indomitable cheerfulness. She had early | other. Alike when the worst came, or made reckonings with her own heart as to when fear faded through hope into glad what were its absolute necessities, and certainty, she could be spared, and then had found that with her, love, and the others might come to console or to conpower of loving service far outweighed gratulate. But she had always been the all privations and struggles, and so had best angel of the waiting hours, whose resolutely accepted her full burden of touch was soft enough for hearts palpitatthese. Perhaps she had never before felt ing with uncertainty and who knew how such a sinking of her soul as she did to- to steer between that dread that is too day, for at last change and pain were like despair, and that hope which seems stealing into the very home and home ties to tried hearts too much like indifference. for which she had wrought and suffered. Many a night through had she watched in It was time for Robert, her first-born, to narrow Shetland huts, while the wind go out and seek his fortunes in the great tramped over the roof with a sound as of world. And now the very day of his de- chariots and horses, and the sea roared parture had come. and growled below like a fierce wild beast seeking his prey. She had known when to speak and when to keep silence; when to murmur a soothing text, and when only to trim the little iron lamp, or to add another peat to the glowing pile; when to kneel down and call out to God with that strange deep trust which we all find lying still and deep at the bottom of our hearts when storms of sorrow or fear are agitating our lives, and when simply and silently to prepare and proffer a cup of tea. But she knew, too, what all this had cost her.

"But as it is in the course of nature, it must be the will of God," said the brave little woman to herself; "and if one lets one's self begin to cry out against that, one never knows where one may end."

It troubled her sorely that during the recently past days she had not always been able to restrain her tears. For the sight of them vexed Robert, and had caused him to speak to her more than once in sharp words and with a morose manner, which she felt sure would return upon his heart to sting it with a tender remorse when he should have gone away out of her sight.

"I've

"There's enough waiting in life which no human hand can hinder, Robert," she went on, struggling valiantly for speech, She felt thankful that she did not think for she did not want to slacken pace, since she should lose command of herself to-day. Robert might need all his time. All the pathetic parting preparations had had my share of that. I can see it was been completed, and with nothing more the lesson I needed, for I was of an imbut the end full in view, a desperate calm-patient spirit. And I've certainly not had ness had settled on her.

"When one's pain is worst, one shows it least. I know that," she decided to herself. "I believe that is the case with Robert. He has been feeling all the time, like I feel to-day."

too much of it, for I can't do it easily yet. But I think it's a lesson we should leave in God's hand, and not one we should set each other. So you'll take care about the letters, Robert?"

"I'll do my best, mother," said the lad. "But I expect I shall be often very busy. If you don't get word of me you may be sure it is all right with me. Somebody else would soon take care to let you know if anything went wrong."

Now, Robert," she gasped, for they were walking at a considerable speed and the wind nearly took away her breath, "you won't forget always to let us have a letter. You know it is such a long while between our posts, that if none comes by "I'm not so sure of that," she returned. one of them, we shall have a dreadful "I've been thinking about that. Do you waiting for the next." Her life had been remember when the poor Norwegian sailor worn down by constant waitings wait with his leg broken was carried up to our ings for her husband's return from er- house from the wreck of the 'Friga'? rands of duty and mercy, amid perils of Well, he wouldn't write home to his darkness and cliff and wave waitings mother till he was sure his leg wouldn't for tidings of death among her own peo- have to be cut off. He said she would ple in the far southern mainland. And think no news was good news, and would somehow, too, she had always been the be spared all trouble about his calamity if one summoned to share other people's she never heard of it till it was over. waitings the vigils of fishers' wives who And I thought so too, at that time; but knew not yet whether they were widows, somehow now I don't. If I don't hear and who craved for her presence and were from you I shall be apt to fancy, 'Someconsoled by it when they could bear none | thing is wrong with Robert; but he and

his friends are saying that we will think | gazing out upon its waste of gray waters no news is good news,' and that so they dashing up against the fortress-like rocks won't trouble us till they have good news which guarded the low, dank green hills to send. But of course we don't want you to be writing letters home when it is your duty to be doing anything else," she added, with true love's ready alarm and reluctance lest it become a drag and a fetter on the progress of active life; "but a line will not take you long, and it will made me do double the spinning and knitting on the day it comes in."

ghostly ponies, and other grotesque crea- and longer, and when she and Olive would tions of the simple local imagination, yet take their spinning-wheels or their knitin the darkness of a moonless night itting out of doors, and watch the schoolwould not be very pleasant travelling on a boys at football, but no more Robert way where the dryest walking was to be among them; and when the fishing fleets found by jumping from stone to stone in would go and come, but there would be the bed of candid little watercourses that no Robert to go down to the boats and were far more to be trusted than the bring in the latest news? How would treacherous moss, which received one's she bear to see the blue waves dancing in foot only to close over it. At sundown, the sunshine, and to know they rolled betoo, the wind was almost sure to rise. It tween her and her boy, between him and was well that Mrs. Sinclair was one of all the old life that had been, and could those who instinctively avoid all avoidable be no more? discomforts as being apt to throw one aside from one's power to serve, and to compel one to be burdensome to others, for she was in that state of mind when the more selfish and reckless are inclined to court outward suffering as a relief from inward agony.

