Leal and Crue.

Otago Witness, Issue 1466, 3 January 1880, Page 23

Leal and Crue.

A NEW YEARS STORY. BY H.* HUDSON, Ohapibb I. Going to London. There was sorrow at Glenside. It was New Year's Eve, but the joyous season brought with it no merriment. The family were alone, and gathered in the Glenside kitchen. Such a bright, pleasant kitchen, with its shining dresser, and blazing hearth, and general air of cleanliness and comfort. In his elbow-chair by the chimney nook sits the "gudeman," old David Cameron. Hale and hearty and a very good type of his class ; slow, cautious, able to form an opinion on most matters, —equally able to abide by it ; obstinate sometimes, but true as steel always ;—upright and honest as the day. But the stern, rugged features bore just now an unusually softened expression ; and there was a pathetic wistfulness in the glances he cast from time to time on the young man sitting opposite to him. His aon, evidently— though taller, and finer looking than he had ever been, and with none of the stornness of expression in the laughing blue eyes, and good-tempered mouth. On a little round table at David Cameron's elbow lay an open bible and a Psalmbook.

Over the larger table, on which lay the remains of an unusually plentiful supper, two women were busied. The younger, a tall, lithe lassie of eighteen, with abundant fair hair, and a face equally remarkable for its beauty and strong good-sense, was Allan Cameron's second cousin, and an orphan. She had lived at G-lenaide from a child. The other was his mother. Delicate-looking for a farmer's wife, but a sweet, gentle-spirited woman, with a very pleasant face looking out from the closo border of her cap.

"Allan, laddie," she says, advancing, and laying her hand upon his shoulder lovingly; "See, [ hao pit the bannocks, and a bib creamie intil this parcel ; you'll be glad of them before morning I'se warrant. Ye did'na taste the creamies at supper, but they're gude." " Of course they are," assented Allan, heartily, "Jeanie mado them." Jean turned away her face to hide a blush of pleasure. "Wife," said Cameron, adjusting his spectacles, "the lad must be on the road in half an-hour."

In silence the two women brought their chairs into tho circle, Mrs Cameron siting close to her son, and stealing her hand into his. There was a pause of some momenta. Tho hearls of all wore full.

Allan was the youngest and only living child of a largo family, and he was going from them, into the great world ; — going to London, to " sock his fortune." Ho was ambitious, and having made the most of his limited educational advantages, he had obtained through the influence of a friend a situation in. that El Dorado of coun-

