after them, with her lips apart, and her breast. now and then trembling with the swell of her half-subsided grief. The gentle May wind has taken out of its. braid July’s brown silky hair, and toys with it upon July’s neck with a half derisive sympathy, as a big brother plays with the transitory sorrow of a child. But the faint color has fled from July’s cheek, ex- cept just on this one flushed spot where it had been resting on her hand; and with a wistful long- ing, her young innocent eyes travel along the va- cant road. No one is there to catch this lingering look; and even the far-off sound which she bends forward to hear, has died away in the distance, Another sob comes trembling up—another faint swell of her breast, and quiver of her lip—and July turns sadly away into the forsaken house, to which such a sudden air of emptiness and desola- tion has come; and sitting down on the carpet by the window, once more bends down her face into her hands and cries to her heart’s content. There is no change in the parlor at Burnside not a little table, not a single Chair has been moved out of its place ; yet it is strange to see the for- lorn, deserted look which everything has learned to wear. Mrs. Laurie’s chair gapes with its open empty arms—Menie’s stool turns drearily towards the wall—and the centre-table stands out chill and prominent, cleared of all kindly litter, idle and presumptuous, the principal object in the room, no longer submitting to be drawn about here and there, to be covered or uncovered for anybody’s pleasure. And, seated close into tbe window which commands the road, very silent and upright, shawled and bonneted, sits Miss Janet Home, who, perchance, since she neither rebukes nor com- forts poor little weeping July, may possibly be ery- ing too. And Jenny’s busy feet waken no home-like echoes now in the bright kitchen, where no seru- tiny, however keen, could find speck or spot to dis credit Jenny. Instead of the usual genius of the place, a “strange woman ” rests with some apparent fatigue upon the chair by the wall which flanks i Jenny's oaken table, and, wiping ber forehead as she takes off her bonnet, eyes at a respectful dis- tance the fire, which is just now making a valorous attempt to keep up some heartiness and spirit in the bereaved domain which misses Jenny. The strange bonnet with its gay ribbons, makes a dull reflection in the dark polish of the oak, but the warm moist hand of its owner leaves such a mark as no one ever saw there during the reign of Jenny ; and Jenny would know all her forebodings of destruction to the furniture in a fair way of ac- complishment, could she see how the new tenant’s maid, sent forward before her mistress to take pos- session, spends her first hour in Burnside. But Jenny, far off and unwitting, full of a child’s simplicity of wonder and admiration—yet some- times remembering, with her natural impatience, that this delight and interest does not quite be- come her dignity—travels away, to Dumfries, to Edinburgh, to the new world, of which she knows as little as any child. And Menie Laurie, full of vigorous youthful spirits, and natural excitement, forgets in half an hour, the heaviness of the leave- taking, and manages, with many a laugh and wreathed smile, to veil much wonder and curiosity of her own, under the unveilable exuberance of Jenny’s. Mrs. Laurie herself clouded and care- worn though she looks, and dreary as are her backward glances to the familiar hills of lier own country, clears into amusement by and by; and the fresh Mayday has done its work upon them all, and brightened the little party inte universal smiles and _ cheerfulness, before the journey draws towards its end, and weariness comes in to restore the quiet, if not to restore the tears and sadness, with which they took their leave of home. “And this is the main street, I’ll warrant,” said - Jenny, as Menie led her on the following mornin over the bright pavement of Princes Street ; “ an I would just like to ken, Miss Menie, what ’a thae folks doing out-by at this time of the day? Busi- ness? havers! I’m no that great a bairn that I dinna ken the odds between a decent woman gaun an errand, and idle folks wandering about the street. Eh! but they are even-down temptations thae windows! The like of that now for a grand gown to gang to parties! And I reckon ye’ll be seeing big folks yonder-away—and the Englishers are awfu’ hands for grand claes. J dinna think ye’ve onything noo ye could see great company in, but that blue thing you gota twelvementh since, and twa-three bits of muslin. Eh! Miss Menie, bairn, just you Jook at that!” And Menie paused, well pleased to look, and admire, if not so Joudly, at least with admiration quite as genuine as Jenny’s own. But as they passed on, Jenny’s captivated eyes found every shop more glorious than the other, and Jeuny’s © eager hands had fished out of the narrow little basket she carried, a long narrow purse of chamois leather, in which lay safe a little bundle of one pound notes, prisoned in the extreme corners at either end. Jenny’s fingers grew nervous as they fumbled at the strait enclosure wherein her hum- ble treasures was almost too secure, and Jenny was tremulously anxious to ascertain which of all these splendors Menie liked best, a sublime purpose dawning upon her own mind the while. And now it is extremely difficult to draw Jenny up the steep ascent of the Calton Hill, and fix her wandering thoughts upon the scene below. It is very fine, Jenny fancies ; but after all Jenny, who has been on terms of daily intimacy with Criffel, sees noth. — ing startling about Arthur's Seat—which is only, like its southland brother, “ a muckle hill”—where- as not even the high Street of Dumfries holds any faintest shadowing of the glory of these Princes Streets shops; and Jenny’s mind is absorbed in elaborate calculations, and her lips move in d abstraction of mental arithmetic, while still her fingers pinch the straitened corners of the chamois- leather purse. “Til can find the house grand mysel. I ken the street, and I ken the stair, as weel as if I had lived in’t a’ my days,” says Jenny eagerly. “Touts, bairn! canna ye let folks abee? I would like to hear wha would fash their heads with Jenny—and I saw a thing I liked grand in ane of thae muckle shops, Just you gang your ways home to your mamma, Miss Menie; there’s nae fears of me, “But, Jeany, Dll go with you and help you to —
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. » iv . THE QUIET HEART. a - Nh ee remem tated buy,” said Menie. ‘I would like to see into that great shop myself.” “ Ye’ll see’t another time,” said Jenny, coaxing- ly. “Just you gang your ain gate, like a good bairn, and Jet Jenny gang hers ance in her life. Fillet you see what itis after ?ve bought it—but I’m gaun my lane the now. Now, Miss Menie, I’m just as positive as you. My patience—as if folk couldna be trusted to ware their ain siller— and the mistress waiting on you, and me kens the house better than you. Now you'll just be a good bairn, and I’ll take my ain time, and be in in half an hour.” Thus dismissed, Menie had no resource but to betake herself with some laughing wonder to the - lodging where Mrs. Laurie rested after the journey of yesterday; while Jenny, looking jealously be- hind her to make sure that she was not observed, returned to a long and loving contemplation of the brilliant silk gown which had caught her fancy first. “TI never bought her onything a’ her days, if it wasna ance that bit wee coral necklace, that she wore when she was a little bairn—and she aye has itin her drawer yet, for puir auld Jenny’s sake,” mused Jenny at the shop window, “and I’m no like to need muckle siller mysel, unless there’s some sair downcome at hand. I wouldna say but I'll be feared at the price, wi’ a’ this grand shop to keep up—but I think I never saw onything sae bonnie, and [ll just get up a stout heart, and gang in and ”» But many difficulties beset this daring enter- prise of Jenny’s. First, the impossibility of hav- ing brought to her the one magnificent gown of gowns—then a fainting of horror at the price— then a sudden bewilderment and wavering, conse- quent upon the sight of a hundred others as glo- rious as the first. While Jenny mused and pon- dered with curved brow and closed lips, two or three very fine gentlemen, looking on with unre- ) strained amusement awoke her out of her deliber- tions, and out of her first awe of themselves, into avery distinct and emphatic fuff of resentment, and Jenny’s decision was. made at last somewhat abruptly, in the midst of a smothered explosion . of laughter, which sent her hasty short steps pat- ‘. tering out of the shop, in intense wrath. But in spite of Jenny’s expanded nostrils, and scarcely _ restrainable vituperation, Jenny carried off tri- umphantly, in her arms, the gown of gowns; and _ Jenny’s indignation did not lessen the swell of ad- miring pride with which she contemplated, pressed to her bosom tenderly, the white paper parcel _ wherein her gift lay hid. » © Y¥e’ll let me ken how you like this, Miss Me- nie,” said Jenny, peremptorily thrusting the par- » cel into Menie’s hand, at the door of her mother’s - room; “and see if some of your grand London - mantau-makers canna make such a gown out of it as ye migh wear ony place. Take it ben—I’m no wanting ye to look at it here.” “ But what is it ?” asked Menie, wonderingly. . Yow have naething ado but open it and see,” was theanswer; “and ye can put it on on your - birthday if you like—that’s the tenth of next month—there’s plenty of time to get it made—and Thi gang and ask thae strange folk about the din- ~ mer mysel.”’ : _ But neither message nor voice could reach Jen- ny for a full hour thereafter. Jenny was a little afraid of thanks, and could not :be discovered in - parlor or kitchen, though the whole “ flat” grew ‘vocal with her name. Penetrating at last into the - depths of the dark closet where Jenny slept, Menie ~ found her seated on her trunk, with her fingers in her ears; but this precaution had evidently been quite ineffectual so far as Jenny’s sharp sense of hearing was concerned. Menie Laurie put her own arms within the projected arm of the follow- er of the family, and drew her away to her moth- er’s room. Like a culprit faintly resisting, Jenny ~ went. “I’m sure if I had kent ye would have been as pleased,” said Jenny, when she had in some de- : recovered herself, “ ye might have gotten ane Tong ago; but ye’ll mind Jenny when you put it on, and I’m sure it’s my heart’s wish baith it and - you may be lang to the fore, when Jenny’s gane ‘and forgotten out o’ mind. "Deed ay, it is very bonnie. I kent I was a gey guid judge mysel, and +3 it was the first ane 1 lighted.on, afore we had been. ‘roof, past the seabathing-houses, quiet on these ness, she maintains her outlook; while Mrs. Lau- rie and Menie, reluctlantly leaving her, lie down, not without some kindred misgivings, to their first night’s rest at sea. out of the house ten minutes—it’s been rinning in head ever since then.” | “ But, Jenny, it must have been very expensive,” said Mrs, Laurie, quickly. “JT warrant it was nea cheaper than they could help,” said Jenny. ‘Eh! mem, the manners of them, and a’ dressed out like gentlemen, too. I the first ane that came to me was a placed minis- ter, at the very least; and to see the breeding of them, nae better than as many hinds! Na, I would like to see the cottar lad in a’ Kirklands that would have daured to make his laugh of me!’ A few day’s delay in Edinburgh gave Mrs, Lau- rie space and opportunity of settling various little matters of business, which were necessary for the comfort of their removal; and then the little fam- ily embarked in the new steamer, which had but lately superseded the smack, with some such feel- ings of forlornness and excitement as Australian emigrants might have in these days. Jenny set herself down firmly in a corner of the deck, with her back against the bulwark of the ship, and her eyes tenaciously fixed upon a coil of rope near at hand. Jenny kad a vague idea that this might be something serviceable in the case of shipwreck, and with jealous care she watched it; a boat, too, swayed gently in its place above her—there was a certain security in being near it; but Jenny’s soul was troubled to see Menie wandering hither and thither upon thesunny deck, and her mother quiet- ly reading by the cabin door. Jenny thought it something like a tempting of Providence to read a book securely in this frail ark,which a sudden cap- rice of uncertain wind and sea might throw in a moment into mortal peril. But calm and fair as ever May-day shone, this quiet morning brightened into noon, and their ves- sel rustled bravely through the Firth, skirting the southern shore. Past every lingering suburban CHAPTER X. A seconp night upon these untrusted waters found the travelers a little less nervous and timid, but the hearts of all lightened when the early sun. shine showed them the green flat river banks on either side of their cabin windows. Menie, hur. rying on deck, was the first to see over the flat margin and glimmering reach the towers of Green- wich rising against its verdant hill. The sun was dancing on the busy Thames; wherries, which Menie’s eyes followed with wonder—so slight and frail they looked—shot across the river like so many flying arrows ; great hay barges, heavy with their fragrant freight, and gay with brilliant color, blundered up the stream midway, like peasants on a holiday; and high and dark, with their lines of little prison-windows, these great dismasted wooden castles frowned upon the sunny waters, dreary cages of punishment and con- vict crime, Then came the houses, straggling to the river’s edge—then a passing glimpse of the great strong-ribbed, bony skeletons which by-and-by should breast the sea-waves proudly, men-o’-war, then the grand placid breath of the river palace, with the light lying quiet in its green quadrangle, and glimpses of blue sky relieving its cloistered fair arcade, Further on and further, and Jenny rubs her-wide awake but very weary eyes, and shakes her clenched hand at the clumsy colliers and enterprising sloops, which begin to shoot across “our boat’s”? encumbered way; and now we strike into the very heart of.a maze of ships, built in rank and file against the river’s side, and straying about here and there, even in the mid course of the stream; almost impossible, Menie, to catch anything but an uncertain glimpse of these quaint little wharfs, and strange small old- world gables, which grow like so many fungi at the water’s edge; but yonder glow the golden ball and cross—yonder rises the world-famed dome, guardian of the world’s chiefest city—and_ there it fumes and frets before us, stretching upward far away—far beyond the baffled horizon line, which fades into the distance, all chafed and broken with crowded spires and roofs—London—Babylon— great battle-ground of vexed humanity—the crisis scene of Menie Laurie’s fate, But without a thought or fear of anything like fate—only with some fluttering expectations, tre- mors, and hopes, Menie Laurie stood upon the steamer’s deck as it came to anchor slowly and cumbrously before the vocieferous pier. In _pres- ence of all this din and commotion, a silence of ab- straction and reverie wrapt her, and Menie looked up unconsciously upon the flitting panorama which moved before her dreamy eyes. Mrs. Laurie’s brow had grown into curves of care again, and Jenny, jealous and alert, kept watch over the mountain of luggage which she had piled together by many a strenuous tug and lift—for Jenny al- ready meditated kilting up her best gown round her waist, and throwing off her shawl to leave her sturdy arms unfettered, for the task of carrying some of these trunks and lighter boxes to the shore. “Keep me, what’s a’ the folk wanting yonder?” said Jenny ; “ they canna be a’ waiting for friends in the boat; and I reckon the captain durstna break the mail-bags open, so it canna be for let- ters.. Eh, Miss Menie, just you look up there at that open in the houses—what an awfu’ crowd’s in yon street. What?’ll be ado? I’ve heard say there’s aye a great fire somegate in London, and folk aye troop to see a fire—but then they never happened but at night. My patience! what can it be?” Whatever it is, Menie’s eye has. caught some- thing less distant, which wakes up her dreaming face like aspell. While Jenny gazes and won- ders at the thronging passengers of the distant street, Menie’s face floods over with a flush of ruddy light like the morning sky. Her shy eye- lids droop a moment over the warm glow which sparkles over them—her lips move, breaking into a host of wavering smiles—her very figure, slight id. elastic, expands with this thrill ef sudden sands, gliding by the foot of green North-Berwick Law, passing like a shadow across the gloomy Bass, where it broods upon vhe sea, like the cairn of memorial stones over its martyrs dead, past the mouldering might of old Tantallon, sending a roll of white foam tp upon those little coves of Ber- wickshire, which here and there open up a momen- tary glimpse of red-roofed fisher-houses, and fisher cobbles resting on the beach under shelter of the high braes and fretted rocks of the coast. Menie Laurie, leaning over the side, looks almost wist- fully sometimes at those rude little houses, lying serene among the rocks like a sea-bird’s nest. Many a smuggler’s romance, many a story of ship- wreck and daring bravery must dwell about this shore; the young traveler only sees how thie tiled roof glows against the rock which lendsits friendly support behind, how the stony path leads down- ward to the boat, how the wife at the cottage door looks out, shading her eyes with her hands, and the fisher bairns shout along the sea margin, where only feet amphibious could find footing, and elap their hands in honor of the new wonder, still unfa- miliar to their coast. Something chill comes over Menie as her eye lingers on these wild rock-cradled hamlets, so far apart from all the world. Stronger waves of the ocean are breaking here upon the beach, and scarcely a house among them has not lost a father or son at sea; yet there steals a thrill of envy upon the young voyagers as one by one they disappear out of her sight. So many homes, rude though their kind is, and wild their place— but as for Menie Laurie, and Menie Laurie’s moth- er, they are leaving home behind. And now the wide sea sweeps into the sky be- fore them, the northern line of hills receding far away among the clouds, and fishing-boats and passing vessels speck the great breadth of water faintly, with long distances between, and an air of forlorn solitude upon the whole. And the day wanes, and darkness steals apace over the sky and sea. Landward born and landward bred, Jenny sets her back more firmly against the bulwark, and will not be persuaded to descend, though the night air is chill upon her face. Jenny feels some secu- rity in her own vigilant unwavering watch upon those great folds of sea-water, those dark cliffs of Northumberland, those fierce castles glooming here and there out from the gathering night. If a sudden squall or tempest should fall upon this quiet sea, Jenny at least will have earliest note of it, and with an intense eoncentration of watchful: Wat f 2
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THE QUIET HEART. edi pleasure. Your mother there looks gravely at the shore—a strange alien, unkindly place to her— and already anticipates, with some care and an- noyance, the trouble of landing, and the delay and farther fatigue to be encountered before her little family can reach their new home; and Jenny is uttering a child’s wonders and surmises by your side—what is this, Menie Laurie, “ what makes the vulgar pier a charmed spot to you ?” Only another eager face looking down, another alert animated figure pressing to the very edge, impatient hands thrusting interposing porters and cabmen by, and eyes all aglow with loving expecta- tion, searching over all the deck for the little party, which they have not yet descried. In- voluntarily Menie raises her hand, ber breath comes quick over her parted lips, and in her heart she calls to him with shy joy. He must have heard the call, surely, by some art magic, though the common air got no notes of it, for see how he bends, with that sudden flush upon his face; and Menie meets the welcoming look, and keen gaze of delight and satisfaction, and lays her hand upon her mother’s arm, timidly, to point out where Ran- dall Home waits for them ; but he does something more than wait, and there is scarcely possibility of communication with the crowded quay, as these unaccustomed eyes are inclined to fancy, when a quick step rings upon the deck beside them, and he is here. But Menie does not need toblush for her be- trothed, though those shy bright eyes of hers, wavering up and down with such quick, unsteady glances, seem to light into richer color every mo- ment the glow upon her checks—for Randall is a true son of John Home, of Crofthill, inheriting the stately figure, the high crested head, with its mass of rich curls, the blue, clear, penetrating eyes. And Randall bears these natural honors with a grace of greater refinement, though a perfectly cool spectator might think, perchance, that even the more conscious dignity of the gentleman son did not make up for the kindly gleam which takes from the farmer father’s blue eyes all suspicion of coldness. But it is impossible to suspect coldness in Randall’s glance now—his whole face sparkles with the glow of true feeling and genuine joy. The one of them did not think the other beautiful a few days—a few hours—ago, even with all the charm of memory and absence to make them fair —and neither are beautiful, nor near it, to everyday - eyes; but with this warm light on the happy, and true, and pure, they are beautiful to each other now, “ Weel, I wadna say there was mony like him, *specially amang thae English, after a’,” said Jen- ny, wnder ber breath, : “ What do you say, Jenny?” Mrs. Laurie, who has already had her share of Randall’s greetings, and being satisfied therewith, thinks it is some- thing about the luggage, which luggage, to her careful eyes, comes quite in the way of Randall Home. “T was saying—weel, ’deed it’s nae matter,” said Jenny, hastily recollecting that her advice had not been asked before Menie’s engagement, and that she had never neigned to acknowledge any satisfaction with the same, “but just it’s my hope there’s to be some safer gate ashore than you. Eh, my patience! if it’s no like a drove of wild Irish a pouring down on us! But I would scarce like to cross the burn on that bit plank, and me a’ the boxes to carry. I needna speak ; the mistress pays nae mair heed to me; but pity me! we’re no out of peril yet—they'll sink the boat !” And Jenny watched with utter dismay the flood of invading porters and idle loungers on the quay, and with indignation looked up to, and apostro- phised, the careless captain on the paddle-box, who could coolly look on and tolerate this last chance of “sinking the boat.” From these terrors, how- - ever, Jenny was suddenly awakened into more ac- tive warfare. A parcel of these same thronging mercenaries assailed her own particular pile of trunks and boxes, and Jenny, furious and alarmed, flew to the defence. ; But by-and-by—a tedious time to Mrs. Laurie, though it flew like an arrow over the heads of Randall and Menie, andover Jenny’s fierce conten- tion~—they were all safely established at last in a London hackney coach, with so much of | the lighter baggage as it could or would convey. Ran- dall had permission to come to them that very. night, so nothing further was possible; he went away after he had lingered till he could linger no longer. Mrs. Laurie leaned back in her corner with a long-drawn sigh, Jenny, on the front seat, muttered out the conclusion of her fuff, while Menie looked out with dazzled eyes, catching every now and then among the stranger passengers a distant figure, quick and graceful; nor till they were miles away did Menie recollect that this vis- ion of her fancy could not be Randall Home. Miles away—it was hard to fancy that through these thronged and noisy streets one could travel miles. Always a long array of shops and ware- houses and dingy houses, always a pavement full and crowded, always a stream of: vehicles besides their own in the centre of the way, now and then a break into some wider space—a square, or cross, or junction of streets—here and there a great public building, or an old characteristic house, which Menie fecls sure must be something nota- ble, if anybody were by to point it out. Jenny, interested and curious at first, is by this time quite stunned and dizzy, and now and then cau- tiously glances from the window, with a strong suspicion that she has been singled out for a mys- terious destiny, and that the cab-driver has some desperate intention of maddening his passengers, by driving them round and round ina circle of doom through these bewildering streets. Nothing but the hum of other locomotion, the jolting din of their-own, the jar over the stones of the causeway, the stream of passengers left behind, and houses gliding past them, give evidence of progress, till, by-and-by, the stream slackens, the noises decrease, the trees break in here and there among the houses, dusty suburban «shrubberies, villakins standing apart, planted in bits of garden ground, and then, at last, the tired horse labors up a steep ascent; long palings, trees, and green slopes of land, reveal themselves to the eyes of the weary travelers, aud under the full forenoon sun, pretty Hampstead, eagerly looked for, appears through the shabby cab-windows, with London in a veil of mist lying far off at its feet. Instinetively Mrs. Laurie puts up her hands to draw her veil forward, and straighted the edge of her traveling-bonnet; instinctively Menie looses the ribbons of hers, to shed back the hair from her flushed cheek. Jenny, not much caring what the inhabitants of Heathbank Cottage may think of her, only gathers up upon her knee a full arm- ful of bags and baskets, and draws her breath hard—a note of anticipatory disdain and defiance as she nods her head backward, with a toss of im- patience upon the glass behind her. And now the driver looks back to point with his whip to a low house on the ascent before him, and demands if he is right in thinking this "Eathbank. Nobody can answer; but, after a brief dialogue with the pro- prietor of a passing donkey, the cabman stirs his horse with a chirrup and a touch of the lash. It is "Eathbank, and they are at their journey’s end. Home—well, one has seen places that look less like home. You can just see the low roof, the lit- tle bits of pointed gable, the small lattice-windows of the upper story, above the thick green haw- thorn hedge that closes round. A. tall yew-tree looks out inquisitively over the hawthorns, pinched and meagre, and of vigilant aspect, not quite sat- isfied, as it would seem, with the calm enjoyment of the cows upon this band of grass without; but Jenny’s heart warms to the familiar key, which might be in Dumfriesshire—they look so home- like. Jenny's lips form into the involuntary “pruh.” Jenny’s senses are refreshed by the balmy breath of the milky mothers, and Menie’s eyes rejoice over a glorious promise of roses and jasmine on yon sunny wall, and a whole world of clear, unclouded sky and sunny air embracing yon- der group of elmtrees. Even Mrs. Laurie’s curved brow smoothes and softens; there is good promise in the first glance of Heathbank. At the little gate in the hedge, Miss Annie Laurie’s favorite serving-maid, in a _ little smart cap, collar, and embroidered apron, which completely overpower and bewilder Jenny, stands waiting to receive them. Everything looks so neat, so fresh, so unsullied, that the travelers grow flushed and heated with a sudden sense of contrast, and remember their own travel-soiled garments and fatigued faces painfully ; but Menie has only castone. pleased look upon the. smooth green Jawn which shrines the yew-tree, made one-step upon the well-kept gravel path, and asill has her hand upon the carriage-door, half turning round to assist her mother, when a sudden voice comes round the projecting bow-window. of Heathbank Cot- tage—a footstep rings on the walk, an appear- ance reveals itself in the bright air. Do you think it issome young companion whom your good aunt’s kindness has provided for you, Menie—some one light of heart and young of life, like your own Maytime? Look again, as it comes tripping along the path in its flowing muslin and streaming ring- lets. Look, and cast down your head, shy Menie, abashed you know not why—for what is this ? Something in a very pretty muslin gown, with very delicate lace about its throat and hands, and curls waving out from its cheeks. Look, too, what a thin slipper, what a dainty silken stocking re- veals itself under the half-transparent drapery ! Look at these ringing metallic toys suspended from its slender waist, at the laced kerchief in its hand, at its jubilant pace—anywhere but at the smile that fain would make sunshine on you—the features which wear their most cordial look of welcome. Menie Laurie’s eyes seek the gravel-path once more, abashed and irresponsive. Menie Laurie’s youthful cheek reddens with a brighter color; her hand is slow to detatch itself from the carriage- door, though Menie Laurie’s grand-aunt flutters befere her with outstretched arms of gracious hos- pitality, inviting her embrace. “My pretty little darling, welcome to Heath- bank,” says the voice; and the voice is not un- pleasant, though it is pitched somewhat too high. “Kiss me, love; don’t Jet us be strangers. I ex- pect you to make yourself quite at home.” And Menie passively, and with humility, submits to be kissed—a process of which she has had little experience hitherto—and stands aside suddenly very much subdued and silent, while the stranger flutters into the carriage window to tender the same sign of regard to Menie’s mother. Menie’s mother, better prepared, maintains a tolerable equanimity; but Menie herself has been struck dumb, and cannot find a word to say, as she tol- lows with a subdued step into the sacred fastnesses of Heathbank. The muslin floats, the ringlets © wave before the fascinated eyes of Menie, and Menie listens to the voice as if it were all a dream. PART III.—CHAPTER XI. “My patience! but ye’ll no tell me, Miss Me- nie, that yon auld antick is the doctor’s aunt ?” ‘““She was no older than my father, though she was his aunt, Jenny,” said Menie Laurie, with hu- mility.. Menie was something ashamed, and had not yet recovered herself of the first salute, - “Nae aulder than the doctor! . I wouldna say; your mamma hersel is no sae young as she has been; but the like of you!” i “Look, Jenny, what a pleasant. place,” said the evasive Menie; “though where the heath is—but I suppose as they call this Heathbank, we must be near it. Look, Jenny, down yonder, at the steeple in the smoke, and how clear the air. is here, and this room so pleasant and lightsome. Are you not pleased, Jenny ?” rs ““Yon’s my lady’s maid,” said Jenny, with a lit- tle snort of disdain, They ca’ her Maria, nae less; set her up like a lady’s sel in ane of your grand novelles ; and as muckle dress on an ilkaday as ve seen mony a young lady gang to the kirk wi? Miss Menie ; no, to say your ain very sel’s been plain monyaday. AmI no pleased? It’s like to please folk to come this far to an outlandish country, and win to a house at last with a head owre’t like on?” me Whisht, Jenny!” Menie Laurie has opened her window softly, with a consciousness of being still a stranger, and in a stranger’s house. The pretty white muslin curtains half hide her from. Jenny, and Jenny stands before the glass and little-toilet- table, taking up sundry pretty things that orna- ment. it, with mingled admiration and disdain, sur- mising what this, and this, is for, ane wondering indignantly whether the lady of the house can think that Menie stands in need of such perfumes and cosmetics to which she herself resorts. But the room: is a very pretty room, with its lightly- draped bed, and bright carpet, end clear lat \
