UNTO SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 3, 21 July 1906, Page 9

UNTO SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN

Or, THE FLOWER OF THE PENINSULA

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

By

Lily Fronde

CHARTER VI.

Awkwmcr Questions. GRANDDAD, <l<» you remember what you was telling -me about yesterday—about marry, you know?” ‘‘You mean marriage, Aimee?” “Is that how you call it? But you called it marry yesterday.” “Wecl, what of it ?” ■“l've thinking. Granddad, that I’d like to see someone do it when we go for our holiday.” “1 don't know as we can manage that, Aimee; anyway, we’ll inquin* when we gbts to the city.” ■■ “Granddad, was father married, and mother?” • “Yes, dearie, they was. It’s wicked to live together an’ not lie married. Bad folk do. that, hut not good folk.” •’Are we good folk. Granddad?” “L reckon so. Aimee. Good livin’ sort o' folk, as reads our Bible regular, though we can’t gel to the kirk nohow.” “1 don’t read it —I can’t.” “Weel, I reads to ye, don’t I, pet?” “Oh, yes, an’ I know all about it, Granddad, from the pitchers. Are you -an* me married? 1 don’t rememlier being married to yon. Granddad. It must have when 1 '.as ever so little.” Duncan was pretty well used to awkward questions from his little granddaughter, but he was hardly prepared for this one. ’Lawks alive, lassie. lassie. that settles it. Ye must gang ta school. Dear, dear, what have 1 been thinkin’ about to leave ye so unknowledgable? Children don’t marry their granddads, my lambic: that would lie an awful sin. Its forbid in the Bible. Bairns don’t marry at all—it’s only men and wimmen as gets married.*’ •’How is it different to you an’me living together, Granddad? An' when you get the lass up to learn me, will you have to marriage with her, ’cos wouldn't you he wicked if you didn’t ? An* when w».l 1 lie old enough to marriage somebody, Granddad? I'm sixteen now, you know.” ’Not for years, lassie.” he said, ignoring her other questions. “Maybe when you re twenty-four or twenty-live it'll be time enough. An’ now we won't talk any more about it. When ye can read ye II undrrstan* more about it nor I can learn ye.” And. seizing his hat. Duncan lied to escape further questioning. Jx4t ahnm. Aimee rested her on the talde, and placed her chin in her open palms, and sat gazing at her pictured face on the wall. After a little she said aloud to herself: “Poor man. ho hadn't anyone to love him. 1* rajis the girl said ‘No’ when he as’t her. 1 wouldn’t have said ‘No/ at least if I'd never had nnv granddad. I mean But then t have got Granddad. Its funny, but I'm sure 1 could love him, too, as well a* Granddad. I wonder why Granddad doesn’t like him. He called him a villain, an' when 1 as’t him what that meant, an' if it was anvthing nice, he said, ‘quit talkin’,* an’ looked Sort of staring at me.” Presently Aimee got up anil went to tne door shading her eyes with her hand. I he sky had that jieeuliar blue, . ami gold glow which preceded a hot ymd Very sweet the girl looked in her short Highland fr« k. which expo Mil ' mw a pair of shapely legs and l>c»ufafully modelled ankles, for she wore no