try lad's hopes ; and thither he was bound. To tho quiet old folk, who had never travelled farther than Edinburgh in their lives and that only once, years ago, this journey seemed a tremendous undertaking. But to Allan — he was only twenty — the prospect of change and adventure were fascinating. At the same time, he had not realised till this moment, whatitwould cost him to part from the dear old home, lie had been important and patronising since his situation was secured, making very magnificent promises to his mother and Jean, and assuring the latter that he never would forget her, and that however wealthy he might become, she, and she only, should be mistress of the "grand house he meant to obtain. But now — now his heart failed him ; he would fain have drawn back. But the die was cast ; a few more minutes and the farewells must be j said. He might not even stay with them over New Year's Day, to join in the accustomed festivities. No wonder that there was sorrow at Glenside. Old David Cameron cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles ; but he was obliged to remove them for another rub. Strange how dim they; were to-night ! " Let us us worship God, " he said at last, reverently ; and then he gave out the familiar hymn :—: — 0 God of Bethel, by whoso hand Thy people still are fed, Who through this weary, pilgrimage Uaat all our fathers led. The singing was infinitely pathetic. The voices quavered and faltered, dying away almost in a sob at the end of every verse. It is hard to sing with a lump in the throat. The hymn finished, Cameron slowly and gravely read the psalm he had selected, and then they all knelt. But words would not come. In that strange silence, a great awe— such as no words could have inspired, fell on them all, and tears were checked. At last, with bursting sobs and sighs (signs of grief hitherto rigidly restrained), Cameron began to pray. He seemed as one inspired. Allan trembled as he listened, and rose with a determination to live as his father had prayed he might live. Not many minutes were left for farewells.. Cameron took hi* bonnet and staff, he was going to accompany his son for a few miles. Gently removing his mother's clinging embrace, Allan turned to his cousin. There were twenty things he wished to say, but of none of them could he speak. "You will write to me, whiles, Jeanie? " "Yes, Allan. " "I will'na ask you to bide me leal and true : I know you ow're well for that, Jeanie. Goodbye, lass, goodbye." And he kissed her with more than cousinly ! warmth. ! Jean and Allan were " promised "to ! each other. _ _ Chapter 11. i Suspense; Time went on ; letters came 1 in due course from Allan ; and to Jean, whose ' pen was the quickest, fell the task of answering them ; — writing now in the name of her aunt and uncle, now in her own. Allan's letters were very satisfactory. If he was disappointed in London, he waa j too proud to confess it, and alwayß wroto cheerily. Those letters were the the stay of his mother's heart. She missed him sorely, — how sorely none but a mother can understand — her youngest, her bohnie laddie, ths only child which Death had spared to her. She had never been the same since he went away ; but she was not given to complaining, and with that strange blindness which sometimes possesses the members of a household neither her husband nor Jean noticed the change in her. The one thing that kept her up was, aa I have intimated, Allan's lettera ; and those began to grow short, unsatisfactory, irregular. At last they ceased altogether ; for three months nothing was heard of him. Old Cameron slowly and painfully indited a letter of inquiry to his son's employer ; but it remained unanswered ; other months went by, and still there waa no news. It was the second anniversary of his departure. Mrs Cameron was confined to her bed now ; anxiety was killing her. Jean sat by her side. Old CamGron had braved a snow-storm, and was gone to the village, to inquire for the eagerly-desired letter. Jean had been reading aloud from the Bible— it was the only thing that could quiet the sufferer's restless heart. As the light waned she closed the book. " I shall ken soon now, whaur my Allan is," said Mrs Camoron. " I whiles think he'll be there to meet mo. Gin he were leevin' he could'na hae left his mither in this suspense." Jean was silent, she had not tho comfort of being able to think Allan dead. She clreaded a worse fate. "My heart is wae for the gudeman," continued Mrs Cameron. "Yell no leave him, Jeanie woman 1 You're young and may get another jo, but yell stay by him to tho last, promise me." Mrs Cameron was a little selfish in her grief. She could not believe that ii; waa as hard for hoe niece to boar as for herself. Was she not his mother? Jean waa hurt at her aunt's suggestion, but she did not protest against it, being a woman of deeds rathsr than words. She gave the required promise so earnestly as to satisfy the invalid, who sank back on her piiloivs, and seemed to fall into a doze. Jean, watching tho white, wasted face, realised for the first lime tho possibility of this illness .proving fatal. Suddenly her aunt started up. "Yon's tho gudeman — I ken Flora's bark. Oh, will he hae the letter ?" But David Cameron's slow step, and • eart-brekea look, m be entered the room