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13 THE QUIET HEART. ticewindow. Looking round, Jenny may still fuff, but has no reason to complain. And Menie, leaning out, feels the soft summe air cool dewn the flush upon her cheeks, and lets her thoughts stray away over the great city yon- der, where the sunshine weaves itself among the smoke, and makes a strange, yellow tissue, fine and light to veil the Titan withal. The heat is leaving her soft cheek, her hair plays on it lightly, the wind fingering its loosened curls like a child, and Menie’s eyes have wandered far away with her thoughts and with her heart. Conscious of the sunshine here, lying steadily on the quiet lawn, the meagre yew-tree, the distinct arden path—conscious of the soft bank of turf, where these calm cattle repose luxuri- ously; of the broad, yellow, sandy road which skirts it; of the little gleam of water yonder in a distant hollow; but buoyed upon. joyous wings, hovering like a bird over an indistinct vision of yonder pier, and deck, and crowded street —a little circle enclosing one lofty figure; out of which rises this head, with its natural state and grace, out of which shine those glowing, ardent eyes ; and Menie charmed and silent, looks on and watches, seeing him come and go through all the ignoble crowd—the crowd which has ceased to be ignoble when it encloses him, And voices of children ringing through the sun- shine, and a sweet, soft, universal tinkle, as of some fairy music in the air, flow into Menie Laurie’s meditation, but never fret its golden thread ; for every joy of sight and sound finds some kindred in this musing; and the voices grow into a sweet all-hail, and the hum of distant life lingers on her ear like the silver tone of fame. Fame that is coming—coming nearer every day, throwing the glow of its purple royal, the sheen of its diamond crown upon his head and on his path, and the girl’s heart, overflooded with a light more glorious than the sunshine, forgets itself, its own identity and fate, in dreaming of the nobler fate to which its own is bound. “A young friend of yours—you may depend upon my warmest welcome for him, my dear Mrs. Laurie,” says a voice just emerging into the air be- low, which sends Menie back in great haste, and with violent, unconscious blushes, from the win- dow. ‘Mr, Randall Home—quite a remarkable name,I amsare. Somethingin an office? Indeed! But then, really, an office means so many very different things—may be of any class, in fact—and a literary man? Iam delighted. He must bea very intimate friend to have seen you already.” - Menie waits breathless for the answer, but in truth Mrs. Laurie is very little more inclined to be- tray her secret than she is herself. “We have known him for many years—a neigh- bor’s son,” said Mrs. Laurie, with hesitation ; “ yet indeed it is foolish to put off what I must tell you when you seo them together. Randall and my Menie are—I suppose I must say, though both so young—engaged, and of course it is natural he should be anxious. I have no doubt you will be leased with him ; but I was hurried and nervous a ittle this morning, or I should have postponed his first visit a day or two, till we ourselves were less perfect strangers to you, Miss Annie.” “T beg—” said Miss Annie Laurie, lifting with courteous deprecation her thin and half-bared arm. “TJ felt quite sure, when I got your letter, that we could not be strangers half an hour, and this is really quite a delightful addition; true love— young love—ah, my dear Mrs, Laurie, where can - there be a greater pleasure than to watch two un- - sophisticated hearts expanding themselves? I am quite charmed, a man of talent, too, and your pretty ~ Jittle daughter, so young and so fresh, and so beautifully simple. I am sure you could not have conferred a greater privilege upon me; I shall feel quite a delight in their young love. Dear little creature, she must be so happy; and I am sure a good mother like you must be as much devoted to him as your darling Menie.” Mrs, Laurie, who was not used to speak of dar- ing Menies, nor to think it at all essential that she should be devoted to Randall Home, was consider- ably confused by this appeal, and could only an- swer in a very quiet tone, which quite acted as a shadow to Miss Annie’s glow of enthusiasm, that Randall was a very good Na ‘man, and that she to d i had never objected we “ The course of true love never did run smooth,” said the greatly interested Miss Annie. “ My dear Mrs, Laurie, I am afraid you must have had some other, perhaps more ambitious views, or you could not possibly, with your experience, too, speak with so little interest of your dear child’s happiness.” Here Minie ventured to glance out. The lady of the house swayed lightly back and forward, with one foot on the ground and another on the close turf of the little lawn, switching the yew-tree play- fully with a wand of hawthorn; and the wind blew Miss Annie’s long ringlets against her withered cheek, and fluttered the lace upon her arm, with a strange contempt for her airy grace, and for the levity so decayed and out of date which Menie felt herself blush tosee. Opposite, upon the grass stood Mrs. Laurie, the sun beating down upon her snowy matron-cap, her healthful cheek, her sober household dignity. But the sun revealed to Menie something more than the natural good looks of that familiar face. Mrs. Laurie’s cheek was flushed a little. Mrs. Laurie’s fine, clear, dark eye wandered uneasily over the garden, and Mrs. Lau- rie’s foot patted the grass with considerable im- patience. Half angry, disconcerted, abashed, an- noyed, Menie’s mother could but half conceal an involuntary smile of amusement too. “Yes, my child’s happiness is very dear to me,” said Mrs, Laurie, with half a shade of offence in her tone. “ But Menie is very young—I am in no haste to part with her.” “Ah, my dear, youth is the time,” said Miss Annie, pathetically; “the first freshness, you know, and that dear, sweet, early susceptibility, of which one might say so many charming things. For my part, I am quite delighted to think that she has given her heart so early, so many experiences are Jost otherwise. I remember—ah, I remember— but really, Mrs. Laurie, you surprise me. I see I must give my confidence to Menie. Poor little dar- ling; I am afraid you have not encouraged her to confide all her little romantie distresses to you.” “T have always respected Menie’s good sense,”’ said Mrs. Laurie’s, hastily. Then she made a somewhat abrupt pause, and then glanced up with her look of disconcertment and confusion, half covered witha smile. ‘I am Menie’s mother, and an old wife now, Miss Annie, I am afraid i have lost a great deal of that early susceptibility you spoke of, and I scarcely think my daughter would care to find it in me, but we are very good friends for all that.” And Mrs, Laurie’s eye, glistening with mother pride, and quite a different order of sentiment from Miss Annie’s, glanced up involuntarily to Menie’s window. Menie had but time to answer with a shy ehild’s look of love out of her downcast eyes—for Menie shrank back timidly from the more enthusiastic sympathy with which her grand- aunt waited to overpower her—and disappeared in- to the quiet of her room to sit down in a shady corner a little, and wind her maze of thoughts in- to some good order. The sun was drawing towards the west—it was time to descend to the shady drawing-room of Heathbank, where Randall by- and-bye should be received for the first time as Miss Annie Laurie’s guest. CHAPTER XII. Ir is very pleasant here, in the shady drawing- room of Heathbank. Out of doors, these grassy slopes which Menie Laurie cannot believe to be the heath, are all glowing sunshine ; but within here, the light falls cool and green, the breeze» plays through the open window, and golden streaks of sunbeams come in faintly at one end, through the bars of the venetian blind, upon the pleasant shade, touching it into character and consciousness. It is a long room with a window at either end, a round table in the middle, an open piano in a re- cess, and pretty bits of feminine-looking furuiture straying about in confusion not too studied. The walls are full of gilt frames, too, and look bright, though one need not be unnecessarily critical about the scraps of canvas, and broad-margined water. color drawings which repose quietly within these gilded squares. They are Miss Annie Laurie’s pic- tures, and Miss Annie Laurie feels herself a con- noisseur, and is something proud of them, while it va cannot be denied that the frames do excellent ser- vice upon the shady drawing-room wall. Mrs. Laurie has found refuge in the corner of a sofa, and with a very fine picture-book in her hand, escapes from the cozversation of Miss An- nie, which has been so very much in the style of the picture-book that Menie’s mother still keeps her flush of abashed annoyance upon her cheek, and Menie herself lingers shyly at the door, half afraid to enter, There is something very formid- able to Menie in the enthusiasm and sympathy of her aunt. “My pretty darling!” said Miss Annie—and Miss Annie lifted her dainty perfumed fingers to tap Menie’s cheeks with playful grace. Menie shrank back into a corner, blushing and discon- certed, and drooped her head after a shy, girlish fashion, quite unable to make any response. ‘ Don’t be afraid, my love,” said the mistress of the house. with a little laugh. “ Don’t fear any jesting from me! no, no, I hope I understand better these sen- sitive, youthful feelings ; and we shall say nothing on the subject,my dear Menie, not a word; only you must trust me as a friend, you know, and we must wait tea till he comes—ah! till he comes, Menie.” Poor Menie for the moment could have wished him a thousand miles away ; but she only sat down, very suddenly and quietly, on a low seat by the wall, while Miss Annie tripped away to arrange some ornamental matters on the tea-table, where her lit- tle china cups already sparkled, and her silver tea- pot shone. Menie took courage to look at her kinswoman’s face as this duty was being perform. ed. Withered and fantastic in its decayed graces, there was yet a something of kindness in the smile, The face had been pretty once in its youth- ful days—a sad misfortune to it now, for if it were not for this long-departed, dearly remembered beauty, there might have been a natural sunshine in Miss Annie Laurie’s face. As it was, the wintry light in it played about gaily, and Miss Annie made very undeniable exer- tions to please her visitors. She told Menie of her own pursuits, as a girl might have done in expect- ation of a sharer in them; and to Mrs. Laurie she gave a sketch of her “ society,” the few friends who, Menie thought, made up a yery respectable list in point of numbers. Mrs. Laurie from her sofa, and Menie on her seat by the wall, looking slightly prim and very quiet in her shy confusion made brief answers as they could. Their enter. tainer did not much want their assistance; and by-and-by Menie woke with a great flush to hear the little gate swing open, to discern a lofty figure passing the window, and the sound of a quick step on the gravel path. Randall was at the door. And Randall, looking very stately, very gracious and deferential, came though the shower of “de- lighteds”” and “most happys” with which Miss Annie saluted him, with a bow of proud grace and much dignity of manner, to Mrs. Laurie’s extreme surprise, and Menie’s shy exultation. Another hour passed over very well, The strangers grew familiar with Miss Annie; then by-and-by they strayed out, all of them, into the sweet evening air, so full of charmed distant voices, the hum and breath of far-off life; and Menie found herself, before she was aware, alone under a sky slowly softening into twilight, in a pretty stretch of slop- ing turf, where some young birch-trees stood about gracefully, like so many children resting in a game, with Randall Home by her side. And they had found time for various pieces of talk, quite individual and peculiar to themselves, before Menie lifted her face, with its flash of full unshadowed pleasure, and glancing up go the other countenance above her, asked, “When is tho next book coming, Randall ?” “What next book, May Marion ?” This was his caressing name for her, as May alone was his father’s. “The next book—our next book,” said Menie, ‘“‘T do not know much, nor maybe care much, about anybody else’s. Randall—our own—when is it _ coming ?” “ What if it should never come at all 2” Randall drew her ae through his hand with playful tenderness, half as he might have done with a child. “ Yes—but I know it is to come at all, so that is not By question,” said Mewie, “1 wax te know
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Tell me—for you need not be coy, or think of keeping such a secret from me.” “Did you never hear that itis dangerous to hurry one work upon another?” was the answer when—not if. somewhat evasively given. “Jam to be prudent this time—there is peril in it.” “Peril to what?” Menie Laurie looked up with simple eyes into a face Where there began to rise some faint mists. Looking into them, she did not comprehend at all these floating vapors, nor the curve of fastidious discontent which they brought to Randall’s lip and brow. “My simple Menie, you do not know how every- thing gets shaped into a trade,” said Randall, with acertain condesention. “ Peril to reputation—risk of loosing what one has gained—that is what we all tremble for in London.” “Randall!” Menie looked up again with a flush of innocent scorn. He might speak it, indeed, but she knew he could mean nothing like this. There was a slight pause—it might be of em- barrassment—on Randall’s part; certainly he made no effort to break the silence. t “But a great gift was not given for that,” said Menie, rapidly, in her unwitting enthusiasm. “People do not have unusual endowments given them to be curbed by such things as that; and you never meant it, Randall, it could not move ou.” ' But Randall only drew his hand fondly over the fingers he held and smiled—smiled with pleasure and pride, natural and becoming. He had not been sophisticated out of regard for the warm ap- preciation and praise of those most dear to him. He might distrust it—might think the colder world a better judge, and the verdict of strangers a safer rule, but in his heart he loved the other still. But Menie’s thoughts were disturbed, and moved into a sudden ferment. Her hand trembled a little on Randall’s arm; her eyes forsook his face, and cast long glances instead over the bright air before them; and when she spoke, her voice was as low as her words were quick and hurried. “Tt does not become me to teach you, but, Ran- dall, Randall, you used to think otherwise. Do you mind what you used to say about throwing away the scabbord, putting on the harness—Ran- dall, do you mind ?” “T mind many a delightful hour up on the hill- side yonder,” said Randall, affectionately, “‘ when my May Marion began to enter into all my dreams and hopes; and I mind about the scabbard and the harness no less,” he continued, laughing, “ and how I meditated flashing my sword in the eyes of all the world, like a school-boy with his first en- dowment of gunpowder; but one learns to know that the world cares so wonderfully little about one’s sword, Menie; and moreover—you must find out for me the reason why—this same world seems to creep round one’s-self strangely, and by-and-by one begins to feel it more decorous to hide the glitter of the trenchant steel. What a coxcomb you make of me,” said Randall, abruptly breaking off with a short laugh; ‘‘one would fancy this same weapon of mine was the sword of Wallace wight.” Menie made no answer, and the discontent of Randall’s face wavered into various shades of scorn, —a strange scorn, such as Menie Laurie had never seen before on any face—scorn half of himself, wholly of the world. “When I knew I had sueceeded,” said Randall, at length, with a still tone of condescension in his confidence, “I was a little elated, I confess, Menie, foolish as it seems, and thonght of nothing but setting to work again, and producing something worthy to live. Well, that is just the first im- pulse; by-and-by I came to see what a poor affair this applause was after all, and to think I had bet- ter keep what I had, without running the risk of losing my advantage by a less successful stroke. _ After all, this tide of popularity depends on noth- ing less than real ‘merit,’ as the critics: call it; so I apprehend we will have no new book, Menie; we will be content with what we have gained.” 4 “Tf applause is such a poor affair, why be afraid of the chance of losing it?” said Menie; but she added, hastily, “I want to know about Johnnie Lithgow, Randall; is it possible that he has come to be a great writer, too?” ; “TET only knew what you meant by a groat THE QUIET HRART. oracles of the press.” “Ts ita derogation, then, to be a popular man ?” said the puzzled Menie; “or is he afraid to risk his fame, like you ?” The lofty head elevated itself slightly, “No; Johnnie Lithgow is not a man for fame,” said Ran- dall, with some pride. ‘ Johnnie does his literary work like any other day’s work; and, indeed, why should he not?” : Menie looked up with a blank look, surprised, and not comprehending, Even the stronger emo- tions of life, the passions and anguishes, had never yet taken hold of Menie; still less had the subtle refining, the artificial stoicism of mere mind and intellect, living and feeding on itself; and Menie’s eye followed his slight unconscious gestures with wistful wonderment as Randall went on. “ After all, what does it signify—what does any- thing of this kind signify? One time or another appreciation comes; and if appreciation never should come, what then? §So.much as is good willremain. I do not care a straw for applause myself. I rate it at its own value; and that is nothing.” It began to grow somewhat dark, and Menie drew her shawl closer, “I think it is time to go home,” she said, softly ; and as she spoke, a vision of the kindly home she had left—of the’ brave protecting hills, the broad fair country, the sky and atmosphere, all too humble for this self-ab- straction, which answered in clouds and tears, in glorious laughter and sunshine, to every daily change—rose up before her; some tears, uncalled for, against her will, stole into Menie’s eyes. With a little awe in her innocence, she took Randall’s arm again. He must be right, she supposed; and something very grand and superior was in Randall's indifference, yet somehow the night air crept into Menie’s heart, as she never felt it do before. Many an hour this soft night air had blown about her uncovered head, and tossed her hair in curls about her cheeks—to-night she felt it cold, she knew not why—to-night she was almost glad to hurry home. CHAPTER XIII. “RanDatL Home is a very superior young man,” said Mrs. Laurie, with quiet approbation. ‘Do you ‘know, Menie, I had begun to have serious thoughts about permitting your engagement. so early ?—if my brain should leave me—leave me, and get estranged into another house and home, with a man that was a stranger in his heart to me. Whisht, Menie—my darling, what makes you ery!” But Menie could not tell; the night air was still cold at her heart, and she could not keep back these unseasonable tears. “But Iam better pleased to-night than I have been for many a day,” said Mrs. Laurie, “I never saw him so kindly, so like what I would desire. I was a little proud of him, to-night, if it were for nothing but Jetting Miss Annie see that we are not at all such common folk as she thinks down in the south country—though, I suppose, I should say the north country here. Menie! he will lose my good opinion again if I think he has vexed you. What ails yeubairn! Menie, my dear?” “JT don’t know what it is, mother—no, no, he did not vex me, I suppose I am glad to hear you speak of him so,” said the shy Menie, ashamed of her tears. The mother and daughter were in their own room preparing for rest, and Menie let down her hair over her face, and played with it in her fingers, that there might be no more remark or no- tice of this unwilling emotion. It was strange— never all her life before had Menie wept for any- thing indefinite; for childish provocations—for little vexations of early youth—for pity—she had shed bright transitory tears, but she had never “cried for nothing” until now, “Yes, I am pleased,” said Mrs, Laurie, as she tied her muslin eap over her ears; what did you say, Menie? I thought this coming to London would satisfy me on the one point which is likely to be more important than all others, and I was right. Yes, Menie, lie down, like a good girl; you must be wearied—and lie down with a good heart, 18 writer foo,” said Randall, with a smile. _‘‘ Johnnie | —you have a fair prospect, as fair as woman could Lithgow is quite a popular man, Menie—one of the | wish, I am quite satisfied myself,” But how it came about that Menie only slept. in broken snatches—that Menie dreamt uncomfort- able dreams of harassment and annoyance—dan- gers. in which Randall forsook her—cares of which he had no part—Menie did not know. A day ago, and Mrs. Laurie’s unsolicited avowal of “satisfac- tion” had lifted Menie into the purest glow of joy, but to-night she cannot tell what makes her so restless and uneasy-—what prompts her now and then to fall a-weeping, all unwillingly, and “ for nothing.” Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart !— something has come to trouble the waters, but in other guise than an angel’s. The grass is soft and mossy under the elm trees, and the morning air—a world of sweetness—beau- tifies every branch and stem, Down yonder in the hollow, low at your feet, Menie Laurie, the slave, Titan has awakened to his daily toil. Isthat the sweep of his mighty arm stirring the heavy mist which hangs above him? Is this the clang of his ponderous tools ringing up faintly into the quiet skies? The children are not astir yet, to seek their pleasure in these precincts. Nothing seems awake in this composed and sober place; but yonder, with many a conflict in his heart, with many a throbbing purpose in his brain, vain life and strength tingling to his finger-points, with sighs and laughter swelling in his breath—yonder great vassal of the world is up and doing, holding the fate of a new day undeveloped in his busy hand. And you, young wandering heart, look out up- on him, innocent, ignorant, wistful, like an angel on the threshold of the world—nothing knowing the wiles and snares, the tortures and deliriums that live yonder under the battle-cloud, unacquain- ted with those prodigious. penalties of social life, which yonder are paid and borne every hour; but. looking out, with your head bent forward, and your innocent eyes piercing far in the dreamy vision of reverie, making wistful investigations in- to the new marvels round you, pondered and be- wildered in your own secret soul. Randall—looking out thus through the morning light upon the city, one can see him in so man aspects; the light shines upon his lofty head, reaching almost the skies, like the hill of his quiet home—and Menie Jifts her eyes to follow that noble daring look of his, piercing up through mortal clouds and vapors to do homage with the gifts God has given him, at his Master’s throne and foot- stool; but anon there steals a cloud around the hero of Menie’s vision—a dim background, which still reveals him not less clearly, nor with less fas- cination, but with asadder wonder of interest— for Randall’s eyes are bent earthward, Randall’s lofty head is bowed, and Manie, though she watches him with yearning curiosity, can never meet his downcast look to read what is there—can never fathom what lies within the veiled heart and. self-abstracted soul, You would think now that her eyes are caught by the sunshine yonder making such mischievious confusion among the city vapours. Not so; for Menie’s eyes, under that troubled curve of her forehead, are studying Randall, and see only and incomprehensible some- thing in him, overshadowing all the earth and all the skies. With her Httle basket in her hand, with. her dainty step, and fluttering muslin gown, Miss Annie brushes the dew from the grass, as she draws near the elm trees, But though Miss Annie has been very confidential with her grand-neice on the subject of her own juvenile occupations, one little pieee of daily business Miss Annie has for. borne to tell of, and that is a morning visit she pays to a poor pensioner or two in the village where, if perhaps her charity may be sometimes intrusive, it is always real. For poor Miss Annie’s heart, though it figures so much in her common talk, and is overlaid with so many false senti- mentalities, has a true little fountain of human kindness in it, spite of the fantastic pretences that hide it from common view. Absorbed with her new thoughts, Menie neither heard nor saw her aunt’s approach, till she awoke with a start to hear a gay langh behind her, and to feel the pres. sure of those long, thin fingers upon her eyelids, ‘‘ Dreaming, Menie? ah, my pretty love! but not in ‘maiden meditation fancy free,’”
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14 THE QUIET HEART. Startled and abashed, Menie drew back, but Miss Annie’s ringlets had already touched her forehead, as Miss Annie bestowed the morning salutation upon Menie’s cheek ; and now they are seated side by side under shadow of the greatest elm. “My dear, I am afraid your mamma does not encourage you to confide in her; you must tell me all your little trials, Menie,” said Miss Annie, fluttering with her finger-points upon Menie’s hand; “and now, my darling. speak to me freely —you were delighted to meet him last night.” But Menie had no voice to answer, and could only bend down her flushed face, and pluck up the grass with her disengaged hand. “Don’t be shy, love. I am so much interested ; and tell me, Menie, you found him quite unchanged ? —just as devoted as he used to be? I am sure one only needed to look at him—and how de- lightful to find him quite unchanged.” “ How far is it to London, Aunt?” said Menie, with confusion. “So near that your thoughts have traveled there this morning to find him out, I know,” said Miss Annie, “so near that he can come out every night, so we need not talk of London; but come, now darling; have you nothing to tell me ?” “You are too good,” said Menie, with a slight falter in her voice. ‘“I—I should like very. well to take Jenny, if you please, to see some of the great sights.” Miss Annie shook her head. “ Ah, Menie, how mischievous! Don’t you think I deserve your con- fidence ?” “But, indeed, I have no confidence to give,” said Menie, almost under her breath. ~ “My dear, I was just like you; the Scotch sys- tem is so restrictive—I was afraid to speak to any- one,” said Miss Annie; “and so you see I had a little misunderstanding ; and he was angry, and I was angry; and first we quarrelled, and then we _ bulked at each other, and so at last it came about that we were parted. Yes, Menie, dear, just now you are happy; you do not care for a sympathizing heart; but if you should chance to be disap- pointed—I trust not, my love, but such things will happen—you will then remember thatI too have been blighted—oh, my dear child !” And with a wave of her hand, expressing unut- terable things, Miss Annie arranged her light silken mantle over this same blighted heart of hers, as if to hide the wound. But Menie, whose mind already had recovered its tone——Menie, who now only remembered Ran- dall unchanged, unchangeable, towering high above all vulgar quarrels and sullenness, a very fortress for a generous heart to dwell in—Menie sprang lightly up from the elastic turf, and stood with her slight young figure relieved against the morning sky, and all her frame vibrating with pride and joy in her worthy choice, What chance that she should ever give this wished-for confidence—should ever turn to seek such sympathy—should ever find comfort or solace in hearing of Miss Annie Lau- x rie’s kindred woe ? ‘\ % ‘CHAPTER XIV. “ Tr Is two years now since Randall came to Lon- don, From Dumfriesshire we send out a great many cadets into the world, Miss Annie; and some one who knew his father found a situation here for Randall Home. He brought his book with him, and it was published, and very success- ful; then he came home, and sought my consent to his engagement with Menie. That is all Ran- dall’s history in connection with us, The other young man you expect to-night, Miss Annie, is only a cottager’s son—very clever, I hear, but not in any way, I fancy, to be put in comparison with Randall Home.” And Mrs. Laurie took up her work with a little quiet pride, resolved to be very kind to Johnnie Lithgow, but by no means pleased to have him mentioned in the same breath with her future son- in-law. — “TI adore talent,” said Miss Annie, opening her work-table to take out a tiny bit of “ fancy ” work. “T could not describe the delight I have in the society of people of genius—self-taught genius too —so charming; and both of these delightful young men must be self-taught,” Mrs. Laurie drew herself up with a little hau- teur. “Mr. Home has had an excellent education ; his father is a very superior man. Johnnie Lith- gow as I have said before, is only a cottager’s son.” But Miss Annie could not see the distinction, and ran on in such a flutter of delight in anticipa- tion of her guests, that Mrs. Laurie quietly re- turned to the intricacies of her work, and con- tented herself with a resolution to be very kind and condescending to the popular editor, the cot- tager’s son. The drawing-room is in special glory—the pin- afores discarded from the chairs, the little tables crowded with gay books and toys and flowers, and everything in its company dress. Mrs, Laurie—who never can be anything but Mrs. Laurie a matron, of sober years, and Menie’s mother—sits, in her grave-colored gown and snowy cap, upon the sofa; while on a stool low down by her side, in a little tremor of expectation, Miss Annie perches like a bird, waiting the arrival of her visitors, Mrs, Lau- rie, with her Dumfriesshire uses, quite believes what Miss Annie says, that only a “ few friends ” are coming to-night, and has not the slightest idea that the lady of the house will be greatly mortified if her rooms are not filled in an hour or two with a little crowd. And up stairs, resplendent in Jenny's gown, Menie Laurie stands before the glass, fastening on one or two simple ornaments, and admiring, with innocent enjoyment, her unusually elegant dress. You may guess by this glimpse of these well- known striped skirts, full and round, revealing themselves under cover of the curtains, that Jenny too has been admiring her own magnificent pur- chase. But Jenny by this time has grown impa- tient, and jealous that Menie’s admiration prolongs itself only to please her, Jenny; so, giving pre- monition by sundry restless gestures of the advent of a “ fuff,” she has turned to look out from the window upon the sandy road which leads to ’Eath- bank, “Eh, Miss Menie! that brockit ane’s a bonnie cow,” said Jenny, “I never see onything else in this outlandish place that minds me of hame, if it binna the mistress and yoursel. Tl just bide and look out for the young lads, Miss Menie. Ye needna clap your hands, as if Jenny was turning glaikit; if they werena lads frae our ain country- side, they micht come and gang a twelvemonth for me.” “ But the ladies and the gentlemen will see you from the window, Jenny,” said Menie Laurie. “Tse warrant they’ve seen waur sichts,” said Jenny, briskly; “I’m no gaun to let down my ainsel, for a’ I have athraw ; and I would just like to ken, if folk wanted to see a purpose-like lass, fit for her wark, wha they could come to in this house but me? There’s my lady’s maid—set her up !—in her grand gown, as braw as my lady; and there’s the tither slaving creature put off a’ this morning clavering to somebody, and no fit to be seen now ; for a’ they scoff at my short-gown and good linsey coats. But they may scoff till they’re tired, for Jenny; I’m no gaun to change, at my time of life, for.a’ the giggling in London town.” “But you'll put on your gown to-night, Jenny,” said Menie persuasively, patting her shoulder. “ There’s Randall did not see you last time he was here; and Johnnie Lithgow, you would like to see him, Come Jenny, and. put on your gown.” “ Tt’s no muckle Randall Home heeds about me,” and you ken that” said Jenny; ‘“‘and for a’ he didna see me, I saw him the last time he was here. I'll just tell you, Miss Menie, yon lad, to be a richt lad, is ower heeding about himsel.” “You're not to say that, Jenny; it vexes me,” said Menie, with simple gravity; “ besides, it is not true, You mistake Randall—and then Johnnie Lithgow.” “J wadna say but what I micht be pleased to geta glint of him,” said Jenny. “Eh, my patience! to think of Betty Armstrong’s son sitting down with our mistress, But Pll be sure to ca’ them by their richt names afore the folk. I canna get my tongue about the maisters, Maister Lithgow ! and me minds him a wee white-headed laddie, hauding up his penny for cakes on the Hogmanay, and pwing John Glending’s kailstocks at Hallowe'en. What would I put on my gown for, bairn? As sure as I gang into the room. I’ll ca’ him Johnnie.” But Jenny’s scruples at last yielded, and Jenny . came forth from her chamber glorious in a blue- and-yellow gown, printed in great stripes and fig- ures, and made after an antediluvian fashion, which utterly shocked and horrified the pretty Maria, Miss Annie Laurie’s favorite maid. Nor was Miss Annie Laurie herself less disconcerted, when honest Jenny, the high shoulder largely de- veloped by her tight-fitting gown, and carrying a cake-basket in her brown hands, made her appear- ance in the partially filled drawing-room, threading her way leisurely through the guests, and exam- ining, with keen glances and much attention, the faces’ of the masculine portion of them. Miss Annie made a pause in her own lively and juve- nile talk, to watch the strange figure and the keen ~ inquiring face, over which a shade of bewilder~ ment gradually crept. But Miss Annie no longer thought 1t amusing, when Jenny made an abrupt pause before her young mistress, then shyly en- deavoring to make acquaintance with some very fine young ladies, daughters of Miss Annie’s lofti- est and most aristocratic friends, and said in a startling whisper, which the whole room could hear: ‘Miss Menie! ye micht tell folks which is him, if he’s here; but I canna see a creature that’s like Johnnie Lithgow of Kirklands, nor ony be- longing to him, in the haill room.” Miss Annie Laurie, much horrified, rose from her seat somewhat hastily; but at the same moment up sprang by her side the guest to whom her most particular attentions had been devoted—“ And Burnside Jenny has forgotten me!” Burnside Jenny, quite forgetful of “all the folk,” turned round upon him in an instant. Not quite Johnnie Lithgow, the merriest mischief-doer in Kirklands parish, but a face that prompted re- collections of his without dispute—blue eyes, dane- ing and running over with the light of a happy spirit—and a wisp of close curls, not many shades darker in color than those of the ‘ white-headed laddie,” whose merry tricks Jenny had not forgot- ten. “Eh, man! is this you ?” said Jenny, with a sigh of satisfaction, ‘TI aye likit the callant for a’ his mischief, and it’s the same blythe face after a’.” Randall Home stood leaning his fine figure against the mantelpiece, and took no notice of Jenny. Randall was somewhat afraid of a simi- lar recognition ; but Johnnie Lithgow, who did not affect attitudes—Johnnie Lithgow, who was neith- er proud nor ashamed of being a cottager’s son, and who had a habit of doing such kindly things as occurred to him without consideration of pru- dence—drew her aside by both her brown hands, out of which Jenny had laid the cake-basket, to talk to her of home. A slight smile curled on the lip of Randall Home. How well he looked, leaning upon his arm, his lofty head towering over every other head in Miss Annie’s drawing-room, with his look of conscious dignity, his intellectual face! Menie Laurie and Menie Laurie’s mother did not find it possible to be other than proud of him; yet the eyes of both turned somewhat wistfully to the corner, to dwell upon a face which for itself could have charmed no one, but which beamed and shone like sunshine upon Jenny, greeting her as an oid friend. “Your friend is a literary man?” said some- body inquiringly, taking up a respectful position by Randall’s side. “Yes, poor fellow; he spins himself out inte daily portions for the press,” said Randall. “A high vocation, sir; leader of public opinions and movements,” said the somebody, who professed to be an intellectual person, a man of progress. “Say rather the follower,” said Randall, “and well for those who have the happy knack of fol. lowing wisely-—chiming in, before itself is fully aware of it, with the humor of the time.” Menie Laurie, who was close at hand, and heard all this, ventured a whisper, while Randall’s com. panion had for the moment turned away. “Your words sound as if you slighted him, Randall, and you to call yourself a literary man,” “Good Johnnie Lithgrow, I like him extremely,” said Randall, with the half-scornful smile, which puzzled Menie; “but he is only a literary workman after all. He does his literature as his day’s labor —he will tell you so himself—a mere craft for daily bread.” And just tnen Lithgow turned round with hir