stockings, although a pair of soft goloshes encased the little brown feet. Stepping out of the door, she leisurely walked to a knoll a few yards from the hut, and. standing upon it. made a pretty picture silhouetted against tlie sky—far too pretty for her station in life and her future happiness. After surveying the sky with a very weatherwise amt critical eye. she came back to tlie hut, and, taking the bird-cages down from their hooks, stood them on a bench outside the door, and began to dean them out. In half-an-hour Dunean returned, and sat down on a small barret wnich stood by the bench. Then he informed Aimee that he had met Tommy Trott the day before, anil that it wouldn't lie a bad idea to get him and his missus to come up and take earc of the place and the sheep while tliey were away on their little jaunt. “I've never seen Tommy Trott. Granddad. Is he a nice man?" “No, dearie, lie ain't. But he'll do well enough to look after the sheep, and his missus ain’t a bad sort. Hope there’ll lie no fires on the hills this summer. It was awful to see them poor sheep last year burnt to a cinder.” “What makes the grass catch fire, Granddad? Is it the Kot winds?” “That, an’ the folks throwing down lighted matches. There’s a nor’-wester cornin’ up now—look at the red sky yonder.” Aimee looked up and then fell into a reverie. Duncan had given her the birds for a birthday present—two canaries and a young African parrot. He had paid two guineas for the parrot, and did not begrudge it from his hardearned savings. It was a bargain, too, and would never have been sold for that sum had not the owner wanted to leave the colony. So it was knocked down at auction for two guineas, and Dunean was the proud purchaser. The two canaries he bought from an old sailor at Port Lyttelton. Presently Aimee looked up from her work and said: “Granddad, I’m gojng to plant ivy round the house, so it will i-limb- all over, an’ look pretty, an’ green always. We’ll bring some home with us.” Duncan removed his pipe from his lips and whistled to the birds.. He saw the bent of Aimee’s mind, and tried to turn her thoughts into another channel. He apprehended mme awkward questions. So he calleiCMarv Ann. the eat. a skinny little tortoisc-shell-eohmrcd thing which Aiiuee had picked up on the hills. Mary Anu jumped on his knee, and began working her paws up and down as though she was- kneading dough, or on a' treadmill. “Gad! Mary Anu, ye're farin’ the flesh off me legs, not to mention me pants. Just look, Aimee, she's tori- out the dams ns yer poor wee lingers filled in t’other day.” “Oh, never mind the'tear; I'll soon mend it again. That’ a wax Mary Ann has of showing how pleased she is; she's vary fond of you, Granddad.” “Oh, aye, so she is. There, now, lie qniet, pnssy, or ye’ll get the run.” The eat did as she was told, anil purred contentedly while the old man stroked her lustreless ami skinny back. “Was that a gun. Granddad?” “Didn’t hear none, but it’s likely enough; it’s shoutin' season now, ye ken.”

“You don't shoot much now, in the season. But I’m glad, for 1 don't like the poor pheasants ami quail ami the dear little pigeons shot. 1 used to always cry when you brought ’em home for me to cook." “Aweel. Aimee. my shoot in’ days is over now, anyway: my hand ain't as steady as it used to lie.” ••I'm sorry for that. Granddad, dear; hut you wont get any shakier, will you?” she asked anxiously. looking at lus hatchet face while she crept to his knee. and. sitting thereon, laid her roseleaf cheek against his corrugated brown one. He puslted the cat away. and. folding his arms round Aimee, gently rocked her to and fro for a lit th* with out speaking. Then he said, softly: “1 canna' tell, my bairn.” CHAPTER YU. A Visit to Ciiiustciurch. “Oh. this is lovely. Granddad. An' I've lived all my life Ajp there f point - ing to the mountains), ami didn't know how lovely the world wait, You said it was the world, didn’t you. Granddad?” “Only a wee hit o' it. dear. Scotlaml's better, larger, ami grander.” “If it is Ixdter than this, it must he 1 teautiful." Ami as they glided down the Avon in a pretty pleasure Imat the girl trailed her lingers in the Hear, fresh water of the river. The wind was in the nor'-west: there fore the morning was warm and still, for in the south New Zealand it is generally cold up till (’hristma*. with the exception of an occasion;! 1 warm day. It was now new the end of November, ami Duncan Keith and Aimer had been three days in (’hri*tchur< h. having I‘ft Tninmy Trott and his wife in charge of their mountain home. The weather wa* beautiful, ami they were enjoying themselves immensely. the “City of the Plains” delighted Aimee. with its heaut ifiilly-laid-out streets, so level and st might after the rugged hills. And the lovely little Avon, with its graceful amt evergreen willows, <lroop ing their branches into the water, in many places almost meeting overhead. Ami how far more l>eautiful the river must have lx*en with its clear water, through which you could see the pebbles at the ixdtom. before an injudicious Parliament sowed weeds in it in order to facilitate troutbreeding, with the result, that the Government have to spend hundreds of pounds j»cr annum to keep the weed* low enough for navigable purposes, while pleasun* boats are constantly getting stranded on them. ’fin* river, however, had lately lx*en cleaned, for the Ist of Octol»er was the opening of the laiating season, the* day on write a (if it was warm l tin* ladies appcaretL for the first time in their summer gowns. Generally, however, it was miserabk cold, with an east wind blowing which cut through to the marrow those who ventured out. Fortunately, the weeds did not sully the higher portion of the river. :in«l its waters rippled clear ami Iwautiful as they wt-mled their way through tin* Botanical Gardena. It is neann- New Brighton (the Ninety Mile Beach), a fashionable watering place when* tin* river joins the sea. that the weeds flour-, i&h must luxuriously. It wa» through