proclaimed his ill-success without need of words. His wife sank back with a groan of disappointment. She was taken very ill. Cameron went off again, in search of the doctor this time, who, however, when he arrived, could do nothing. Jean and her uncle sat down to watch by that dying bed. In' the silence of the night they could hear the beat of the clock— the pulse of the dying year. Suddenly it ceased, and with slow, sonorous strokes, the clock tolled forth the hour— midnight. Mrs Cameron opened her eyes, and gazing round with a troubled look— "Allan", eha said— and then recollected. "0 my bairn ! 0 this weary silence ! Allan ! Allan !" The last stroke died away,— the beats began again, with Bteady inexorable regularity. But Mrs Cameron's pulse was stilled for ever ; Bhe was beyond time. And beyond— thank God for it— beyond trouble. As David Cameron stood by his wife's grave, in the quiet little kirkyard— his head bowed more in shame than in grief —he returned thanks for her being "Uken from the evil to come," and prayed that he might soon be laid beside her. For in the interval between her death and burial news had at last come of Allan. His employer, who had only just received old Cameron's letter, it having been delayed, wrote in anger that Allan had been dismissed for bad conduct, and they had afterwards discovered a series of thefts committed by him. He was in hiding now, but they expected his speedy capture, and intended to let "justice take its course." Ab David Cameron read, the iron entered into his soul. He had known many and sore troubles ; but disgrace was anew evil, and he knew not how to bear it. The Camerons were only farmers, but they had been used to carry their heads high, in conscious integrity. That his own son Bhould have been the one to bring disgrace on the name, was a bitter reflection for David Cameron. To Jean this disclosure was not such a shock as it was to her uncle. Judging from the tone of Allan's later letters, Borne such catastrophe was what she had been dreading. What to do, was now the question. Cameron was bent upon repaying Mr Maoallister :he " woulddothat if it cost him his laat bawbee." But he would do nothing more. Jean suggested that someone ought to take the money, and go immediately to London. "It will'na be me," said her uncle, fiercely "The lad has disgraced the »ame which his forbears for generations keepit spotlesa ; he has brought down the gray hairs o' his mither in sorrow to the grave, andsae will he bring doon mine. Let him gang his am gait. I will never look upon his face again. Henceforth I ha'e no son." Jean's resolution was at once taken ; if her uncle would not go, she must,— to try and soften Mr Macallister's just resentment,— above all to show Allan that he was not forsaken, and that he might yet redeem the past. Cameron did not forbid her. Perhaps he already half repented having so firmly declared his intention to cast Allan off. But the thing was done now, and he would not draw back. As for his niece, she might gang, or she might bide, it was a' the same to him. So Jean went. Chapter 111. Ia hiding. On that same New Year's Eve, in a dark and dirty little room, in a dark and dirty lodging house down by the London Docks, aatAllanCameron. Asdifferentfrom from the Allan of two years ago as were his surroundings from the well kept living room at Glenside. The old laughing look in the blue eyes and the old frank smile were gone. For innocence was gone. „,, It was the old story,— confiding ignorance falling an easy prey to the wiles and temptations of a great city. Allan was far more sinned against than sinning. Mr Macallister knowing that his young apprentice was fresh from the country, and without one Bingle friend in London, yet left him entirely alone, without counsel or supervision of any kind, and now he Bpoke virtuously of "letting justice take its course." Allan was in hiding ; he was waiting till midnight, when he meant to ship aboard an American vessel, which was to leave at that hour. Outside hiß door during the evening, he had heard a sound that thrilled him — the dear old Scotch tongue. He ventured to peep out. On the landing stood a Bturdy North, country man, a drover perhaps, or small farmer, his wife (not at all like Allan's mother, yet reminding him of her) ; and their son. All of them bo fresh coloured, and ao simple that they were evidently new to London life. Allan gathered that they were here to see their son off to America. They occupied the room next his^ and Allan sat listening to their movements as if they were friends. They all apparently had cupper up there j together ; he could hear the clink of crockery, fand the voices in conversation. But what made him start, and flush, and tremble so? They were singing. It might not be the same hymn as the one that had been Bung on Allan's last evening at Glenaide, but it was the same tune,— dear, familiar old Balerma. A. continuous murmur, as reading followed, then an instant's shuffling of chairs, aud the same voice was raised in prayer, now sinking so low as to be almost inaudible, then rising again in passionate pleading. Allan could HO: distinguish what was said, but he involuntarily bowed his head, while hot te.wß forced themselves from his eyes.

How it thrilled him as with an electric shock, bringing back the last evening he had spent at home with overwhelming vividness. He could see himself as he was then— innocent ; full of good resolutions; and now — and now