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“ : - Oe ren ee THE QUIET HEART. 15 radiant face—he who had no fame to lose, and did an honest day’s work in every day, not think- ing that the nature of his craft excused him from the natural amount of toil—and again Menie felt a little pang at her heart, as she thought of Ran- dall’s jealous guardianship of Randall’s youthful fame. CHAPTER XV. “J wave been thinking of bringing up my _ mother to live with me,” said the Mr. Lithgow in whom Mrs. Laurie and her daughter were begin- ning to forget the humble Johnnie: “I see no reason why she should live in poverty in Kirklands, while I am comfortable here.” Bis face flushed slightly as he concluded, and he began to drum with his fingers in mere shyness and embarrassment upon Miss Annie Laurie’s work-table. Randall, a little distance from him, was turning over with infinite scorn Miss Annie’s picture-books. The two young men had grown familiar in the house, though it was not yet a month since they entered it first. “And I think you are very’ right,” said Mrs. Laurie cordially, “though whether Mrs, Lithgow might be pleased with a town-life, or whether” She paused; it was not very easy to say “whether your mother would be a suitable house- keeper for you.” Mrs. Laurie could not do vio- lence either to her own feelings or his by suggest- ing such a doubt. “T think it would be a great risk,” said Ran- dall, “and if you consulted me, would certainly warn you against it. You mother knows nothing of London—she would not like it; besides, a young man seeking his fortune should be alone.” “Cold doctrine,” said Lithgow, smiling, “and to come from you.” His eye fell unconsciously upon Menie; then as he met a quick upward glance from her, he stam- mered, blushed, and stopped short—for Johnnie Lithgow was as shy and sensitive as a girl, and had all the reverence of youthful genius for womanhood and love. With compunction, and an idea that he had been jesting profanely, Lithgow hurriedly began again : “T am so vain as to think J myself would be London to my mother—old ground long known and well explored. If she would not like the change, of course—but I fancy she might.” “T advise you against it, Lithgow,” said Ran- dall; ‘in your case I should never entertain such an idea. There is my father—no one can have a greater respect for him than I—but to bring him to live with me—to bring him to London—TI should think it the merest folly, injurious to us both.” “Your wisdom is very safe at least,” said Mrs. Laurie, with a little asperity, “since there is no chance of your good father leaving his own re- spectacle house for an unknown and strange place in any case; but I think your wish a very natural one, and a very creditable one to you, Mr. Lith- gow ; and whether she comes or not, the knowledge that you wish for her will be joy to your mother’s heart.” With his usual half-disdainful smile Randall had turned away, and there was a slight flush of anger upon Mrs. Laurie’s face, Indignation and. scorn— there was not much hope of friendliness where such unpromising elements had flashed into sud- den existence. Menie, looking on with terror, and perceiving a new obstacle thrown into her way, hastily endeavored to make a diversion. “Do you know, Mr. Lithgow, that July Home is coming up to London to see me ?” There came a sudden brightening to all th: kindly lines of the young man’s face. “ July Home! if I am too familiar, forgive me, Randi.ll— but I have so many boyish recollections of her. She was such a sweet little timid simple womanly child too, I wonder if July minds me as I mind her.” Randall stood apart still, with his smile upon is lips. True, there had been a momentary curve upon his brow at Lithgow’s first mention of his Sister’s naine, but his face cleared immediately. Poor little July! Randall might know her suffi- ciently timid and simple—)ut July was a baby, a toy, a good-hearted kindly little fool to her intel- lectual brother—and any higher qualities sweet or womanly about her remained to be found out by other eyes than his. “ And Miss Annie has promised us all the sight- seeing in the world,” said Menie with forced gaiety, anxious to talk, and to conciliate—to remove all traces of the little breaking of lances which had just passed. “July andJenny,and I, we are to see all manner of lions; and though they will be very dull at Crofthill when she is gone, Mr. Home and Miss Janet have consented—so next week July is to come.” : “Poor July ! she will have enough to talk of all her life after,” said her brother. “Yes; our kindly country seems such a waste and desert to you London gentlemen,” said Mrs. Laurie; “and it is wonderful, after all, how we manage to exist—aye, even to flourish and enjoy ourselves, in these regions out of the world.” But Randall made no response. A shivering chill came over Menie Laurie; this half-derisive silence on one side, this eager impulse of contra- diction and. opposition on the other, smote her to the heart. It had been rising gradually for some days past, and Menie, without being quite aware of it, had noticed the bias with which her mother and her betrothed listened and replied to each other; the unconscious inclination of each to give an unfavorable turn to the other’s words, a harsh- ness to the other’s judgment, an air of personal offence to a differing opinion, of grave misdemea- nor to a piece of blameless jesting. Lithgow, stranger as he was, discovered in a moment, so quick and sensitive was his nature, the incipient estrangement, and grew embarrassed and annoyed in spite of himself—annoyed, embarrassed, it looked so much like the last ebullition of some domestic quarrel ; but Lithgow was astranger, and had no interest farther than for the harmony of the moment in any strife of these-conflicting minds. But here sits one whose brow must own no curve of displeasure, whose voice must falter with no embarrassment. She fs sitting by the little work- table in the window, her eyes, so wistful as they have grown, so large and full, and eloquent with many meanings, turning from one to the other with quick earnest glances, which are indeed whis- pers- of deprecation and peace-making. ‘“ He means something else than he says ; he is not cold- hearted nor insincere; you mistake Randall,” say Menie’s eyes, as they labor to meet her mother’s, and gaze with eager perturbation in her face, de- ciphering every line and wrinkle there. “Do not speak so—you vex my mother; but she does not mean to be angry,” say the same strained and ever- changing eyes, as they turn their anxious regards to Randall’s face. She sits between us and the light—you can see her girlish figure outlined against the window—her face falling from light to shadow, brightening up again from shadow to light, as she turns from one to the other; you can see how eagerly she listens, prompt to rush forward with her own softening, gentle speech upon the very border of the harsher words, whose utterance she cannot prevent. The very stoop of her head, the changefut expression of her faée, which already interprets the end of the sen- tence ere it is well begun, her sudden introduction of one subject after another, foreign to their former talk, her sudden interest in ‘things indifferent, and all the wiles and artifices with which she hedges off all matters of personal or individual interest, and abstracts the conversation into the channel of mere curiosity, of careless and every-day talk, are all sufficiently visible exponents of Menie’s new position and new trials. She is talking to Lithgow now so rapidly, and with so much demonstration of interest, you would almost fancy this poor, lov- ing Menie had caught a contagious enthusiasm from Miss Annie Laurie’s juvenile delights, talking of these sights of the great unknown London, which has grown so indifferent and paltry to this suddenly enlightened and experienced mind of hers; but in the midst of all, you can see how steadily her wakeful eyes keep watch upon Ran- dall yonder by Miss Annie’s minature book-cases, and Mrs, Laurie here, with that little angry flush upon her brow. So slow the hours seem, so full of opportuni- ties of discussion, so over-brimming with subjects on which thev are sure to differ; till Menie, in her gradually increasing excitement, forgets to note the progress of time; but is so glad—oh, so glad. and joyful—to see the evening fall dark around. them, to hear Maria’s step drawing near the door, while the lights she carries already throw their glimmer on the wall. It is late; and now the vis- itors take leave, somewhat reluctantly, for Lithgow begins to like his new friends greatly; and Ran- dall, though something of irritation is in the face, where his smile of disdain still holds sway, is Mc- nie’s ardent wooer still, and feels a charm in her : presence, simple though he has discovered ner to be. But at last they are gone, safely gone; and Menie, when she has watched them from the door, and listened to their steps till they die away a dis- tant echo upon the silent air, steals away in the dark to her own room—not for any purpose— simply to rest herself a little; and her manner of rest is, sitting down upon a low stool close by the window, where some pale moonlight comes in faintly, and bending down her face into her clasped hands to weep a little, silently and alone. ’ Is it but to refresh the wistful eyes which this night have been so busy? Is it but to wash and flood away the pain than has been in their eager deprecating looks, their speeches of anxious ten-. derness? But Menie does not say, even to her- self, what it is for, nor why. For some weeks now, Menie has been sadly given to “crying for nothing,” as she herself calls it. She thinks she ought to be ashamed of her weakness, and would be afraid to acknowledge it to any living creature ; but some how, for these few days, Menie has come away about the same hour every night into the solitude here, to cry, with sometimes a little impatient sob bursting out among her tears, though she cannot tell you, will not tell you, would not whisper even to her own very secret heart, the rea- son why. CHAPTER XVI. Mrs. Lavrix sits by the table with her work; but it is still an easy thing to perceive the irrita.. tion on Mrs. Laurie’s brow; her hand moves with an aditional rapidity, her breath comes a little fast- er; and if you will watch you will see the color gradually receding from her cheek, like an ebbing tide and her foot ceasing to play so impatiently upon its supporting stool. Very humbly, like a culprit, Menie draws for- ward her chair to the light. She is admonished, ere long, by a hasty answer, an abrupt speech, a slight pushing back from the table, and erection of her figure, that Mrs. Laurie is still angry. It is strange how this cowes and subdues Menie; how eager she is to say something; how humble her tone is; and how difficult she feels it to find any- thing to say. Poor heart! like many another bewildered moth, Menie flutters about the subject it behoves her most to avoid, and cannot help making timid allu- sions to their future life in London; their future life which begins to darken before her own vision under a cloudy horizon of doubt and dread. It has ceased to be aspeculation now, this future; for even within these few days there has been talk of Menie’s marriage. “We will speak of some other thing; there is no very great charm in the future for me, Menie,” said Mrs, Laurie, with a sigh. , But Menie,with trembling temerity, begs to know the reason why. Why? what concerns her con. cerns her mothor also. Very timid, yet too bold, Menie insists, and will be satisfied—why ? “Because it is hard to lose my only child,” said Mrs. Laurie. ‘ Let us not deceive ourselves ; it is easy to say we will not be separated, that there shall be no change. I know bettter, Menie; we ag ; do not cry—say it is only the natu ot.” “What is only the natural lot? Oh, mother, mother! tell me.” Menie is stil] pertinacious even through her tears. : “T will tell you, Menie,” ly. “Randall Home and I cannot dwell under one roof in peace. I foresee a wretched life for you, if we tried it; & constant struggle—a constant fail- ure. Menie, I will try to be content; but your mother feels it hard to yield up you and your love to a stranger, very hard. I ought to be content and submissive. I ought to remember that it isthe ° common necessity, an everyday trial; but we have said Mrs, Laurie, quiek-
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* you to do him justice, to think well of him. a 6 THE QUIET HEART. been more to each other than mere mother and daughter, I cannot hide it from you, Menie; this trial is very grievous to me.” “Mother! mother!” It is not for nothing now that Menie Laurie weeps. “ You have been the light of my eyes for twenty years, my baby, my only bairn! I have noth- ing in the world when you are gone, Menie, ' have patience with your mother. I thought we might have been one household still. I never thought I could have hurt my bairn by clinging to her with all my heart. I see through an- other medium now. Menie, this that I say is bet- ter for us both. I would lose my proper place; I would lose even my own esteem, if Linsisted, or if I permitted you tq insist, upon our first plan. I do not mean to insist with Randall,” said Mrs. Laurie, with a sudden flush of color, “but with ourselves. It is not for your credit, any more than mine that your mother should be humiliated; and I choose to make this decision myself, Menie, not to have it forced upon me.” “If you think so, if I have nothing to hope but this; mother, mother!” cried Menie in her sobs, “there is yet time; we can change it all.” But Menie’s voice was choked; her head bowed down upon her folded arms; her strength and her heart were overcome. The room was only partial- ly lighted. So vacant, only these two figures, with their little table and a lamp at the end, it looked lonely, silent, desolate; and you could hear so plainly the great struggle which Menie had with these strong sobs and tears. Mrs. Laurie wiped a few hot hasty drops from her own eyes. She was not much used to contest ; nor was it in her to be inflexible and stern; and the mother could not see her child’s distress. ‘* Me- nie!” Menie can make no answer; and Mrs. Laurie rises to go to her side, to pass a tender caressing hand over the bowed head, to shed back the disordered hair. ‘“ Menie, my dear bairn, I did not mean to vex you. I will do anything—any- thing, Menie; onlydo not let me see you in such grief as this.” “He is not what you think, mother, he is not what you think,” cried Menie ; “it is not like this what he says of you. Oh, mother! I do not ask I ask a greater thing of you—mother hear me—I ask you to like him for Menie’s sake.” And it will not do to evade this petition by ca- resses, by soothing words, by gentle motherly ten- derness. “Yes, Menie, my darling, Pll try,” said Mrs. Laurie, at last, with tearful eyes. ‘Do you think it is pleasant to me to be at strife with Ran- dall? God forbid! and him my dear bairn’s choice ; but do not look at me with such a pitiful face. Menie, we'll begin again.” Was Menie content ? for the moment more than éontent, springing up into a wild exhilaration, a burst of confidence and hope. But by-and-by the eonversation slackened—by-and-by the room be- eame quite silent, with its dim corners, its little speck of light, and the two figures at its farther end. A heavy stillness brooded over them, they forgot that they had been talking, they forgot, each of them, that she was not alone. The leaves stirred faintly on the windows, the night wind rustled past ‘the yew-treo on the lawn, From the other end of the house came sometimes a stir of voices, the sound of a closed or opened door ; but here every- thing was silent, as if there were weird sisters, weaving, with their monotonous moving fingers, some charm and spell; while, down to the depths, down, down, as far into the chill and dark of sad pera as the heart unlearned could go, uttering, with its wings close upon its breast, its song changed into a mournful cry, down out of the serene heavens, where it had its natural dwelling, came Menie Laurie’s quiet heart. CHAPTER XVII. Turovcu the depth and darkness of the sum- mer night, you ean hear Mrs. Laurie's quiet breath- ing as she lies asleep. With a pain at her heart she lay down, and when she wakes she will feel it, " or ever she is aware that she has awaked; but still she sleeps; blessing on the kind oblivion which lays all these troubles for a time to rest, But what is this white figure erecting itself frum the pillow, sitting motionless and silent in the night? It is tears that keep these gentle eye- lids apart, tears that banish from them the sleep of youth. Still, that she may not wake the sleep- er by her side, scarcely daring to move her hand to wipe away this heavy dew which blinds her eyes. Menie Laurie, Menie Laurie, can this sad watcher be you ? And Menie’s soul is vexing itself with pians and schemes, and Menie’s heart is rising up to God in broken snatches of prayer, constantly interrupted, and merging into the bewilderment of her thoughts. Startled ence for all out of the early calm, the serene, untroubled, youthful life which lies behind her in the past, Menie feels the change very hard and sore as she realizes it; from doing nought for her own comfort—from the loving, sweet dependence upon others, to which her child’s heart has been accustomed—suddenly, without pause or preparation, to learn that all must depend upon herself, to have the ghost of strife or dis- cord, where such full harmony was wont to be, to feel the two great loves of her nature, the loves which heretofore, in her own innocent and unsus- picious apprehension, have strengthened and deep- ened each the other, set forth in antagonism, love against love, and her own heart the battle-ground. Shrinking and failing one moment, longing vainly to flee away, away anywhere into the utmost deso- lation, if only it were out of this conflict, the next, resolving, with such strong throbs. and beat- ings of her heart, to take up her burden cordially, to be ever awake and alert, to subdue this giant difficulty with the force of her own strong love and ceaseless tenderness, praying now for escape, then for endurance, and anon breaking into silent tears over all. Alas for Menie Laurie in her unac- customed solitude! and Menie thinks, like every other Menie, that she could have borne anything but this. . But by-and-by, in spite of tears and trouble, the natural rest steals upon Menie, steals upon her un- awares, though she feels, in the sadness of her heart, as if she could never rest again; throws back her drooping head upon her pillow, folds her arms meekly on her breast, closes her eyelids over the unshed tears; and thus it is that the dawn finds her out, like a flower overcharged and droop- ing with its weight of evening dew, but wrapt in sleep as deep and dreamless and unbroken as if her youth had never known a tear. The sun is full in the room when Menie wakes, and Mrs. Laurie has but a moment since closed the door softly behind her, that the sleeper might not be disturbed. Even this. tender precaution, when she finds it out, chills Menie to the heart; for heretofore her mother’s voice has roused her, and even her mother’s impatience of her lingering would be joy to her to-day ; but Mrs, Laurie is not impatient. Mrs. Laurie thinks it better, for all the sun’s unceasing proclamation that night and sleep are past, to let the young heart refresh itself a little longer, to leave the young form at rest. Ay, Menie Laurie, kneel down by your bedside —kneel down and pray; it is not often that your supplications testify themselves in outward atti- tude. Now there is a murmur of an audible voice speaking words to which no mortal ear has any right to listen; and your downcast face is buried in your hands, and your tears plead with your prayers. For you never thought but to be happy, Menie, and the gentle youthful nature longs and yearns for happiness, and with the strength of a rebel fights against the pain foreseen—poor heart! “Bh, Jenny, you’re no keeping ill-will?” said a doleful voice upon the lawn below; very distinct, through the open window, it quickened Menie’s morning toilette considerably, and drew her for- ward, with a wondering face, to make sure. “I’m sure it’s no in me to be unfriends with onybody ; and after ane coming a’ this gate for naething but to ask a civil question, how you a’ was. I’m say- ing, Jenny, you’re no needing to haud ony corres- pondence with me except ye like; it’s the mistress and Miss Menie I’m wanting to see.” “Am I to let in a’ the gaun-about vagabons that want to see the mistress and Miss Menie?” said Jenny’s gruff voice in reply. ‘I trow no; andhow ye can haye the face to look at Jenny after your iast errand till her, I canna tell; ye'll be for un- dertaking my service ance mair; but ye may just as weel take my word ance for a’, the mistress ean- na bide ye ony maiy than me.” “Eh, woman, Jenny, yer’re a thrawn creature!” said Nelly Panton. ‘I’m sure I never did ye an ill turn a’ my days. But ye needna even the like of your service to me; I’m gaun to live with our Johnnie, and keep his house, and Johnnie’s com- pany are grander folk than the mistress; but l’m no forgetting auld friends, so I came to ask for Miss Menie, because I aye lkit her, and because she’s a young lass like mysel; and I'll gang and speak to that ither servant-woman if you'll no tell Miss Menie I’m here.” “ Jenny’s fury—for very furious was Jenny’s suppressed fuff at the presumptuous notion of equality or friendship between Menie Laurie and Nelly Panton, was checked by this threat ; and fear- ful lest the dignity of her young mistress should be injured in the eyes of the household by the new- comer’s pretentions, Jenny, who had held this col- loguy out of doors, turned hastily round and pat- tered away by the back entrance to open the door for the visitor, muttering repeated adjurations. “My patience !” and Jenny’s patience had indeed much reason to be called to her aid. Menie’s curiosity was a little roused. Her mind withdrawn from herself, lightened somewhat of its load, and she hastened down stairs less unwilling- ly than she would have done without this inter. ruption. Jenny stood by the drawing-room door, holding it open; and Jenny’s sturdy little form vi- brated, every inch of it, with anger and indigna- tion. ‘Ane to speak to you, Miss Menie; ane used with grand society, and owre high forthe like of me. You'll have to speak to her yoursel.” And Menie suddenly found herself thrust into . the room, while Jenny, with an audible snort and fuff, remained in possession of the door. Nelly Panton had too newly entered on her dig- nities to be able to restrain the ancient curtsey of her humility. Yes, undoubtedly, it was Nelly Panton, with the same faded gown, the same dole- ful shawl, the same wrapped-up and gloomy figure. Against the well-lighted, well-pictured wall of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room, she stood in dingy individuality, dropping her ecurtsey, while Menie, much surprised and silent, stood before her wait- ing to be addressed. “Can nane of ye speak?” said the impatient Jenny, from the door. ‘“ Miss Menie, are ye no gaun to ask what is her business here? A fule micht hae kent this was nae place to come back to, after her last errand to Burnside; and when she kens I canna bide her, and the mistress canna bide her, to come and set up for a frienship with you!” “She’s just as cankered as she aye was, Miss Menie,” said Nelly Panton, compassionately, shak- ing her head. ‘It shows anill disposition, indeed, when folk canna keep at peace with me, as many a time I’ve telt my mother. But ye see, Miss Menie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklands when ye were a’ away, so I just took my fit in my hand, and came on to London to see after Johnnie with my ain een. He needs somebody to keep him gaun, and set him richt, puir callant; and he’s in a grand way for himsel, and should be attended to—so I think I’ll just stay on, Miss Menie; and the first thing I did was to come and ask for you.” “You are very kind, Nelly,” said Menie Laurie ; but Menie paused with a suppressed laugh when she saw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken at her from the door. “ And ye’ll maybe think I’m no just in condition to set up for friends with the like of you,” said Nelly, glancing down upon her dress ; “ but I only came into London tne day before yesterday, and I’ve naething yet but my traveling things. I’m hearing that little July Home of Braecroft’s coming, too; and between you and me, Miss Menie, no to let it gang ony further, I think it was real richt and prudent of you to show us the first example, and draw us a’ up to London to take care of thae lads.” “What do you mean, Nelly ?” exclaimed Menie, somewhat angrily. : “Ye may weel say what does she mean,” said Jenny, making a sudden inroad from the door. “Do ye hear, ye evil speaker? The mistress is out, and there is naebody to take care of this puir bairn but me; whatever malice and venom ye have to say, out wi't, and I'll tell the young lady what kind of character ye are when a’s dune.” “JY wadna keep such a meddling body in my house; 20, if she did the wark twiee as well,” re-
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THE QUIET HEART. 1% a aa carnaet lundman pmamenet mptsmrmementemeenteenctemnenememnesmemenen capepemnamne deenneenemm eG A AA I I a aT eT TE TIRE Ps AE LE RE eR TE eT aT Pn ST SSS en a ee ara ie A a aE a a a aa a i lie torted Nelly, with calm superiority; “and "ve nae call to speak my mind afore Jenny, and her aye misca’in me: but it’s nae secret of mine. I was just gaun to say, that for a’ our Johnnie’s a very de- “cent lad, and minds upon his friends, I never saw ane, gentle or simple, sae awfw’ muckle tooken up about himsel as Randy Home. He’s anither lad altogether to what he used to be; and it’s no to be thocht but what he’s wanting a grand wife like a’ the rest. Now, ye’ll just see.” Menie Laurie put down Jenny’s passionate dis- claimer by a motion of her hand. “If this was what you came to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shall scarcely be grateful for your visit. Do you know that it is an impertinence to say this to me? Whisht, Jenny, that is enough; and I came here to look after no one. Whatever you may have thought before, you will believe this now, since I say it. Jenny will see that you are comfortable while you stay out here; but I think, Nelly, you have said enough to me this morning, and I to you —Jenny, whisht.” “Tl no whisht,” cried Jenny, at last, freed by Menie’s pause. ‘Eh, ye evil spirit! will ye tell me what cause of ill-will ye ever could have against this innocent bairn? I’m no gaun to whisht, Miss Menie—to think of her coming up here ance errand to put out her malice on you! My patience! how ony mortal can thole the sicht o’ her, I dinna ken.” “T can forgive ye, Jenny,” said the meek Nelly Panton, “for a’ your passions, and your glooms, and your ill words—I’m thankful to say I can for- give ye; but, eh, sirs, this is a weary world; wherever I gang, at hame, or away frae hame, Pm aye miskent—naebody has the heart to take a guid turn frae me, though I’m sure, I aye mean a’thing for the best, and it was richt Miss Menie should ken. I thocht I would just come up this far to give ye an advice, Miss Menie, when we were our lanes ; and I’m no gaun to blaze up into a fuff like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en. I’m just as guid friends as ever. The next time I come I'll come with our Johnnie, so I bid you a very good morn- ing, Miss Menie Laurie, and mony thanks for your kind welcome. Jenny, fare-ye-well.” _ Menie sat down in the window when the dark figure of her unwelcome visitor was gone. The sun came in upon her gaily—the genial August sun—and the leaves which fluttered in a happy wind and a maze of morning sounds, broken with shriller shouts of children, and rings of silvery laughter floated up and floated round her, of them- selves an atmosphere fresh and sweet; but Menie bowed her face between her hands, and looked out with wistfal eyes into the future, where so many fears and wonders had come to dwell; and vigilant and stern the meagre yew-tree looked in upon her, like an unkindly fate. PART IV.—CHAPTER XVIII. “Eu, Menie, are you sure yon’s London ?” So asked little July Home, standing ‘under the shadow of the elm-trees, and Jooking out upon the sea of city smoke, with great St. Paul’s looming through its dimness. July did not quite understand how she could be said to be near London, so long as she stood upon the green sod, and saw above her the kindly sky. “There’s no very mony houses hereaway,” said the innocent July; “there’s mair in Dumfries, Menie—and this is just a fine green park, and here's trees—are you sure yon’s Lon- don?” “Yes, it’s London.” Very differently they looked at it—the one with the marveling eyes of 1s child ready to believe all wonders of that mysterious place, supreme among the nations, which was rather a super) individual personage from among the Arabian genii than a collection of human streets and houses full of the usual weaknesses of humankind; the other with the dreamy gaze of a woman, pondering in her heart over the scene of her fate. = “ And Randall’s yonder, and Johnnie Lithgow ?” said July, “I would just like to ken where ; Menie, you’ve been down yonder in the town— where will Johnnie and our Randall be? Mrs. Wellwood down in Kirklands bade me ask Randall if he knew a cousin of hers, Peter Scott, that lives in London; but nobody could ken a’ the folk, Monio, in sueh a muelale town.” ee “My dear Miss July, muckle is an ugly word,” said Miss Annie Laurie, ‘and you must observe how nicely your brother and his friend speak— quite marvellous for self-educated young men— and even Menie here is very well. You must not say muckle, my love.” “Tt was because I meant to say very big,” said July, with a great blush, holding down her head and speaking ina whisper. July had thrown many a wandering glance already at Miss Annie, specu- lating whether to call her the old lady or the young lady, and listening with reverential curiosity to all she said; for July thought “She—the lady,” was very kind to call her my dear and my love so soon, and to kiss her when she went away wearied, on her first evening at Heathbank, to rest; though July could never be sure about Miss Annie, and marvelled much that Menie Laurie should dare to call anyone in such ringlets and such gowns, aunt, “You will soon learn better, my dear little girl,” said the gracious Miss Annie, “and you must just be content to continue a little girl while you are here, and take a lesson now and then, you know; and above all, my darling, you must take care not to fallin love with this young man whom you speak of so familiarly, He must not be John- nie any more, but only Mr. Lithgow, your brother’s friend and ours—for I cannot have both my young ladies falling in love.” “Me!” July’s little frame trembled all over, her soft hair fell down upon her neck. ‘It'll never stay up,’ murmured July, with eager depre- cation, as Miss Annie’s eye fell upon the silky un- curled locks; but it was only shamefacedness and embarrassment which made July notice the descent of her hair, for July was trembling with a little thrill of fear, and wonder, and curiosity, Was it possible, then, that little July had come to suffi- cient years to be capable of falling in love ?—and in spite of herself, July thought again upon John- nie Lithgow, and marvelled innocently, though with a blush, whether he “minded” her as she minded him. But July could not understand the strange ab- straction which had fallen upon her friend—the dreamy eye, the vacant look, the long intervals of silence. Menie Laurie of Burnside had known nothing of all this new-come gravity, and July’s wistful look had already begun to follow those wandering eyes of hers—to follow them away through the daylight, and into the dark, wondering —wondering—what it was that Menie sought to see. Jenny is busied in the remote regions of the kitchen at this present moment, delivering a lec- ture, very sharp, and marked with some excite- ment, to Miss Annie Laurie’s kitchen maid, who is by no means an ornamental person, and for that many other reasons is a perpetual grief to Miss Annie’s heart—so Jenny is happily spared the provocation of beholding the new visitor who has entered the portals of Heathbank. For a porten- tous shawl, heavy as a thundercloud, a gown lurid as the lightning escaping from under its shade, and a new bonnet grim with gentility, are making their way round the little lawn, concealing from expec- tant eyes the slight person and small, well-formed head, with its short matted crop. of curls, which distinguished Johnnie Lithgow. Johnnie, good fellow, does not think his sister the most suitable visitor in the world to the Laurie honuschold; but Johnnie would not, for more wealth than he can reckon, put slight upon his sistereven in idea—so Miss Annie Laurie’s Maria announces Miss Panton at the door of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room, and Nelly, where she failed to come as a servant, is introduced as a guest. “Thank’ye, mem,” said Nelly, “TI like London very weel so far as I've seen it—but it’s a muckle place, I dinna doubt, no to be lookit through in a day—and I'm aye fleyed to lose mysel in thae weary streets; but you see I didna come here ance errand to see the town, but rather came with an object, mem—and now I’m to bide on to take care of Johnnie. My mother down by at hame has had mony thochts about him being left his lane, with naebody but himself to care about in a strange place—and it’s sure to be a comfort to her me stopping with John- nie, for she kens I’m a weel-meaning person, what- Téver folk de te mo; and I weuld be real thankful if ye could recommend me to a shop for good linen, for [have a’ his shirts to mend. To be sure, he has plenty of siller—but he’s turning the maist extravagant lad I ever saw.” “Good soul! and you have come to do all those kind things for him,” said Miss Annie Laurie; “ it is so delightful to me to find these fine homely natural feelings in operation—so primitive and un- sophisticated. I can’t tell you what pleasure I have in watching the natural action of a kind heart.” “Tam much obliged to ye, mem,” said Nelly, wavering on her seat with a half intention of rising to acknowledge with a courtsey this complimentary declaration. “I was aye kent for a weel-meaning lass, though I have my faults—but I’m sure Johnnie ought to ken how weel he can depend on me.” July Home was standing by the window—stand- ing very timid and demure, pretending to look out, but in reality lost in conjectures concerning Johnnie Lithgow, whose image had never left her mind since Miss Annie took the pains to ad- vise her not to think of him. July, innocent heart, would never have thought of him had this warning been withheld; but the fascination and thrill of conscious danger filled July’s mind with one continual recollection of his presence, though she did not dare to turn round frankly and own herself his own acquaintance. With a slight trem- ble in her little figure, July stands by the window and July’s silky hair already begins to droop out of the braid in which she had confined it with so much ¢are. <A silk gown—the first and only one of its race belonging to July—has been put on in honor of this, her first day at Heathbank ; and July, to tell the truth, is somewhat fluttered on account of it, and is a little afraid of herself and the unaccustomed splendor of her dress, Menie Laurie, a good way apart, sits on a stool at her mother’s feet, looking round upon all those - faces, from July’s innocent tremble of shy pleasure, to Johnnie Lithgow’s well-pleased recognition of his childish friend. There is something touching in the contrast when you turn to Menie Laurie, look- ing up, with all these new-awakened thoughts in her eyes, into her mother’s face. For dutiful and loving as Menie has always been, you can tell by a glance that she never clung before as she clings now—that never in her most trustful childish times was she so humble in her helplessness as her ten- der woman’s love is to-day. Deprecating, anxious, full of so many wistful beseeching ways—do you think the mother does not know why it is that Me- nie’s silent devotion thus pleads and kneels and clings to her very feet ? And there is a shadow on Mrs. Laurie’s brow, a certain something glittering under Mrs. Laurie’s eyelid. No, she needs no interpreter—and the mother hears Menie’s prayer, “ Will you like him, will you try to like him ?” sounding in her heart, and resolves that she will indeed try to like him for Menie’s sake. “Mr. Home, of course, will come to see us to- night,” said the sprightly Miss Annie. “ My dear Mrs. Laurie, how can I sufficiently thank you for bringing such a delightful circle of young people to Heathbank ? It quiterenews my heart again. You can’t think how soon one gets worn out and weary in this commonplace London world; but so fresh—so full of young spirits and life—I assure you, Mr, Lithgow, yourself and your friend, and my sweet girls here, are quite like a spring to me.” Johnnie, bowing in response, gradually drew near the window. You will begin to think there is something very simply pretty and graceful in this little figure standing here within shadow of the curtain, the evening sun just missing it as it steals timidly into the shade, and this brown hair, so silky soft, has slidden down at last upon July’s shoulder, and the breath comes something fast ‘on July’s small full nether lip and a little changeful flush of color hovers about, coming and going upoa July’s face, Listen—for now a sweet little timid voice, fragrant with the low-spoken border speech, softened out of all its harshness, steals upon Johnnie Lithgow’s ear. He knows what the words are, for he draws very near to listen—but we, a little further off, hear nothing but the voice—a very unassurred, shy, girlish voice; and July casts a furtive look around her, to see if it is not possi- ble te got Monio Laurie te whisper hor amewer toy