the Gardens that Ihinran and were now slowly drifting, and presently the boat wislged itself against the little island in the river, the oh! man lighting up his pipe l»efore taking up the senile again. “(iramhlad. couldn't we have our din« ner now, while the l»oat is still?" ‘‘l’ll have my smoke fust, ami take a stroll through the park while you are eat in’ your hit dinner. Aimee. You won't lx* afraid to Ik* alone for a, bit, sure. I*ll keep my eye on ye while I’n> walking.’’ Amt as he s|»oke he paddled the l»oat to the opposite bank on the llagley Park side. “Oh, no, I won't lx* frightened: I’4 never f<*el that here: it's t<x» lovely,* said Ainas*, drawing out of her little basket some sandwiches ami a sli<-e ofc cold plum pmlding which their kindhearted landhuly had gtvcu to her just before starting. “There, my uear,’’ she had said, “(aktl that, ami I'll have a good dinner i'or both of you at live* o'clock, so there no need to hurry home before then." As Duncan stepped <m to the hank and moored the boat to the stump juf a tn*e. Aimer lay hack and drowsily 1»e--gan tn cat her lunch. She was stiff dressed in her qua ini plaid, and w«»m her one ami only hcujcovering, the oltA blur 'l’am-o*-sliantcr. But her grandfather had purchased some navy blue stockings ami a pair of buckle sh«x*s f»»f her. which she was con-'taiilly admiring, to the great amusement of Air*. Miller, their landbuly. and ainone d*e w h*> happened to sec her. with her pretty foot stack out ami a happy. iiiixx-eHfe smile on her gnih*less young face. Duncan had Ixrn careful in his choir* <df lo.lguig*. am! decided on those of a, widow whos<‘-iLiisbaml had dh*d lately, leaving her with a l»aby thr<*c month« old. Four other children had died .it birth, s.ud to this little fatherless ma the widow was passionately at I ached. So to her cottage on tile North Belt of the town Dnnran t<x>k his little granddaughter. At first Aimee wa* afraid of t..r baby when it cried. It wn* positively .the first, she had ever seen, ami she kept ( lose to her gumlfalhcr when it r\rnis<xl its youthful lungs, ami a <lrawn look of }»ain would eoim* over hot face. •Can't it < .Tamldad ? .It's choking: I know it's in pain. Oh. won’* you tell it to stop. 1 feed so queer ill over when it cries like that." “It ennna’ understand what ye sav; it's a w<*<* bairn yet. May lx* it want* a urink. Run and t<*ll its niilhcr. Directly Duncan said it wanted a

drink, Aimee disappeared, and presently returned with "a* dijijier ol water,*'and held it to the baby’s lips, at the same time telling it to sit up and have a drink. Just then Sirs. Miller came into the room, and gave a scream. ‘|C>h. my baby! Child, what are you doing to it ?” Dunean had left the room before this. > “Only giving it a drink, please; but it won’t sit up and have it. Granddad said it wanted .one.” > “You floor little innocent, it doesn’t want water, and it’s little baek is too weak to sit up; besides, she does not know what you are saying; babies don’t know until they are much older than this little darling. • But, tell me, have you never seen a baby before, Aimee?” “Xo.” “Dear me, you can’t megn it! Never Been a baby! Well, well.” “I never seen anyone since I was twelve, ’cept Tommy and Mrs. Trott, just before we left the Peninsula. Oh, yes, 1 forgot, I seen a man an’ talked with him, an’ he took my pitcher, an’ gave it to Granddad.” And Aimee’s eyes lighted up with pleasure at the remembrance of her stranger. “Did he, now? Well, my dear, your face is worth it, so sweet and pretty it is.” “Yes, I know,” she said, eagerly. “Granddad says I’m bonny, and the gentleman on the hills said so, too. Will your baby be bonny, too, when she’s as old as me . ■ 1 “I hope so, little one. Blit I am afraid not, as few girls are aS pretty as bonny Aimee Keith.” Mrs. Miller then explained that there was no cause for shame in a plain face. And now, after three days at Rose Cottage, Aimee was getting more used to the ways of other people, and of babies in particular. Thus, when the tiny morsel of humanity erowed at her and grasped her fingers, she was delighted; and begged its mother to allow her to nurse it for a little while.” And as she lay munching her sandwiches in the boat she was thinking that she would miss the baby when she returned to her mountain home. Then she began dropping some bread -to' the fishes, and watched them jump up and snap at it —

