The Luck OF THE House

Southern Cross, Volume 5, Issue 41, 15 January 1898, Page 13

The Luck OF THE House

By Adeline Sergeant, Author of “The Story of a Penitent Soul,” “A Life Sentence,” “Sir Anthony’s Secret,” “Under False Pretences, .£3 “ Jacobi’s Wife,” “ Caspar Brooke’s Daughter,” “ Marjory’s Mistake,” “ A Rogue’s Daughter,” “Esther Denison,” “No Saint,” etc., etc., etc.

SYNOPSIS OP PREVIOUS CHAPTERS,

CHAPTERS I. & 11. A little Scotch lassie, Miss Stella Raeburn, is approaching Dundee on the steamer, after being absent at a Continental school for many years. On her •way home she makes the acquaintance of Mr John Hannington, and something akin to a feeling of more than regard springs up, though there is no explicit understanding herween them. bhe is also noticed by Mr Moncrieff, of Torresmuir, one of the wealthiest men In Scotland, who is struck by her appearance. She is met by her father, who welcomes her home.

CHAPTERS 111- & IV.—Stella’s father, Mr Raeburn, overwhelms her with presents. Hannington proposes to Stella and is accepted. That same afternoon, after a pleasure trip has been made to Halmerino, Mr Raeburn shoots himself in his office in a fit of insanity. CHAPTERS V. & VI. When John Hannington hears of Stella’s bereavement and loss of fortune he hesitates not to write to her giving her up, and renouncing all claim to her hand. He had previously had a partial fondness for a certain Lady Valencie Gilderoy, called Lady Val, hut she, too, is not CHPATBR VII. On the Road. Stella did not cry out. She sat perfectly still, the letter crushed in her hands, he face white to the lips. Before long Mrs Sinclair was struck by her extreme pallor, and drew Aunt Jacky’s attention to it by an exclamation of horror. ♦ Why, my dear child ! Book at her, Miss Jacky. Is she going to faint P’ ‘Not at all,’ said Stella essaying to smile, and slipping the letter quietly into her pocket. ‘ I have a little headache ; that is all.’ 8 * You must lie down when we get home, and I’ll send you np a cup of good strong tea,’ said Mrs Sinclair with a friendly nod. ‘ Poor dear, vou’ve had a deal to try you lately, have you not ?’ But the allusion to her recent sortow. was too much for Stella to bear. She drew her veil down and said nothing;” but Mrs Sinclair saw that her hands were trembling and the tears dropping from her eyes. She turned delicately away, and for the rest of the drive confined her remarks to Miss Jacky, who had been going about, ever since the terrible day of her brother’s death, with red eyes and a persistent habit of sniffing, but with nndirainisbed energy and a sharper tongue than ever. Stella was for the present left alone. The carriage presently left the main road and turned up a narrow lane to the left. Here stow and careful progress was necessary, as the ruts were' deep and an occasional stone lay in the way, but if Stella had been in her accustomed mood, she would have enjoyed the drive by the narrow ascent, where the trees met overhead and afforded only an occasional view of the distant water and the towering hills , round ‘ fair Dunkeld.’ St Anselm’s stood on high ground, and overlooked the town and river; it possessed a splendid site, and the only thing to be regretted was the fact that the house itself was square, commonplace, and not particularly large. But Stella saw nothing; her eyes were blind with grief. The poor child was dimly thankful to be left alone at last in the great chamber which Mrs Sinclair had assigned to her. She threw herself on the bed and wept, as only young creatures can weep in the hour of trial —with an utter helplessness and despair of the future, than which, we learn in later years, nothing can be more futile. Stella believed that she