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18 - THE QUIET HEART. but when she does trust the ear with these few vwords of hers, July feels less afraid. Johnnie Lithgow! no doubt it is the same John- nie Lithgow who carried her through the wood, half a mile about, to see the sunset from the Rest- ing Stane; but whether this can be the Mr. Lith- gow who is very clever and a great writer, July is puzzled to know. For he begins to ask so kindly about the old Kirkland people; he “‘ minds” every nook and corner so well, and has such a joyous recollection of all the Hogmanays and Hallowe’ens, the boyish pranks and frolics, the boyish friends. July, simple and perplexed, thinks within herself that Randall never did so, and doubts whether Johnnie Lithgow can be clever, after all. CHAPTER XIX. “ Anp July, little girl—you are glad to see Menie Laurie again ?” But July makes a long pause—July is always timid of speaking to her brother. “ Menie is not Menie now,” said July, thought- fully. “She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside.” “ What has changed her ?’’ At last Randall be- gan to look interested. ; Another long pause, and then July startled him with a burst of tears. “She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside,” repeated Menie’s little friend, with timid sobs ; “ but aye thinks, thinks, and has trouble in her face night and day.” The brother and sister were in the room alone. Randall turned round with impatience. “ What a foolish little creature you are, July. Menie does not cry like you for every little matter; Menie has nothing to trouble her.” “ Tt’s no me, Randail,” said little July, meekly. “Tf I ery, I just canna help it, and it’s nae matter, but, oh, Ido wish you would speak to Menie—for something’s vexing her.” “T am sure you will excuse me for leaving you so long,” said the sprightly voice of Miss Annie Laurie, entering the room. ‘“ What! crying, July darling? have we not used her well, Mr, Home? but my poor friend Mrs, Laurie has just got a very unpleasant letter, and I have been sitting with her to comfort her.” Randall made no reply, unless the smile of in- difference which came to his lips, the careless turning away of his head, might be supposed to answer; for Randall did not think it necessary to pretend any interest in Mrs. Laurie. : But just then he caught a momentary glimpse of some one stealing across the farthest corner of the lawn, bebind a couple of shrubs. Randall could not mistake the figure; and it seemed to pause there, where it was completely hidden, ex- cept to the keen eye which had watched it thither, and still saw a flutter of the drapery through the leaves. : “Mem, if you please, Miss Menie is out,” said Jenny, entering suddenly, “and the mistress sent me with word that she wasna very weel hersel, and would keep up the stair if you’ve nae objections. As I said, ‘I trow no, you would have nae objec- tions ’—no to say there’s company in the house to ye a divert—and the mistress is far frae weel.” “But, Jenny, you must tell my darling Menie to come in,” said Miss Annie. “I cannot want her, you know; and Iam sure she cannot know who is here, or she would never bid you say she was out. Teli her I want her, Jenny.” “Mem, I have told you,” said Jenny, somewhat fiercely, “if she was ane given to leasing-making she would have to get another lass to gang her er- rands than Jenny, and I canna tell what for Miss Menie should heed, or do aught but her ain pleas- ure, for ony company that’s here’enow. I’m no fit mysel, an auld lass like me, to gang away after Miss Menie’s licht fit ; but she’s out-by, puir bairn —and it’s little onyone kens Jenny that would blame me wi’ a Jee.” She had reached the door before Randal! could prevail with himself to follow her; but at last he did hurry after Jenny, making a hasty apology as he went. Randall had by no means paid to Jenny the respect to which she held herself entitled ; her quick sense had either heard his step behind, or surmised that he would follow her; ana Jenny; in a violent fuff, strongly suppressing herself, but quivering all over with the effort it cost her, turn- ed sharp round upon him, and came to a dead pause facing him, as he closed the door. “Where is Miss Menie Laurie? I wish to see her,” said Randall. Randall did not choose to be familiar even now. “Miss Menie Laurie takes her ain will common- ly,” said Jenny, making a satirical courtsey. ““She’s been used wi’t this lang while; and she hasna done what Jenny bade her this mony a weary day. Aiweel, if she had, some things wouldna have been to undo that are—and mony an hour's wark and hour’s peace the haill house micht ha’e gotten, if she had aye had the sense to advise with the like of me; but she’s young, and:she takes her ain gate. Poor thing, she’ll have to dosomebody else’s will soon enough if there’s nae deliverance ; what for should I grudge her her ain the noo ?” “What do you mean? I want to see Menie!” exclaimed Randall, with considerable haste and eagerness. “Do you mean to say she does not want to see me? Ihave never been avoided be- fore. What does she mean ?” “Ay, my lad, that’s right,” said Jenny ; think of yoursel, just like a man, afore ye gie a kindly thought to her, and her in trouble, It’s like you a’; it’s like the haill race and lineage of ye, father and son. No that ’'m meaning ony ill to auld Crofthill; but nae doubt he’s a man like the lave.” Randall lifted his hand impatiently, waving her away. “T wouldna wonder !” cried Jenny. “I wouldna wonder—no me. She’s ower mony about thit like her, has she—it’ll be my turn to gang my ways, and no trouble the maister. You would like to get her, now she’s in her flower; you would like to take her up and carry her away and put her in a cage like a puir bit singing-burdie, to be a pleasure to you. What are you courting my bairn for? It’s a’ for your ain delight and pleasure, because ye canna help but be glad at the sight of her, a darling as she is ; because you would like to get her to yoursel, like a piece of land; be- cause she would be something to you to be mais- ter and lord cf to make ye the mair esteemed in ither folk’s een, and happier for yoursel. Man, I’ve carried her miles o’gate in thae very arms of mine, I’ve watched her grow year to year, tiil there’s no ane like her in a’ the country-side. Is’t for mysel ?—she canna be Jenny’s wife—she canna be Jenny’s ain born bairn? But Jenny would put down her neck under the darling’s foot, if it was to give her pleasure—and here’s a strange iad comes that would set away me.” But Jenny’s vehemence was touched with such depth of higher feeling as to exalt it entirely out of the region of the “ fuff.” With a hasty and trem- bling hand she dashed away some tears out of her eyes. “I’m noto make a fule of mysel afore him,” muttered Jenny, drawing a hard breath through her dilated nostrils. Randall, with some passion, and much scorn in his face, had drawn back a little to listen. Now le took up his hat hurriedly. “Jf you are done, you will let me pass, per-: haps,” he said, angrily. “This 1s absurd, you know; let me pass. I warn you I will not quarrel with Menie for all the old women in the world.” “Tf it’s me, you’re welcome to ca’ me names,” said Jenny, fiercely. ‘I dare ye to say a word of ihe mistress—on your peril, Miss Menie pfeases to be her Jane. I tell you Miss Menie’s out-by; and I would like to ken what call ony mortal has to disturb the poor lassie in her distress, wnen she wants to keep it to hersel. He doesna hear me— he’s gane the very way she gaed,” said Jenny, softening, as he burst past ner out of sight. “I'll no say I think ony waur of him for that; but waes me, waes me—what’s to come out ot a’, but dis- may and distress to my puir pairn ?” Distress and dismay—it is not hard to see them both in Menie Laurie’s face, so pale and full of thought, as she leans upon the wali here among the wet leaves, looking out. Yes, she is looking out fixedly and long, but not upon the misty far-away London, not upon the pleasant slope of green, the retired and quiet houses, the whispering neighbor trees. Something has brought the dreamy distant future, the unknown country, bright and far away —brought it close upon her, laid it at her, feet. Her own living breath this moment stirs the at- mosphere of this still unaccomplished world; her foot is stayed upon its threshold. No more vague fears—no more mere clouds upon the joyous firma- ment—but close before her, dark and tangible, the crisis and decision—the turning-point of heart and hope. _ Before her wistful eyes lie two clear paths, winding before her into the evening sky. Two; but the spectre of a third comes in upon her—a life distraught and barren of all comfort—a fate irre- vocable, not to be changed or softened ; and Menic’s heart is deadly sick in her poor breast, and faints for fear. Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart ! She was sad yesterday, Yesterday she saw a cloudy sword suspended in the skies, wavering and threatening above her unguarded head; to-day she looks no longer at this imaginative menace. From another unfeared quarter there has fallen a real blow. CHAPTER XX. Wiru the heat and flush of excitement upon hés face, Randall Home made his way across the glis- tening Jawn, and through the wet shrubs—fer there had been rain—to that corner of the garden where he had seen Menie disappear. _Impatiently his foot rung upon the gravel path, and crushed the fallen branches; something of an angry glow was in his eye, and heated and passionate was the color on his cheek, “You are here, Menie,” he exclaimed. “I think you might have had sufficient respect for me, to do what you could to prevant this last pas- sage of arms.” “Respect!” Menie looked at him with doubt- ful apprehension. She thought the distress of her mind must have dulled and blunted her nerves; and repeated the word vacantly, scarcely knowing what it meant, “T said respect. Is it so presumptuous an idea?” said Randall, with his cold, sarcastic smile, But Menie made no answer, Drawing back with a timid frightened motion, which did not be- long to her natural character, she stood so very pale, and chill, and tearful, that you could have found nowhere a more complete and emphatic con- trast than she made to her betrothed. The one so full of strength and yigor, stout independence and glowing resentment—the other with all her life gone out of her, as it seemed, quenched and sub- dued in her tears, “You have avoided me in the house—you will not speak tome now,” said Randall. “ Menie, Menie, what does this mean ?” For Menie had not been able to conceal from him that she was weeping. “Tt is no matter, Randall,” said Menie; “it is no matter.” Randall grew more and more excited. ‘“ Whatis the matter? Have you ceased to trust me, Menie? What do you mean ?” “IT mean nothing to make you angry—I never did,” said Menie, sadly. “Tm not very old yet, but I never grieved anybody, of my own will, all my days. Ill never came long ago; or, if it came, nobody ever blamed it on me. I wish you would not mind me,” she said, looking up suddenly. “I came out here, because my mind was not fit to speak to anybody—because I wanted to complain to myself where nobody should hear of my un- thankfulness. I would not have said a word to anybody—not a word. There was no harm in thinking within my own heart.” “There is harm in hiding your thoughts from me,” said Randall, “Come, Menie, you are not to cheat me of my rights. I was angry—forgive me; but I am not angry now. Menie, my poor, sorrowful girl, what ails you ? happened? Menie, you must tell me.” “Tt is justyou I must not tell,” said Menie, under her breath, Then she wavered a moment, as if the wind swayed her light figure and held her in hesitating uncertainty and then, with a sud- den effort, she stood firm, apart from the wall she had been leaning on, and apart, too from Randall's extended arm. “Yes, I will tell you,” said Menie, seriously | “You mind what happened a year ago, Rauda.i:' you mind what we did and what we. said the:-- ' ‘Forever and forever.’” oe ie Has something i ee =" =
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“0 THE QUIET HEART. 19 Randall took her hand tenderly into his own, “forever and forever.” It was the words of their troth-plight. : “T will keep it in my heart,” said poor Menie. “T will never change in that, but keep it night and day in my heart. Randall, we are far apart al- ready. I have a little world you do not chose to share: you are entering a greater world, where I can never have any place. God speed you, and God go with you, Randall Home. You will be a great man; you will prosper and increase; and what would you do with poor Southland Menie, who cannot help you in your race? Randall, we will be good friends; we will part now, and say farewell.” Abrupt as her speech was Menie’s manner of speaking, She hadto hurry over these disjointed words, lest her sobs should overtake and choke her utterance ere they were done. Randall shook his head with displeased impa- tience. “This is mere folly, Menie. What does it mean? Cannot you tell me simply and frankly what is the matter, without such a preface as this ? But indeed I know very well what it means. It means that I am to yield something, to undertake something, to reconcile myself to some necessity or other, distasteful to me. But why commence so tragically ?—the threat should come at the end, not at the beginning.” “T make no threat,” said Menie, growing colder and colder, more and more upright and rigid; “I mean to say nothing that can make you angry. Already I have been very unhappy. I dare not venture, with our changed fortunes, to make a life- long trial—I dare not.” “Your changed fortunes !” interrupted Randall. “ Are your fortunes to-day different from what they were yesterday ?” Menie paused. “It is only a very poor pride which would conceal it from you,” she said, at length. “ Yes, they are different. Yesterday we jad enough for all we needed, to-day we have not anything. You will see how entirely our circum- stances are changed ; and I hope you will see too, Randall, without giving either of us the pain of mentioning them, all the reasons which make it prudent for us, without prolonging the conflict longer, to say good-bye. Good-bye; I can ask no- thing of you but to forget me, Randall.” And Menie held out her hand, but could not lift her eyes. Her voice had sunk very low, and her slight shiver of extreme self-constraint passed over her—her head dropped lower and lower on her breast—her fingers played vacantly with the glis- tening leaves; and when he did not take it, her hand gradually dropped and fell by her side. There was a moment’s silence—no answer, no re- sponse, no remonstrance. Perhaps, after all, the poor perverse heart had hoped to be overwhelmed with love, which would take no denial; as it was, standing before him motionless, a great faintness came upon Menie. She could vaguely see the path at her feet, the trees on either hand. “T had betten go, then,” she said, very low and softly; and the light had faded suddenly upon Menie’s sight into a strange ringing of twilight, full of floating moats and darkness, and those few paces across the lawn filled all her mind like a life journey, so full of difficulty they seemed, so weak was she. Go quickly, Menie, quickly, ere those growing - shadows darken into a blind, unguided night— swiftly, ere these faltering feet grow powerless, and refuse to obey the imperative, eager will, To reach home—to reach home—home, such a one as it is, lies only half a dozen steps away; press for- ward, Menie, are those years or hours that pass in the journey? But the hiding-place and shelter is almost gained. ~ ‘When suddenly this hand, which he would not take, is grasped in his vigorous’ hold—suddenly this violent trouble makes Menie feel how he supports her, and how she leans on him. “Tam going home,” said Menie, faintly. ‘ Still he made no, answer, but held her strongly, wilfully; not re- sisting, but unaware of her efforts to escape. “T have wherewith to work for you, Menie, said the man’s voice in herear. “ What are your changed fortunes to me? If you were a princess, I would receive you less joyfully, for you would have less need of me. Menie, Menie, why have you tried yourself so sorely—and why should this be a cause of separating us? I wanted only you.” ~ And Menie’s pride had failed her. She hid her face in her hands and cried, “My mother, my mother !” in a passion of tears. “Your mother, your mother? But you have a duty to me,” said Randall, more coldly. ‘ Your mother must not bid you give me up: you have no right to obey. Ah! I see;.Iam dull and stupid; forgive me, Menie. You mean that your mother’s fortunes are changed. She has the more need of a son then; and my May Marion knows well, that to be her mother is enough for me—you under- stand me, Menie. This does not change our at- tachment, does not change our plans, our prospects in the slightest degree. It may make it more im- perative that your mother should live with us, but you will think that no misfortune. Well, are we to have no more heroics now—nothing tragical— but only a little good sense and patience on all sides, and my Menie what she always is? Come, look up, and tell me.” “T meant nothing heroie—nothing. What I said was not false, Randall,” said Menie, looking up with some fire. “If you think it was unreal, that I did not mean it” “Tf you do not mean it now, is not that enough ?” said Randall, smiling. “Let us talk of something less weighty. July says you do not look as you used to do; has this been weighing on your mind, Menie? But, indeed, you have not told me what the misfortune is.” : “We knew it only to-day,” said Menie. Menie spoke very low, and was very much saddened and humbled, quite unable to make any defence against Randall’s lordly manner of setting her emotion aside. “My father’s successors were young men, and the price they paid for entering on his practice was my mother’s annuity. But now they are both gone; one died two years ago, the other-only last week—and he has died very poor and in debt, the lawyer writes; so that there is neither hope nor chance of having anything from those he leaves behind. So we have no longer an income; nothing now but my mother’s life-rent in Burnside.” Menie Laurie did not know what poverty was. It was not any appprehension of this which drew from her eyes those few large tears. “Well, that will be enough for your mother,” said Randall. It was impossible for Menie to say a word or make an objection, so completely had he put her aside,,and taken it for granted that his will should decide it all. “Or if it was not enough, what then? Provision for the future lies with me—and you need not fear for me, Menie. I am not quarrelsome. You need not look so depre- cating and frightened ; you will find no disappoint- ‘| ment in me,” Was Menie reassured ? It was not easy to tell ; for very new to Menie Laurie was this trembling humility of tone and look—this faltering and wav- ering as if she knew not to which side to turn. But Randall began to speak as he knew how of her own self, and of their bethrothing, “forever and forever ;” and the time these words were said came back upon her with new power. Her mind was not satisfied, her heart was not convinced, and very trembling and insecure now was her secret re- sponse to Randall’s declaration that she should find no disappointment in him; but her heart was young, and all unwilling to give up its blithe ex- istence. Instinctively she fled from her own pain, and accepted the returning hope and pleasantness, Bright pictures rose before Menie, of a future household harmonious and full of peacee—of the new love growing greater, fuller, day by day—the old love sacred and strong, as when it stood alone. Why did she fear ? why dida lurking terror in her heart, ery No, no! with a soband pang? After all, this was no vain impracticable hope; many a one had realized it—it was right and true forever under the skies ; and Menie put her hand upon the arm of her bethrothed, and closed her eyes for a mo- ment with a softening sense of relief and comfort, and gentle tears under the lids. Let him lead for. ward; who ean tell the precious stores of love and tenderness, and supreme regard that wait him as his guerdon? Let him lead forward—on to those bright visionary days—in to this peaceful home. CHAPTER XXI. Pernaps next to the pleasure of doing all for those we love best; the joy of receiving all, ranks highest. With her heart elate, Menie went in again to the house she had left so sadly—went in again, looking up to Randall, rejoicing in the thought that from him every daily gift—all that lay in the future—should henceforth come. And if it were well to be Menie’s mother—chief over one child’s heart which could but love—how much greater joy to be Randall’s mother, high in the reverent thought of such a mind as his! Now there remained but one difficulty—to bring the mother and the son lovingly together; to let no misconception, no false understanding, blind the one’s sight of the other; to clear away all evil judgment of the past; to show each how worthy of esteem and high appreciation the other was. She thought so in her own simple soul, poor heart ! Through her own great affection she looked at both—to either of them she would have yielded without a murmur her own little prides and resent- ments; and the light of her eyes suffused them with a circle of mingling radiance; and sweet was the fellowship and kindness, pure the love and good offices, harmonious and noble the life of home and every day, which blossomed out of Menie Laurie’s heart and fancy, in the reaction of her hopeless grief. Mrs. Laurie sits very thoughtful and still by the window. Menie’s mother, in her undisturbed and quiet life, had never found out before how proud she was. Now she feels it in her nervous shrink- ing from speech of her misfortune—in the in- voluntary haughtiness with which she starts and recoils from sympathy. Without»a word of comment or lamentation the mere bare facts, and nothing more, she has communi- cated to Miss Annie; and Mrs. Laurie had much difficulty in restraining outward evidence of the burst of indignant impatience with which, in her heart, she received Miss Annie’s effusive pity and real kindness. Miss Annie, thinking it best not to trouble her kinswoman in the present mood of her mind, has very discreetly carried her pity to some one who will receive it better, and waits till “poor dear Mrs, Laurie” shall recover her composure; while even July, repelled by the absorbed look, and indeed by an abrupt short an- swer, too, withdraws, and hangs about the other end of the room, like a little shadow, ever and anon gliding across the window with her noiseless step, and her streams of falling hair. - Mrs. Laurie’s faceis full of thought—what is she to do? But, harder far than that, what is Menie to do?—Menie, who vows never to leave her—who will not permit her to meet the chill fel- lowship of poverty alone. A little earthen floored Dumfriesshire cottage, with its kailyard and its one apartment, is not a very pleasant anticipation to Mrs, Laurie herself, who has lived most part of her life, and had her share of the gifts of fortune ; but what will it be to Menie, whose life has to be made yet, and whose noontime and prime must all be influenced by such a cloud upon her dawning day? The mother’s brow is knitted with heavy thought—the mother’s heart is pondering with strong anxiety. Herself must suffer largely from this change of fortune, but she cannot see herself for Menie—Menie: what is Menie to do ? Will it be better to see her married to Randall Home, and then to go away solitary to the cot- house in Kirklands, to spend out this weary life— these lingering days? But Mrs. Laurie’s heart swells at the thought. Perhaps it will be best; perhaps it is what we must make up our minds to, and even urge upon her; but alas and alas! how heavily the words, the very thought, rings into Mrs. Laurie’s. heart. And now here they are coming, their youth upon them like a mantle and a crown—coming, but not with downcast looks; not despondent, nor afraid, nor touched at all with the heaviness which bows down the mother’s spirit to the very dust. Menie will go, then, Close your eyes, mother, from the light, and try to think you are glad; try to rejoice that she will be content to part from you. It is “for her good”—is there anything you would not do “for her good,” mother? It has come to the decision now; and look how she comes with her hand upon his arm, her eyes turning to his, her heart elate. She will be his wife, then—his Me- nie first, and not her mother’s; but have we not schooled our mind to be content ? “Yes, she is coming, poor heart! coming with
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‘me? 20 THE QUIET HEART. her new hope glorious in her eyes; coming to bring the son to his mother; coming herself with such a great embracing love as is indeed enough of its own might and strength to unite them forever; and Menie thinks that now she cannot fail. And now they are seated all of them about the window, July venturing forward to join the party; and as nothing better can be done, there commences an indifferent conversation, as far removed as possible from the real subject of their thoughts. There sits Mrs. Laurie, sick with her heavy mus- ings, believing that she now stands alone, that her dearest child has made up her mind to forsake her, and that in solitude and meagre poverty she will have to wait for slow-coming age and death. Here is Randall, looking for once out of himself, with a real will and anxiety to soften, by every means in his power, the misfortunes of Menie’s mother, and rousing himself withal to the jov of carrying Menie home; to the sterner necessity of doing a man’s work to provide for her, and for the new house- hold; and all the wonder you can summon—no small portion in those days—flutters about the same subject, little July Home; and you think in your heart if you but could, what marvellous things you would do for Menie Laurie and Menie Laurie’s moth- er; while Menie herself, with a wistful, new-grown habit of observation, reads everybody’s face and knows not whether to be most afraid of the obstinate gloom upon her mother’s brow, or exultant in the delicate attention, the sudden respectfulness and regard, of Randall’s bearing. But the little com- pany, all so earnestly engrossed—all surrounding a matter of the vitalest importance to each—turn aside to talk of Miss Annie Laurie’s toys—Miss Annie Laurie’s party—and only when they divide and separate dare speak of what lies at their heart. And Mrs, Laurie is something hard to be concil- iated. Mrs. Laurie is much inclined to resent this softening of manner as half an insult to her change of fortune. Patienoe, Menie! though your mother rebuffs him, he bears it nobly. The clovd will not lighten upon her brow—cannot lighten—— for you do not know how heavily this wistful look of yours, this very anxiety to please her, and all your transparent wiles and artifices, your sup- pressed and trembling hope, strikes upon your mother’s heart. ‘She will go away ; she will leave me.” Your mother says so, Menie, within herself ; and it is so hard, so very hard to persuade unwill- ing content with that sad argument, “It is for her good.” Now, draw your breath softly, lest she hear how your heart beats, for Randall has asked her to go to the garden with him, to speak of this ; and Mrs. Laurie rises with a sort of desolate state- liness—rises—accepts his offered arm, and turns away—poor Menie! with an averted face, and with- out a glance at you. And now there follows a heavy time; a little space of curious, restless suspense. Wandering from window to window, from table to table; striking a few notes on the ever-open piano; opening a book now, taking up a piece of work then, Menie strays about, in an excitement of _ anxiety which she can neither suppress nor con- ceal. Will they be friends? such friends, such loving friends as they might be, being as they are in Menie’s regard so noble and generous both ? Will they join heartily and cordially? will they clasp hands upon a kindly bargain? But Menie shrinks, and closes her eyes; she dares not look upon the alternative. “Menie, will you not sit down?” Little July Home follows Menie with her eyes almost as wist- fully as Menie follows Randall and her mother. ‘There is no answer, for Menie is so fully occupied that the little timid voice fails to break through the trance of intense abstraction in which her heart is separated from this present scene. “ Me- nie!” Speak louder, little girl: Menie cannot hear you, for other voices speaking in her heart. So July steals across the room with her noiseless step, and has her arm twined through Menie’s be- fore she is aware. “Come and sit down. What are they speaking about, Menie? Do you no hear Oh, Menie, is it our Randall? is it his blame ?” July is so near crying that she must be an- swered. “ Nobody is to blame; there is no harm,” said Monie, quickly, leading her back te her seat ‘\ —quickly with an imperative hush and haste, which throws July back into timid silence, and sets all her faculties astir to listen, too. But there comes no sound into this quiet room, not ev- en the footsteps which have passed out of hearing upon the garden path, nor’so much as an echo of the voices which Menie knows to be engaged in converse which must decide her fate. But this restless and visible solicitude will not do; it is best to take up her work resolutely, and sit down with her intent face turned towards the window, from which at least the first glance of them may be seen as they return. “ No—no need to start and blush and tremble; this step, ringing light upon the path, is not the stately step of Randall—not our mother’s sober tread. ‘‘It’s no them, Menie—it’s just Miss Lau- rie,” whispers little startled July from the corner of the window. So long away—so long away—and Menie cannot tell whether it is a good or evil omen —but still they do not come. “My sweet children, are you here alone?” said Miss Annie, setting down her little basket. “ Menie, love, I have just surprised your mamma and Mr. Randall, looking very wise, I assure you; you ought to be quite thankful that you are too young to share such deliberations. July, dear, you must come and have your lesson; but I cannot teach you to play that favorite tune; oh, no, it would be quite improper—though he has very good taste, has he not, darling? But somebody will say I have designs upon Mr. Lithgow, if I always play his favorite tune.” So saying, Miss Annie sat down before the piano, and began to sing, “For bonnie Annie Laurie Pll lay down my head and dee.” Poor Johnnie Lithgow had no idea, when he praised the pretty little graceful melody and delicate verses, that he was paying a compliment to the lady of Heath- bank. * And July, with a blush, and a little timid eager- ness, stole away to Miss Annie’s side, July had never before touched any instrument except Menie Laurie’s old piano at Burnside, and with a good deal of awe had submitted to Miss Annie’s lessons. It did seem a very delightful prospect to be able to play this favorite tune, though July would have thought very little of it, but for Miss Annie’s con- stant warnings. Thanks to these, however, and thanks to his own kindly half-shy regards, John- nie Lithgow’s favorite tunes, favorite books, favor- ite things and places, began to grow of great in- terest to little July Home. She thought it was very foolish to remember them all, and blushed in secret when Johnnie Lithgow’s name came into her mind as an authority ; but nevertheless, in spite of shame and blushing, a great authority Johnnie Lith- gow had grown, and July stood by the piano, eager and afraid, longing very much to be as accomplish- ed as Miss Annie, to be able to play his favorite tune, While Menie Laurie still sits by the window, in- tent and silent, hearing nothing of song or music, but only aware of ahum of inarticulate voices, which her heart longs and strains to understand, but cannot hear. CHAPTER XXII. THE music is over, the lesson concluded, and July sits timidly before the piano, striking faint notes with one finger and marvelling greatly how it is possible to extract anything like an intelligible strain from this waste of unknown chords. Miss Annie is about in the room once more, giving dainty touches to its somewhat defective arrange- ment—throwing down a book here, and there al- tering an ornament. Patience, Menie Laurie! many another one before you has sat in resolute outward calm, with a heart all a-throb and trem- bling, even as yours is. Patience; though it is hard to bear the rustling of Miss Annie’s dress— the faint diseords of July’s music. It must have been one time or another, this most momentous in- terview—all will be over when it 1s over. Patience, we must wait. But it is a strange piece of provocation on Miss Annie’s part, that she should choose this time and no other for looking over that little heap of Menie’s drawings upon the table. Menie is not ambitious a3 an artist—few ideas or romances are in these | Hesle werks ef hora; they are only seme faces— not very well executed—the faces of those two or three people whom Menie calls. her own. “Come and show them to me, my love.” Menie must not disobey; though her first. impulse is to spring out of the low opened window, and rush away somewhere out of reach. of all interruption till this long suspense is done. But Menie does not rush away; she only rises slowly—comes to Miss Annie’s side—feels the pressure of Miss An- nie’s embracing arm round her—and turns over the drawings; strangely aware of every line in them, yet all the while in a maze of abstraction listening for their return. Here is Menie’s mother—and here again another, and yet another, sketch of her; and this is Randall Home. , “Do you know, I think they are very like,” said Miss Annie; ‘you must do my portrait, Menie, darling, you must indeed, I shall take no denial; you shall do mein my white muslin, among my flowers ; and we will put Mr. Home’s sweet book on the table, and open it at that seene—that scene, you know, I pointed out to you the other day. I know what inspired him when he wrote that. Come, my love, it will divert you from thinking of this trouble; your mamma should not have told you ; shall we begin now? But Menie, dear, don’t you think you have put a strange look in this face of Mr. Randall? It is like him, but I would not choose you to do me with such an expression as that.” Half wild with her suspense, Menie by this time scarcely heard the words that rang into her ears, scarcely saw the face she looked upon; but sud- denly, as Miss Annie spoke, a new light seemed to burst upon this picture, and there before her, looking into her eyes, with a smile of cold supervision which she always feared to see, with the incipient curl of contempt upon his lip, the pride of self-estimation in his eye, was Randall’s face, glowing with con- tradiction to all her sudden hopes, Her own work, and she has never had any will to look at him in this aspect ; but the little picture blazes out upon her like a sudden enlightenment. Here is an- other one done by the loving hand of memory a year ago; but, alas! there is no enchantment to bring back this ideal glory, this glow of genial love and life that makes it bright—a face of the imagination, taking all its wealth of expression from the heart which suffused these well-remem- bered features with a radiance of its own; but the reality looks out on Menie darkly; the face of a man not to be moved by womanish influences— not to be changed by a burst of strong emotion— not to be softened, mellowed, won, by any tender- ness—a heart that can love, indeed ; but never can forget itself; a mind sufficient for its own rule, a soul which knows no generous abandon, which holds its own will and manner firm and strong above all other earthly things. This is the face which looks on Menie Laurie out of her own pic- ture, startling her heart, half distraught with fond hopes and dreams into the chill day-light again, full awake. “T will make portraits,” said Menie, hastily, in a flood of sudden bitterness, ‘‘when we go away, when we go home; I can doit; this shall be my trade.” And Menie closed the little portfolio abruptly, and went back to her seat without another word ; went back with the blood tingling through her veins, with all her pride and all her strength astir; with a vague impetuous excitement about her—~ an impulse of defiance. So long; so long; what keeps them abroad lingering among these glisten- ing trees? Perhaps because they are afraid to tell her that her fate is sealed; and starting to her feet, the thought is strong on Menie to go forth and meet them, to bid them have no fear for her, to tell them her delusion is gone forever, and that there is no more light remaining under the skies. Hush! there are footsteps on the path. Who are.these that come together, leaning,:the elder on the younger, the mother onthe son? With such a grace this lofty head stoops to our mother; with such a kindly glance she lifts her eyes to him; and they are busy still with the consultation which has occupied so long a time. While she stands ar- rested, looking at them as they draw near, grow- ing aware of their full amity and union—a shiver of great emotion comes upon Menie, then, or ever sho is eonseieus, a burst ef tears. In another mo- ee oe