thdh were quite a number round the boat. Meanwhile, Duncan was enjoying his smoke and his walk in the beautiful, expansive park of five hundred acres, but after a while returned to the boat and ate his lunch. “Isn’t Hagley Park a big place, Granddad ? Wouldn’t you like to stop here for a year? 1 would, ’cos we won’t have a baby at home. Will you get me a baby. Granddad?” “Tut, tut, an’ no mother to feed it.” “Mrs. Miller says there’s tubes to feed ’em through when they have no mothers; I as’t her.” “An’ what about the poor wee birds—• are ye tired o’ them? Ye eanna’ have everything ye see, my bairn. An’ I couldn’t afford to feed an’ clothe anither bairn.” “Very well, Granddad, 1 won’t have one now; I forgot about that when I as’t you, an’ I do love the birds.” Just at that moment a boat shot past them, and in it sat a girl and a man. The girl was rowing and bending gracefully to her oars; the man was steering and gazing with admiration at his companion. “Why, dash me! if that isn’t the lass I saw in the coach from Akaroa eight or nine weeks ago; but that ain’t her husband,” muttered Dunean to himself, as he criticised the pair. “Books more at home than she did in the coach, and happier, too. Aweel, poor lass, she’s goin’ the wrong road; s’pose he’s her lover. Books more suited to her, anyway.” “Granddad, what are you talking about to yourself? Do you know them people in that boat?” asked Aimee, peeping round Duncan's shoulder in order to get a better view'. “Na, I don’t know ’em,” and. taking up his sculls, he prepared to row baek again. Arrived at the boat sheds, Duncan helped Aimee to terra firma, and, after paying for the boat, they made their way to the Museum close by, where they spent a pleasant half-hour, although Aimee did not care so much for it as she did for the river trip. As they came out of the Museum several students from Christ’s College passed them, and stared rudely at Aimee. She was only

a' poor, obscure little peasant girl, but so lovely that people could not help turning round to have another look at the exquisite little face, framed in its short, flossy curls and old Tam-o’-shanter eap. There was still plenty of time to spare before they were due at Rose Cottage, so they decided to take a trip to New Brighton, a pretty little place seven miles from the city. They mounted to the top of the tram, for although travelling on the top of a tram or ’bus would be considered undignified and unladylike in the North Island, it is quite correct in Christchurch, where ladies prefer it to inside travelling. On account of the country being so level, the people seldom get a good view of it except from the roof of a tram or omnibus, and an outside seat on a car or ’bus to New Brighton or Sumner, another watering place, nine miles from the city, is one of the pleasantest trips to la? had in Christchurch. CHAPTER VIJL Shadows. A week had passed, and the old man and his granddaughter were still in Christchurch. Old Dunean Keith enjoyed wandering about the city. It was so eminently English in its appearance, architecture, and surroundings, and situated as it was on the banks of the Avon, it reminded him of many a beautiful spot in his own country. It was one of Duncan’s and Aimee’s chief pleasures to go into the Cathedral and rest after having returned from some excursion or other, the terminus being in Woreester-street, close to the sacred building. And once he took her up the tower, from which they had a splepdid view of the city and surrounding country. Then, at Rose Cottage, after dinner, they would love to sit and listen to the chimes of the Cathedral bells as their music floated sweetly on the evening air. On Sunday they' had gone to St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church, and for the first time Aimee experienced a strange, uncomfortable feeling when she saw all the well-dressed people, so different to her grandfather and herself,