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could never be happy again. Her misfortunes seemed more than she knew how to bear. Her father’s death—so painful in its concomitant circumstances —the loss of her fortune, the desertion of her lover—these were troubles indeed. And what made it worse was her recollection of the trust that she had bestowed on John Hannington ; the tender words that she had lavished, the offer to wait for him —oh, the shame of it ! —when he had not wanted to wait for her ; the absence of reserve and caution, which, in her single-hearted acceptance of his apparent homage, she had never thought of maintaining. It occurred to her now that she had been much too ready to listen to him, that she had been too easily won to gain his esteem ; and she resolved, in bitterness of spirit, that no one should ever again have reason to accuse her of over-eagerness to listen to a lover. She would live and die single and heart-broken ; she would earn an income for Aunt Jacky, and do her duty in the world, but the joys of life could never come to her. She saw herself, in imagination, growing old and grey, not cheerful like dear aunt Jacky, but stiff and rigid and unresponsive, and she sickened at the thought. Thirty, forty, fiftv years of it, perhaps ! Oh, if she could but die at once, and hide her sorrow and her mortification in the grave! She was sufficiently prostrate next day to be unable to rise, and the doctor who was sent for talked about a severe nervous shock and the advisability of keeping her quiet., Stella turned her face to the wall, and hoped and longed that she was going to die. Surely she could not go on living, with the cold band of despair upon her Heart ? But youth is strong, and life is sweet in spite of passionate asseverations to the contrary. In a few days Stella was downstairs again—out on the lawn—walking feebly at first, and then with growing vigour, along the shady lanes and over the heathery hills; and then she recognised the fact that she was not going to die but to live, and that, in spite of the pain at her heart, she must begin to look for her work in life. She did not think of answering l John Hanningtou’s letter. She burned it one day in a paroxysm of grief and shame, and never thought of wondering whether or no he had destroyed those loving letters which ho had had from her. An older woman, of more experience, would perhaps have written to demand their restoration. The mere remembrance of them brought a scorching flood of crimson to poor Stella’s cheek and brow ; she certainly could not have borne to allude to them again. She wished the remembrance of them to be entirely blotted out; and she never imagined that Hannington might not be quite as anxious as she was to obliterate all traces of her first foolish dream of love. Stella’s letters made very pretty reading, in Hannington’s opinion ; and now that he had shown her the facts, of her position, he had no idea of depriving himself of the gratification which her expressions of devotion might some day afford to him. When Stella grew stronger she began to take long walks, and as neither Mrs Sinclair nor Aunt Jacky was strong enough to accompany her, she generally took them alone. As the autumn advanced she began to make some silent preparations for her future work. She insertedan advertisement in the local papers, and put an an-

cbnbcemettt 5 in 'the iwindows of various shops to the' effect that a lady wished to give daily lessons in French and German (acquired abroad), English, music, and, singing. It was a modest little advertisement, and seemed to attract no attention from anybody. But Stella was not dismayed. She made inquiries about lodgings in Birnam and Dunkeld, and consulted the clergymen of the neighbourhood about her chances of success. One and all asked her the same question—Why she had fixed upon Dunkeld as a place in which to start her career P When the visitors left it in the autumn there was not the least chance for anybody, without very special qualifications indeed, to find pupils. ‘ I suppose that I must go to Glasgow or Edinburgh,’ Stella reflected, sorrowfully. ‘ I thought Aunt Jacky would like Dunkeld better, that was all. And also, perhaps, that Mrs Sinclair could find me something. But she seems to know nobody.’

It was in October when she came to this conclusion. She set out one afternoon for a long ramble^ —a longer one, indeed, than her aunt or her friends would have thought advisable; but she was a good walker. She was accompanied by a splendid collie dug, which belonged to Mr Sinclair, but had attached himself almost exclusively to Stella since the beginning of her visit. She passed through Dunkeld and turned up the road that ran past the village of In ver towards the Rumbling Bridge and the Hermitage Falls. It was her favourite walk, and she had plenty of time before her. The Braan would be especially fine on a day like this, for the previous two nights had brought heavy rain, and the stream would be ‘in spate,’ a sight which Stella had heard of, but had not seen. She carried a basket for roots also, as she had heard Mrs Sinclair express a wish for some specimens of oak fern which grows freely on the banks of the Braan.

