a historical observer. He even inspected | which he had bought for the purpose. the pictures in the National Collection Then, having concluded everything, he with unbounded respect, if little knowl- set out solemnly on his way to Dunearn. edge, and climbed the Observatory on the It was a long walk. The autumnal Calton Hill. There were many specta- afternoon closed in mists; the moon rose tors about the streets, who remarked him up out of a haze the harvest moon, with as he walked about, looking conscien- a little redness in her light. The landtiously at everything, with mingled amaze- scape was dim in this mellowed vapor, ment and respect; for his respectability, and everything subdued. The trees, with his sober curiosity, his unvarying serious- all their fading glories, hung still in the ness, were remarkable enough to catch haze; the river tinkled with a far-off an intelligent eye. But nobody suspected sound; the lights in the cottages were that Rolls's visit to Edinburgh was the blurred, and looked like huge, vague lamps solemn visit of a martyr, permitting him- in the milky air, as Rolls trudged on self the indulgence of a last look at the slowly, surely, to the place of fate. It scenes that interested him most, ere giv- took him a long time to walk there, and ing himself up to an unknown and myste- he did not hurry. Why should he hurry? rious doom. He was sure, went he ever so slowly, to On the morning of the 24th, having sat-arrive in time. As he went along, all isfied himself fully, he returned home. things that ever he had done came up He was quite satisfied. Whatever might into his mind. His youthful extravanow happen, he had fulfilled his intention, gances for Rolls, too, had once been and realized his dreams: nothing could young and silly; his gradual settling into take away from him the gratification thus manhood; his aspirations, which he once secured. He had seen the best that earth had, like the best; his final anchorage, contained, and now was ready for the which, if not in a very exalted post, nor worst, whatever that might be. Great perhaps what he had once hoped for, was and strange sights, prodigies unknown to yet so respectable. Instead of the long his fathers, were befitting and natural lines of trees, the hedgerows, and cottages objects to occupy him at this moment of which marked the road, it was his own fate. It was still early when he got back: | life that Rolls walked through as he went he stopped at the Tinto station, not at on. He thought of the old folk, his father that which was nearest to Dalrulzian, and slowly making his way up by the fatal road, visited the scene of Torrance's death. The lodge-keeper called out to him, as he turned that way, that the road was shut up; but Rolls paid no heed. He clambered over the hurdles that were placed across, and soon reached the scene of the tragedy. The marks of the horse's hoofs were scarcely yet obliterated, and the one fatal point at which the terrified brute had dinted deeply into the tough clay, its last desperate attempt to hold its footing, was almost as distinct as ever. The terrible incident with which he had so much to do came before him with a confused perception of things he had not thought of at the time, reviving, as in a dream, before his very eyes. He remembered that Torrance lay with his head down the stream a point which had not struck him as important; and he remembered that Lord Rintoul had appeared out of the wood at his cry for help so quickly that he could not have been far away when the accident took place. What special signification there might be in these facts Rolls was not sufficiently clear-headed to see. But he noted them with great gravity in a little note-book, and mother; he seemed to see Bauby and himself and the others coming home in just such a misty autumn night from school. Jock, poor fellow! who had gone to sea, and had not been heard of for years; Willie, who listed, and nearly broke the old mother's heart. How many shipwrecks there had been among the lads he once knew! Rolls felt, with a warmth of satisfaction about his heart, how well it was to have walked uprightly, to have " won through the storms of life, and to have been a credit and a comfort to all belonging to him. If anything was worth living for, that was. Willie and Jock had both been cleverer than he, poor fellows! but they had both dropped, and he had held on. Rolls did not want to be proud; he was quite willing to say, "If it had not been for the grace of God- "but yet it gave him an elevating sense of the far superior pleasure it was to conquer your inclinations in the days of your youth, and to do well whatever might oppose. When the name of Rolls was mentioned by any one about Dunearn, it would always be said that two of them had done very well-Tammas and Bauby: these were the two. They had always held by one another; they had always been respectable. But he should keep to one story, and when here Rolls stopped in his thoughts, taking it's evidently against himself, so far as it a long breath. After this, after what was goes? "A sign of innocence!" Mr. going to happen, what would the folk say Monypenny said, with a snort of impathen? Would a veil drop after to-day tience. He took his toddy very sadly, upon the unblemished record of his life? finding no exhilaration in it. "Pride He had never stood before a magistrate will prevent him departing from his in all his days never seen how the story," he said. "If he had spoken out world looked from the inside of a prison, like a man, and called for help like a even as