A heavy hand ia laid on hia shoulder. He (looks up— one policeman is by his aide, another at the door. "Now itaint no use to show fight," says the first, displaying a warrant, and a pair of hand-cuffs. " You've got to come, you know, and might just as well take it easy." " Don't," says Allan, putting his hands , behind him. " I'll go with gyou quietly, on my word." ' " Well," says the policeman, returning I the articles to his pocket; " we're two to one, and I always like to do things pleasant and genteel if possible. Take my arm. Smith, you go to the other aide." And so the three departed. When Jean arrived in London, a week later, she found the trial over, and Allan committed for six months. Her first act was to repay Mr Macallister ; (the sum was not large, though it appeared so to the Camerons). Then she went to visit her cousin. She was shown into his cell. He looked up from his task of oakum, and then rose, turning suddenly scarlet. " Jeanie ! is it yourself ? " . She drew near, put both her hands into his, and looking up at him with brave, faithful, loving eyes, said piteously, " Allan, puir laddie, hoo cam ye here?" And then he broke down utterly, and for a long time Jean could only soothe him. At last, by degrees, the whole miserable story came out. Jean uttered no word of reproach, for she saw how deeply he repented. As gently as might be, she broke to him the news of Mrs Cameron's death. His grief was mitigated by the thought that she had departed in happy ignorance of his fall. " And my father is bitter against me 1 he asked. Jean could not deny it, but she held out hope that 'her uncle might relent when Allan could come to plead for forgiveness in person. " And when are you going back home, cousin V asked he with a slight emphasis on the latter word, which Jean was quick to notice, though she made no comment on it. She was going back next day. " And I will'na see you again till— till July," he sighed. But we are permitted to receive letters, though they are opened first; and I would like weelaword now and then of my father— and _ the auld place, and,~and yourself Cousin Jeanie, if it wasna too much to ask." Jean promised that, of course, and then —the time being up— took her sad farewell. It was a strictly cousinly farewell this time. Jean pondered over it as the train whirled her back to Scotland. But she thought she understood. Allan, feeling himself unworthy, had taken this means of showing her Bhe was free The six months passed more rapidly than either of them had expected ; and one July evening, as Jean was putting away the Bupper things, she suddenly heard some one without begin to whistle "Annie Laurie." That well-remembered signal ! how often, in the days gone by, had she answered it with a heart as light as her footstep. Though expecting Allan's arrival, she was so taken by surprise— so startled and thrilled, that for a moment the room whirled round with her,— she turned hot and cold, and hardly knew what she did. Old David Cameron, smoking in the chimney nook heard that signal too, and let his pipe fall to the ground with a crash. He knew the meaning of it just as well as Jean did. but he would not show that he knew it. " Get oot, ye hizzy," he said, turning savagely on the unoffending Flora, who was sitting innocently by her master's chair, blinking at the fire. "Bring me another pipe Jeanlassand turn Floraootfor jogging my elbow that gate." Jean brought the pipe, und filled it with trembling fingers. Then left the room, with the justly aggrieved collie, and letting herself out at the house door, sped down the brae, to a clump of rowan trees, their old trysting place. Allan was awaiting her. Their meeting was grave enough. "Weel, Jeanie,'' said he, "I'm a free man once more, thank God ; and have come, as I promised, to take a last look at the old place, and to say good-bye." " When do you sail ]" murmured Jean, with a sinking heart.

"In three days. The chaplain has ta'en my passage, and managed it all. He ia a good, kind man. If I had known him before, maybe a' this would not have happened. Jeanie, do you think my father will see me iigio 1" he broke off anxiously.

" I canna tell, Allan, Will ye no come up and speer for yoursel ?" But Allan drew back.

" Not till he sends for me. I could'na bear to hear him curse me to to my face. But go you, Jeanie, and tell him I am here, and that I would fain hae his forgiveness to take with me on ray journey." Jean walked slowly and doubtfully back through tho summer gloaming. Old Cameron, who still sat in his elbow chair, shot a keen furtive glance at her as she entered.

" Uncle," Bhe said, coming up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, " there's someone outside that's fain to see you."

" Wha is it V he demanded, avoiding her eye. "It is Allan, uncle; your son—" " He's no son o' mine, and I winna see him," was the dogged answer. " Uncle, uncle, dinna be ower hasty," urged Jean. "Allan is going to the other end o' the world, dinna send your cur3e with him. Are we not tauld to forgive those that repent 1 and Allan repents sore."

" Let him," cried the old man, facing round upon her in fierce excitement. " Will his repentance bring his mither back from the grave ? Will it restore our gude name ance as respectit as any in Scotland ? I hae resigned the office o' elder i' the kirk, and gang aboot wi' my 'head bent, and a' through him. Doesna he think shame to come whining for pardon 1 ? Let him gang to New Zealan'— or to the deil. I winna hear his name mentioned again ; mark you that, Jean." And reseating himself, he began to puff vehemently at his cold pipe. And so Allan went to New Zealand unforgiven, and Jean remained quietly at Glenside. heard from him regularly, and the accounts were reassuring. He had settled in Otago, and appeared to be working hard, and keeping steady. Jean was never suffered to read tho letters aloud, but she took care to leave them about, sure that when unperceived her uncle read them for himself. And when answering them she would look up and say, "I am writing to New Zealan', uncle ; ha'e ye ony message V And old Cameron would answer doggedly, "Nane." But still Jean never failed to ask that question. Chapter IV. Miatretß Weavers' news: One bleak November day, about five years after Allan's departure, Jean was busy in her kitchen (as bright and pleasant a kitchen under her rule, as ever it had been under Mrs Cameron's) when the j latch was raised, and a neighbour entered. ! Mistress Nancy M'Lavers, and Jean's special aversion. A lady whose philanthropy preponderated over every other quality, inasmuch as Bhe devoted so large an amount of attention to other people's affairs, as to have very little left for her own. Jean, looking up from the scones she was making, saw with vexation the marks which her dirty feet left on the spotless j floor. It had not occurred to Mrs M'Lavers to rub them. She did not patronise door-mats or scrapers, either at home or abroad. "Atweel Jean, woman, your kitchen's a secht for sair c'en, as I always say," she remarked, seating herself comfortably before the fire. " When ye hae half-a-dozen weans at the tail o' your goon, like me— But that time's far enough off I'm thinking," she added, interrupting herself. "Ye maun get a new jo, Jeanie, my woman." Jean looked up, and her quiet face flushed. She was not in the habit of discussing her own affairs ; least of all with Mrs M'Lavers.