She had got well up the hill, and was standing once more to look at the view—the little tributary stream with the village ou its banks in the valley below her, and, furtheron, the towers of Dunkeld, with the ever varying background of hill and forest, and tha canopy of a brilliant yet changeable autumn sky —when she was roused from her dreamy mood by the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road. She could not see the riders, because the road turned sharply at a little distance above the spot where she was standing ; but the sound told her that several equestrians were advancing, and she did not care to be overtaken in the attitude of a tourist or a landscape painter, as she phrased it to herself, gazing at the scenery with abstracted eyes—an incarnate note of admiration ! She called Laddie to heel, and walked on soberly in a purposefu land business-like way. A party of some half-dozen riders came down the road. At the first two or three Stella did not even glance ; but as the fourth passed, she became conscious that the gentleman made a quick movement to raise his hat, and then refrained, seeing that she either did not see him or did not mean to look at him. Stella had just time to bow to Mr Donald Yereker. She looked instinctively at the next couple ; and then the colour flashed into her pale face. It was John Hanuington and a lady—a very handsome woman, by-the-bye, with a good deal of colour and very black hair and eyes. Hannington did an extremely foolish thing. He did not often lose bis self-control, but for a moment he certainly lost it now. Without waiting for Stella to.bow first, be impulsively raised his hat. In spite of the hot, tell-tale colour in her face, however, Stella bad spirit enough not to returp the salutation. She looked at him steadily in the face and passed him by. Hannington’s dark face grew purple with rage and shame. ‘The cut direct!’ said his companion, no other than Lady Yal, who never spared him when, she got an opportunity of lashing him with her tongue. ‘ What does that mean, Jack? Did not that uncommonly

pretty girl recognise yon, or doss s-fry mean to decline youracquaintg'neci V ; *- ‘l’m sine I don’t know,’,C'.id H»> i ningtori, /giving a aayaigs; cat, to ;big horse’s flanks. ‘1 siippseo obc dbou not remember me ; or porhopc I D/ri mistaken in her face.’

‘lmpossible, with such o startlingly pretty one,’ said Lady Yn\. Sh 3 turned round and glanced afS®p Sfolla. ‘Very graceful, too. Diatinpainhcd looking. Who is she ?’

‘ Oh, I must have t>s©3 miofcakoa. I thought it was a yoang lady I ocoo travelled with from London; bat obo would have known mo, I thiah.’ ‘There is not much question as s©■ whether that girl kcsw yes.. Tboro was recognition in ho? oy®, l£e J&als, and a fine determination to havo nothing more to do with yon. IDoasi’d * —spurring her bcrao ifcyrvard to bar cousin’s side— ‘ who we-o-fchaS girl ia black who bowed to yon jest now F ‘ Why, Misa Rasbcra,’ said Donald, unsuspiciously. ‘ Tho gi?l whoso we met at Balrnerino, don’t yon 'know, —■ the very day of bar f dibsbb snicido. She’s lost all her money, asd baa' left Dundee —I didn’t know she waa ia this pari of the world.’ ‘ Oh,’ said Lady Tal. Sho shefc her lips rather -tightly, and reopt a thoughtful silence for oeneo Bair; at®;, then joined her frisnda ia L-oat.. Hannington was left ia tho roar, with a very sullen ©sprsosioa ea hia face.

‘ Confound the girl !’ hp naid to himself. ‘ I’d sooner tkaft hssd pened before anybody t'Ktfcp? 4hi>n Yal Gilderoy. She doco oae so, and she is so abominably pkorp. What a fool I was not to patsa Ibcsr hy as if I had never seen her ia 07 t-ile before ! I would not havo cosea Skis way if I bad known that oho ,vas here. Mrs Muir certainly Sold me that she had left Dunkeld. And racily I should never have thought bhat Stella would show bo muck-syLnt! But it was deuced awkward icr me, and I owe her a grudge for it. 3p look out, Miss Stella Raebura ; for if I can do you a bad turn by way of jyiying you out one of these dayo, I ohall do it. I generally do pay my debfes in that line ; and I swear I’ll meka you apologise or smart for it. Ton forget thnt I’ve got those pretty letters of yours at home. I’ll keep now.’

Meanwhile Stella, with flushed cheeks and rapidly beating heart, was making her way at a very quick pace up the hilly road towards the poiat which she wished to reach. But ahe had forgotten all about her destination. She was conscious of nothing but the insult which, as she conceived it, John Hannington had put upon her, and of the desperate upheaval of pride and bitter anger that had taken place within her heart. How dared he bow to her ? Did he think that she had taken his insult so lightly that it was easy and possible for them to meet as old acquaintances ? He must think little of her indeed!