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THE QUIET HEART. 21 [nan AEN RUS SU ll name neem ne RR RENESNaDtenmmeneteneeememeeeemememeneemememmenaes meme nen a LLL LLL LL LC eee ment all her sudden enlightenment is gone, quenched out of her eyes, out of her heart, and Menie puts the tears away with a faltering hand, and stands still to meet them in a quiet tremor of joy, the same loving Menie as of old. “ My bairn!” Mrs, Laurie says nothing more as she draws her daughter close to her, and puts her lips softly to Menie’s brow. It is the seal of the new bond. The mother and the son have been brought together; the past is gone forever like a dream of the night; and into the blessed daylight, full of the peaceful rays God sends us out of heaven, we open our eyes as to another life. Peace and sweet harmony to Menie Laurie’s heart ! Put away the picture; lay it by where no one again shall believe its slander true, put away this false-reporting face; put away the strange clear- sightedness which came upon us like a curse. No need to inquire how mnch was false; it is past, and we begin anew. CHAPTER XXIII. “Yrs, Menie, I am quite satisfied.” It is Mrs. Laurie herself who volunteers this declaration, while Menie, on the little stool at her feet, looks up wistfully, eager to hear, but not venturing to ask what her conversation with Randall was. “ We said a great many things, my dear—a great deal about you, Menie, and something about our circum- stances too. The rent of Burnside will be sufli- cient income for me. I took it kind of Randall to say so, for itshows that he knew I would not be de- pendent; and as for you, Menie, I fancy you will be very well and comfortable, according to what he says. So you will have to prepare my dear— to prepare for your new life.” Menie hid her face in her mother’s lap. Prepare —not the bridal garments, the household supplies —something more momentous, and of greater deli- cacy—the mind and heart; and if this must al- ways be something solemn and important, what- ever the circumstances, how much more so to Menie, whose path had been crossed already by such a spectre! She sat there, her eyes covered with her hands, her head bowing down upon her ¥ mother’s knee; but the heavy doubt had flown from her, leaving nothing but lighter cloudy shad- ows—maidenly fears and tremblings—in her way. Few hearts were more honest than Menie’s, few more wistfully desirous of doing well; and now it is with no serious anticipations of evil, but only with the natural thrill of tremor, the natural ex- citement of so great an epoch drawing close at hand, that Menie’s fingers close with a startled pressure on her mother’s hand, as she is bidden to prepare. What is this that has befallen little July Home ? There never was such throngs of unaccountable blushes, such a suffusion of simple surprise. Something is on her lips perpetually which she does not venture to speak—some rare piece of in- telligence, which July cannot but marvel at her- self in silent wonder, and which she trembles to think Menie, and “‘a’body else ” will marvel at still more. Withdrawing sileutly into dark corners, sitting there doing nothing, in long fits of reverie, quite unusual with July; coming forward so con- scjous and guilty, when called upon; and now, at this earliest opportunity, throwing her arms round Menie Laurie’s neck, and hiding her little flushed and agitated face on Menie’s shoulder. What has befallen July Home ? “Do you think it’s a’ true, Menie? He wouldna say what hedinna mean; but I think it’s for our Randall’s sake—it canna be for me !” For July has not the faintest idea, as she lets this soft silken hair of hers fall down on her cheek without an effort to restrain it, that John- nie Lithgow would not barter one smile upon that trembling child’s lip of hers for all the Randalls in the world, “He says he'll go to the Hill, and tell them a’ at hame,” said July. “Eh, Menie, what will they say? And he’s to tell Randall first of all. I wish I was away, no to see Randall, Menie; he'll just laugh, and think it’s no true—for I see mysel it canna be for me!” “It is for you, July; you must not think any- thing else; there is nobody in the world like. you to Johnuie Lithgow.” And slowly July’s head is ~ raised—a bright shy look of wonder gradually growing into conviction, a sudden waking ef high- er thought and deeper feeling in the open simple face; a sudden flush of crimson—the woman’s blush—and July withdrew herself from her‘*friend’s embrace, and stole a little apart into the shadow, and wept a few tears. Was it true? For her, and not for another! But it is a long time before this grand discovery can look a truth and real, to July’s humble eyes. : But, nevertheless, it is very true. Randall’s little sister, Menie’s ehild-friend, the little July of Crofthill, has suddenly been startled into woman- hood by this unexpected voice. After a severer fashion than has ever confined it before, July hastily fastens up her silky hair, hastily wipes off all traces of the tears upon her cheek, and is com- posed and calm, after a sweet shy manner of com- posure, lifting up her little gentle head with a newborn pride, eager to bring no diseredit on her wooer’s choice, And already July objects to be laughed at, and feels a slight offence when she is treated as a child—not for herself, but for him, whom now she does not quite care to have called Johnnie Lithgow, but is covetous of respect and honor for, as she never was for Randall, though secretly in her own heart July still doubts of his genius, and cannot choose but think Randall must be cleverer than his less assuming friend. And in this singular little company, where all these feelings are astir, it is hardly possible to preserve equanimity of manners. Miss Annie her- self, the lady of the house, sits at her little work- table, in great delight, running over now and then in little outbursts of enthusiasm, discoursing of Mr. Home’s sweet book, of Mr. Lithgow’s charm- ing articles, and occasionally making a demonstra- tion of joy and sympathy in the happiness of her darling girls, which throws Menie—Menie, always conscious of Randall’s eye upon her, the eye of a lover, it is true, but something critical withal, into grave and painful embarrassment, and covers July’s stooping face with blushes. Mrs. Laurie, busy with her work, does what she can to keep the con- versation “sensible,” but with no great success. The younger portion of the company are too com- pletely occupied, all of them, to think of ordinary intercourse. Miss Annie’s room was never so bright, never so rich with youthful hopes and in- terests before. Leok at them, so full of individual character, unconsvious as they are of any observa- tion,.though Nelly Panton, very grim in the stiff coat armor of her new assumed gentility, sits at the table sternly upright, watching them all ask- ance, with vigilant unloving eye. Lithgow, good fellow, sits by Miss Annie. Though he laughs now and then, he still does not scorn the natural goodness, the natural tender- ness of heart, which make their appearance under these habitual affections—the juvenile tricks and levities of her unreverent age. Poor Miss Annie Laurie has been content to resign the reverence, in a vain attempt at equality; but Lithgow, who is no critic by nature, remembers gratefully her true kindness, and smiles only as little as possible at the fictitious youthfulness which Miss Annie her- self has come to believe in. So he sits and bears with her little follies and weaknesses, and, in his unconscious humility, is magnanimous, and does honor to his manhood. Within reach of his kindly eye, July bends her head over her work, glancing up now and then furtively to see who is looking at him—to see, in the second place, who is noticing or laughing at her; and July, with all her inno- cent heart, is grateful to Miss Annie. So many kind things she says—and in July’s guileless ap- prehension they are all so true. Graver, but not less happy, Menie Laurie pur- sues her occupation by July’s side, rarely looking up at all, pondering in her own heart the many weighty things that are to come, with her tremor of fear, her joy of deliverance scarcely yet quieted, and all lier heart and all her mind engaged—in dreams no longer, but in sober thought; . sober thought—thoughts of great devotion, of lifelong love and service, of something nobler than the common life. Very serious are these ponderings, coming down to common labors, the course of every day; gad Menie does not know the nature of her dreamings—they look to her so real, so so- ber, and so true—and would scorn your warning, if you told her that not the wildest story of Ara- bian genii was more romance than those, her sober plans and thoughts. Apart, and watching all, stands Randall Home. There is love in his eye—you cannot doubt it— love, and the impulse of protection, the strong ap- propriating grasp. There is something more. Look how his head rises in “the dimmer background — above the table and the lights, above the litilecom- — pany assembled there. With something like laugh- ter, his eye turns upon July, upon July’s wooer, his own friend, kindly, yet with a sense of superi- ority, an involuntary elevation of himself above them both. And his glance upon Miss Annie is mere scorn, nothing higher; and his eye has scarce- ly had time to recover itself, when its look falls, bright and softened, upon his bethrothed; a look of love, question it not, simple Menie, but it is calm, superior, above you stil" CHAPTER XXIV. “Tey tell me it’s a haill month since it was a’ settled, but I hear naething of the house or the plenishing, and no a word of what Jenny’s to do. If they’re no wanting me, I’m no wanting them, ne’er a bit. It’s aye the way guid service is re- warded ; and what for should there be ony odds with Jenny? I might have kent that muckle, if I had regarded counsel, or thought of my ainsel; but aye Jenny’s foremost thought was of them, for a’ such an ill body as she is now.” And a tear was in Jenny’s eye, as she smoothed down: the folds of Menie’s dress—Menie’s finest dress, her own present, which Menie was to wear to-night. And Menie’s ornaments are all laid out carefully upon tke table, everything she is likely to need, before Jenny’s lingering step leaves the room. “J canna weel tell, for my pairt, what life'll be without her,” muttered Jenny, as she went away. “TI reckon no very muckle worth the minding about; but I’m no gaun to burden ony- body that doesna want me—no, if I should never hae anither hour’s comfort a’ my days.” And slowly, with many a backward glance and pause, Jenny withdrew. Neglect is always hard to bear. Jenny believed herself to be left out of their calculations—forgotten of those to whom she had devoted so many years of her life; and Jenny, though she tried to be angry could not manage it, but felt her indignant eyes startled with strange tears. It made a singular cloud upon her face, this unusual emotion; the native impatience only struggles through it fitfully in angry glimpses, though Jenny was furious at herself for feeling so desolate, and very fain would have thrown off her discomfort in a fuff—but far past the region of the fuff was this her new-come solitude of heart. Her friends were dead or scattered, her life was all bound up in her mistress and her mistress’s child, and it was no small trial for Jenny, to find herself thus cast off and thrown aside. The next who enters this room has a little heat about her, a certain atmosphere of annoyance and displeasure. “I will be a burden ”—una- wares the same words steal over Mrs, Laurie’s lip, but the sound of her. voice checks her. Two or three steps back and forward through the room, a long pause before the window, and then her brow is cleared. You can see the shadows gradu- | ually melting away, as clouds melt from the sky, and in another moment she has left the room to resume her place down stairs. This vacant room—nothing can you learn from its calm good order, its windows open to the sun, its undisturbed and home-like quiet, of what pass- es within its walls. There is Menie’s little Bible on the table; it is here where Menie brings her doubts and troubles, to resolve them, if they may be resolved. But there is no whisper here to tell you what happens to Menie, when, as has al ready chanced, some trouble comes upon her which it is not easy to put away. Hush! This time the door opens slowly, gravely—this time itis a footstep, very sober, something languid, which comes in; and Menie Laurie puts up her hand to her forehead, as if a pain was there; but not a word says Menie Laurie’s reverie—not a word. If she is sad, or if she is merry, there is no way to know. She goes about her toilette likea piece of business, and gives no sign. But this month has passed almost like age upon Menie Laurie's face. You can see that grave
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i Al 22 THE QUIET HEART. thoughts are common now, everyday guests and friends in her sobered life, and that she has be- gun to part with her romances of joy and noble life; has begun to realize more truly what manner of future it is which lies before her. Nothing evil, perhaps—little hardship in it; no great share of labor, of poverty, or care—but no longer the grand ideal life, the dream of youthful souls. And now she stands before the window, wearing Jenny’s gown. It is only to look out if anyone is visible upon the road——-but there is no passen- ger yet approaching Heathbank, and Menie goes calmly down stairs. As it happens, the drawing- room is quite vacant of all but Nelly Panton, who sits prim by the wall in one corner. Nelly is not an invited guest, but has come as a volunteer, in right of her brother’s invitation, and Miss Annie shows her sense of the intrusion by leaving her alone. “Na, I’m no gaun to bide very lang in London,” said Nelly. ‘Ye see, Miss Menie, you’re an auld friend. I’m no so blate but I may tell you I didna come up here ance errand for my ain pleasure, but mostly to see Johnnie, and to try if I could no get ony word of a very dacent lad, ane Peter Drumlie, that belangs about our coun- tryside. We were great friends, him and me, and then we had an outcast—you’ll ken by your- sel—but we’ve made it up again since I came to London, and I’m gaun hame to get my providing, and comfort my mother a wee while, afore I leave her a’thegither. It’s a real duty, comforting folk’s mother, Miss Menie. I’m sure I wouldna forget that for a’ the lads in the world.” “ And where are you to live, Nelly ?” moralizing scarcely called for an answer. “We havena just made up our minds; they say ae marriage aye makes mair,” said Nelly, with a grim smile. ‘“ Miss Menie, you set us a gaun.” Perhaps Menie did not care to be classed with Nelly Panton. “July Home will be a very young wife,” ske said; “I think your brother should be very happy with her, Nelly.” “ T wouldna wonder,” said Nelly, shortly; “ but you see, Miss Menie, our Johnnie’s a well-doing lad, and micht ha’e looked higher, meaning nae offence to you; though nae doubt it’s true what Randall Home said when he was speaking about this. ‘ Lithgow,’ says he (for he ca’s Johnnie by his last name—it’s a kind o’ fashion hereaway), ‘if you get naething with your wife, I will take care to see you’re no cumbered with onybody but hersel ;’ which nae doubt i8 a great comfort, seeing there micht ha’e been a haill troop of friends, now that Nelly’s _ Johnnie’s getting up in.the world.” _ glowing on her with haughty rage, ‘it, every single, deliberate word, and Randall is no timid happiness of July Home? “ What was that Randall Home said ?” Menie asked the question in a very clear, distinct tone, cold and steady, and unfaltering. ‘‘ What do you say? he said; tell me again.” “He said Johnnie wouldna be troubled with nane of her friends,” said Nelly; “though he has her to keep, a wee bit silly thing, that can do nae- __ thing in a house—and nae doubt a maid, to keep to her forby—that he wouldna have ony of her friends a burden on him;and a very wise thing to say, and a great comfort. I aye said he was a sensible lad, Randall Home. Eh, preserve me!” For Randall Home stands before her, his eyes He has heard coward ; he comes in person to answer for what he has said. Rise, Menie Laurie! Slowly they gather over us, these kind shadows of the coming night; no one can see the momentary faltering which inclines you to throw yourself down there upon the very ground, and weep your heart out. Rise; it is you who are stately now. “This is true ?” She is so sure of it, that there needs no other form of question, and Menie lays her hand upon the table to support herself, and stands firmly be- fore him waiting for his answer. Why is it that now, at this moment, when she should be most strong, the passing wind brings to her, as in mock- ery, an echo of whispering, mingled voices—the But Menie draws up her light figure, draws herself apart from the touch of her companions, and stands, as she fancies she must do henceforth, all her life, alone. “This is true?” failed in this great trial. “T would disdain myself if Ltried to escape by any subterfuge,” said Randall, proudly; “‘ I might answer that I never said the words this woman at- tributes to me; but that I do not need to tell you. I would not deceive you, Menie. I never can deny what I have given expression to; and you are right—it is true.” And Randall thinks he hears a voice, wavering somewhere, far off, and distant like an echo, not coming from these pale lips which move and form the words, but falling out upon the air, faint, yet distinct, not to be mistaken. “T am glad you have told me. I thank you for making no difficulty about it ; this is very well.” “Menie! you are not moved by this gossip’s story? This that I said has no effect on you? Menie! Isa woman like this to make a breach between you and me?” In stolid malice, Nelly Panton sits still, and lis- tens with a certain melancholy enjoyment of the mischief she has made, protesting, under her breath, that ‘“‘she meant nae ill; she aye did a’ things for the best ; while Randall, forgetful of his own acknowledgment, repeats again and again his indignant remonstrance, “a woman like this!” “No, she has no such power,” said Menie, firm- ly; ‘(no such power. Pardon me, I am wanted to-night. My strength is not my own to be wasted now; we can conclude this matter another time.” Before he could say a word, the door had closed upon her. There was a bustle without, a glimmer of coming lights upon the wall. In a few minutes the room was lighted up, the lady of the house in her presiding place, and Randall started with angry pride from the place where he stood, by the side of Nelly Panton, whose gloomy unrelieved figure suddenly stood out in bold relief upon the bright- ened wall. Another time! Menie Laurie has not gone to ponder upon what this other conference shall be— she is not by her own window; she is not out of doors; she has gone to no such refuge. Where she never went before, into the heart of Miss An- nie’s preparations, into the bustle of Miss Annie’s hospitality, shunning even Jenny, far more shun- ning her mother, and waiting only till the room is full enough, to give her a chance of escaping every familiar eye. This is the first device of Menie’s mazed, bewildered mind. These many days she has lived in hourly expectation of some such blow; but it stuns her when it comes. Forlorn! forlorn! wondering if it is possible to hide this misery from every eye, pondering plans and schemes of concealment, trying to invent—do not wonder, it is a natural impulse—some generous lie. Menie’s nature, more truthful than her will, fails in the effort. The time goes on, the lingering moments swell intoan hour. Music is in her ears, and smiling faces glide before her, and about her, till she feels this dreadful pressure at her heart no longer tolerable, and bursts away in a sudden pas- sion, craving to be alone. Another heart, restless by reason of a gnawing unhappiness, wanders out and in of these unlight- ed chambers—oftenest coming back to this one, where the treasures of its life rest night by night. This wandering shadow is not a graceful one; these pattering, hasty footsteps have nothing in them of the softened lingering tread of medita- tion. No, poor Jenny, little of sentiment or grace embellishes your melancholy; yet it is hard to find any poem so full of pathos as a desolate heart, even such a one as beats in your homely breast to-night. Softly—the room is n-° vacant now, as it was when you last entered here. Some one stands by the window, stooping forward to look at the stars ; and while you linger by the door, a low cry, half a sigh, half a moan, breaks the silence faintly, not the same voice which just now bore its part so well below ; not the same, for that voice came from the lips only; this is out of the heart. “Bairn, you’re no weel ; they’ve a’ wearied you,” said Jenny, stealing upon her in the darkness ; “lie down and sleep; it’s nae matter for the like of me, but when you sigh, it breaks folk’s hearts.” The familiar voice surprised the watcher into a sudden burst of childish tears. All the woman “Oh, Jenny. dinna tell my mother!” Menie Laurie was capable of no other thought. * tee | shower PART V.—CHAPTER XXV. Bur this Menie Laurie, rising up from her bed of unrest, when the morning light breaks, cold and real, upon a changed world, has wept out all her child’s tears, and is a woman once again. No ove knows yet a whisper of what has befallen her; noc even poor Jenny, who sobbed over her last night, and implored her not to weep. Now, how to tell this; how to signify in the ' fewest and calmest words, the change that has come upon her. Sitting with her cheek leant on her hand, by the window where she heard it, before any other eyes are awake, Menie ponders this in her heart. Always before in little difficulties counsel and help have been within her reach ; few troublous things have been to do in Menie’s ex- perience; and no one ever dreampt that she should do them, when they chanced to come to her mother’s door, But now her mother’s honor is involyed—she must not be consulted ; she must not know. With a proud flush Menie draws up herself—herself who must work in this alone. Ah, sweet dependence, dear humility of the old times! we must lay them by out of our heart, to wait for a happier dawn. This day it is independence, self-support, a strength that stands alone; and no one who has not felt such an abrupt transition can know how hard it is to take these unused weapons up. “ Will you let me speak to you, aunt?” Menie’s heart falters within her, as she remembers poor Miss Annie’s unaccepted sympathy. Has she in- deed been driven to seek refuge here at last! “My love! how can you ask such a question, darling, when I am always ready to speak to you?” exclaimed Miss Annie, with enthusiasm. “But not here; out of doors, if you will permit me,” said Menie, in a half whisper. ‘‘I—I want to be out of my mother’s sight; she must not know.” “You delightful creature,” said Miss Annie, “are you going to give me your confidence at last ?” Poor Menie, sadly dismayed, was very ill able to support this strain of sympathy. She hastened out, not quite observing how it tasked her eom- panion to follow her—out to the same green overgrown corner, where once before she had spoken of this same subject to’ Randall hims¢l:. With a slight shudder she paused there before the « little rustic seat, from which she had risen at his approach; but Menie knew that she must harden herself against the power of associations ; enough of real ill was before her. “T want to tell you, aunt, if you will please to listen to me, that the engagement of which you were told when we came here is dissolved—bro- ken. Ido not know if there is any stronger word,” said Menie, a bewildered look growing on her face. “T mean to say that it is all over, as ifit had never been.” And Menie folded her hands upon her breast, and stood patiently to listen, expecting a burst of la- mentation and condolence; but Menie was not pre- pared for the laugh which rung shrilly on her ears —the words that followed it. “My sweet, simple child, I have no doubt you quite believe it; forgive me for laughing, darling; but I know what lovers’ quarrels are. There, now, don’t look so grave and angry; my love, you will make it all up to-morrow.” And Miss Annie Laurie patted Menie’s shrink- ing shoulder encouragingly. It was a harder task this than Menie had anticipated ; but she went on without flinching. “This is no lovers’ quarrel, aunt; do not think so. My mother is in some degree involved in this, I cannot consult her, or ask her to help me; it is the first time I have ever been in such a strait ;” and Menie’s lip quivered as she spoke. ‘You are my only friend. I am serious, as serious as mind can be, which feels that here it decides its life. “ Aunt, I apply to you.” Miss Annie Laurie looked up very much con- fused and shaken; very seldom had anyone spoken to her with such sober seriousness of tone; she could not think it unreal, for neither extravagance nor despair were in these grave, sad words of Me- nie. The poor frivolous heart felt this voice ring into its depths, past all superficial affectations and sentiments. No exuberance of sympathy, no of condoliag words or endearmeuts, could / lll ll a TT a ae - eee
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~ THE QUIET HEART. a ) answer this appeal; and poor Miss Annie faltered before this claim of real service, faltered and shrank into a very weak old woman, her self-delu- sions standing her in no stead in such a strait; and the only answer she could make was to ery, in a trembling and strangely altered voice: “Oh, child, do not speak. What can I do for you?” Most true, what can you do, indeed, poor soul! whose greatest object for all these years has been to shut out and darken the daylight truth, which mocked your vain pretences? You could give charity and gentle words—-be thankful; your heart is alive in you because of these; but what can you do in such a difficulty as this? Where is your wisdom to counsel, your strength to uphold ? This grave girl stands before you, sadly bear- ing her burden, without an effort to conceal from you that she feels it hard to bear; but you, whose age is not grave, whose heart has rejected expe- rience, whose mind has refused to learn the kindly insight of advancing years, shrink into yourself, poor aged butterfly; feel that it is presumption to call yourself her counsellor, and say again— again, with a tremble in your weakened voice, “What can I do for you?” “ Aunt, I apply to you,” said Menie Laurie: “I ask your hélp, when I resolve to decide my future life according to my own will and conviction of what is best. I have no one else to assist me. I apply to you.” Miss Annie melted into a fit of feeble crying; her hands shook, her ringlets drooped down lank about her cheeks. “J will do anything, anything you like; tell me what to do, Menie, my dear child.” It was pitiful to see her distress. Menie, whom no one comforted, felt her heart moved to com- fort her. “T will not grieve you much,” said Menie, gen- tly; “only I beg you to give me your countenance when I see Randall—Mr. Home. I want you to be as my mother might have been in other circum- stances; but I will not trouble you much, aunt, I will not trouble you.” Miss Annie could not stop her tears; she was very timid and afraid, sobbing helplessly. “ What will 1 do? what can I do? Oh, Menie, love, you will make it up to-morrow ;” for poor Miss Annie knew no way of conquering grief except by flying out of its sight. Menie led her back to the house tenderly. Menie had never known before this necessity of becom- ing comforter, when she had so much need to be comforted. It was best for her, it gave her all the greater command over her own heart. And to hear poor innocent July, in her own young unclouded joy, to hear her unsuspicious mother at their breakfast-table, to have Randall’s | name cross her now and then, like a sudden blow, Randall, Randall; Menie knew nothing of all these depths, nor how such sorrows come in bat- talions; so, one by one, her inexperienced heart gained acquaintance with them now, gained ac- quaintance with that sorest of human truths, that it is possible to love and to condemn, possible to part, and know that parting is the best, yet withal to cling and cling, and hold, with the sad- dest gripe of tenderness, the heart from which you part. Poor Menie! they said she looked very dark and heavy; that last night’s exertions had wearied her, it was very true, Miss Annie sent a message that she was not well, and would breakfast in her own room. In the forenoon, when she came down stairs again, even Menie was startled atthe change. Miss Annie’s ringlets were smoothed out and braided on her poor thin cheek, braided elaborately with a care and study worthy of something more important; her step tottered a little; when anyone spoke to her, alittle gush of tears came to her eyes; but, notwithstanding, there was a solemnity and im- portance in the hush of Miss Annie’s manner, which no one had ever seen in her before. Half-a-dozen times that day she asked in a start- ling whisper, “ Menie, when is he to come?” Poor Menie, sick at heart, could scarcely bear this slow prolonging of her paiii. CHAPTER XXVIL. __ “Aunt, he hag come.” wen _ No one knows; July is out on a ramble in ‘this & .» — pleasant heath, where she cannot lose herself ; Mrs. Laurie has gone out for some private errands of her own. In her first day, Menie has managed well. True, they all know that Menie has been wearied last night; that her eye looks dull and heavy ; that her cheek has lost its slight’ bloom of color ; that she says something of a headache; but nobody knows that headache has come to be with Menie Laurie as with many another, only a softer word for heart-ache—no one suspects that the quiet heart, which feared no evil when this spring began, is now a battle-ground, and field of con- test, and that sometimes, when she sits quiet, in outward seeming, she could Jeap up with a start and scream, and feels as if madness would come to her underneath their unsuspicious eyes. “Aunt, he has come.” Miss Annie Laurie is very nervous; she has to be supported on Menie’s arm as they go down stairs. “ You will make it all up, Menie; yes, my darling ;” but Miss Annie’s head nods spasmodic- ally, and there is a terrified troubled expression about her face, which looks so meagre in its out- line under that braided hair, Slightly disturbed, something haughty, rather wondering what Menie has got to say for herself, Randall sits waiting in the drawing-room. It is no small surprise to him to see Miss Annie—especial- ly to see her so moved and nervous; and Randall restrains, with visible displeasure, the words which rose to his lips on Menie’s entrance, and coldly makes his bow to the lady of the house. “My dear Mr. Home, I am very much grieved ; I hope you are ready to make it all up,” murmurs Miss Annie; but she trembles so much that it is not easy to hear what she says, except the last words, which flush Randall’s cheek with a sudden disdainful anger. A lover’s quarrel! that he should be fancied capable of this! “My aunt has come with me,” said Menie, steadily, “to give the weight of her presence to what I say. Randall, I do not pretend that my own feelings are changed, or that I have ceased to care for you. I do not need’ to seem to quarrel, or to call you by a Jess familiar name. We know the reason, both of us; there is no use of discussing it, and Ihave come to have it mutually understood that our engagement is broken. We will go away very soon. I came to say good-bye,” Before she concluded, Menie had bent her head, and cast down her wavering eyes upon Miss Annie’s hand, which she held firmly in her own. Her voice was very low, her words quick and hurried ; she stood beside Miss Annie’s chair, holding fast, and twining in her own Miss Annie’s nervous fin- gers; but she did not venture to look up to meet Randalls eyes.” What does this mean ? it is mere trifling, Menie,” said Randall, impatiently. “You hear a gossip’s story of something I said; true or false it did not affect you, it had no bearing on you; you know very well that nothing has happened to make you less precious to me, that nothing can happen which willever change my heart. Menie, this is the second time ; is this the conduct I have a right to expect from you? Deal with me frankly; I have a title to it. What do you mean ?” ““My darling, he will make it up,” said Miss Aunie, with a little overflow of tears, : But Menie was very steady—so strange, so strange—she grew into a startling acquaintance with herself in these few hours. Who could have thought there were so many passionate impulses in Menie Laurie’s quiet heart. “We will not discuss it, Randall,” she said, again ; “Jet us simply conclude that it is best for both of us to withdraw. Perhaps you will be bet- ter content if I speak more strongly,” she con- tinued, with a little trembling vehemence, born of her weakness, “if I say it is impossible ; impossi- ble; you understand the word; to restore the state of mind, the hope, the trust, and confidence that are past. No; let us have no explanation; I can- not bear it, Randall. Do we not understand each other already? Nothing but parting is possible for us—for me. I think I am saying what I mean to say; good-bye.” “Look at me, Menie.” It is hard to do it—hard to lift up those eyes, so full of tears—hard to see his lips quiver—hard to see the love in his face; but Menie’s eyes fall when they have endured this momentary ordeal ; and again she holds out her hand and says: “ Good- bye.” “ Good-bye—I answer you,” said Randall, wring. ing her hand, and throwing it out of his grasp. “Good-bye ; you are disloyal, Menie, disloyal to Nature and to me; some time you will remember this; now I bid you farewell.” Something crossed her like an angry breath ; something rang in her ears, confused and echoing like the first drops of a thunder-shower; and Me- nie can see nothing in all the world but Miss An- nie weeping upon her hand, and, like a culprit, steals away; steals away, not knowing where she goes; desolate, guilty, forsaken, feeling as if she had done some grievous wrong, and was for- ever shut out from peace and comfort in this weary world. Yes, there is no one to see you. Lie down upon the ground, Menie Laurie, down, down, where you can be no lower, and cover your eyes from the cheerful light. How they pour upon you, these dreadful doubts and suspicions of yourself! wisely, wisely, what should make it wise, this thing you have done? You yourself have litttle wisdom, and you took no counsel. If it was not wise, what then? It is done, and there is nothing for it now but to be content. CHAPTER XXVII. “ Tr must not be, I cannot permit it,” said Mrs. Laurie. ‘‘ Menie, is this all that your mother de- serves at your hands? to take such a step as this without even telling me, without giving me an opportunity of remonstrance? Menie! Menie !” And with hasty steps Mrs. Laurie paces back- ward and forward the narrow room. Beside the window, very pale, Menie stands with a half avert- ed face, saying nothing, very pale, and there is a sullen suffering in Menie Laurie’s darkened face. — “TY cannot have it. I will not permit it.” Mrs. Laurie is much excited. ‘‘ My own honor is com- promised ; it will be said it is I who have sepa- rated you. Menie, it is strange that you should show so little regard either to Randall or to me. I must do something—I must make an effort— Teunot have this.” u “Mother, hear me,” exclaimed Menie. “No one shall do anything; I will not bear it either. In everything else you shall make of me what you will—here I am not to be swayed; I must de- cide this for myself—and I have decided it, mo- ther.” With astonished eyes Mrs. Laurie looked upon her daughter’s face. Flushed with passion, full of a fierce unrespecting will—was this Menie Laurie ? but her mother turned aside from her. “I am sorry, Menie, I am very sorry, to see you show such a spirit; another time I will speak of it again.” Another time! Menie Laurie laughed a low laugh when her mother left the room. Something like a scowl had come to Menie’s brow; a dark abiding’ cloud was on her face; and in her heart such bit- terness and universal disappointment as killed every gentle feeling in her soul; disloyal to the one love, disrespectful and disobedient to the other, bitterly Menie’s heart turned upon itself, she had pleased no one; her life was nothing but a great blot before her. She was conscious of a host of evil feelings, evil spirits waging war with one another in her vexed and troubled mind. Sul- lenly she sat down once more upon the ground, not to seek if there was any comfort in the hea- vens above or the earth beneath, but to brood upon her grief, and make it darker, till the clouds closed over her, and swallowed her up, and not a star re- — mained. There is a certain obstinate gloomy satisfaction in despair. To decide that everything is hopeless, that nothing can be done for you, that you have reached to the pre-eminence of woe—no wonder Menie’s face was dark and sullen—she had come to this point now. . Like a thunder-storm this intelligence came up- on little July Home—she could not comprehend it, and no one took the trouble to explain to her, Lithgow, knowing but the fact, was surprised and grieved, and prophesied their re-union; but no hope was in Menie’s sullen gravity—none in the haughty resentment of Randall Home. ‘ Aud Mrs, Laurie once more with a troubled