That lady now, with an air of mysterious importance, produced a letter from the bosom of her dress.

" Ha'e y© heard from Maggie ?" asked Jean with awakening interest.

Maggie was Mrs M'Lavers cousin, and had emigrated to New Zealand about a year before, together with several others from the immediate neighbourhood.

" That have I. And div ye mind Jessie Burns that went oot wi' her ?"

Pretty, silly Jessie Burns 1 Yes, Jean remembered her well.

"She's marrit," exclaimed Mrs M'Lavera," eager to get her news told ; " and wha div you think to ?" A sudden great shock went through Jean ; she bent over her baking unable to utter a reply. " I Bee ye canna guess " said her visitor triumphantly; "sac I may's weel tell ye. It's jistto that ne'er-do-weel cousin o' yours. Here's the letter— ye may read it for yoursel' . Seein's beleevin', ye ken."

Wiping the flour from her hands, Jean took the letter, carrying it to the window, and turning her back unceremoniously upon the prying eyes of Nancy M'Lavers. It was an ill-spelled scrawl. Jean glanced impatiently over thefirst two pages ; then she paused, and read slowly enough, the words imprinting themselves upon her memory. "I was doon the jetty last night," ran the letter ; "to get a bit walk ; and wha should I see, but an auld shipmate o' mine, Jessie Burns. She was coming off the Invercargill boat ; and wha div ye think was with her ? Auld Davie Cameron's ne'er-do-weel son — no less. Aye but he looks braw now though ; as respectable as ye please. But I should hae kent him onywhere. I tried, but could'na get speech o' them. I saw Jessie's box, though, and it was marked "Mistress A. Cameron." Think of that — her marrit and me no to hear a word o't. I wish Allan joy o' his bargain." And then the letter branched off into another. Jean read or pretended to read to the the close ; then folding the missive, roturnod it to its owner, saying quietly —

" A-weel, Mistress M'Lavers, you are first wi' the news, but no doubt my cousin's letter, which we expect to-night, will tell us a' particulars." " And is that a' ye have to say, Jean Cameron V demanded Mrs M'Lavers, baffled, "Wasna' Allan your jo ? Have ye na' waited and waited till your youth's amaist past (for ye're no bo bonny as ye were, Jean, I telly© aa & freen'), and noo