Stella was too young to take such matters calmly. It would have been far better for her to have treated Hannington as a casual acquaintsnce than to proclaim to all the world that she looked upon him as her enemy. Such an action on her part told her story to a clever woman like Lady Val much more clearly than she or John Hannington ever meant to tell it. But she was unconscious of her mistake. She was in a Qarai ng heat of anger, mortification, and wounded feeling, and felt vindictively glad that she had had the chance of showing him that she no longer wished for his acquaintance. But anger and vindictiveness were not natural to her. Before long her steps slackened, her colour fell, her eyes began to fill with tears. She turned aside from the road, and scrambled a little way down the hillside. The murmur of the Braan below was full and strong in her ears, but she did not notice it. She had forgotten all about her desire to see the Hermitage Falls. She only wanted to get down amongst the trees, to seat herself in the heather and fern, lean her face on her hands, and cry her heart out. And that was what she did.

* Oh, John, John ! and I loved you so r she whispered to herself. ‘lf ■only I could forget you —for you are not worthy even of my love —but I never, never shall.’ * Never,’ the proverb says, ‘is a long day.’ But Stella was thoroughly in earnest. She did not believe that John Hannington could ever be indifferent to her, or that she could ever love any man again. Absorbed in her reflections, she had not heard the sound of footsteps on the road above the bank on which she aat. There had first been merry voices and steps not far from her; then these had died away. Next came a tall man of handsome face and stately bearing! 'He looked round him with a frown upon his brow ; he paused in his walk several times, and when he saw Stella half-Way down the hill-side, he made a step sideways, as if to turn in her direction and address her. But a second glance caused him to change his mind. Her slender figure, in its closely-fitting black dress, had nothing remarkable about it; even the knot of golden hair, in which the sunbeams seemed to be imprisoned, beneath her black bat, did not attract his attention very much, but as he looked, it became clear to him from the movevement of her shoulders, that the girl, whoever she was, was sobbing uncontrollably ; that the crouching attitude was that of grief, and that the collie who stood beside her was wagging his tail and trying to lick her face in that sympathy with sorrow which intelligent animals often show towards their masters and their friends. The gentleman turned hastily away, thankful that he had not intruded on her solitude. When he had gone some little distance, some feeling of remorse took possession of him. Ought he to have asked her if she wanted assistance of any kind —if she were ill or in pain P * Pooh !’ he thought to himself, as he strode on again, ‘ my wits must be wandering, to make me think of such a thing. A woman’s tears! They come easily enough, and mean little enough, heaven knows ! She has had a quarrel with her lover perhaps ; or her vanity has been wounded, or she is hysterical over the death of her canary bird; or, —a softer mood coming over him —‘ she is grieving over a friend’s death, poor soul; and nobody can help her but God. She wears a black dress; mother or father dead perhaps. A sad lot for the young !’ And be heaved a sigh, as if there was some personal reference in the words. * She may not be young, by-the-bye, I forgot that!’ he continued with a half smile. * She has hair like the on board the Britannia last summer —curiously brilliant, without a touch of red in it. As Rossetti says—- “ Her hair that laj along her back Was yellow, like ripe corn.” A commonplace young person, probably, seeing bow how she was letting that scamp Hannington make love to her ; her yellow hair the only point of resemblance to ‘ the blessed Damozel ’ «f the poem. But, of course, this girl is not the same. I wonder where those children have got to by this time ? It is natural, I suppose, that as Xam an old fogey, they should give me the slip. Hark! What was that ?’

It was a shriek —clear, piercing and intense. On the still autumn air sounds were carried to considerable distances. This cry came from the vicinity of the water -of that the gentleman was sure. It was followed by an answering shout, meant to be reassuring, but dying away in a quiver of alarm. And there came another scream, unmistakably in the girl’s voice.