a visitor had nothing to do, Christian, it would have been nothing. no-thing to do with that side of the world. All this fuss is his own doing a panic He waved his hand, as if separating by a at the moment, and pride - pride now, mystic line between all that was doubtful and nothing more." or disreputable, and his own career. But now Thus through the misty darkening road, with now a red gleam from a smithy, and now a softer glimmer from a cottage-door, and anon the trees standing out of the mists, and the landscape widening about him, Rolls came on slowly, very seriously, to Dunearn. The long tower of the Town House, which had seemed to threaten and call upon Lord Rintoul, was the first thing that caught the eye of Rolls. The moon shone upon it, making a white line of it against the cloudy sky. Mr. Monypenny was at dinner with his family. They dined at six o'clock, which was thought rather a fashionable hour, and the comfortable meal was just over. Instead of wine, the good man permitted himself one glass of toddy when the weather grew cold. He was sitting between the table and the fire, and his wife sat on the other side giving him her company and consolation, for Mr. Monypenny was some what low and despondent. He had been moved by Sir James Montgomery's warm and sudden partisanship and belief of John Erskine's story; but he was a practical man himself, and he could not, he owned, shaking his head, take a sensational view. To tell him that there should have been just such an encounter as seemed probable-high words between two gentlemen- but that they should part with no harm done, and less than an hour after one of them be found lying dead at the bottom of the Scaur-that was more than he could swallow in the way of a story. To gain credence there should have been less or more. Let him hold his tongue altogether- -a man is never called upon to criminate himself or let him say all. "Then you must just give him a word, my dear, to say nothing about it," said Mrs. Monypenny, who was "But that's just impossible, my dear, for he blurted it all out to the sheriff just as he told it to me." "Do you not think it's a sign of innocence that anxious too. "If ye please," said the trim maid who was Mr. Monypenny's butler and footman all in one- the "table-maid," as she was called "there's one wanting to speak to ye, sir. I've put him into the office, and he says he can wait." "One! and who may the one be?" said Mr. Monypenny. "Weel, sir, he's got his hat doon on his brows and a comforter aboot his throat, and he looks sore forfoughten, as if he had travelled all the day, and no' a word to throw at a dog; but I think it's Mr. Rolls, the butler at Dalrulzian." "Rolls!" said Mr. Monypenny. "I'll go to him directly, Jeanie. That's one thing off my mind. I thought that old body had disappeared rather than bear witness against his master," he said, when the girl had closed the door. "But oh, if he's going to bear witness against his master, it would have been better for him to disappear," said the sympathetic wife. "Nasty body! to eat folk's bread, and then to get them into trouble." "Whesht with your foolish remarks, my dear: that is clean against the law, and it would have had a very bad appearance, and prejudiced the court against us," Mr. Monypenny said as he went away. But to tell the truth, he was not glad; for Rolls was one of the most dangerous witnesses against his master. The agent went to his office with a darkened brow. It was not well lighted, for the lamp had been turned down, and the fire was low. Rolls rose up from where he had been sitting on the edge of a chair as Mr. Monypenny came in. He had unwound his comforter from his neck, and taken off his hat. His journey, and his troubled thoughts, and the night air, had limped and damped him; the starch was out of his tie, and the air of conscious rectitude out of his aspect. He made a solemn but tremulous bow, and stood waiting till the door was closed, and the man of business had thrown himself into Mr. Monypenny started to his feet. "Do you mean to tell me - Lord bless us, man, speak out, can't ye! The man that Are ye in your senses, Rolls? And who may this man be?" "You see before you, sir, one that's nae better than a coward. I thought it would blow by. I thought the young master would be cleared in a moment. There was nae ill meaning in my breast. I did the best I could for him as soon as it was done, and lostna a moment. But my courage failed me to say it was me "You" cried Monypenny, with a shout that rang through the house. "Just me, and no other; and what for no' me? Am I steel and airn, to take ill words from a man that was no master of mine? Ye can shut me up in your prison I meant him no hairm — and hang me if you like. I'll no' let an innocent man suffer instead of me. I've come to give myself up." CHAPTER XL. "DEAR MR. ERSKINE, I do not know what words to use to tell you how pained and distressed we are I speak for my mother as well as myself- to find that nothing has been done to relieve you from the consequence of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mistake. We found my brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more so, if that were possible, to set matters right at once; but unfortunately on the day after, the funeral took up all thoughts and what other obstacles intervened next day I cannot rightly tell, but something or other I am too impatient and pained to inquire what came in the way; and they tell me now that to-morrow is the day of the examination, and that it is of no use now to forestall