file into the ehuniti.' Such feelings did not trouble Dunean;-the caverns of. hia memory were tillesl with other scenes and faces of the long ago, especially of his still loved wife, who haderosseil iiia Great Divide. She had always been fond of the kirk, and it ,was .there he had met her first in. bonnie Scotland. Such were his thoughts during the and he was not aware of any difference between his little ewe' 1 lamb and the other young girls around them, at least as far as dress went; in other respects he thought her far superior, and so sho was. As they came out of the church' a man thrust a note into Aimee’s hand', and then disappeared in the crowd, but not before she had recognised him. i A strange thrill swept over her, ami she held the little note crumpled up in her hand, as she walked by her grandfather’s side, lost in reverie. “What’s the matter with the wed bairn? Warn’t the service grand, an* the kirk. Aye, my lamb?” “Just that, Granddad.” She was thinking how much she would like to talk to him about her stranger, and wondering how to break this piece of news. The thought never eiitered her. pure mind to keep this little secret from him, so, after a pause, she said: “Granddad, look what Sir—what did you call him?” “Who, dearie, the passen?” “Oh, no, the man on the hills what did my pitcher.” “Now, Aimee, quit that subjee’; he’s fur enough away now, anyway, thanks be to God.” ” “But he isn't, Granddad; he’s here. I seen him, an’ he gave me this.” “Oh, Lord, deliver us fra’ evil to come.” And With a gesture that was almost fierce, he snatched the note front Aimee’s unwilling fingers, and thrust it into his pocket, and,'catching her by the hand, hurried her away through Latimer Square until they’ came to the Avon and 1 crossed the bridge. Then he stopped, and leaned heavily against the rail. •' “What’s the matter, dear Granddad f Have I hurt you? I was wondering to myself if I ought to show you that note* for I knew you didn’t like him, an’ it might vex you if I told you; but, you sec, I didn’t know what to do, an’ I ak

tell you everything, Granddad. I al ways’ have, haven’t IT" For answer Duncan .drew the little figure to his side and held her tight, as though he feared some danger. After a little he said, brokenly and with effort: ' ’‘(Aiinee, lang, lang ago, when you was A wee bairn, I said to mysel’, ‘Duncan,’ Bays I, ‘stay on the hills and rear that .wee jewel away fra’ all the sin o’ the .world, an’ keep her untouched by evil, and when she’s growed up she'll be a comfort to ye in yer auld age; she’s all ye've got to cling to now or in the future.’ So I just settles down ag’in, an’ teaches ye to love me, and ye soon became' the very light o’ me e’en. Then, dearie, when ye began to prattle yer wee babbie’s talk, it nigh sent me daft wi’ j»y”. He paused again, and tears slowly trickled down his withered cheeks. Then he continued:

“Aweel, ye went on makin’ sunshine fur me. An’ later on the joy it was to see yer bonnie een light up when the auld man cam’ hame tired to his bit dinner; an’ to feel yer wee soft arms around my neck an’ yer sweet voice a-singin’ sac sweet about yon bit hame.” A low moan came from under Duncan's arm. then—-

“Oh, Granddad, why do you say all them things and be so sad? Isn’t things always to go on the same as ever? An’ if you're not happy here, why can’t we go home again? I'm just longin' to see my birds and chicks again.” Then she added:

“1 couldn’t help the man giving me that. Grandad. Oh, you know I couldn’t.” And Aimee burst into tears.

“I wasn’t cross wi’ ye, my ain wee birdie. 0’ course ye couldn't help it. Aweel, give yer auld granddad a kiss, and we’ll just be gettin’ on to Rose Cottage, an’ see what the little woman’s got fur supper; something tasty, I’ll .warrant.”

Aimee kissed her grandfather, and smiled- through . her . tears. It was an effort to do so, for the. poor girl felt depressed with a vague unrest. A feeling that things would never be quite the same again oppressed her, and for the rest of the evening she sat quietly in the corner, watching her grandfather’ with a wistfulness that was quite pathetic. The same feeling, in a measure, was shared by Duncan, but he tried to put it from him, and his cheerfulness Was i'orocjt, as _ Aimee, with her keener woman’s -instinct, knew. , The knowledge made her unhappy,’ and for the first time- in her life she went to bed and could, not sleep.

When Duncan retired to his little ro<ms—next to Ainiee's all his cheerfulvanished, and he dropped dejectedly into/a chair, leaned his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. J’ulljj,half an hour passed before he chiuigpd his posture; then, with a drawn, ' o °k» ’ le rose an< -l blew out the

“I must think,” he muttered to him“and save the bairn at any cost. Efen.it he was a single man he’d never wedhrtjer, nor would I let her if he would. .But he’s the devil himsel’—report ain’t exaggerated about that. And to think 1 was so easy took in—me, a Scotchman, an’-always reckoned sharp. He either didn’t? go to Wellington to catch the mail boat, or he came back from there, art’ he's been skulkin’ around after my ewe lamb, poor, wee, bonnie lamb.” Another long pause followed these reflections, and then he quietly removed his' boots and threw himself on his bed .without undressing. Next morning he awoke to find his beloved grandchild bending anxiously over him with a cup of tea in her hand.