‘ Molly !’ cried the gentleman in the road. ‘ Not iu the water I trust! God help us if she is !’ He rushed down the hillside, tearing his way with considerable rapidity through clumps of gorse and bracken and between the young stems of the nndergrowths, towards the place from which he had heard the cry. The roaring of the water sounded louder and louder in his ear as he drew closer to the bank. It was a difficult to get quickly to the Water’s e dge, for the hillside was steep and

slippery. He was below the fall, which poured over the rocks with toe vehemence of the stream in spate, its yellow foam scattering drops far and wide, its volume incresed threefold by the recent storms. A story crossed the man’s mind as he made his way down the hill—so encumbered by the wild undergrowth that he could scarcely see What was happening until he was close upon the water of a child’s slip into the whirling, swirling pool at the foot of the Hermitage Falls. No rescue had been possible, and the child’s body had been picked up, bruised and battered in smooth water further down. He shuddered at the thought, as he brushed aside the branches and stood by the water’s edge. - What did he see F CHAPTER YIII. Mokcrieef, of Tobbesmuir. A girl of fifteen years —his own daughter Molly, as he was veiy well aware —had rashly made her way from boulder to boulder until she stood close to the deep pool which was well known to be the most dangerous spot in the swiftly running little liver. Evidently her nerve had given way at this very point; the broken branch of a rowan tree just above showed that she had clutched at it, and that it had snapped in her hand ; the fragments of a stick which she had used as a sort of alpenstock were already whirling down the stream. She could not go forward ; she was afraid to go back. Her body was half poised over the stream; it swayed a little, as if she were dizzy, and another frightened scream came from her white lips. Meanwhile a youth, somewhat older than herself, was hurrying across the bridge from the other side, and calling to her to be careful —not to move until he came to her help—not to lose her head. It was very plain that she had lost it already. Another moment without help and she would have fallen and been dashed against the stones. But help which Molly’s father had not looked for was at hand. A slender figure in black, which he had seen already, was standing on the stones and holding out a parasol to the frightened girl. Stella had advanced- as far as she could, and had not had time to feel alarmed until Molly clutched the parasol handle so violently that she almost lost her own balance. Then, for a moment, she did feel a qualm of fear, but she recovered herself instantly.

‘ Steady !’ she said. ‘ Don’t jump. Step over ;it is not far. There ! you are on firmer ground now. Pass me, and get to the bank.’ Sbe held Molly’s hand until the girl had passed her, but the unlookedfor apparition of her father gave Molly another fright. She started violently, and dragged Stella forward in rather a dangerous way.

‘ Take care ! take bare ! What are you doing ?’ said the father. He handed her hastily to the stones near the bank, holding out his other hand at the same time to Stella. It was fortunate that he did so. For Molly’s hasty movement bad caused Stella to slip, and although she did nob quite fall, one of her feet and part of her dress went into the water. If no one had been holding her, it would have been doubtful whether she could have recovered herself ; but as it was she clung desperately to the strong hand that clasped her own, and was carried rather than led to the safe pathway, where Molly now stood crying. Her brother had arrived upon the scene panting and as white as a sheet with terror.

‘ Are you better P You have not hurt yourself ?’ said the gentleman still supporting Stella with his arm. ‘Thank you, I am all right; I was not hurt, she answered. Then she looked at him and he looked at her, and both gave the very slightest possible start. He recognised her as the girl with golden hair on board the Britannia, and she remembered that John Hannington had named him to her as Alan Moncrieff of Torresmuir. The remembrance- did more

than anything towards bringing the colour back to her lips. She was very white when he landed her, for her fright had been severe.

Mr Moncrieff raised hia hat. ‘ I cannot express my gratitude to you, madam.’ he said, ,in stiff, courteous accents, through which his real emotion had some difficulty in manifesting itself. ‘ But for your presence of mind and timely help my daughter would scarcely, I fear, have been rescued from her very perilous position. We are indeed deeply, most deeply, indebted to you. Molly’—a little sternly— ‘ surely you have something to say F’ Molly gasped out a few unintelligible words, and Stella tried to put a termination to the uncomfortable little scene.