justice, which will certainly set you free to-morrow. Oh, dear Mr. Erskine, I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think that you have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous, to be true), in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do you any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I think that in his heart Robin feels it more than any of us: he feels the injustice, the foolishness; but still he has been to blame, and I don't know how to excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor Carry-though, indeed, I need not attempt to conceal from you, who have seen so much, that poor Carry, though she is dreadfully excited and upset, is not miserable, as you would expect a woman to be in her circumstances. Could it be expected? But I don't know what she might do if she heard what has happened to you. She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not prudent, I suppose; so we don't tell her. Oh, Mr. Erskine, did you ever think how miserable women are? I never realized it till now. Here am I, and, still more, here is my mother. She is not a child, or an incapable person, I hope! yet she can do nothing nothing to free you. She is as helpless as if she were a baby. It seems to me ridiculous that Robin's opinion should be worth taking, and mine not; but that is quite a different matter. My mother can do nothing but persuade and plead with a boy like Robin, to do that which she herself, at her age, wise as she is, good as she is, cannot do. As you are a man, you may think this of no importance; and mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and smiles. But if you suppose she does not feel it! - if she could have been your bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a single night in that place! but all that we can do is to go down on our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortunately, have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive me for this outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, and why, and that I -I mean we- can do nothing. What can I say to you? Dear Mr. Erskine, our thoughts are with you constantly. My mother sends you her love. "EDITH." Edith felt perhaps that this was not a very prudent letter. She was not thinking of prudence, but of relieving her own mind and comforting John Erskine, oppressed and suffering. And besides, she was herself in a condition of great excitement and agitation. She had been brought back from Tinto, she and her mother, with a purpose. Perhaps it was not said to her in so many words; but it was certainly conveyed to the minds of the female members of the family gener ally that Millefleurs was at the end of his | in the reaction and fear lest she had gone patience, and his suit must have an answer too far, to be kind to Millefleurs; for who once for all. Carry had been told of the can gauge the ebbings and flowings of proposal by her mother, and had pledged these young fantastic souls? And as for herself to say nothing against it. And Lady Lindores's private sentiments, she she had kept her promise, though with would not have forced her daughter a hairdifficulty, reserving to herself the power breath; and she had a good deal of pain to act afterwards if Edith should be driven to reconcile herself to Millefleurs's someto consent against her will. "Another of what absurd figure as the husband of us shall not do it," Carry said; "oh, not Edith. But yet, when all is said, to give if I can help it!" "I do not believe that your child the chance of being a duchess, Edith will do it," said Lady Lindores; who would not sacrifice a little? If only "but let us not interfere - let us not in- Edith could make up her mind to it! terfere!" Carry, therefore, closed her Lady Lindores went no further. Nevermouth resolutely; but as she kissed her theless, when the important moment apsister, she could not help whispering in proached, she could not help, like Carry, her ear, "Remember that I will always breathing a word in her child's ear, "Restand by you-always, whatever hap- member, there is no better heart in existpens!" This was at Lindores, where ence," she said. "A woman could not Carry, pining to see once more the face of have a better man." Edith, in her excitethe outer world since it had so changed to ment, grasped her mother's arms with her her, drove her mother and sister in the two hands; but all the answer she gave afternoon, returning home alone with re- was a little nervous laugh. She had no sults which were not without importance voice to reply. in her life. But in the mean time it is Edith with whom we have to do. She reached home with the sense of having a certain ordeal before her -something which she had to pass through, not without pain-which would bring her into direct antagonism with her father, and convulse the household altogether. Even the idea that she must more or less vex Millefleurs distressed and excited her; for indeed she was quite willing to admit that she was "very fond of" Millefleurs, though it was ridiculous to think of him in any other capacity than that of a brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discovery that, notwithstanding terference. "I have no doubt that Lady the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, nothing had been done for John. The consequence was, that the letter which we have just quoted was at once an expression of sympathy, very warm, and indeed impassioned -more than sympathy, indignation, wrath, sentiments which were nothing less than violent-and a way of easing her