There was scarcely a sharp word which she had ever spoken to Robert, however much for his good, which did not now seem to her to have been a harsh word; and had she not often allowed him to see her disheartened, weary, and ailing, when by trying just a little harder she might have made believe to be as bright and well as usual? And had she done Robert justice to the very utmost of her power? The dear father was such an easy man, so ready to let things take their own way, and so sure that everything was for the best. That was his nature, and could not be altered, she thought; and a sweet and sunny nature it was. She only wished her own was like it, except that it might not do for two such to run together in such a troublesome world. Had they really done their best for Robert? Would he not find himself terribly behindhand when he went among other people who had lived all their lives in the polished places of the world? Perhaps it had been a mere petty pride, an unworthy shrinking from patronage, which had made her withhold the lad from too much frequenting of the houses of the one or two neigh. boring proprietors; and perhaps Robert would blame her for it some day!

And then again her heart reproached her, for she was a woman who sought to walk in the ways of divine wisdom; and the precepts, "Take no thought for the morrow: sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," seemed breathed into her ears almost as by an audible voice. No, she would not think of the future. It, and how she would bear it, was God's business, and not hers.

Then, with a strange rebound, such as only highly strung, wrung natures can comprehend, her thoughts went back to the past, to the richly wooded, bowery Surrey vale, which she had left more than twenty years ago, and had never seen since, and she saw before her, with all the startling clearness and detail of absolute vision, her ancient, moss-grown cottage home, with its sweet, old-fashioned flower garden, and the grey tower of the village church among its guardian yews. Surely for one moment a balmy breeze from that vanished past softened the fierce winds of Ultima Thule! Surely she caught a waft from the myrtles which used to stand in a row on the parlor window-sill! Oh, what a magician memory is! Mrs. Sinclair could have thrown herself down in the dark on the rough, wet ground, to cry her heart out in yearning for the homely faces of old neighbors, for the caw of the rooks in the squire's park, and the ringing of the English bells on a Sunday morning.

No, no, no; this would never do. Again the ancient oracle, to which she had never willingly turned a deaf ear, had its brac ing word for her about "forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before." Neither the future nor the past must lay violent hands on the present.

Was it tears or rain on her face? Either way, the rain soon washed off the tears, for it began to fall in torrents, soaking even the thick native shawl which she wore pinned about her head, a more appropriate covering in such a climate than

any bonnet or hat could be. It was dark now, and every moment the ground grew wetter and heavier, clogging the weary progress of her poor tired feet.

"I'm glad of the rain," she thought; "it will keep down the wind. Robert won't get wet in the cabin, and it will give him the smoother passage."

The way suddenly broadened into the valley where her journey ended. Here and there a solitary light sent out a spark of human cheer and habitation. She made straight to her own house, daring, now it was in sight, to realize that she was very tired. She lifted the latch. A glow of peat-smelling light and warmth rushed out to welcome her.

"It's well to reach home on such a night," she said cheerily. "And there's father waking up from a pleasant dream! And there's my Olive got the tea all ready for her mother! Won't it be grand when it's Robert himself that we welcome back again? And what a deal he will have to tell us! It's terrible, this going away; but then there could be no coming home without it. And I've been thinking, Olive, we must begin at once to spin some of our finest wool, or even some flax, if there's any still to be had in the island, to make Robert some light socks for the warm summers down south."

CHAPTER II.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

AFTER his mother left him, Robert Sinclair plodded steadily on his road. He thought she was a good little woman to let him go at the last with so little fuss.

Very likely he would not have to walk alone far. One other young Shetlander, at least, was also to sail in the same ship which would take Robert away from the island. Robert was almost sure to overtake Tom Ollison presently, or at any rate to meet him at the half-way house, where travellers were wont to break their journey by a brief rest beside the fire, and a temperate meal of strong tea and homebaked bread.

If Robert's way onward was somewhat less picturesque than his mother's homeward one, it was also less lonely, that part of the country nearer its little capital being more populous than its remoter regions. Robert Sinclair quickened his pace, when he came in sight of a beautiful little bay, with many houses nestling among its cliffs, and a tiny church and a big manse standing on the lip of the sea. One more up-hill tug, and he would reach his temporary resting-place.

He found the good woman of the little house bustling about in a state of unwonted excitement. If Tom Ollison had not yet arrived, and Robert's inquiries ascertained that he had not, she had other guests of much greater importance in her eyes. Not that she might not have preferred Tom, for she had all the old-fashioned island distrust of strange faces. But then strangers always meant money, ready money, and that is no small boon in a place where life rubs on mostly by a series of exchanges, of doubtfully ascertained values.