‘ I was very ’glad that I happened to be so near,’ she said. ‘ I had really little to do —my parasol did more than I ; and you kindly gave me your help at the end. It was nothing at all.’ She inclined h.er head slightly, and was about to move away, when Moncrieff hastily interposed. ‘ Excuse me,’ he said, ‘ but I see that you are exceedingly wet. May I ask if you have far to go p’

Stella looked with some embarrassment at her dress, which was certainly clinging to her in a very unpleasant way. ‘ Not so very far ; it does not matter at all,’ she said. 4 It will dry as I walk.’ 4 May I ask if you are going to Dunkeld ?’ said Mr Moncrieff, with his resolute air of requiring an instant answer. 4 To St. Anselm’s said Stella.

4 To St. Anselm’s P The house on the bill ? Four miles from here, I should think, is it not P But you must not go that distance in your present state ; I cannot possibly allow it.’

4 You’ll come home with us, won’t you ?’ interposed Molly, breathlessly, drying her tears and favouring Stella with a gaze of wide-eyed adoration. 4 We live very near, and ’ 4 lf Molly will allow me,’said her father, with a dryness of tone which made' the girl shrink back with a frightened look, 4 I was about to propose that yon should avail yourself of the fact that my house—Torresmuir —is tolerably near. My housekeeper will see that your—your things—are dry before you go home. Molly will be only too glad to have the opportunity of doing you any small service in her power in return for the great one that you have bestowed on us; and, as for myself, I assure you that my house and all that it contains are entirely at your disposal.

Stella was inclined to smile at so much stateliness, which seemed to her like that of a Scottish laird. But she liked his face, grave and stern though it looked to her; and she liked his children’s faces. Moreover, she knew something of him by report, and was aware that she was in good hands. A long walk home with these draggled garments clinging round her feet would be uncomfortable and perhaps dangerous ; and —the thought flashed suddenly across her mind—she might possibly meet Mr Hannington and his friends again on her way home, and she could not bear the idea of their seeing her in this drowned-rat condition ! It was this consideration more than any other that induced her to accept Mr Moncrieff’s offer, and to torn away from the waterfall with his party. * I must beg leave to introduce myself,’ said Molly’s father, with a smile that made his face singularly pleasant. ‘My name is Alan Moncrieff— Moncrieff of Torresmuir —and this is my madcap daughter Molly, who deserves a good scolding for f;he fright she has given us. My son Bertie,’ he added, indicating the boy who was standing at Molly’s side. 4 And my name is Raeburn,’ said Stella, frankly. 4 1 am staying with my aunt at Mrs Sinclair’s, at Sr. Anselm’s, the house on the hill.’

‘ You come from Dundee F’ said Moncrieff, inadvertently, and then was angry with himself for saying it. He had been thinking only of her voyage in the Britannia, but he saw

from her pained face that she imagined him to be alluding to the tragic •death of her father, an account of which had, of course, appeared in ■every newspaper. 4 Yes,’ she said, rather sadly, ' I ■come from Dundee.’

4 What an idiot I am,’ said Alan Moncrieff to himself. 4 I ought not to have mentioned Dundee to her. Ah, that was why she was crying when I saw her on the hill-side ; poor girl, she has had enough to cry for ! Her eyelids are wet yet.’ The boy and girl had slunk on together, as if glad to be out of her father’s hearing, and he took the opportunity of saying quietly—--4 Let me tell you, Miss Raeburn, that I know yout namp, that my father was well acquainted with your father in days gone bye. Everyone who knew Mr Raeburn esteemed him most highly. I have never heard a man spoken of more warmly, and I have always had the greatest respect for him.’

The manner in which the words were uttered simple, unaffected, sincere were more flittering to Stella’s love for her father than even the words themselves. She tried to thank him, but could only raise her ■eyes, swimming in tears, for a moment to his face by way of answer. He relieved her by stepping on in front, aas if to clear some loose branches out of her way ; and the moments of silence and reflection that his action gave her restored her to calmness she had reached the road, "where Molly and Bertie awaited them.

‘lf you will allow me, Miss Raeburn,’said Mr Moncrieff, ‘ I will go "the house and tell Mrs Greg that you are coming. I can walk faster, perhaps, than you can, and she will make any preparations that are necessary before you arive. Come, Bertie.’