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peers ys ° 24 THE QUIET HEART. brow considers of her future—will Menie be best in the Dumfriesshire cottage, where no one will see their poverty, or pursuing some feminine oc- cupation among the other seamstresses,. teachers, poor craftsmen of a Jess solitary place? For now that all is done that can be done, there is no hope of recovering anything of the lost income—and Mrs. Laurie will not live on Miss Annie’s bounty. She is anxious with all her heart to be away. Miss Annie herself has not recovered her trial ; antwinn winds grow cold at night—autumn rains come down sadly upon the little world which has had its cheerfulness quenched out of it—and when Randall takes away his little sister to carry her home, Miss Annie looks a mournful old woman, sit- ting there wrapped up by the early lighted fire. These two or three mornings she has even been seen at the breakfast table with a cap protecting the head which is so sadly apt to take cold—and Miss Annie cries a little to herself, and tells bits of her own love-story to Menie, absorbed and silent, who sits unanswering beside her, and moans to herself sadly sometimes, over this other vessel of youthful life, cast away. But Miss Annie Laurie never wears ringlets more. Strangely upon her conscience, like a re- proach for her unnatural attenuated youth, came Menie’s appeal to her for help and comfort. Feel- ing herself so frivolous and feeble, so unable to sustain or strengthen, Miss Annie made a holo- caust of her curls, and was satisfied. So much vanity was relinquished not without a struggle ; but great comfort came from the sacrifice to the heroic penitent. And Jenny, discontented and angry with them all, furiously now takes the part of Randall Home, and wonders, in a fuff and outburst, what Miss Menie can expect that she “lightlies ” a bonny lad like you. A great change has taken place on Me- nie; no one can say it is for the better, and sullen- ly and sadly this bright year darkens over the house of Heathbank. CHAPTER XXVIUI. “ You're to bide away, yow’re no to come near this place. Na, you may just fecht; but you’ve nae pith compared to Jenny, for a’ sae auld and thrawn as Jenny has been a’ her days. It’s no me just—it’s your mamma and the doctor. Bairn! will you daur struggle wi’ me?” But Menie would dare struggle with anyone— neither command nor resistance satisfies her. “Let me in, I want to see my mother.” “You can want your mother for a day—there’s mair than you wanting her. That puir auld have- rel there—guid forgi’e me—she’s a dying woman— has sairer lack o’ her than you. Keep to your ain place, Menie Laurie; muckle made o’, muckle thocht 0’, but you’re only a bairn for a’ that ; you’re no a woman of judgment like your mamma or me. I tell you to gang away; I will not let you in.” And Jenny stood firm, a jealous, incorruptible sentinel in the passage which led to Miss Annie Laurie’s room. ‘‘ Miss Menie, ye’ll no take it ill what I say,” said Jenny; “there’s death in the house, or fast coming. I ken what the doctor means, Gang you ben the house, like a good bairn ; look in your ain glass, and see if there should be a face like that in a house where He comes. Menie looked silently into the countenance be- fore her—the keen, impatient, irascible face; but it was easy to see a hasty tear dashed away from Jenny’s cheek. And without another word, Menie Laurie turned away. Some withered leaves are lying on the window-sill; the trees are yielding up their treas- ures, dropping them down mournfully to the dis- consolate soil; but the meagre yew-tree rustles be- fore her, darkly green in its perennial gloom. Rather shed the leaves, the hopes; rather yield to winter meekly for the sake of spring ; rather be cut down, and rooted up altogether, than grow to such a sullen misanthrophy as this. And Menie Laurie looks into her own face; this gloomy brow, these heavy eyes, are these the day- light features of Menie Laurie? the interpretation of her heart? Earnestly and long she reads, no lesson of vanity, but a stern sermon from that truthful mirror. Hush! listen! what was that? a ory! “The doctor is leaving Miss Annie Laurie’s room, the cry is over, there is only now a feeble sound of weeping ; but a shadow strangely stilland sombre has fallen upon the house, and the descending step rings like a knell upon the stairs. What is it ? what is coming? and what did it mean, that mel- ancholy ery ? Alas! avoice out of a startled soul—a cry of wild and terrified recognition—acknowledgment. Years ago, age came gently to this dwelling, gently with light upon his face, and honor upon his gray hairs. There was no entrance for him through the jealous door; but now has come an- other who will not be gainsaid. Gather the children, Reaper; gather the lilies, take the corn full in the ear, go to the true souls where thought of you dwells among thoughts of other wonders, glories, solemn things to come; leave this chamber here with all its poor devices. No such presence has ever stood within its pov- erty-stricken walls before. Go where great love, great hope, great faith, great sorrow, sublimer an- gels, have made you no phantom; leave this soul to its toys and delusions; it is a poor triumph, come not here. Hush, be still. They who have sent him have charged him with a message; hear it how it ring slow and solemn into the ear of this hushed house. “There is a way, and it shall be called the way of holiness; the wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein.” Stay your weeping, poor fool—poor soul; prayers haye gone up for you from the succored hearts of some of God’s poor, Unawares, in your simplicity, you have lent to the Lord. Your gracious debtor gives you back with the grand usury of heaven; gives you back opportunity, hope, a day to be saved; lays aside those poor little vanities of yours under the cover of this, His great magnanimous, divine grace ; and holds open to your feeble steps the way, where -wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err any more forever. “Tl let you pass, Miss Menie, if you'll bide a moment,” said Jenny, wiping her eyes; “he says it’s no the fever he thought it was, but just a natu- ral decay. Did you hear yon? she wasna looking for Him that’s at the door, and He’ll no wait lang where ance He’s gi’en His summons—pity me! I would like to see Him coming the road mysel, afore I just found Him at my door-stane.” The room is very still; through the quiet you can only hearthe panting of a frightened breath, and now and then a timid, feeble sob. -She has to go away—knows and feels to the depth of her heart that she must go upon this solemn road alone; but, with a sad panic of terror and curios- ity, she watches her own feelings, wondering if this and this be death. And now they sit and read to her while the day- light flushes in noon; while it fades and wanes in the night; the night and dark of which she has a childish terror; read to her this blessed Gospel, which does not address itself alone to the wise and noble, but is for the simple and for fools. Safe ground, poor soul, safe ground—for this is no scheme of eclecticism, no portal to the pagan heavens—and you cannot know yourself so low, so mean, as to escape the range of this great wide embracing arm, “T have not done all- that I ought to have done,” murmurs poor Miss Annie. ‘Don’t leave me;” for she cannot rest except some one holds her hand, and has a faint superstitious trust in it, as if it held her sure. A little pause—again the fingers close tightly upon the hand they hold. “I never did any harm.” .The words are so sad—so sad—falling out slow and feeble upon the hushed air of this darkened room, “But I never did any good—never, never.” The voice grows stronger. ‘“ Does anybody think Idid? I—I—I never was very wise. I used to try to be kind sometimes ;” and in a strain of in- articulate muttering, the sound died away once more. And then again the voice of the reader broke the silence. They scarcely thought the sufferer listened ; forever and anon she broke forth in such wavering self-jnstifications, self-condemn- ings as these. But now there is a long silence; strange emotions come and go upon this old, old, whithered face. The tears have been dried from her eyes for hours; now they come again, be- Meee dewing all her poor thin cheeks; but a strange ex- citement struggles with her weakness. Looking about to her right hand and to her left, the dying woman struggles with an eager defiance—strug- gles till, at a sudden climax, her broken voice breaks forth again, “Who said it was me—me—it’s not me! I never could win anything in this world—nothing in this world, not a heart to care for me. Lo, you think I could win Heaven! I say it is not for me ; it’s for his sake.” “For His sake—for His sake.” If it isa prayer that ends thus, or sudden assurance of which she will not loose her hold forever, no one can know; for by-and-by her panic returns upon Miss Annie. Close in her own cold fingers she grasps the hand of Menie Laurie, and whispers, “Is it dark, is it so dark to you ?” with again a thrill of terror and trembling, and awful curiosity, wondering if this, perchance, is the gloom of death. “It is very dark; it is almost night.” The lamp is lighted on the table; let some oné go to her side, and hold this other poor wandering hand. “Oh! not in the night, not in the night. I am afraid to go out in the night,” sobs poor Miss Annie; and with a dreadful suspicion in her eyes, as if of some one drawing near to murder her, she watches the falling of this fated night. A solemn vigil, with ever that tight and rigid pressure upon their clasped hands. Mother and daughter, silent, pale, keep the watch together ; and below, the servants sit awe-stricken, afraid to go to sleep. Jenny, who is not afraid, goes about the stairs, up and down, from room to room, sometimes serving the watchers, sometimes only straying near them, muttering, after her fashion, words which may be prayers, and dashing off now and then an intrusive tear. Still, with many a frightened pause, many a waking up, and little pang of terror, this forlorn heart wanders back into the life which is ending now, wanders back to think herself once more en- gaged in the busier scenes of her youth, in the lit- tle occupations, the frivolities and gaiety of her later years ; but howsoever her mind wanders, she never ceases to fix her eyes upon the span of sky glittering with a single star, which shines pale on her through the window, from which, to please her, they had drawn the curtain. “Iam afraid to go out in the dark ;” again and again she says it with a shudder, and a tightened hold upon their hands, and steadfastly watches the night. At last her eyes grow heavy—she has fallen asleep. Little reverence has Miss Annie won at any time of all her life, but the eyes that look on her are awed and reverent now. Slowly the hours pass by, slowlythe gradual dawn brightens upon her face, the star has faded out of the heavens, on her brow, which is the brow of death, the davlight glows in one reviving flush. The night is over for evermore. And now her heavy eves are opened full, her feeble form is raised; and, with a cry of joy, she throws out her arms to meet the light. Lay her down tenderly ; her chains are broken in her sleep ; now she no more needs the pressure of your kind- ly hands, Lay her down, she is afraid no longer ; for not in the night, or through the darkness, but with the morning and the sun, the traveler fares upon her way, where fools do not err. By this time they have taken her in yonder at the gate. Lay down all that remains of her to its rest. CHAPTER XXIX. Tue curtains are drawn again in Miss Annie Laurie’s house of Heathbank, drawn back from the opened windows to let the fresh air and the sunshine in once more to all the rooms. With a long breath and sigh of relief, the household throws off its compelled gloom. With all obser- vances of honor, they have laid her in her graye, and a few natural tears have been wept, a few kindly words spoken, a reverent memento raised to name the place where she lies. Now she is passed away and forgotten, her scat empty, her house knowing her no more. In Miss Annie’s desk, a half-written paper—in- timating vaguely that, in case of “anything hap- pe to her at any future time, she wished all that she had to be given to Menie Laurie—was a athe
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9 een = “ THE QUIET HEART. 25 —_————S Ye TOO ee found immediately after the funeral. But some superstitious terror had prevented her from finish- ing it, far more from making a will. Menie was her next of kin; it pleased them to have this sanction of her willingness to the inheritance of the natural heir. Miss Annie had been rather given to speak of her savings ; but no vestige of these savings was to be found. She had practised this on herself “like many another delusion; and saving the furnt- éure of Heathbank, and a profusion of ornaments not valuable, there remained little for Menie to in- herit. Miss Annie’s maid was her well-known fa- - Vorite, and had been really attentive, and a good Servant to her indulgent mistress. Her name was mentioned in the half-written paper, and Maria’s own report of many conversations, modestly hint- ed at a legacy. Miss Annie’s furniture, pretty and suitable for her house as it was, was not valuable in a sale; and Mrs. Laurie, acting for her daugh- ter, bestowed almost the whole amount received for it upon Maria, as carrying out the will of her mistress. Having done this, they had done all, Mrs. Laurie thought, and would now go home to live. as they could upon what remained to them. Burnside, with all its plenishing, brought in no greater revenue than fifty pounds a year, and Mrs. Laurie had two or three hundred pounds “in the bank.” This was all. She began to calculate painfully what the home journey would cost them, and called Jenny to consult about their packing. ‘They were now in a little lodging in the town of Hampstead. They had no inducement to stay here; and Menie’s face looked very pale, very much in want of the fresh gale on the Dumfriesshire braes. True, they knew not where they were go- ing, but the kindly soil was home. : When her mother and Jenny began to take enumeration of the bags and boxes which must go with them, Menie entered the room. Menie looked very slight, very pale, and exhausted, almost shadowy in her mourning dress; but Menie’s now was a face that looked on Death. The con- flict and sullen warfare were gone out of it. Dead and silent within her lav her chilled heart, like a stricken field when the fight is over, with nothing but moans and sighs, and voices and misery, where the music and pomp of war has so lately been. The contest was over; there was nothing to strug- gle for, or struggie with, in this dull unhappiness ——and a heavy peace lay upon Menie like a cloud. “There’s a wee kistie wi’ a lock, I set it by myself for Miss Menie; and there’s the muckle ane that held the napery at hame; but I’m no gaun owre them a’. laid them when we came. Miss Menie! gang awa your ways, like a good bairn, and read a book; your inamma’s speaking about the flitting, and I can only do ae thing at a time.” “ Are we going home, mother ?” “There is nothing else we can do, Menie,” said Mrs. Laurie. “I suppose none of us have any in- ducement now to stay in London.” A fiush of violent color came to Menie’s cheeks. She paused and hesitated. . “ Z have, mother.” “Bless me, I aye said it,” muttered Jenny quickly, under her breath, as she turned round with an eager face, and thrust herself forward to- wards the mother and daughter. “The bairn’s come to hersel.” Mrs. Laurie colored scarcely less than Menie. “T cannot guess what you mean,” she said hur- riedly. “You did not consult me before—I am, perhaps, an unsuitable adviser now; but I cannot stay in London without having a reason for it. This place has nothing but painful associa- tions for me. You are not well, Menie,” contin- ued the mother, softening; “we shall all be better away; let us go home.” The color wavered painfully on Menie Laurie’s cheek, and it was hard to keep down a groan out of her heart. “I am not come to myself—my mind is unchanged,” she said, with sudden meek- hess. “J want you te stay fora month or two— as short a time as possible—and to let me have some lessons. Mother, look at these.” Menie had brought her little portfolio. With some astonishment Mrs. Laurie turned over its contents, and delicately—almost timidly too—lest Randall’s face should look out upon her as of old. But all the sketches of Randall were removed. _ Jenny pressed forward to see; but Jenny, as be- Pai =e ‘ ae» cs which she folded resolutely into her apron. Pll just lay in the things as I’ > wildered ‘as Menie’s mother, could only look up with a puzzled face. What did she mean ? “They are not very well done,” said Menie; “but, for all that, they are portraits, and like; I want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long ago,”—poor Menie, it seemed years ago, “TI said this should be my trade. I will like the trade; let me only have the means of doing it better, and it will be good for me to do it, This -is why I ask you to stay in London.” Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of a chair, thrust it suddenly between them at this point, with a snort of emphatic defiance. “Ye’ll no let on ye hear her!” exclaimed Jenny ; “ you'll let her get her whimsey out like ony ither wean !—ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots and her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I should live to hear a bairn of ours speak of a trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore !” And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of Jen- ny’s breast—an angry tear glittered in her eye. She drew a long breath to recover herself. “ Jenny’s twa hands to the fore, 1 say, and the bere a’ to shear yet, and the ’taties to gather—no to say the mistress is to buy me twa kye, to take butter to the market! I would just like to ken where’s the pleasure in working, if it’s no to gi’e ease to folk’s ain? I’ve a’ my ain plans putten down, if folk would just let me be; and we'll can keep a young lass to wait upon Miss Menie,” cried Jenny, with a shrill tone in her voice, “and the first o’ the cream and the sweetest o’ the milk, and nae occasion to wet her finger. You’re no gaun to pay ony heed to her—you’re no gaun to let on you hear what she says !” Reaching this point, Jenny broke down, and permitted, much against her will, a little shower of violent hot tears to rain down upon the arms But Jenny shook off, with indignation, the caressing hand whith Menie laid upon her shoulder. Jenny knew by experience that it was better to be angry then to be sad. “T would think with you, too, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, slowly. “I could do anything myself; but a bairn of mine doing work for money—Me- nie, we will not need it—we will try first” “Mother,” said Menie, interrupting her hastily, “T will need it; I will never be willful again; let me have my pleasure now.” It was a thing unknown that Menie should not have her pleasure, © Even Jenny yielded to this im- perative claim. The boxes were piled up again in Jenny’s little bedchamber. Jenny herself, able to do nothing else, set to knitting stockings with great devotion. “Tl ha’e plenty to do when we get hame, without ever taking wires in my hand,” said Jenny. ‘Nae doubt it’s just a providence to let me lay up as mony as will serve.” Their parlor was in the first floor, over one of the trim little ladies’ shops which have their par- ticular abode in little towns of competence and gentility. Toys and Berlin wool; a prim,’ neat, gentle Miss Middleton sitting at work on some pretty bit of many-colored industry, behind the or- derly counter; gay patterns and specimens about; little carts and carriages, and locomotive anirials upon the floor ; bats, balls,drums, shining tin breast- plates, and glorious swords hanging by the door, and linen awning without, throwing the little shop into pleasant shade. This was the ground floor; above it was a very orderly parlor, and the sun came glistening in upon the little stand of flowers through the bright small panes of the old-fash- ioned window, and fell upon Mrs. Laurie, always at work upon some making or mending; upon Jenny’s abrupt exits and entrances ; her keen gray eyes and shining “ wires,” the latter of which were so nobly independent of any guidance from the former; and upon Menie’s heavy meditations, and Menies’s daily toil. For toil it came to be, exalted from theeyoung lady’s accomplishment to the artist’s labor. She worked at this which she harshly called her trade with great zeal and perseverance. Even herself did not know how deficient she was till now; but Menie worked bravely in her apprenticeship, and with good hope. CHAPTER XXX. “J woutpna ha’e come hame as I gaed away, if I had been you, Jenny. The speaker stands at the door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, while Jen- ny milks her favorite cow. ‘Ye see what Nelly Panton’s done for hersel; there’s naething like making up folk’s mind to gang through wi’ a’ thing; and you see Nelly’s -gotten a man away in yon weary London.” “TY wouldna gang to seek a misfortune—no me,” said Jenny; “ill enough when it comes; and I wonder how a woman like you, with twelves bairns for a handsel, could gie such an advice to ony de- cent lass; and weel I wat Nelly Panton’s gotten a man. Puir laddie! it’s the greatest mercy ever was laid to his hands to make him a packman; he'll no be so muckle at hame; but you'll make nae divert of Jenny. If naebody ever speered my price, ’m no to hang my head for that. I’ve aye keepit my fancy free, and nae man can say that Jenny ever lookit owre her shouther after him. A’.the house is fw’ ’enow, Marget; we’ve scarcely done with our flitting; I canna ask you to come in.” So saying, Jenny rose with her pail, and closed the byre-door upon Brockie and her black com- panion. The wind came down keen from the hills ; the frosty wintry heavens had not quite lost the glow of sunset, though the pale East began to glitter with stars. Sullen. Griffel has a purple glory upon his cap of cloud, and securely, shoulder to shoulder, this band of mountain marshals keep the border ; but the shadows are dark about their feet, and night falls, clear and cold, xpon the darkened grass, and trees that stir their branches faintly in the wind, : The seene is strangely changed. Heaths of other nature than the peaceful heath of Hamp- stead lie dark under the paling skies, not very far away; and the heather is brown on the low-lying pasture-hills, standing out in patches from the close-cropped grass. Yonderp glow upon the road is the glow of fire-light from an open cottage door, and on the window-ledge within stand basins of comfortable Dumfriesshire “parritch,” cooling for the use of those eager urchins, with their fair exuberant locks and merry faces, and waiting the milk which their loitering girl sister brings slowly in from the byre. It is cold, and she.breathes up- ‘on her fingers as she shifts her pail from one hand to the other; yet bareheaded Jenny lingers, won- dering vaguely at the “bonnie” sky and deep ev- ening calm, Another cottage here is close at hand, faintly throwing out from this back-window. a little light into the gathering gloom. Brockie and Blackie are comfortable for the night; good homely sages, they make no account of the kev turned upon them in the byre-door; and Jenny, in her original dress, her beloved shortgown and warm striped skirts, stands a moment, drawing in, with keen relish, the sweep of cold air which comes full upon us over the free countryside, “Tm waiting for Nelly’s mother,” says Jenny’s companion, who is Marget Panton from Kirklands, Nelly’s aunt; “she’s gane in to speak to your mistress. You'll be no for ca’ing her mistress now, Jenny, and her sae muckle come down in the world. no be able now to pay you your fee.” Hee “Me kind to them! My patience! But it’s because ye dinna ken ony better,” said Jenny, with a little snort. “I just wish, for my part, folk would haud by what concerns themsels, and let me abee, I would like to ken what’s a’ the world’s business if Jenny has a good mistress, and nae need to seek anither service frae ae year’s end to the ither—and it canna advantage the like o’ you grudging at Jenny’s fee. It’s gayadark, and the road’s lanesome; if I was you, I would think o’ gaun hame.” “TJ wouldna be sae crabbit if T got a pension — for’t,” returned Marget, sharply; ‘and ye needna think to gar folk believe less ; it’s weel kent your house is awfu’ come down, ‘ Pride gangs before a fa’,’ the Seripture says. Ye’ll no ca’ that a lee; and I hear that Miss Menie’s joe just heard it, and broke off in time.” “Tm like to be driven daft wi’ ane and anither,” exclaimed Jenny, furiously, “If Miss Menie hadna been a thrawart creature hersel,1 wouldna have had to listen to the like o’ this. Na, that micht ha’e been the reason, but it was nane of the siller; she kens best hersel what it was. I’m sure I I’m sure yowre real kind to them; they’ll-
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26 THE QUIET HEART. wouldna have cast away a bonnie lad like yon if it had been me; but the like of her, a young lady, behooves to ha’e her ain way.” “ Weel, it’s aye best to put a guid face on’t,” said Jenny’s tormentor. “I’m no saying onything at my ain hand; it’s a’ Nelly’s story, and Johnnie being to marry July Home, it’s a grand marriage for auld Crofthill’s daughter, such a bit wee use- less thing, we’re the likest to ken. Ye needna take it ill, Jenny. I’m meaning nae reproach to you,” “I’m no canny when I’m angered,” said Jenny, setting down her pail in the road: “ ye'll gang your way hame, if you take my counsel; there’s naething for you here. Pity me for Kirklands parish, grif and sma’! with Nelly at the Broken- rig, and you at the Brigend? but I canna thole a lee—it makes my heart sick; and I tell ye I’m no canny when I’m angered. Guid nicht to you, Marget Panton; when I want to see you Pll send you word. You can wait here, if you maun get yon puir decent woman hame wi’ you. I reckon [ would get mony thanks if I set her free ; but I dinna meddle wi’ ither folks’ business; you ean wait for her here.” And, taking up her pail again rapidly, Jenny pattered away, leaving Marget somewhat. aston- ished, standing in the middle of the road, where this energetic speech had been addressed to her. With many mutterings Jenny pursued her wrath- ful way. | “Yo’ve your ainsel to thank, no anither crea- ture, Menie Laurie ; and now this painting business is begun, they'll be waur and waur. What for could she no have kepit in wi’ him? A bonnie ane, to ha’e a’ her ain way, and slaving and work- ing a’ day on her feet, as if Jenny wasna worth the bread she eats; and the next thing [Pll hear is sure to be that she’s painting for siller. ) mie!” Full of her afflictions, very petulant, and resent- ful, Jenny entered the cottage door. It was a but and a ben, that is to say, it had two apartments, - one on each side of the entrance. The larger of the two was boarded; Mrs Laurie had ventured to do this at her own expense, and had been furnished in an extremely moderate and simple fashion. It was a very humble room; but still it was a kind of parlor, and, with the ruddy fire-light reddening its further corners, and blinking on the uncovered window, it looked comforable, and even cheerful both from without and within, Mrs. Laurie, with her never-failing work sat by a little table ; Menie, whose day’s labor was done, bent over the fire, with her flushed cheeks supported in her hands; the conflict and the sullen glow had gone out of Menie’s face, but a heavy cloud op- pressed it still. Conscious that she is an intruder, divided be- tween her old habitual deference, and her new ' sense of equality, as Johnnie Lithgow’s mother, with any Mrs. Laurie under the sun, Mrs. Lith- gow sits upon the edge of a chair, talking of Nelly, and Nelly’s marriage. “Nelly says you were real kind. I’m sure naething could be kinder than the like of you tak- ing notice of her, when she was in a strange place, her lane, though, nae doubt, being Johnnie's sis- ter, madea great difference. I can scareely believe my ainsel whiles, the awfu’ odds it’s made on me. I have naething ado but look out the best house in Kirklands, and I can get it bought for me, and an - income regular, and nae need to do a thing, but be thankful to Providence and Johnnie. — It’s a great blessing, a good son.” ~ ‘Asthere was only a murmur of assent in answer to this, Mrs. Lithgow proceeded : i “Tm sure it’s naething but neighborlike, you'll no take it amiss, being in a kindly spirit, to say if there’s onvthing ane can do. There’s Nelly gotten her ain house noo, and wonderful well off in the world: and for me, I’m just a miracle. If there was ought you wanted, no being used to a sma’ house, or ony help in ae way or anither, from a day’s darg wi’ Jenny to——” But Mrs. Lithgow did not dare to go any further. The slight elevation of Mrs. Laurie’s head, the sudden erectness of that stooping figure by the fireside, warned the good woman in time; so, after a hurried, breathless pause, she resumed : ““T would be real glad, it would be naething but a pleasure; and Vl ne’er forget how guid you a) fe» ’ Pity were tome when I wasin trouble about Johnnie, and aye gied me hope. Poor laddie! next month he’s coming down to be married; and I’m sure I hope he’ll be weel off in a guid wife, for he canna but be a guid man, considering what a son he’s been to me,” “ He will be very well. off,” said Mrs. Laurie; “and poor little July goes away next month, does she? Has Jenny come in yet, Menie? We have searcely had time to settle in our new house, Mrs, Lithgow ; but I will remember your kind offer, and thank, you. How dark the night grows, and it looks like snow.” “Tl have to be gaun my ways,” said the visitor, rising; it’s a lanesome road, and I’m no heeding about leaving my house, anda’ the grand new things Johnnie’s sent me, their lane in the dark. Pll bid you good-night, ladies, kindly, and I’m real blithe to see you in the countryside again.” She was gone, and the room fell into a sudden hush of silence, broken by nothing but the faint rustling of a moved hand, or the fall, now and then, of ashes on the hearth. The bustle and. ex- citement of the ‘ flitting” were over—the first pleasure of being home in: their own country was past. Gray and calm their changed fate came down upon them, with no ideal softening of its every day realities, The sliding panel here opens upon their bed; this little table serves all purposes of living; these four dim walls, and heavy raftered roof, shut in their existence. Now, through the clear frosty air without, a merry din breaks into the stillness. It is little Davie from the cothouse over the way, who has just escaped from the hands which were preparing him for rest, and dares brothers and sisters in a most willing race after him, their heavy shoes ringing upon the beaten way. Now you hear them coming back again, leading the truant home, and by-and-by all the urchins are asleep, and the mother closes the ever open door. So good-night to life and human fellow- ship. Now—none within sight or hearing of us, save Jenny humming a broken song, on the other side of the wooden partition, which, sooth to say, is Jenny’s bed—we are left alone. Menie, bending in her despondent attitude, over the fire, which throws down, now and then, these ashy flakes upon the hearth ; our mother, pausing from her work, to bend her weary brow upon her hand. So very still, so chill and forsaken, Not one heart in all the world, except the three which beat under this thatched roof, to give anything but a passing thought to us or our fate; and nothing to look to but this even path, winding away over the desolate lands of poverty into the skies. Into the skies! woe for us, and our dreary hu- man ways, if it were not for. that blessed, contin- ual horizon line; so we do what we have not been used to do before—we read a sad devout chapter together, and have a faltering prayer; and then for silence and darkness and rest. 3 Say nothing to your child, good mother, of the bitter thoughts that crowd upon you, as you close your eyes upon the wavering fire-light, and listen, in this stillness, to all the stealthy steps and touch- es of the wakeful night. Say nothing to your mother, Menie, of the tears which steal down be- tween your cheek and your pillow, as you turn your face to the wall, What might have been— what might-have been; is it not possible to keep from thinking of that ? for even Jenny mutters to herself, as she lies wakefully contemplating the glow of her gathered fire—mutters to herself, with an indignant fuff, and hard-drawn breath: “Y wish her muckle pleasureof her will; she’s gotten her will; and I wadna say but she minds him now ; a‘bonnie lad like yon!” PART THE LAST.—CHAPTER XXXI. Courage, Menie Laurie! Heaven does not send this breeze upon your cheek for naught— does not raise about you these glorious limits of hill and cloud invain. Look through the distance, look steadily. Yes, it is the white gable of Croft- hilllooking down upon the countryside. Well, never veil your eyes; are you not at peace with them as with all the world ? Little Jessie here wearies where you have left her waiting, and trembles to move a finger lest she spoil the mysterious picture at which she glances furtively with awe and wonder, “ The lady just looks at me,” says little Jessie; “no a thing mair, Just looks, and puts it a’ doun hke writ- ing on asclate.” And Jessie cannot understand the magic which by-and-by brings out her own little bright, sun-burnt face, from that dull canvas aes had not a line upon it when Jessie saw it ust. : Come to your work, Menie Laurie; they make your heart faint, these wistful looks and sighs. poor heart; no one doubts it is full of yearnings, full of anxious thought and fears, and solitude. What then ?—must we leave it to brood upon its trouble? Come to little Jessie here, and her pic- ture—find out the very soul in these surprised sweet eyes, paint the loveliest little heart upon your canvas, fresh and fair out of the hands of God, such a face as will warm cold hearts, and teach them histories of joyous sacrifice, of love that knows no evil, of life that remembers self last and least of all. You said it first in bitterness and sore distress; but, nevertheless, it is true. You can do it, Menie. It is “the trade” to which you were born. And with a long sigh of weariness Menie comes back. No, it is not a very fine picture; the execu- tion is. a Woman’s execution, very likely no great thing in the way your critics judge; but no one can see how very like it is, lookmg at these little simple features, one could see it was still more like, looking into the child’s sweet generous heart. “What were you crying for this morning, Jessie ?” A cloud came over the little face, a miglhity in- clination to cry again; but Jessie glanced at the picture once more, and swallowed down her grief, feeling herself a very guilty Jessie, as one great blob of a tear fell upon her arm. “ Tt wasna little Davie’s blame, it was a’ me.” Poor little culprit, she dares not hang her head for terror over that picture. ‘He was paidling in the burn, and his new penny ga’e a great screed, catch- ing on the auld sanghtree; but it wasna his blame —he’s owre wee—it was a’ mine for no looking after him, Just, I] was awfw’ busy; but that’s nae excuse, and my mother ga’e Davie his licks, for a’ I could say.” Another great tear; no one knows so well what an imp this said little Davie is; but Jessie sighs again, “It was a’ me.” But it is not this little cloud of childish trouble that throws a something of pensive sadness into Jessie’s pictured face. The face is the face be- fore you; but the atmosphere, Menie Laurie, is in your own heart. Something sad, touched with that sweet pathos which lies on the surface of all great depths, and this true picture grows under Menie’s — hand to a heroie child. r It is a strange place for an artist to be. From this dark raftered threatening roof which catches your first glance, you look down to the mother by the fire, with her unpretending look of gen- tlewoman, to the daughter’s graceful head, bend- ing over her work, to pretty little Jessie here with her flutter of extreme stillness, looking at the gray walls and sober thatch without. You would never think to surprise such a group within ; and yet, when you look at them again, there is something of nobleness in the primitive cottage where these women have come to live independent and un- pitied—come down in the world—very true; but it would be hard to presume upon the tenants of this wayside house. You need not fear to enter, little July. Half- weeping, blushing, trembling, and with all these heseeching deprecations of yours, you may come in boldly at this narrow entrance. hers, poor bairn,” Mrs. Laurie says, with a little sigh. No blame of hers nor of Randall’s either, for Menie has kept her secret religiously, and will never tell to mortal ear what broke her engage- ment. Nelly Panton knows it, it is true; but Nelly, with the obtuse comprehension of a merce- nary mind, thinks Randall broke off the match in consequence of Mrs. Laurie’s poverty, and knows of no more delicate difficulties behind. Come in boldly, July Home, for no manner of interpreta- | tion could disclose to you the sudden pang which seizes Menie as she bends her head down for an instant, when she discovers you at the door. Now she says nothing, as she holds out her hand;*but — Menie is busy; it is only her left hand she ex- t 0, | No. one doubts it is very heavy, very heavy, this | “Tt is no blame of © a a 4 ee, ee