One is tempted to wonder sometimes why God makes such as Mrs. Sinclair to live in a world like this, where they seem doomed to the endurance of exquisite agonies which others never feel or even guess at, and so many of which, alas! others could often avert by a word, or even by a look-how much more by action! But let it be remembered that at every point at which pain can be received, there must be an equal capacity for receiving pleasure. And let it be observed that though the quivering nerves of these Robert found no less than three people sensitive natures may only receive pleas- already awaiting the hostess's ministraure once for ten times that they are thrilled tions. But they were not all together with agony, yet so exquisite is that pleas-one sat alone and apart, quite extinure, that it seems almost to neutralize guished by the presence of the others. their huge disproportion of suffering. He recognized this one, and she got up And what would the world be like if all and curtseyed to him because she knew souls were already so tempered? ready he was the schoolmaster's son at Quodda. to receive little but pain, yearning to ren- This was little Kirsty Mail. He thought der nought but joy? Would not that be now that he had heard his mother say the very kingdom and will of God come something about Kirsty's soon going to upon earth, for which we pray daily, but a servant's place in the south; but his over which we too seldom ponder? mother was always taking so much interest in this kind of people and things, that he could not be expected to remember all the details.

Let us think of these martyr-souls with a reverent exultation. They are God's best pledge of what he has in store when all hearts even these shall be satisfied forevermore.

The other two were strangers, perfect strangers, Robert was sure of that the

moment he saw them. They were seated in front of the open fire, spreading out their garments to dry in its genial heat. They both turned and looked at him; but they made no room for him at the fire, any more than they evidently had done for Kirsty Mail; probably it did not occur to them that anybody was travelling but themselves. The one was a big, burly gentleman with a face which would have been fine, but that its once noble outlines were blurred by too much flesh. It was the same with its expression. It was odd how so much good-humor and kindliness could remain apparent among such palpable traces of peevishness, irritability, and something very like discontent. His long, olive-green overcoat was richly furred about the neck and wrists, and there was a magnificent signet ring on the hand he held out over the glowing fire.

"This isn't a licensed house, sir," said Mrs. Yunson. "There is not one nearer than Lerwick; there are very good ones there."

"Well, I don't know how you get on in such a climate without something to comfort you," observed the visitor. "But I dare say you know how to take care of yourselves. There are nice little places among the rocks, where nice little boats can leave nice little kegs, eh? And, upon my word, I don't see who could blame you. The revenue folk oughtn't to be hard on people living in such a place."

"Indeed, and that's very true, sir," responded Mrs. Yunson, going on with her hospitable duties.

"I suppose you really do have a good deal of smuggling here?" inquired the guest, lowering his voice to a more confidential tone.

Mrs. Yunson shook her head. "Not

and again, but not enough to be worth the trouble and risk. It is done more for the fun of the thing, than anything else, I do believe. The cloth is quite fresh and clean, miss," she interpolated, seeing the young lady's eyes fixed with suspicious disfavor on sundry pale stains upon it.

The other was quite a young girl, and it was almost ridiculous to see the fea- now, sir," she answered demurely. tures of the father's heavy, rather voluptu-"There's a little tobacco, maybe, now ous countenance translated into her delicate beauty. But it was not everybody who would have eyes to see that his expression was also translated into hers, and still fewer, that it did not even gain by the transfer. Young vices go under such euphonious names: they are called "sweet petulance" and "airy scorn," and "inno-"Those marks are just off the haystack, cent thoughtlessness." Alas! It is so often only when it is too late, when they have taken firm hold on the life and have ravaged it, and spread poison around it, that they are recognized for what they are !

"I hope that good woman won't be long in giving us something to eat, Etta," said the gentleman to the young lady. "I'd like to be into the town before dusk if | possible; but I suppose it isn't. There's no knowing what the way may be like. What did she say she could let us have, eh?"

"She said something about eggs," an. swered the girl indifferently.

"And tea, eh?" added the gentleman with a disgusted tone. At that moment Mrs. Yunson bustled into the apartment to spread a clean, coarse cloth on the rough table. So he directed his inquiries

to her.

"You don't mean to say you can't let me have anything stronger than that," he said, as she set forth a dim tin tea-kettle. "It's real good, sir," she answered. "Tea's a thing that keeps well, and we can get that good."

"But I want some brandy- or at any rate some beer," he said.

on which it was dried. That's the only way we can manage in winter-the ground is that soft and dirty, and the wind's too high for lines."

Miss Etta Brander began to sip her tea. She said nothing about its quality, which was really excellent, but she remarked that she could not touch the bread she would rather starve — it was

lumpy.

So

"Well, Etta," growled her father, "I should really think you could put up for once without grumbling with what other people have to live upon all their days."

Etta smiled superciliously; she knew she owed the reproof only to her father's own irritation at having to go without his usual midday indulgence of a "tot" of brandy.

Mrs. Yunson asked if they had done with the teapot, that she might take it away to supply the wants of Robert and little Kirsty Mail.

Etta looked calmly at her, as if she either did not hear or did not understand what she said. But her father answered, Certainly, certainly. Why did you not ask for it before? I did not know they were travellers too. I thought they were your own boy and girl."