He set off, almost without waiting for an answer ; and Stella felt exceedingly grateful for his consideration. The clinging of the wet gown around her ankles impeded her progress, and she could manage it more easily when she was walking with a girl like Molly than with two gentlemen. As soon as father and son were a few yards in advance, Molly began to chatter, as seemed her usual custom.

* What should I have done if you had not come up ? I should certainly have fallen in and been drowned. Ob, it was dreadful ? Thank you so much for helping me out, and 1 am so sorry you got wet. I ought to have said so before, but I never can say anything when papa is there. I know he will scold me fearfully when you are gone.’

She pouted as she spoke, like a naughty child, although she was as tall as Stella, and very well developed for her age. She was exceedingly pretty in a certain style. Her features were not perfect, but her complexion was exquisite, though suggestive, by its very brilliance, of some delicacy of constitution ; her hazel eyes weie wild and bright, and her hair—hazel-brown, with threads of ruddy gold in it—danced and waved over her shoulders in marvellous profusion. Her brother had more regularity of feature; he was long and weedy and rather sickly looking ; but he only wanted health to make him very like his father, which certainly Molly was not. Her dress was untidy, Stella noticed ; it was torn in more than one place, and stained in' others ; her hat had a broken brim, her shoe-lace was loose, and her hands were gloVeless. She looked anything but what she was —the daughter of a man of no inconsiderable fortune, position, and attainments.

‘ What made you venture out so far ?’ Stella inquired. ‘Oh, just for fun ! Bertie said! •daren’t; and I said I would. I know papa’s in an awful rage.’ 4 But you might have.been drowned. I hope that you will not do it again ; ■will yon ? Stella’s gentle topes chased away the cloud that had been gathering ■over Molly’s face."

4 1 won’t if you ask me not,’ she said heartily. 4 But if papa had lectured me, I would. Only, after all, he never lectures; its Uncle Ralph who does all that. Papa only looks at me.’ Stella thought it wisest to change the conversation, and drew Molly into a lively discussion of the beauti.es of Laddie compared with her dog, Bran —a discussion which lasted until the gates of Torres tn air were reached. The house was large, fantastically gabled, and of picturesquely different heights. The gardens were laid out in terraces, for the ground was too uneven for any large level space to be available for lawn or ffower-bed. A gravelled terrace before the door, bordered with, an ornamental wall, afforded one of the loveliest distant views that Stella had ever seen. She could not, resist stopping to look at it, in spite ot her web clothes. 4 Fes, it is pretty,’ said Molly, with an air of proprietorship. 4 The river winding in and out is so lovely, isn’t it ? Why, you can see ever so many miles—right away towards the Pass of Killiecrankie. Papa can tell you the names of the hills better than I can. Doesn’t Craigy - Barns look from here F There’s papa making signs from the window, and here is Mrs Greg; so will you come in ?’ Stella had no reason to complain of her treatment. She was taken to a luxurious beeroom, where a fire, hot water, warm towels, and various articles of clothing awaited her, and Mrs Greg was eager in offers of assistance. Stella put on a skirt of Molly’s—it was quite long enough for her —and Mrs Greg promised to send her own back to St Anselm’s as soon as it was dried. And when she wsb ready to depart, as she thought, Molly conducted her, almost by force, to the drawing-room, where tea bad been prepared, and where Mr Moncrieff and his son awaited her. They all made much of Stella. They waited upon her as if she had been a princess ; it seemed as if they could not do enough for her. In fact, her sweet face and golden hair had quite fascinated the young people; and the fascination extended itself to Alan Moncrieff as well. He thought he had never seen a lovelier face than that of poor Matthew Raeburn’s daughter. Stella was sorry, however, to notice that his eye grew stern and cold when it rested on Molly, and that the child shrank from him as if she knew that she were in disgrace. A whisper from Bertie to his sister had already caught the visitor’s ear. 4 He’s in an awful wax because I didn’t take care of you. Says we both ought to be sent to bed like babies ; and that you’re to go to school next week.’ At which Molly’s face assumed an aspect of great tribulation. 4 I think I must really go now,’ said Stella at last. 4 lt will be nearly dark when I reach home ; so I must make haste.’ 4 The carriage is waiting, if you insist on leaving us so soon,’ said Mr Moncrieff, courteously. 4 Bertie, run down and tell Macgregor to drive round. I could hot think of your walking all that distance, Miss Raeburn, after your experience this afternoon. You must allow me to have the pleasure of sending you home.’ Stella protested, but in vain. The carriage, drawn by two magnificent bay horses, was at the door ; and Moncrieff put her in with his stateliest air, and a few words of heartfelt thanks, which, she felt, redeemed the stateliness. She wished that she could plead for Molly, who was evidently under her father's displeasure, but she hardly knew how far she might venture to go. She did say, however, with a pleading glance, 4 And your daughter has promised never to be so rash again.’, 4 1 am glad to hdar it,’ said Moncrieff, understanding perfectly well the meaning of that gentle speech. 4 If she has promised, I know she will kedp her word, And so l-need not be angry with her, need I ?’ He smiled a°d. put his hand affectionately on Molly’s shoulder as the carriage roiled away, and Stella was