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THE QUIET HEART. 27 tends to her friend; that is why she does not speak. “I’m not to come out again,” whispers July, sit- ting back inte Mrs. Laurie’s shadow, and speaking under her breath. “I came here the very last place, and oh, Menie, will you come ?” The color mounts high to Menie’s temples ; this means, will she come to July’s marriage, which is to happen a week hence. Will she be there? Some one else will be there, the thought of whose coming makes Menie’s heart beat strong and loud against her breast. But Menie only shakes her ee in reply—shakes her head, and says steadily, eo.” “You might come, for me. I never had a friend but you, and you’ve aye been good to me. Mrs. urie, she might come ?” But Mrs. Laurie, too, after quite a different fash- ion, shakes her head with a look of regret—of only partial comprehension, but unmistakable solicitude. No,” she says, doubtfully; “I do not see how Menie could go;” but as she speaks, she looks at Menie, with an eager wish that she would. Courage, Menie Laurie! If your hand falters, _ they will see it; if a single tear of all this unshed agony bursts forth, your mother’s heart will be overwhelmed with pain and wonder—your little friend’s with dismay. This is best, to look at the child and go on, though little Jessie has much ado to keep from weeping when she meets, with her Startied face, the great gloom and darkness of Menio’s eye, “This is from Menie and me,” said Mrs. Laurie, taking outa pretty ring. ‘ You are to wear it for our sake, July. Menie can you put it on?” Yes—Menie takes the little trembling hand with- in her own, and fits her mother’s present to aslen- der finger—and no one knows how Menie presses her own delicate ankle under her chair, to keep her- self steady by the pain. “ You must try to be very happy, July,” says Menie, with a faint smile, hold- ing the hand a moment in her own; then she lets it drop, and turns to her work once more. What can July do but cry? She does ery, poor little trembling heart, very abundantly, and would fain whisper a hundred hesitations and terrors in- to Menie’s ear. But there is nothing of encourage- ment in Menie’s face—so steady and grave, and calm as it looks. The little bride does not dare to pour forth her innocent confidences, but only whis- pers again, “I never had another friend but you, and you were aye so good to me;” and weeps a flood of half-joyful, half-despairing tears, out of her very heart. . CHAPTER XXXII. “No one can doubt that Randall is unhappy ; but Randall is not a humble man, Mrs. Laurie; he will not woo and plead and supplicate, I am afraid ; he will honor only those who honor him, and never obtrude his love where he thinks there {s,no re- sponse. You know them both; could anything be done ?” Alas! poor Johnnie Lithgow, we are all proud. This is not the wisest line of attack, in the cir- cumstances. Mrs. Laurie sits gravely by the fire- side to listen. Mrs. Laurie was Mrs, Laurie, before Randall Home was born. It is wonderful how she recollects this ; and, recollecting, it is not difficult to see which of the two, in the opinion of - Menie’s mother, has the best right to stand on their dignity. “T cannot advise,” said Mrs, Laurie, somewhat coldly. ‘ Menie has made no explanation to me. _ Mr. Home has not addressed me at all on the sub- - ject. I am sorry I cannot suggest anything, es- pecially when I have to take into consideration the lofty ideas of your friend.” It was.a little bitter, this. Tiithgow felt himself chilled by it, and she saw it herself, immediately ; but Mrs. Laurie said no word of atonement, till a sudden recollection of Menie’s strangely altered and sobered fate broke upon her. Her counte- - mance changed, her voice softened. 6 “I would be glad to do anything,” she said, with a slight faltering. “To make Meme happy, I could accept any sacrifice. I will see, I will try, No,” she continued, after a considerable pause, “I was _ Tight after all, your friend is what you call him. _ My Menie has a very high spirit, and in this matter af vi is not to becontrolled by me. They must be left to themselves—it is the wisest way.” Lithgow made noanswer, Mrs. Laurie sank into silence and thought. As they sat opposite to each other by the little fire-place, the young man’s eye wandered over the room. His own birthplace and home was such another cottage as this; and Lithgow’s mother with her homely gown and check apron—her constant occupation about the house—her peasant tastes, and looks and habits, was suitable and homogeneous to the earthen floor and rude hearth of the cotters’ only room. But very strangely out of place was Menie’s easel, Me- nie’s desk, Mrs. Laurie’s delicate basket of work, her easy-chair, and covered table; strangely out of place, but not ungracefully, bearing, wherever they might be, a natural seemliness and fitness of their own. And if a rapid cloud of offence, a vapor of pride and resentment, might glide over Mrs, Lau- rie’s brow, it was never shaded by so much asa momentary shame. As undisturbed in her house- hold dignity as at her most prosperous time, she received her visitor in the cot-house, nor ever dreamt she had cause to be ashamed of such an evidence of her diminished fortunes. But Lithgow’s thoughts were full of Randall; he was not willing to give up his attempt to rec- oncile them. “ Randall is working very hard,” said his generous fellow-craftsman. “I think his second success willlift him above all thought of hazard. He does his genius wrong by such un- necessary caution ; he could not produce a com- mon-place thing if he would.” “And you, Mr. Lithgow,”—Mrs. Laurie’s heart warmed to him, plebian though he was. “YT do my day’s work,” said the young man, happily, “‘ thanking God that it is very sufficient for the needs of the day; but between Randall and myself there is no comparison. Ideal with com- mon topics, common manners, common events, like any other laboring man. But Randall is an artist of the loftiest class. What he does is for genera- tions to come, no Jess than for to-day.” This enthusiasm threw a flush upon his face, As it receded, gradually fading from his forehead, a quick footstep went away from the cottage threshold. Menie Laurie had paused to listen whose the voice was before she entered, and paus- ing, had heard all he had to say. The happy golden purple of the sunset has melted from Criffel and his brother hills; but there is a pale light about all the east, whither Menie Laurie’s face is turned as she leaves the cottage door. From her rapid step you would fancy she was going somewhere. Where will she go? Nowhither, poor heart—only into the night a little—into the silence. It would not be possi- ble to sit still in that noiseless house, by that lonely fireside, with such a tumult and ‘commotion in the loud throbbing heart, forcing up its rapid cadence into the ears that thrill with sympathetic pulses, leaping to the very lips that grow so parched and faint. Oh! for the din of streets, of storms, the violence of crowds and noise of life— anything to drown this greater violence, these strong, perpetual throbs that beat upon the brain like hailstones—anything to deaden this. But all the air remains so still, so still; not a sound upon the silent road but the heart and foot- steps, so rapid and irregular, which keep each other time. But by-and-by, as Menie goes upon her aimless way, another sound does break the silence—voices in the air—the sgund of wheels, and of a horse’s feet. Listen, Menie—voices in the air? . But Menie will not listen—does not believe there are voices in the world which could wake her in- terest now—and so, unconsciously looks up as this vehicle dashes past, looks up, to receive—what ? The haughty salutation, uncovered brow and bend- ing head, of Randall Home, She would fain have caught at the hedge for a support; but he might look back and see her, and Menie hurried on. She had seen him; they had looked again into each other’s eyes. “TI never said I was indifferent,” sobbed Menie, to herself, and, in spite of herself, her voice took a shriller tone of passion, her tears came upon her in an agony. “T never said I was indifferent; it would have been a lie.” Hush! be calm. It is safe to sit down by the roadside on this turf which is unsullied by the dust of these passing wheels ; safe to sit down and let the flood have vent once and never more, And the soft whispering air comes stealing about Me- nie, with all its balmy gentle touches, like a troop of fairy comforters, and the darkness comes down with gracious speed to hide~ her as she crouches, with her head upon her hands, overcome and mas- tered ; once, and never more. Now it is night. Yonder the lights are glim- mering faintly in the cottage windows of the Bri- gend. Far away above the rest, shines a little speck of light from the high window of Burn- side, where once was Menie Laurie’s chamber— her land of meditation, her sanctuary of dreams. The wind rustles among the firs—the ash trees hold up their bare white arms towards the heavens, waiting till this sweet star, lingering at the entrance of their arch, shall lead her followers through, like children in their dance. And—hush! —suddenly, like a bird new awaked, the burn throws out its voice upon the air, something sad. The passion is overpast. Look up, Menie Laurie ; you are not among strangers. The hills and the heavens stretch out arms to embrace you; the calm of this great night, God’s minister, comes to your heart. Other thoughts—and noble ones— stretch out helping hands to you like angels. Rise up; many a hope remains in the world, though this one be gone forever. And Menie, rising, returns upon her way—away from Burnside, her old beloved home, and, going, questions with herself if aught is changed since she made the bitter and painful decision which in her heart she thought it right to make, Nothing is changed—the severance has been made—the shock is over. - At first we knew it would be very hard ; at first we thought of nothing but despair, We never took into our calculation the oft-return- ing memories—the stubborn love, that will not be slain at a blow; and this it is that has mastered mind and heart and resolution now. There is no one else upon the road. The night, and the hills, and Menie Laurie, look up through the silence to heaven—and no one knows the con- flict that is waging—none is here with human voice or hand to help the struggle. Fought and won—lie still in her religious breast, oh, heart | Fittest way to win your quiet back again, Menie Laurie has laid you down—come good or evil, come peace or contest—laid you down, once for all, at the feet of God. CHAPTER XXXII. A BRILLIANT company, the very newspapers would say so if they had note of it; distinguished people—except here and there a few who are only wives or sisters of somebody; the ladies and gen- tlemen present, individual by individual, are some- bodies themselves, For a very pretty collection of lions, as one could wish to see, are drawn to- gether in Mr, Editor Lithgow’s drawing-room, to do honor to his wedding-day, And you may wonder at first to hear such a moderate amount of roaring; lions of the present day are not given to grandiloquence. If the truth must be told, the talk sounds somewhat profes- sional, not unlike the regimental talk of soldier — officers and the ladies pertaining to the same. True, that a picturesge American, bolder than her compeers on this side the Atlantic, poses in one corner, and by-and-by makes a tableau, lying down in wild devotion at the feet of two respectable and somewhat scared good people—literary ladies of a modest standing, who have done just work enough to make their names known, but are by no means prepared for such homage as this. And for the rest of the company, it must be said that they sit or stand, lean back or lean forward, as - propriety or common custom enjoin; that there is a great talk of babies in that other corner, where the mis- tress of the house is surrounded by a band of mat- ron friends; and that there is in reality very little out of the common in this company, if it were not for the said professional talk. ‘ The young mistress of the house! She talks pretty nearly as much now as other people talk; quite as much, indeed, when her heart is opened with that all-interesting subject, babies; or when her tongue has leisure to talk of the marvellous feats of certain bables of herown. July Home has been a married wife five years. /
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£8 THE QUIET. HEART. : Re , - ~ i “There is nothing very costly or rare in this draw-| him with the throng of gracious childlike CHAPTER XXXIV thoughts that hover over the 1. nelouded brow— ing-room; but it is well-sized and well-furnished, childlike thoughts—thoughts of the great eternal ; : ; Ws ‘iffel’ . notwithstanding, and a pretty apartment. Lith- ue sun has struck on Criffel’s sullen shoulder. gow himself, not a very stately host, attends to his guests with an unassuming kindliness which charms these somewhat sophisticated people, in spite of E themselves; and Lithgow is full of the tallc of the profession, and speaks great names with the confi- In these five years, mother though she be, and mistress of a London house- hold, all you can say of July is, that she has grown a pretty girl; a little taller, a little more mature in action; but a girl just as she was when we saw dence of friendship. her last. person among Mr. Lithgow’s guests, face. It is not grief; it is not care; a gloomy, self-absorbed pride is much more like what it is. *“That is Mrs. Lithyow’s brother,” says another guest, in answer to’ the ‘‘ who’s that?” of an un- accustomed visitor. Mr. Lithgow’s brother! » Is this all the distinction that remains to the lofty Randall Home ? “ And a literary man, like all the rest of us,” continues, condescendingly, this gentleman, who is a critic and contemptuous: in right of -his craft. “He made a great success: with his first publication six or seven years ago. I saw it on that table in the corner, covered with a pile of prints and drawings. They say Home cannot bear to see it now. Well, he lingered a -long time pol- ishing, and elaborating, and retouching his second book, expecting, no doubt, an universal acclama- tion. ‘ Jooked at it—it was a dead failure.” “Was it not equal to the first?” inquired breathlessly the original speaker, who in his heart was a warm adherent of Randall, though person- ally unknown to him, and who was a great deal better acquainted with the work in question than Being addressed, but of his own will scarcely speaking to anyone, there is a remarkable-looking Looking up to his great height you can just see some threads x of white among his hair, though his age does not justify this, for he is a young man still: and a settled cloud upon his brow gives darkness to his Poor fellow! the public never so much as, simplicities which come nearest to angels and to This man, through his intricacies and glooms, catches for an instant a real glimpse of what that atmosphere must be through which sim- ple hearts look up into the undoubted heavens ; for searcely so much as asummer cloud can float be- children. tween this cloud and the sky. Come this way, Randall. this. What message can they have to you? jest to cheat this sudden desolateness which you feel at your heart. A cloudy face—is this no portrait? The wind is tossing back wildly the curls from its white high brow, and out of a heavy thunder cloud it looks down darkly, doubtfully, with a look which you cannot fathom. Uneasily the spectator lays it aside to lift another—another and another ; they are very varied, but his keen eye perceives in a moment that every face among them which is a man’s bears the same features. Other l:eads of children unknown to Randall—pictures of the peasant women, real and individual, diversify the little collection ; but where the artist has made a man’s face, everywhere a subtle visonary resem- blance runs through each andall, Through altered features the same expression—through changed moods and tempers the same sole face., The room swings about him as he looks—is ita dream or a vision—what does it mean? The long white curtains faimtly stir in the autumn night-wind which steals in through the open window; the shaded lamp upon the table throws down a little circle of light—a larger circle of shadow—upon these pictures, and faintly shines Here is a little room, vacant, half-lighted, where lie other things akin to Take them up after your careless fashion. Be ready if you can, to put them aside with a word of bit- ter criticism—only leave out this child’s portrait. say with your lips it is good and you like it; feel in your heart as if it spoke to you long, loving, sim- ple speeches ; and when you turn from it—hush! it is irreverent—do not try with either sarcasm or of laughter and triumph over his gloom. And now a clown no longer, but. some grand shepherd baron, he draws his purple. cloak about. hin, and lifts his cloudy head into the sky. Marshal your men-at-arms, Warder of the Border! Keep your profound unbroken watch upon the liege valleys and homes at your feet, for the sun is setting in a stormy glory, and the winds are gathering wild in their battalions in the hollows of the hills. Traveling with his face toward the east, is one wayfarer on this lonely road. He knows the way, but it is long to his unaccustomed feet; and he is like to be benighted, whatever speed he makes, The sky before him is cold and clear, the sky of an autumn night, gleaming itself with an intense pale lustre, while great mountain-heaps of clouds, flung upon it, stand out round and full against its glittering chilly light ; and with a wild rush, the wind comes down upon the trees, seizing them in a sudden convulsion, » The road aseends a little, and looks from this point as if it went abruptly intothe skies; and on either side lies the low breadth of a peat-moss, on which it is too dark now to distinguish the purple patches of heather, or anything but the moorland burn and deep drain full of black clear water, from which is thrown back again, in long flying glimmers of reflection, the pale light of the sky. There is not a house in sight. Here and there a doddered oak or thorn, or stunted willows trailing their branches into the pools, give a kind of edge, interrupted and broken, to the moorland road; and now and then on a little homely bridge, one arch of stone, or it may be only two or three planks —it crosses a burn. With every gust of wind a shower of Jeaves comes rustling down from the occasional trees we pass, and the same cold breath persuades this traveler very soon to regret that his breast is not guarded by the natural de- fence—the gray plaid of the border hills, He does not lift his foot high and eumbrously lis informant. -| inthe mirror above the vacant hearth. He has | from the ground, as the men of this quarter, used “There was merit in the book,” said the evitic, | sunk on one knee to look at them again, What] to wading through the moss and heather, are wont yee poising a pretty paper-knife carelessly on his fore- finger; “merit such as it was; and Lithgow, here, fave him an article, and tried hard to get upa feeling; but he’s asupercilious fellow, sir, proud as Lucifer ; he is constantly running against some- body, and we put him down.” The critic turned to speak to another critic on | his other hand; the interrogator stood aside. Soli- ; tary in the midst of this animated company—dark where all was glowing with a modest brilliancy— it was not wonderful that this good man should inquire of himself whether there was nought of the evil thing called affectation in the gloom and pride of Randall Home. One ‘thing, at least, it ‘was not difficult to see—that Randall knew pecple were looking at him, wondering about him, and memory is it that has kept this face, what sad _re- collection las preserved its looks and changes so faithfully and so long? No ideal, noble and glorious, such as a heart might make for itself— no human idol either, arrayed in the purple and gold of loving homage—and the heart of Randall, startled and dismayed, hides its face, and beholds itself for the first time truly. He knows that none of these is meant for him—feels with certain confidence that reproach upon him is the last thing intended by this often portraiture; yet stands aside, and marvels, with a pang—a great throb of anguish and. hope—to see himself, changed in habit and in aspect, with years added and with years taken away; but he feels in every one that the face is his own, to do; nor does he oppose to this wild wind the broad expanded chest and weather-beaten face of rural strength ; but he knows the way along which he walks so smartly, pauses now and then to re- cognize some ancient landmark—and pushes for- ward without hesitation, very well aware where he is going to, nor fearing to choose that shorter way across the moss, like one to the manner born, =» ; A narrower path, broken in upon here and there by young sapling trees, self-sown willows, and bushes, which are scattered over all the moss. Suddenly, it may be but a parcel of’ stones, a lit- tle heap of peats, but there is something on the edge of the way. ‘ ; Going foryard, the traveler finds seated on >! that more than one lady of sentiment and entlusi- Love that thinks you loftiest, noblest ; love that | the fiflen trunk of a tree two children, a little girl . asm had marvelled already, with wistful melan-| worships in you its type of grace and high perfec- | drawing in to her side the uncovered flaxen head ! ‘choly, whether anyone knew what the grief was | tions, its embodiments of dreams and longings ;| of a still younger boy, and holding him firmly with which had blighted the young author’s life. The young author’s life was not blighted. On him, like a nightmare, sat a subtle spirit, self- questioning, self-criticizing. He was disappointed ; ‘a bitter stream had come into his way, and by its side he walked, his eyes bent downward on it, pon- dering =the evils of his fate; trying with a cold ‘philosophy to believe them no evils, assuming to - despise them, yet resenting them with bitterness ‘in his own heart. “Randall, look at this; it minds me of home,” said his sister in his ear. He took mechanically what she put into his hand, carelessly; not the a slightest interest in Ais face for poor July’s enthu- siasm, as like as not he would smile and put it down with a careless glance. Things that other : people look on with interest were matters of chilled and disappointed indifference to Randal. Home. Yet he looks at this child’s face that has been brought before him; insensibly a smile breaks upon his lips in answer to this sweet child’s smile. He, who is a critic, knows it is no ch-f d’ewvre, : and has little claim to be looked upon as high art; ‘but for once Randall thinks nothing of the execu- tion—as on a real countenance he gazes upon this, These sweet little features seem to move before : rejoice in it, oh, youth! But if you ever come to know a love that is disenchanted—a love that with its clear and anxious sight has found you out and read your ‘heart—knowing not the highest part alone, but, in so far as human creatures can, all that is written there—yet still is love; if you re- joice no longer, pause, at least, and tremble. Light is the blind love of the old poets—frail, and in constant peril. Heaven help those to whom is given the love that sees as nothing else can see. It struck to the heart of Randall Home. Through secrets of his being, which himself had never guessed, this lightened eye had pierced like a sunbeam. Unwitting of its insight, nought could it say in words of its discovery, but uncon- sciously they came to light under the artist-hand, Menie Laurie! Menie Laurie! little you wist when your pencil touched so dreamily these faces, which were but so many shadows of one face in your heart—little you wist how strange a revelation they would carry to another soul. “Something has happened to Randall—he will not hear me,” said July to her husband when the guests went away. ‘THe makes me no answer— he never hears me speak, but stands yonder stead- fast at the mirror, looking in his own face.” . her arm. The little fellow, with open mouth and close-shut eyes, is fast asleep, and his young guardian’s head droops on her breast. You can see she watched long before she yielded to it; but she too has dropped asleep, The traveler, touched with sudden interest, pauses and looks down upon them. Indistinetly, in her sleep, hearing his step, or conscious of the human eye upon her which breaks repose, the lit- tle girl moves uneasily, tightens the firm pressure of her arm, murmurs something—of which the spectator, stooping down, can only hear “little Da- vie”—and then, throwing back her head and changing her attitude, settles again into her pre- found child’s sleep. What arrests him that he does not wake her ? What makes him pause so long after his previous haste? Yes, look closer, stoop down upon the damp and springy soil, bend your knee, The pale, faint light has not deceived you, ne!- ther has the memory, which holds with unwonted tenacity the likeness of this face, for this is indeed the original. Sweet in its depthof sluniler. its lips half closed, its eyelash warm upon its cheel., the same sweet heart you saw in London in the picture, the very child. ne te RN og Sh ™ 5 : ’ = Se Look you how it besets him, with a glorious burst