' tae hear that he has taen ftp wi' a feckless, flighty lassie like thon, wha has'na twa ideas i' her head. Gin I were you, Jean, I wad gang round the world, just to hae the satisfaction o' pulling every hair oot o' that hussy's head. " " What for wouldl do that ?" asked Jean, coolly. "The lassie was ow're young when she left, but she's no doubt steady and sensible enough now." "But wasna' Allan your jo?" persisted the gossip, who was not troubled with an undue amount of delicasy. " Ou, ay, lang syne ; before we knew our own minds," aaid Jean, ascomposedly as if the words had cost her no effort. " We are wiser now, and I wish my cousin a' joy and happiness, Mistress M'Lavers. " But that lady was far from satisfied. " What for div' ye no marry, then?" she demanded. ** There's Tarn M'Gregor, and Jock Craigie, at you sent aboot their business ; 'and its weel kent that the dominie himsel' is only waitin for ye to haud up your little finger." j " I ha'e no mind to marry," said Jean, laconically. And after a few more unavailing questions, Mrs M'Lavers took herself off, much disappointed with the result of her visit. . Jean drew a deep breath as she gazed after the retreating figure. She had I saved her own name and Allan's from be- ( ing bandied about, and overwhelmed — , the one with half contemptuous pity, the other with abuse — a result which would have been bitter as death to Jean Cameron. But the effort had cost her dear. She sat down, weak and trembling as from bodily illness. She was at first too confused to think clearly. The news had stunned her, it was so wholly unexpected. Presently, having revived a little, she went to her own room, and opening the little treasure box, in which she kept his letters, glanced over some of his later ones. But no hint could Bhe find in any of them of his marriage. They were not love-letters. Never, since Allan got into trouble, had he ventured to address Jean as her lover. It was aa to a near and dear friend that he wrote, speaking unreservedly of himself, and his life in the new country, and asking innumerable questions about his father, herself, and the farm— questions which betrayed a yearning home-sickness. Jean had believed he was only waiting to completely retrieve hia character, before returning to remind her of her pledge, given so long ago. It wa3 hardit was terribly hard— to find she had been mistaken. And she was at once so proud and so sensitive that such a mistake was the more bitter. It shamed her bo. Why had not Allan mentioned his marriage, unless becausehe perceived from her letters that she still regarded him with more than mere cousinly affection, and feared to do so 1 ? Jean's oheeks burned at the thought. She waited with feverish impatience for his letter \ but to her perplexity, it did not come. This was the first time Allan had missed a mail j it confirmed Jean in her suspicions. She wrote immediately, in a frank, cousinly strain, telling him she had heard the news, and joking him on having kept it so secret — winding up with good wishes, and an affectionate message to her new cousin. In her present mood, Jean would have spoken those congratulations, and have danced at Allan's wedding apparently the gayest of the gay. CHAFER V. Forgiveness. Another, besides Jean, was perplexed by the non-arrival of the expected letter —old David Cameron. He had never been the same man since his son's disgrace ; and now he was fast breaking up. A wrinkled, tottering figure, very, very different from the hale and upright old man whom we first saw. The frailer he grew, the more ardent became hia longing to behold his son once more before he died. He had long ago repented him of his harshness towards Allan, yet obßtinacy forbade him acknowledging as much, or mentioning the prohibited subject to Jean. So he made no comment on their disappointment. But when the next mail arrived, and again there was no letter, his pride broke down. It was Christmas Eve ; he and Jean sat over the fire ; he smoking as usual, she gazing into the embers — and thinking. It was a wild night The blast howled down the glen, shaking the sturdy little farm-house to its foundation , but unable to retnrn, it went shrieking on, in baffled fury, catching up the snow and whirling it round in blinding eddies. A sorry night to be out in. "Pit the lecht nearer the window, lass ;'' said old Cameron, rousing himself from a reverie. Jean obeyed. That tiny gleam shot far down the glen, and had often been of service to travellers in distress. "Ye hav'na' heard from — from New Zealan' lately," observed her uncle, with some hesitation, as she reseated herself. ' Jean looked up, but had tact enough to repress her surprise at the question. " No," she said quietly, " not since September." " I misdoubt something is wrong," said her uncle, unable to help revealing his anxiety. " He hasna' sac mickle time for writing, maybe, now he's marrit," Baid Jean, calmly. " Marrit !■ woman, whaur heard ye that?" She told him.

Old Cameron was strongly moved. To think that Allan should have been married all this time, and he never to know. And another thought occurred to him. This was a tie to New Zealand which would probably 'prevent Allan ever returning home.