) pleased to feel that she had won Molly’s pardon before she went. | The drive did not seem long 1 to her. I She had much to think of, but her thoughts were by no means so melancholy as they had been that afternoon. l’he timely help that she had given to Molly, the deferential courtesy shown by Mr Moncrieff, sight of the quaint, beautiful old house, which she had scarcely had time to look at and admire—these things occupied her thoughts. It was quite a shock to meet once more the riding party that she had encountered in the afternoon, because it brought her thoughts back to a domain which, fot the time being, they had left, but the shock was not very terrible. She turned away and caressed Laddie, who sat on the rug beside her, and hoped that in the gathering twilight they had not recognised her face. But they had. ‘ Wonders will never cease,’ said Lady Val, looking back. ‘That’s the Moncrieff carriage. Moncrieff of Torresmuir—the proudest man you ever knew —sending the little Dundee girl home in his laudau. What does that mean, I wonder ?’ ‘ You can ask him to-night. He is going to the Maxwells’ to dinner,’ said Hannington, rather ill tempered ly. He knew that Lady Val was going too. ‘ I will,’ said the lady, briskly. And she was as good as her word. ‘ Oh, Mr Moncrieff,’ she said, later in the evening, looking with secret admiration at the face of the grave, stately man, who was standing near her, ‘do tell me —don’t you know a M iss Raeburn who is staying ih the neighbourhood ?’ She had not the faintest idea where Stella was staying. She drew her bow at a venture. ‘ She saved my little girl’s life this afternoon,’said Moncrieff; and then he ‘told her the story of Molly’s escapade. ‘ What a monkey your Molly is! Full of life and spirit!’ ‘ Too much so, lam afraid. I must either send her to school or find a I governess for her.’ ‘ I hare an inspiration,’ cried Lady Val. ‘ Why d( n’t you get Mis Raeburn herself to tame poor Molly’s wild spirit ?* ‘ Miss Raeburn herself ? But—would she ’ ‘ She hasn’t a penny, and I heard she was looking out for a situation some time ago,’ said Lady Val, with her usual caielessness about facts. ‘ I believe that you would be doing her a service, Mr Moncrieff. I really do.’ ‘ls she competent ?’ Moncerieff asked quietly. ‘ Can you look at her face and doubt it ?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘ Well, I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Lady Val. ‘I was in the Post Office to-day, and I saw a written notice, setting forth that a young lady in Dunkeld wanted to give lessons in French, German, music, and all the etceteras. Perhaps that is Miss Raeburn ? You might follow it up and find out. The initals given were E. R.—l’m sure of that.’ Mr Moncrieff said he thought it unlikely that Miss Raeburn would condescend to teach his little girl, and changed the subject. It was odd that he could not get rid of a few lines from the poem which he had previously quoted to himself that afternoon anent Stella’s golden hair. “ Her ejes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She bad three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.” They were appropriate, he thought, to no woman upon earth. And yet there was a sense in which a good woman might be to any man, ‘ a blessed Damozel ’ indeed. Was Stella Raeburn one of these * elect ladies ’ of the land ? (To be continued.)