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\ THE QUIET HEART. 29 Eleven years old is Jessie now; and to keep lit- tle Davie out of mischief is a harder task than ever. So helpless, yet in such an attitude of guar- dianship and protection, the traveler’s eyes, in spite of himself, fill with tears. He is almost loth to wake her, but the wind rushes with growing vio- lence among the cowering trees. He touches her shoulder—she does not know how gently—as suddenly she starts up broad awake. One terrified look Jessie gives him, another at the wild sky and dreary moor. ‘“ You’re no to meddle wi’ Davie; it’s a’ my blame,” said Jessie, with one frightened sob; “and oh, it’s a dark nicht, aud we'll never win hame !” “How did you come here?” said the stranger, gently. Jessie was reassured ; she dried her eyes and began to look up at him with a little returning confidence, ; “J dinna ken; it was Davie would rin, no—it was me that never came the road before, and we got on to the moss. Oh, will you teil me the airi I’m to gang hame ?” 2 He put his hand upon the child’s head kindly. This was not much like Randall Home. The Ran- dall of old days, if he never failed to help, scarcely ever knew himself awakened to interest. There Was a great delight of novelty in this new spring opened in his heart. “Were you not afraid to fall asleep ?” Poor little Jessie began to ery ; she thought she had done wrong. ‘I couldna keep wakin. I tried as lang as I could, and then I thocht I would just ask God to take care o’ Davie, and then there would be nae fear. That was the wayI fell asleep,” A philosopher! But how have these tears found their way to his face? Somehow he cannot look on this little speaker, cannot perceive her small brother laying his cheek upon her breast, without a new emotion which ought to have no place in the mind of an observing moralist whose thought is of cause and effect. Again he lays his hand upon her head, so kindly that Jessie looks up with ashy smile, and says: ‘“‘You are used to say your prayers 2” “T aye do’t every nicht.” Jessie looks up again wistfully, wondering with a sudden pity. Can it "be possible that he does not say his prayers, gen- tleman though he be ? “Say them here, little girl—I would like to hear your prayers ”—and his own voice sounds rever- ent, low, as one who feels a great presence near. But Jessie falters and cries—does not know what to answer, though it is very hard to contend against the impulse of instant obedience. “ Oh, I dinna like—I canna say them outby to a man,” she says, in great trouble, clasping and unclasping ‘her hands. “I just mind a’body, and little Da- vie, and give my soul to Christ to keep,” added the little girl, solemnly, “for fear I shouldn’t awake the morn.” | There is a little silence. She thinks this kindly stranger is angry with her, and cries; but itis only a something of strong unusual emotion, which he must swallow down. “Now you must wake up little Davie, and I will take you home. Is it far? You do not know, poor little guardian. Come away, is it near Brigend ? Well, we will manage to get there. Come, little fellow, rouse up and give me your hand.” But Davie, very wroth at such a sudden inter- ruption of his repose, shook his little brown clenched hand in the stranger’s face instead, and would hold by no other but his sister. So in this order they went on, Jessie with much awe, per- mitting her hand to be held in Randall’s, and sleepy Davie dragging her back at the other side. They went on at a very different pace from Ran- dall’s former rate of walking, treading their en- cumbered way with great difficulty through the moorland path, but by-and-by, to the general com- » fort, emerged once more upon the highroad, and near the cheerful hght froma cottage door. And here he would pause to ask for some re- freshment for the lost children, but does not fail to glance in first at the cottage window. This woman sitting before the fire has a face he knows, and she is rolling up a heavy, white-faced baby, and mov- ing with a kmd of monotonous rock, back and for- ward upon her seat, But there is not a murmur of the mother-song, instead, she is slowly winding up to extremest aggravation a little girl in a short- gown and apron, who stands behind her in a flood of tears, and whose present state of mind sug- gests no comfort to her, but to break all the “pigs” (Anglice crockery ) in the house and run away. «Will I take in two bairns ?—what would I do wi’ twa bairns? I’ve enow o’ my ain; but folk just think they can use ony freedom wi’ me,” said the woman, in answer to Randall’s appeal made from the door. “I’m sure Peter’s pack micht be a laird’s lands for what folk expect; and because there’s nae ither cause o’ quarrelling wi’ a peaecable woman like me, I maun aye beaskit to do things I canna do. It’s nane 0’ my blame they didna get their denner. Lad, you had best take them hame.” “J will pay for anything you give them cheer- fully; but the little creatures are exhausted,” said Randall, again from the door. He thought he had altered a good deal his natural voice. The woman suddenly raised her head. “I’m saying, that’s a tongue I ken,” she said, in an under tone. “This is nae public to gie meat for siller, lad,” she continued; “but they may get a bit barley scone and a drink o’ milk—l’ve nae ob- jections. Ye'll no belang to this country your- sel?” For, with a rapidity very unusual to her, she had suddenly deposited her gaping baby in the cradle, and now stood at’ the door. Randall kept without in the darkness. The lost children were admitted to the fire. “ No.” “TY wouldna say but you’re out o’ London, by your tongue. I’ve been there mysel before I was married, biding wi’ a brother o’ mine that’s real weel-off and comfortable there. I’ve never been up again, for he’s married, and her and me disna "gree that weel. It’s an awfw world—a peaceable person has nae chance—and I was aye. kent for that, married and single. Yell have heard o’ my man, Peter Drinlie, if you come out o’ Cumber- land; but I reckon you're frae London, by your tongue.” With ‘a bow, and a sarcastic compliment to her discrimination, Randall- answered her question; but the bow and the sarcasm were lost upon the person he addressed; she went on in her dull tone without a pause. “Ay, I aye was kent for discrimination,” she said, with modest self-approval, “though it’s no everybody has the sense to allo’t, But you'll ha’e come to see your friends, I reckon, they’ll be bid- ing about this pairt !” “ Just so,” said Randall. “Ye'll ken many a change in the country-side,” continued the woman. “ There’s the auld minister dead in Kirklands parish,and a’ the family scattered, and a delicate lad, a stranger, in the Manse his lane; and maister and mistress gane out o’ Kirk- land House, away somegate in foreign pairts; and Walter Wellwood, the young laird, he’s married upon a grand lady and joined to the Papishes; and—but yell maybe ken better about the com- mon folk o? the parish. There’s auld Crofthill and Miss Janet their lee lane up the brae yonder, and ne’er a word frae Randy—maybe you would ken Randy? the awfullest lad for thinking of him- sel; and then there’s the family at Burnside, they’re come down in the world, wi’ a’ their pride od their vanity, living in naething but a cot-house on the siller Jenny makes wi’ her kye; and Miss Menie, she makes pictures and takes folk’s like- nesses, and does what she can to keep hersel. Eh, man, there’s awfu’ changes! And wee July Home, Crofthill’s daughter, she’s married upon our Johnnie, keepit like a leddy, and never has a hand’s turn laid to her, wet day or dry ; it’s a grand mar- riage for the like o’ her; and there’s mysel—I was ance Nelly Panton till I got my man—but I’ve nae occasion to do a thing now but keep the house gaun, and mind the siller, for Peter, he’s aman o’ sense, and kens the value o’a guid wife; and I ‘| live real comfortable among my ain folk in a peace- able way, as Iwas aye disposed—though they’re an ill set, the folk hereaway; they’re aye bickering amang themsels. Will you no come in-by and rest ?” Randall who felt his philosophy abandon him in this respect as well as others, and who could not persuade himself by any arguments of her insig- nificance to quench the passion which this slow. stream of malicious disparagement raised within him, answered very hotly, and with great abrupt- ness, that he could not wait longer. A moment after he found himself again upon the road, with the reluctant children dragging him back, and Nelly looking out after him from her door. He had time to be annoyed at himself for betraying his anger; but Randall began to have changed thoughts ; began to lose respect for the self-coni- straint which once had been his highest form of dignity; began to. think that no natural emotion was unworthy of him—of him. For the first time he laughed at the words with bitterness as he looked up at the pale gleaming sky, with its clouds and stars. Unworthy of him—who-then was he ? CHAPTER XXXYV. “THe man’s richt—they’ll ha’e strayed in on the moss. Oh, my bairns! my bairns!” cried the dis- tressed mother into the night. ‘And Patie was telling, nae farther gane than yestreen, what a bog- illy bit it was, till a’ the weans were fleyed; and if they’re no sunk in the moss itsel, they'll be dead wi’ fricht by this time. Oh, my bonnie Jessie ! that was aye doing somebody a guid turn and wee Davie—puir wee Davie, he was aye the youngest, and got his ain way. My bairns! my bairns !” A snort came through the misty gloom. — By this time it was very dark, and Randall could hear the voices as they approached. “What's the woman greeting for. Her bairns ; her bairns? I would just 1ike to ken what suld ail her bairns—little mischiefs! They’re warm at somebody’s ingleaieuk, Ise warrant. © That wee Davie’s an imp 0’ Satan; neither fricht nor bogles will harm him. Come this road, woman. What gart ye leave the lantern? ; If there werena bet- ter wits than yours ” Jenny’s voice was interrupted by a sudden footstep crushing the bramble branches on the side of the way, and by a sudden glow of light thrown full upon the dazzled eyes of little Jessie, who left Randall’s hand with a ery of joy: “Oh, it’s thé leddy—we’re safe at hame.” The lantern flashed about through the darkness, Randall’s heart beat loudly. With a great start he recognized the voice which gave kindly weleome to the strayed child, and he could distinguish the outline of her figure, as she shaded the lantern with her hand; then she raised it—he felt the light suddenly burst upon his face—another mo- ment and it was gone. Little Jessie flew back to him dismayed ; voice, and figure, and light had disappeared as they came; one other step upon the brambles and they were alone once more. He had no time to marvel or to follow, for now the mother and Johnnie, suddenly drawing close to them, fell upon the lost children, with eries of mingled blame and joy. “It was the gentleman brought us hame.” “Thanks to the gentleman, would he no come in and rest? he would be ‘far out of his way; the guidman would take a lantern, and convoy him;” and a hundred other anxious volunteerings of gratitude poured upon Randall’s ears. “I must go on—I must go on!” He burst past them. impa- tieutly; he did not know where the house. was, or if she had gone home; but Menie had seen him, and Menie he must see. Step softly, Randall!” In her high excitement she hears every stir of the fallmg leaves without, and could not miss your footstep, if you trod softly as achild. She has reached to her shelter already —she has put out her mother’s nghts, and stands in the darkness, pressing her white face against the window, looking out, wondering if she will see you again ; wondering why you came here; pray- ing in a whisper that you may not cross. her path any more, but contradicting the prayer in her heart. Mrs. Laurie stands by the door without, watching for the caildren’s return ; and now they come, Davie hfted into his mother’s arms (tor he had been almost ‘asleep on his feet), Jessie eager that everybody should understand “it was my blame,” and Jenny smartly lecturing each and all. The rest of the family—all but the good-man, who’ has gone to the moss to seek the children—are gathered in a group, before the cottage ; and the red light of the fire glows out upon them, and some one has picked up the Jantern which Menie Laurie dropped. A little erowd—the inner circle of faces brightened by lamp, the outer ones re- <é
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-eallant ! 30 THE QUIET HEART. a a a dscdeeic, cede noe nn ceding into partial gloom, hearing little Jenny tell her story, speculating what part of the moss it could be, and “‘ where was the gentleman ?” a ques- tion which none could answer. “ Though I’ve heard his tongue afore, mysel,” said Jenny, “ I’m just as sure—woman, will ye no take that little Satan to his bed? and puir wee Jessie’s een gaun thegither. It wasna your blame, you deceitful monkey! Ye may cheat the wife there, but ye’ll no cheat Jenny. It was a’ that lit- tle bother—it wasna you. Gang out o’ my gate, If nane o’ the rest o’ ye will stir, I maun pit the bairn to her bed mysel.” From her window. Menie. Laurie looks out upon this scene—upon the darkness around—the one spot of light, and the half-illuminated faces ; looks out wistfully, straining her eyes into the night, wondering where he has gone, and getting time now, as her agitation calms, to be ashamed ‘and anoyed at her own weakness. Very calm for many a day has been Menie Laurie’s quiet heart— soberly, happily contented, and at rest. Little comforts and elegancies, which neither Mrs. Lau- rie’s income nor Jennie’s kye could attain, Menie has managed to collect into this little room. Her “trade,” as she still calls it—for Menie is the per- son of all others least satisfied with her own per- formances, and will not assume to be an artist— has brought her in contact with many pleasant people: her mother is pleased that they have even better “society ” here, in the cothouse, than they had in prosperous Burnside; and it even seems a thing probable, and to be hoped for, that by-and- by they may go back to Burnside and be able to live without its fifty yearly pounds. This success could not come without bringing some content and satisfaction with it; and constant occupation has restored health and ease to Menie’s mind, while almost as calm as of old, but with a deeper, loftier quiet, a womanly repose; light within her eased breast, has lain Menie’s heart. And why this. face of strange excitement now, Menie cannot tell. She found him out so sudden- ly—flashing her light upon the face, which least of all she thought to see But Menie wonders to feel this strong thrill of agitation returning on her as she touches the window with her pale cheek, and wonders if she will see him again. The night falls deeper—darker ; the wind over- head comes shouting down upon the trees, throw- ing their leaves from them in wild handfuls, and tearing off their feebler branches in a frensy. Here where we stand, you can hear it going forth with its cry of defiance against the hills, flinging a mag- ic circle round the startled homesteads, attacking bridges upon rivers, stacks in farmyards. The goodman who has returned with a glad heart to find his children safe, says, when he closes the cot- tage-door, that it is a wild night; but here, amid all its violence, waiting a moment when he may see her—strangely excited, strangely emancipated, owning the sway of one most passionate and sim- ple emotion, and for the first time forgetting, not only himself, but everything else—here, with his bare forehead to the wind, stands Randall Home. Now come hither; Jenny’s candle in the kitch- en thriftily extinguished, leaving her window only lightened by the firelight, proves that Jenny has come “ben” to the family service—the daily meet- ing-ground of mistress and servant, child and mother, There is no need to close the shut- ters on this window, which no one eyer passes by to see. Calm in her fireside corner sits Mrs. Laurie, with her open Bible in her lap; Jenny is close by the table, drawing near the light, and poring very closely upon the sma’ print,” which runs into a confused medley before her, not to be deciphered—for Jenny will not be persuaded to try spectacles, lest they should “spoil her een;” while Menie who reads the chapter aloud, reverently turns over the leaves of the family Bible, and with all her quiet restored, speaks the words which say peace to other storms than that storm never to be forgotten, in the Gali- lean Sea. - You remember how she was when you saw her last; you remember her through the flush of your own anger, the mortification of your own pride; but pride and mortification have little to do with this atmosphere which surrounds our Menie now. Her delicate hand is on the open Book ; her rever- ent eyes cast down upon it; her figure rising out of its old girlish freedom and carelessness, into a womanly calm and dignity. He follows the motion of her head and lips with an unconscious, eager gesture; follows them with devotion, longing to feel himself engaged with her; and hears, his frame quivering the while, rising upon his heart with a command, that hushes all these violent, strong voices round—the low sound of her voice. Now they are at prayer. Her face is folded in her hands, Randa!l; and there may be a prayer in Menie’s heart, which Mrs, Laurie’s voice, always timid at this time, does not say. Whatever, there is in Menie’s heart, you know whatis in your own; know at once this flood of sudden yearning, this sudden passion of hope and purpose, this sudden burst of womanish tears. Now, then, overmas- tered, subdued, and won, turn away, Randall Home, but not till Jenny, starting from her knees, has burst into a violent sob, and scream. ‘J dreamt he was come back this very nicht ; I dreamt o’ him yestreen—Randall—Randall Home!” But with an awed face, Jenny returned from the door to which she had flown, Randall was not there ! CHAPTER XXXVI. Somzrnina of langor is in this chill morning, as its quiet footstep steals upon the path of the exhausted storm; something worn out and heavy are Menie’s eyes as she closes them wearily upon the daylight when Jenny has cleared the little break fast- table, and it is time for the day’s work to begin. They speak to her softly, yow will perceive, and are very tender of Menie, as if she were ill, and Jenny cannot forgive herself for the shock that her exclamation caused last night. A heavy stupor is on Menie’s mind, lightened only with gleams of wild anxiety, with fruitless self-questionings, which she fain would restrain, but cannot. Jenny, firm in the belief that she has seen a spirit, is melancholy and mysterious, and asks suggestive questions—whether they have heard if there is “ony great trouble in London ’enow,” or who it was that was prayed for in the kirk last Sabbath; a young man in great distress, Mrs, Laurie, uneasy and solicitous, cannot stay these pitiful looks which unawares she turns upon her daughter, and hangs perpetually about her with tender touches, consoling words, and smiles, till poor Menie’s heart is like to break. The day’s work is over in Jenny’s “ redd-up kitchen;” the uneyen earthen floor is carefully swept—the hearth as white and the fireside as brilliant as Jenny’s elaborate care could make them; and Jenny has drawn aside a little the slid- ing panel which closes in her bed, to show the light patch-work quilt and snowy linen of the “owrelay.” Bright brass and pewter carefully polished above the high mantel-shelf—bright plates and crockery against the walls—with a glance of satisfaction Jenny surveyed the whole as she passed into the private corner where she made her toilette—a “ wise-like ” kitchen; it was worthy of Jenny. And now, in her blue and yellow gown, in her black and red checked plaiden shawl, in her great Leghorn bonnet, fashioned in antique times, Jen- ny sets out from the cottage door. No one knows where Jenny is going, and there has been some surprise “ben the house” at her intimation of her proposed “absence, But Jenny keeps her own counsel, and walks away soberly, seeing Mrs. Laurie at the window, in the direction of Burnside. “Nae occasion to let the haill town see that gate that Jenny was gaun,” she says to herself, with a slight fuff; and altering her course before she reaches the Brigend, Jenny turns rapidly towards the hills, And something of growing gravity, almost awe, is on Jenny’s face, ‘Eh, puir callant, he’s young to take fareweel o’ this life. Weel, laddie, mony’s the time Jenny’s grutten for ye, and maybe it’s best, after a’, if ane could but think sae,” These lamentations fall like so many tears on Jenny’s way—and she is rapidly climbing the brae, as she utters them, towards the house of Crofthill. It is a wintry autumn afternoon—so dull, that the potato-gatherers in the fields are chilled into silence, and the ploughmen scarcely can whistle into the heavy atmosphere which droops upon them ladef with unfallen rain, The paths of the little triangular garden of Crofthill are choked with masses of brown leaves, fallen from the trees, which sway their thin remaining foliage drearily, hanging lank from the crest of the hill; The goodman is thrashing to-day; you can hear the heayy tramp of the horses, the swing of the primitive machine; it is almost the only sound that breaks the silence of the place. Nay, listen—there is another sound; a slow monotonous voice, wont to excite in Jenny certain sentiments the reverse of peaceable. The kitchen door is open, a great umbrella rests against the lintel, and Miss Janet’s tall figure is just visible, in a gown not much unlike Jenny’s own; standing before the fire listening, as Jenny, arrested at the threshold, must be content to listen too. : “Na; I can do nae mair than tell what’s true ; I canna gie folk the judgment to put trust in me. I’m no ane that meddles wi’ ither folk’s concerns —but I thocht it richt ye should ken—I’m no say- ing whether it’s in the flesh or the spirit—that Randall Home was seen upon the Kirklands road last nicht.” J “But I tell ye, woman, it couldna be our Randy —it couldna be my bairn,” exclaimed Miss Janet, in great distress. ‘Do ye think Crofthill’s son would ca’ upon the like o’ you, and no come hame? It’s been some English lad that’s spoken grand, like Randall; and how was you to ken to look at his presence, that never ane had like him? Na, it wasna our son,” “Presence or no presence, I mind him weel,” said Nelly, emphatically, “I wouldna think, my- sel, an appearance or a wraith could ha’e grippit thae weans, and kent the road sae weel to carry them hame—no to say that spirits would ha’e- little patience, as I think, wi’ barley scones, when they canna partake themsels ; and I tried him about the Burnside family, and Crofthill as weel; and I saw his een louping wi’ passion, and he scarce ga’e me thanks for my charity. It’s an awfuw’ thing to sel as I do ilka day, and I canna think but that it’s just because I’m sae peaceable mysel that a’body flees into rapture wi’ me, But I just ken this—I saw Randall Home.” Miss Janet turned round to wring her hands un- seen. She was very much troubled and shakeun, and turning, met, to her dismay, the keen inqui. i- tive face of Jenny. With a little start and ery, Miss Janet turned again to dash some tears off her ' cheek, Then she addressed the new-comer in a trembling voice; “Ye’ll have heard her story—-- your house is on the same road—have you seen anything like this?” “T wouldua put a moment’s faith in her—no me,” said Jenny, promptly, “It’s a dull day to her when she disna put somebody in trouble; and it’s just because there’s no a single mischief to the fore in Kirklands that she’s come to put her ma- lice on you, Put strife amang neibors, woman— naebody can do’t sae weel; but what would ye come here for to frichten honest folk in their ain houses ?” “For every friendly word I say, I aye get twa i}l words back,” said Nelly, meekly, with a sigh of injury. “But it’s weel kent the spirit that’s in Burnside Jenny, and I wouldna take notice, for my pairt, o? what the likes o’ her micht say; but I can- na help aye being concerned for what happens to Crofthill, minding the connection; and if I didna see Randall Home’s face, and hear Randall Home's tongue, in the dark at my ain door yestreen, I nev- er saw mortal man. If he’s in the flesh, I would- na say but he was hiding for some ill-doing, for | you may be sure he didna want me to see his face, kenning me for far sicht langsyne,; and if it was an appearance, I'll no gie you muckle hope o’ his state, for the awsome passion he got in, though he never said a word to, me; and, as I said before, I can tell you what’s true, but I canna gie ye faith to believe, sae I'll bid ye good-day, Miss Ja- net; and ye’ll just see if ye didna think mair o’ what I’ve said, afore you’re a day aulder—you an the auld man too.” Slowly Nelly took her departure, Miss Janet looking on like one stupefied, As the unwelcome visitor disappeared, Miss Janet sank into a chair, | and again wrung her hands; but looking up with sudden fright to perceive Jenny’s elaborate dress, and look of mystery, hastily exclaimed: “ Jenny, woman, it’s no but what you’re aye welcome, but what’s brocht you here the day?”
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Je I cam o’my ain will; naebody kens’” said nny, abruptly. “But ye maun have come with an errand; I’m no feared to greet before you, Jenny,” said Miss Janet, with humility. ‘Oh, woman, tell me, do you ken onything of my bairn ?” “Me! what should [ken ?” said Jenny, turning her face away. ‘‘ You'll have gotten word? Nae doubt, being grand at the writing, he aye sends letters. What gars ye ask the like o’ me?” Miss Janet caught her visitor’s hand, and turned her face towards the light with a terri- fied cry. “You may tell me; I ken you’ve seen him as weel.” Jenny resisted for some time, keeping her head averted. At length, when she could struggle no longer, she fell into a little burst of sobbing. “ I never would have telled ye. I didna come to make you desolate; butI canna tell a lee. I saw him in the dark last nicht, just ae moment, glancing in at the window, and when I gaed to the door, he was gane,” Half an hour after, very drearily Jenny took her way down the hill; and looking back as the early twilight began to darken on her path, she saw Miss Janet’s wistful face command- ing the way. The twilight came down heavily, the clouds dipped upon the hill, drizzling rain be- gan to fall, carrying down with them light, drop- ping showers of half-detached and dying leaves, but still Miss Janet leaned upon the dyke, and turned her anxious eyes to the hilly footpath, watching, with many a sob and shiver, for Ran- dall, in the flesh or *n the spirit. Surely, if he re- a himself to strangers, he might come to r. CHAPTER XXXVII. Arter this there fell some very still and quiet Everything went days upon Mrs. Laurie’s cottage. on languidly; there was no heart to the work which Menie touched with dreamy fingers; there was something subdued and spiritless in her mo- ther’s looks and movements; and even Jenny’s foot rang less briskly upon her earthen floor. They ylid not know what ailed them, nor what it was they looked for; but with a brooding stillness of expectation, they waited for something, if it were tempest, earthquake, or only a new glow of sun- shine out of the kindly skies, Was it a spirit? Asking so often, you make your cheek pale, Menie Laurie; you make your eyelids droop heavy and leaden over your dim eyes. Few people come here to break the solitude, and we all dwell with our own thoughts, through these still days alone. _ _ “ Menie, you are injuring yourself ; we will tak a long walk, and see some people to-day,” said Mrs. Laurie, “Come, it is quite mild; it will do us both good. We will go to the manse to see Miss Johnston, and then to Woodlands and Burnside. Put up your papers; we will take a holiday to- day.” Menie’s heavy eyes said faintly that she cared nothing about Miss Johnston, about Woodlands or Burnside; but Menie put aside her papers slowly, and prepared for the walk. They went out to- gether, not saying much, though each sought out, with labor and difficulty, something to say. “I - wonder what ails us?” said Menie, with a sigh. Her mother made no answer. It was not easy to tell; and speaking of it would do more harm than A hazy day—the sky one faint unvaried color, enveloped in a uniform livery of cloud; a faint white mist spread upon the hills; small, invisible rain in the air, and the withered leaves heavily falling down upon the sodden soil, el tt QUIET HEART. * ‘phis wilfabt-raise our spirits, mother,” said Menie, with a faint smile; ‘better within doors, and at work, on a day like this.” But why, with such a start and tremblé, do you hear those steps upon the path? Why be struck with such wild curiosity about them, although you would not turn your head for a king’s ransom? Anybody may be coming—the shepherd’s wife from Whinnyrig yonder, the poor crofter from the edge of the peat-moss, or little Jessie’s mother bound for the universal rural-shop at the Brigend. We are drawing near to the Brigend—already the aromatic flavor of the peats warms the chill air with word of household fires, and we see smoke arise,beyond the ash-trees—the smoke of our old famflyshome, the kind hearth of Burnside. Hush! whether it were hope or fear, is no matter; the steps have ceased; vain this breathless lis- tening to hear them again; go on through the ash-trees, Menie Laurie—on through the simple gateway of this humble rural world. By the fire- side—in the cottage—with such simple joy as friendly words and voices of children can give you —this is your life. And only one—only one—this your mother—to watch your Ieoks and gestures—the falling and the rising of sour tired heart. Wistful eyes she turns upon you—tender cares. Look up to repay her, Menie; smile for her comfort; you are all that remains to her, and she is all that remains to you. Look up; see how solemnly the ash-trees lift their old bleached arms to heaven. Look up, Menie Laurie ; but here, at our very ear, these be- wildering steps again ! Do not shrink; here has come the ordeal you have looked for many a day. Well said your pro- phetic heart, that it drew near in the hush and silence of this fated time. They stand there, arched and canopied, under these familiar trees, the hamlet’s quiet houses receding behind them— Burnside yonder, the limit of the scene, and the burn, the kindly country voice, singing a quiet measure to keep them calm. An old man and a young, learned with experiences of life; the elder fresh and noble, daring to meet the world with open face, aware of all the greatest truths and mysteries of the wonderful existence which we call common life, but nothing more; the younger, trained in a more painful school, with his les- son of self-forgetting newly conned, with know- ledge sadder than his father’s, with a heart and conscience quivering still with self-inflicted wounds, —they stand there bareheaded under the cloudy sky, not with the salutation of common respect, which might permit them to pass on. A courtly natural grace about them both, makes their attitude all the more remarkable. With blanched cheeks and falling eyes, Menie Laurie’s face droops ; she dares not look up, but waits, trembling so greatly that she can scarcely stand, for what has to be said. Mrs. Laurie, with a sudden impulse of protec- tion draws her child’s arm within her own, moves forward steadily, all her pride of mother and of woman coming to her aid; bows to her right hand and her left; says she is glad to see that this is really Mr. Randall, and not the wraith her simple Jenny had supposed; and, speaking thus in a voice which is but a murmur of inarticulate sounds to Menie, bows again, and would pass on. But John Home of Crofthill lays his hand upon her sleeve. ‘You and me have no outcast to set- tle. Leave the bairns to themselves,” With a startled glance Mrs. Laurie looks round her, at the old man’s face of anxious friendliness, at the deep flush on Randall’s brow, and at her own Menie’s drooping head. ‘Shall I leave you, Menie ?” Menie makes no answer—as pale and as cold as marble, with a giddy pain in her forehead, {Tam END.] unable to raise her swimming but she makes a great effort to support herself as her mother gradually looses her hand from her arm. Passive, silent, her whole mind absorbed with the pain it takes to keep herself erect, and guide her faltering steps along the road; but Randall is by Menie’s side once more. Father and mother have gone on, back towards the cottage ; silently, without a word these parted hearts follow them side by side. If she had any power left but what is wanted for her own sup- port, she would wonder why Randall does not speak. She does wonder, indeed, faintly, even through her pain. With downcast eyes like hers, he walks beside her, through this chill dewy air, between these rustling hedges, in a conscious si- Jence, which every moment becomes more over- powering, more strange. “Menie!” With a sudden start she acknowl- edges hername; but there is nothing more. “T said, when we parted, that you were disloyal to me and to Nature,” said Randall, after another pause, ‘“Menie, I have learned many a thing since then. It was I that was disloyal to Nature —but never to you.” Still no answer; this giddiness grows upon her, though she does not miss a word of what he says: “There is no question between us; none that does not fade like a vapor before the sunlight, I see, Menie, can you trust me again ?” She cannot answer; she can do nothing but fal- ter and stumble upon this darkening road. It grows like night to her, What is this she leans upon—the arm of Randall Home ? Miss Janet sits in her shawl of state in Jenny’s kitchen—very curious and full of anxiety. “Eh, woman, such a sair heart I had,” said Miss Janet, “when wha should come, as fast up the road as if he kent I was watching, but my ain bairn? He hasna been hame since July’s wedding; ye would- na think it o’ a grand lad like our Randall, and him sae clever, and sae muckle thocht 0’ in the world—but when he gaed owre his father’s door- stane again, the puir laddie grat like a bairn. Will you look if they’re coming, Jenny ?—nae word o’ them? Eh, woman, what can make Miss Menie sea ill at the like o’ him ?” “The like o’ him’s nae such #reat things,” said Jenny, with a little snort. what Miss Menie has had far better in her offer. She’s a self-willed thing—she’ll no take Jenny’s word ; but weel I wat, if she askit me”——-_—. “Whisht, you’re no to say a word,” cried Miss Janet, coming in from the door, “I see them on the road—I see them coming hame. Jenny, you’re no to speak. Miss Menie and my Randall, they’re aen heart ance mair.” And so it was—one heart, but not a heart at ease; the love-renewed still owed a pang of terror. But day after day came out of the softening hea- vens—hour after hour preached and expounded of the mellowed nature—the soul which had learned to forget itself; other pictures rose under Menie’s fingers, faces which looked you bravely in the face, eyes that forgot to doubt and criticise. The clouds cleared from her firmament in gusts and rapid evo- lutions, as before these brisk October winds. On3 fear followed another, falling like the autumn leaves; a warmer atmosphere crept into the cot- tage, a brighter sunshine filled its homely rooms. Day by day, advancing steadily, the son drew far- ther in, to his domestic place. The mother gave her welcome heartily ; the daughter, saying noth- ing, felt the more; and no one said a word of grumbling, save perverse Jenny, who wept with joy the while, when another year and another life lighted up into natural gladness the sweet harmo- nious quiet of Menie Laurie’s heart, “T wouldna say but.
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By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Our IN THE Wort: By Bartley 7’. Campbell. 16 Brust Mer Not; or, Taz Trut Kyicar. By Margaret Leicester. 17 A Loyal Lover. By A. Southworth. 18 His Idol; or, THe In_-Srarrup MarRiaGce. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 19 ‘Khe Broken Betrothals3 or, Lover ver- sus Hats. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orpran Nell, the Oranve Girls. or, THe WitcHEes oF New York, Agile Penne, Qi Now and Forever; or, Wy Dip SHE Marry im. By Henrietta Thackeray, 22 Whe Bride of an Actor. By the author of ‘‘ Alone in the World,” etc.,, etc. 23 Leap Year; or, Wuy Sue Proposrp, By Sara Claxton. A Daughter of Hve; or, BLINDED By} 33 The Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming, $4 A Marriage of Convenience: or, WAs He A Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 Sinned Against,.By Clara Augusta. 86 Sir Archer’s Bride. By A. Southworth. The Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy. Wis Own Again. Arabella Southworth. Klirtatiom. By Ralph Royal. Pledged to Marry. By Sara Claxton. Blind Devotion, By Alice Fleming. Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, Wis Sxo- OND LovE. ‘by. A. Southworth. The Barouet’s Secret Sara Claxton. The Only. Daughter: or, BRotHer AGAINST Lover. By Alice Fleming. Hier Hidden Foe. Arabella Southworth. Whe Little Heiress, By M. A. Denison, IBcecause She Loved Him; or, How Witt ir, Exp. By Alice va ak in Spite of Herself. By S. R. Sherwood. His Meart’s Mistress; or, Love ar Fiast Sianr. By Arabella Southworth. The Cuban Heiress; or, Tur Prisoner ov LA Vintressps, _ By Mrs: Mary A. Denison. Two Young Girls; or, THe Bripr or AN Earu.. By Alice Fleming. The Winged Wessengers or, Risking A tL For A Heart. By Marv Reed Crowell. 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; cr, Tar Ko- MANCE oF A Rupy Rise. _W. M. Turner, M. D. 54 One Woman’s Mieart; or, Savep FromTur Srreer, By- George 8. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him 3 or, Sroorme to Coxqumr. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mia@s or, Brrroraep, Manrniep, Divorcep anp ——. By W. M. Turner, M. D. 57 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming. 68 Whe Ebon Mask. By Mary R. Crowell, 59.A Widows Wiles. Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecils Deceit. By Jennie Davis Burton. 61 A Wicked Wieart. BySaraClaxton, ° 24 Her Face Was Hier Fortume,. By | 62 Khe Maniac Bride. By M. Blount. leanor Blaine, 25 Only a Schoolmistress3 or, Her Un- TOLD SECRET. By Arabelia Southworth. 26 Without a Beart. By P. Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A STRANGE CourtsHrr. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase: or, THe GAmpBLer’s WIPFE.. ei Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. 29 Wor Her Bear Sake. By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A MILLION oF Monry. By Agile Penne. 31 A Wled Miarriags. By Mary A. Denison. $2 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, RosEs AND Lines. By A. Soutiworth, 163 Khe Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Did}; or, THe Herm or Wonrstey Grange. By Alice Wlemineg. 65 The Wife’s Secret. 66 A Brether’s Sim. By Rachel Bernhardt, 67 Forbidden Bans. Arabella Southworth, 68 Weavers and Wett. By M. E. Braddon. 69 Camille; or, Taz Fat or a Coquerrs, By Alex Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery. 71 Wy Young Wife. By My Young Wife’s Husband, 72 Khe Iwo Widows. By Annie Thomas. By Col. Juan Lewis | 73 Mose Wichels or, Tar Trrats of A HAC Tory Girt. By Maude Hilton. ‘ 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage. By Ouida, |%} 75 The Biack, Lady eof Duma. By J.S. | 2) Le Fanu. - bE. oe : 76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowron. 77 Christian Oakley's Mistake. By the . author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 78 My Voung Musband. By Myself. 79 A Quccn Aimongst Women. By the author of ‘* Dora Thorne.” ) 80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. eh ert 81 Lucy Temple. ; : : 82 A Lone Time Ago, By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for Migh stakes, By Annie Thomas. : ; 84 Whe Lavrel ffush. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,”? } 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet; 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot, 87 Romance of a Poor Young Man, By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Werrible Deeds or, Att ror Gop, By Emma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. 90 The Author’s Daughter. By Mary Howitt, 91 Khe Silt. By Charles Reade. 92 Kileen Alanna; or, Tar Dawnine or THE Day, By Dennis O'Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold, By Mrs. Marsh, 96 Hiaun:ted Hearts; or, Tur Broxen Br TROTHAL, By Rachel Bernhardt, 97 EXugh Melten. By Catharine King. — 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock, 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lover. By Mary Patrick, Ready October 4th. By 100 Through Fire and Water, Frederick Talbot. Peady October 11th. 101 Elammah. By Miss Mulock. October 18, A new issue.every week, Tar Waveriry Liprary is for sale fh Newsdealers, five cents per ccpy, or veer mail on receipt of six cents enc BEADLE AND ADAMS. Pubjishara 98 William street, New York. all ° by |