time, and wended his own ways to his distant abode. As he walked all the bitterness nourished by recent events returned to his thoughts, all the heaviest sternness to his brow.

"Hech!" he muttered at last, in no very careful tones: "Elspeth saith that James Sharp hath a compact wi' the Evil One. And I doobt but it is mair charitable to judge that he acts by compulsion o' his black master, than to think he gangs his ain gait in all his present wickedness, and sair harsling o' the saints o' the Lord."

Whether indignation burning so hotly within his breast made William Blair indifferent to aught else, or whether the apparent utter loneliness of the desolate moor had made him thus indulge in uttering his opinions aloud cannot be said, but it is certain that even he was no little taken aback when a man's voice from somewhere at his feet said in a tone of off-hand coolness and warning:

"My friend, do you always make use of your voice when you walk alone out of doors? If such is your ordinary practice, allow me to suggest indifferent themes for your soliloquies. I do not happen to have the distinguished honour to be one of those estimable beings who go about doing the 'harsling' work of his Grace of St. Andrews. But if I were, you see, your career of usefulness to your cause would be prematurely cut short. Permit me to remind you that thought ought to make you prudent, if no care for personal safety will do so. Good after

noon to you now, and pray forgive my intrusion upon your outspoken meditations."

Having been so unceremoniously detained on his road, those who knew Blair most intimately would have expected that he would not have been so easily dismissed. But he recognized, or thought he recognized, in the great figure lying couched in the heather and enveloped in plaids, one to whom he considered a certain amount of deference to be due, and with a mute reverence he withdrew.

Having continued on his homeward route a hundred yards or so he whistled softly, and then called — "Wallace-Wallace-where are ye! Have ye no greeting or sign o' remembrance for yon Scotch-born Englishman, ye unmannered brute?"

But a sigh followed the unjust reproach. Poor Wallace was not at hand to hear it. He himself had given him to another. He often fell into forgetfulness of that fact. He had done so now.

"Has your step-sister been here the day?" he asked, as his wife met him on the threshold of the house.

Mary Blair shook her head. "Nay," she said with the anxiety that is ever ready to trouble those who grow accustomed to a continuous stream of adversity. "Elspeth comes not thus far but when bad news offers itself to her lips' telling. Surely for the present there is no more of that?"

Aye, aye, plenty o' that, aye plenty o' that " returned her husband half-absently. "But Elspeth will no ha' been here then. I thought maybe she

wad so, for one is around, I doobt, wha whiles gies her messages when danger is abroad. Maybe the fancy will ha' taen him to do his warnings one whiles himself, though, if Elspeth has no been here."

"She has no been ben the hoose at any rate," said Mary decidedly. "For I ha' nane been forth all day, and she is nane so saft of foot or low of voice as to enter and I not hear her."

B

CHAPTER XVI.

A LATE VISITOR.

ETWEEN the lights, a space of time short enough in Scotland, much shorter than

England's favourite "twilight hour:" Ivie had laid down his pen, Mistress McCall's spinning-wheel had ceased to hum, and there came a tap at the door.

Mother and son started, and exchanged quick, eager glances with each other. A happy brightness came into their eyes, and happy smiles to their lips. A ceaseless prayer had been in both hearts that William Blair might be brought, somehow or another, to see his way to being on terms of friendly intercourse with them again, notwithstanding Mistress McCall's continued friendship with her brother, and her reception of his benefits. And here, surely, had come the answer to the prayers. Ivie thought, with a pardonable feeling of exultation, that what he had said to him that afternoon deserved some of the credit.

The pair felt equally sure that they recognized Blair's customary quiet, deferential rap upon the panels. But from the face of his human companion Ivie's eyes fell upon the dog's, and there they learnt disappointment as quickly as they had glowed with hope.

Wallace was sitting up, with ears bent forward, and tail moving slowly and gravely to and fro on the floor. That was not the way in which Wallace would have welcomed his beloved old master. He who was outside was not a stranger to the dog, but he was not Blair.

Ivie was thoroughly assured of this, even before the door opened in obedience to his mother's eagerly uttered exclamation-" Enter, and be welcome!"

The door opened, Wallace got up, paced slowly over the floor, and laid himself down, a great bar across the doorway, which was filled almost as completely now by a living door as it had been the instant before by the wooden one. Kate McCall and Ivie also rose to their feet, the lady with a low startled cry. No, surely, whoever the late visitor might be, he was not her husband's faithful follower.

She had never but once before seen such a giant of a man; and that was in the aisle of the Old Kirk in Edinburgh, on the June day of the last year, when one, whose courtly manners and rich dress had been apparent through some attempt at disguise, had poured the fragrant essence over the headless body of the minister, James Guthrie.

But her visitor of this night bore no resemblance to