"I was'owre hard on the puir laddie, Jean," he confessed, quite broken down. " I hae felt it mony a time since ; and now I'm punished, for I'll hae to dee wi'oot a'e glimpse o' his bonny face. And I ha'e been hard on you, too, lassie. Ye were promised to ane anither ; and I aye pleased myself thinking he wad come back, and settle down wV you on the old place ; but I wouldna' say the word that would ha'e brought him back, and now it it is too late — too late !" " Whisht, uncle, whisht !" interrupted Jean, excitedly ; for above the roaring of the storm she had fancied she heard a voice shouting for help. They both listened intently, and in a few moments it came again, nearer and more distinct. Old Cameron sprang to the door and shouted in reply. Nothing was visible ; but an answer came back through the darkness and thickly falling snow ; and in another moment — what looked like an animated pillar of snow — dashed panting and speechless, into the welcome haven. With some difficulty, Cameron refastened the door, while Jean stooped to throw another log on the blazing hearth. A sudden, sharp cry brought her quickly round. The traveller had thrown off hia bonnet and plaid. One look, and with the cry, " Allan ! my son, Allan !" old David Cameron "fell on his neck and kissed him." - Jean advanced, trembling. Allan turned his eyes upon her ; he was half-support-ing the old man with his right arm, but stretching out the other to her, he drew her towards him. " Jeanie !" She could not utter a word, but her eyes were eloquent. The fact of his mar* riage was completely forgotton ; she onlyfelt that her own Allan was beside her once more. "Come to the fire, laddie" said his father, releasing him j "you must be amaist perished. And, Jean, lass, see to his supper. You'll find your auld room as you left it, Allan ; she aye keepit it weel aired, to be ready at a moment's notice. What for did you no send us word ye were coining ? and what garred ye attempt the glen in siooan storm as thon V Allan laughed ; he had not come sixteen thousand miles to spend Christmas with them to be stopped at laat by a snowBtorm. "But if I hadna known every foot of the way it might have gone hard with, me," he added, "for I couldn't see a glint of the light from this window." " And when did you arrive ?" ' ' On Monday. I havW brought a for* tune back--but I was heart-sick for a sight of ye all, andl got to think I couldna' prosper without your forgiveness, father. " And Allan gazed at him wistfully. " Say na mair, say na mair, Allan," exclaimed the old man, taking his hand. " I ha'e been to blame ; I was too hard and too proud. It ill becomes sinners like us tae say'we willna' forgive ; I should t hae remembered that." And then Jean announced that Bupper was ready, and Allan, drawing up to the table, ate as if he had been starved for a week; yet managing to convey several items of information, during the mealone being to the effect that though he had not made a fortune, he had not returned home empty handed. " I would have thought shame to come back without sufficient to repay you, father," he said; "and maybe there's a trifle over." But what cared David Cameron for the "bawbees" now, with his son sitting there ,* so fine looking, and so manly ? Delight rendered him garrulous ; he talked incessantly, asking questions, and either answering them himself, or going on to some other subject before anyone else could. As for Jean, she moved about like one in a happy dream, scarcely speaking, but anticipating Allan's every want, and not turning away her eyes from the earnest gaze which met them from time to time. Supper was nearJy over, when old Cameron, who had been silent for quite a minute, exclaimed : "Did you bring your wife wi' you, Allan ! of course you did, though ; but it stands to reason she couldna ha'e come up the glen siccan necht aa this." ' Allan looked up, seemed to hesitate, and then laughed. " My wife ? oh yes— she's in Scotland." But Cameron had suddenly thought of another subject, and passed on to it, not heeding his son's answer. Jean, standing at that moment "behind them, felt as if a blow had fallen on her heart. For now she remembered. The light died out of her face ; she crept from the room into the cold dark passage, and leant against the wall, her face hidden in her hands. Allan, who had followed her with his eyes, exclaimed, " Jeanie's bonnier than ever, father." And with all deference to Mistress M'Laver's judgment, he was right. The first freshness of youth had passed ; her voice had a quieter tone, her smile was less frequent, yet Jean was a beautiful woman. Time and trouble had but refined the expression of her features, and given a deeper, clearer lustre to her candid eyes. She came back in a few moments, knowing they would want her. There was no difference, save that Bhe was very pale, ' and her eyes avoided Allan cedulouily.

The little party sat up late that night, for there was so muoh to say. But at last the books were brought, and once more, after bo many years, Allan took part in the simple rites of family worship. Old Cameron's voice faltered as he returned thanks for his son's restoration, and when they rose, he still lingered, as loth to lose sight of him, even for a few hours ; departing at last with a tender, solemn benediction which Allan was to treasure to the end of his life. Left alone, he drew up to the fire, late as it was, saying : "Come, Jeanie, I feel broad awake yet ; let us have another half hour." But Jean shook her head.

"Not to-night, Allan," she pleaded, " I am ower weary for more talking yet awhile."