own excited mind which nothing else could have furnished. "I am going to write to John Erskine," she said, with the boldness produced by so great a crisis; and Lady Lindores had not interfered. She said, "Give him my love," and that was all. No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom, has been made for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among all these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all her angry, glowing heart to John, in the outflowing of impassioned sympathy, the girl would be more likely, "You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very young-and-and shy," said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was devoured by a desire to say, "If she refuses you, never mind - I will make her give in;" which indeed was what he had said in a kind of paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of person to whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and puffed out his fine chest, when his future fatherin-law (as they hoped) made this remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him as he was to have her, she was not for Millefleurs. He almost resented the in Edith and I will quite understand each the scene of such events. The great | know? People would have said we were, drawing-room, all softly lighted and warm, one of us, trifling with the other. I told was never abandoned in this way in the Lord Lindores that there was not one evening. Edith stood before the fire, other girl in the world that is in this clasping her hands together nervously, country whom I ever could wish to the light falling warm upon her black marry but you. He was not displeased, dress and the gleams of reflection from and I have been waiting ever since to its jet trimmings. They had begun to ask; don't you think we might marry, talk before Lady Lindores retreated to Lady Edith? I should like it if you the background to look for something, as would. I hope I have not been abrupt, she said; and Millefleurs allowed the sub- or anything of that sort." ject they were discussing to come to an end before he entered upon anything more important. He concluded his little argument with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his throat. Lady Edith," he said, "you may not have noticed that we are alone." He folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, and made all his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said this. It was his way of opening a new subject, and he was not carried out of his way by excitement as Edith was. She looked round breathlessly, and said, "Has mamma gone?" with a little gasp a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense even that she was false in her pretence at surprise - for did she not know what was coming? — agitated her still Yeth," said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. "I have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have thought, perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in affliction, was, to say the least, bad taste, don't you know?" "No," said Edith, faltering, "I did not think so; I thought "That is exactly so," said Millefleurs seriously. "It is a great bore to be sure; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth is, I had to speak to your father first: it seemed to be the best thing to do, and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady Edith, I hope you are very well aware that I am - very fond of you, don't you know? I always thought we were fond of one another "You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs," cried Edith nervously; "you have been so nice - you have been like another "Oh no! you are always considerate, always kind," cried Edith; "but, dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me, — I don't think it would do "No?" he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the soft pat of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand; but he did not drop the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had recovered her breath and her composure; her heart fluttered no more. The usual half laugh with which she was in the habit of talking to him came into her voice. "No?" said Millefleurs. "But, indeed, I think it would do very nicely. We understand each other very well; we belong to the same milieu" (how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, and how amazed the duke !) "and we are fond of each other. We are both young, and you are extremely pretty. Dear Edith-mayn't I call you so?. I think it would do admirably, delightfully!" "Certainly you may call me so," she . said, with a smile; "but on the old footing, not any new one. There is a difference between being fond of any one, and being - in love; " Edith said this with a hot, sudden blush; then shaking her head as if to shake that other sentiment off, added, by way of reassuring herself, "don't you know?" with a tremulous laugh. Little Millefleurs's countenance grew more grave. He was not in love with any passion; still he did not like to be refused. "Excuse me, but I can't laugh," he said, putting down her hand; "it is too serious. I do not see the difference, for my part. I have always thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar way of describing the matter. I think we have all that is wanted for a happy marriage. If you do not love me so much as I love you, there is no great harm in that; it will come in time. I feel sure that I should be a very good husband, and you "Would not be a good wife-oh no, no!" cried Edith, with a little shudder, |