And indeed, she did look tired, so he forbore to urge her, saying kindly : "Well then, we can ha'e ourfcrack tomorrow. Good night, dear lass, and God bless your bonny face, my eyes have wearied for a sight of it this many a year. " Jean left the room with every nerve tingling. The clasp of Allan's hand, the light in his eye, the tone of his voice — all meant now, of course, merely cousinly affection ; but they were so like what they had been when they meant so much more, that Jean found it hard to bear. She reproached herself with cowardice for not having asked frankly after his wife ; the question had been upon herj lips more than once, but had died away unspoken. Late as she had gone to rest, Jean was up at her usual hour. Allan could hear her stirring about, as he dressed. She tapped at his father's door, calling out the hour, and he listened for the well-re-membered answer "A-recht, Jean," But it did not come— instead a frightened cry rang through the house. " Allan ! oh, Allan ! come." He rushed out, with a foreboding of ill. It was realised. Kneeling by the bed (which had never been slept in) in the attitude of prayer, with clasped hands, and bent head, was the body of old David Cameron— cold and rigid. The soul mußt have passed forth suddenly, painlessly, in the very act of prayer— hours ago.

It was New Year's eve— almost New Year's morning. Jean, in her black dress, isat alone by the fire, round which such a merry, happy trio had congregated only one week before. The Bnow lay, already, thick upon her uncle's grave ; and Allan ■was at the neighbouring town of S , whither he had gone yesterday, on business connected with the winding up of his father's affairs. But he had promised to be home in time to see the New Year in with Jean, and she was waiting for him.

Thinking she heard his footstep, she opened the door and looked out. It was a calm, quiet night, very different from that of his arrival. The stars flittered frostily from a clear sky, and a faint wind just Btirred the icicles as it passed. It was piercingly cold, and Jean retreated; but she had not been deceived — Allan was coming, and in a few minutes they were seated over the fire, waiting to welcome the New Year. They fell to talking of the business which had taken him to S -.

Allan had found his father's affairs in a very bad state. It added to his grief, for he knew that he was to blame. The effort which Cameron had made to repay MrMacallister, had crippled his resources ; he might, however, have tided over that embarrassment, but he had lost all heart for work ever since his son so bitterly disappointed and shamed him. Then his health gave way, and for some months before his death things were pretty much left to look after themselves. Altogether, Allan found that when the farm was sold (as it must be) and all claims settled, there would be nothing for himself, and no provision for Jean. "I have deserved nothing," said Allan, " and in New Zealand, with health and strength, I shall want nothing ; but you, Jeanie."

" Dinna f ash yersel' for me, Allan," she interrupted quickly. " I am going to the Manse to-morrow, and will stay there till loan look around."

"Jeanie, is it all over between us?" He asked the question hesitatingly, for Jean had been so reaerved with him during these last few days, that he feared. "Allan!"

"We were promised to each other, lang syne. Do you mind the day I asked you, Jeanie, down under the rowan trees 1 You said yea, there ; will you no say it again now, and come out to New Zealand wi' me 1"

Jean flashed in upon him in an instant. "Are ye no forgettin' yoursel, Allan Cameron ?' she demanded, sternly. How the light went out of his face! Unable to Bpeak for a few moments, he at last said, " Ye are very hard upon me, Jean ; but I know I deserve it a', and more. lam not worthy of you ; I see I was a fool to hope you could think of me, after what has passed." " It isna that," said Jean, still in anger ; " think o' your wife, man, and " "My wife!" And what a sudden change there was in look and voice. " Who told you I Jiad one, Jeanie ? " " It was Mistress M'Lavers got a letter from her cousin Maggie," she faltered. "Well?" "Maggie said she was doon on the jetty one evening, and saw ye land from the Invercargill boat, with Jessie Bruce hangin' on your arm. And she said you baith looked blythe ; she couldna' get speech of you for the crowd, but she saw Jessie's box, marked Mistress A. Cameron.''

" You have a good memory, Jeanie," remarked Allan quietly, but his blue eyes were flashing with merriment. She began to falter. If it were true, Allan could never look at her like that.

"Do you think there is but one Cameron in the whole of New Zealand ? " he asked, drawing nearer to her. Jessie Bruce is Mistress A. Cameron, sure enough ; and I've no doubt Maggie did see us ; for Jessie's gudeman, Alick Cameron, is a friend of mine, and being unable to go.down to Invercargill to fetch his wife, he asked me to bring her up when I came." "But— but, you said she— your wife was in Scotland." " Aye, I didna understand then what my poor father meant. She is in Scotland, Jeanie — she is here." And as he gathered her to his embrace the clock struck twelve. THE END.