T'Hey, dearie, what’s up ?” * “Oh, Granddad, what is worrying you so? You’ve never undressed, an’ I heard you mp so late last night; but you • speak till you’ve drunk this nice cup'.o’ tea.”

' Duncan took the tea and drank it at a draught. As he set down the cup he drew Aimee over and kissed her. ‘ * Aimee, tell me, are ye happy wi’ me, an ’ content to go on the same us fever on the, hills?”

“Happy? Content? Why, I’m longin’ .to.go home again, Granddad; longin’ ever/so.” >■ > f.thought. she was, but in s ' le make any satjriP lease ’>er grandfather. But then »neAg>ved him more than anything on * eftrth;- lie had i»een all sufficient for her -El'k** now > an< l s he thought he was still. “S* n °t understand the strange of unrest that possessed her. ©irnesn looked keenly at her as though he.would read her very soul. She bore •"* scrutiny, without flinching, and 'die appeared satisfied.,

“I lay down wi' my clothes on; I was a bit worrited like, thinkin’ as ye wouldn't lie happy up yonder again. An’ now I’ve made up my mind to sell the sheep an’ the wee hit house, anti shift up country. How will ye like that, Aimee ?”

'•That’ll lie splendid, Granddad.” and Aimee clapped her hands with affected glee. “When shall we go? But don’t sell Humpty-Dumpty, please, Granddad.” Humpty-Dumpty was her pet lamb, a name she had given it from one of the few picture books she had possessed when a child, and which were still prized. “No,” replied Duncan, “I won’t sell it, nor the birds, nor Dodger. An’ we’ll have to keep Rosa; she's a good cow, and yields a deal more milk than t’other one we sold.” CHAPTER IX. The New Home. Before going out with Aimee to call on his old friends, the Jones’, Duncan just remembered the note in his pocket. Drawing it out, he opened it, and slowly read aloud: “Aly Dear Child,- —Can I see you alone for a few minutes? 1 wish to give you a little keepsake in memory of our meeting on Port Hills. I will be at tile cottage gate at eight o’clock to-morrow evening. 1 saw you in Cashel-street yesterday, and followed you, intending to speak, but remembered in time that your grandfather would not like it. 1 am sorry he does not like me, but I hope you do not share the unkind feeling towards your friend.—B.L.” The old man’s hand shook with agitation as he crushed the paper; then he struck a match and burnt it. Just then Aimee came in with her hat on, and although she saw the burnt paper she said nothing. “Ain’t you ready. Granddad, dear? I’ve been waiting ever so long. Are we going to have dinner at the Jones?” She tried to look interested as she perched herself on the side of the bed, and wondered what had been written on the burnt paper.

“After all, Aimee, I don't think we’ll go to Papanui to-day; I ain’t feeling so well,” and the old man passed his' hand wearily across his brow. “I think as we’ll be gettin’ hame again, and fix up the bit place fur auction:' then we’ll come back and have a longer spell on our way up country.”

An idea had suddenly occurred to Aimee since receiving Langstone’s note that she would like to .earn to read and write. Previously she hail not favoured the idea when her grandfather had-sug-gested it, but now a great longing to learn possessed her.

“Granddad, won’t you lie down if you don’t feel well? You didn’t have any sleep last night, you know; and then, if you feel better, this afternoon p’raps we could go an’ peep into one o’ them big schools where all the children are learning'to read and write.” ■ ' ■ “Aye, we can do that, lassie; but I’ll no lie down just now. I've got some business to see to, so I’ll leave you with Airs. Aliller for an hour or two,” and, kissing her tenderly, he left the house.. When he returned he did not forget Ainiee’s wish, and after the mid-day dinner the two proceeded along the Belt, - which brought them to Richmond, and. turning into the Stanmore road, they found themselves close to the Public .School. The couple attracted much attention. The fair young girl, just budding into womanhood, although unconscious of the fact, with her short curls and large, limpid eyes looking out from under beautifully marked brows, and the old Tam-o’-shanter; the old man. tall, gaunt, with a nose like an eagle’s, and piercing, deep-set . eyes under shaggy white brows, pursed up lips, and eleanshaved, rugged face, on every feature of which individualilty was strongly stamped. Stealing into the school-yard, they entered the porch and peeped in. At first they were unobserved, but after a ‘ few minutes one of the teachers came forward and inquired their business.

“I’m only fur lettin’ the wee bairn have a peep, mem ; we’re down for a bit holiday, ye ken, an’ she’s never seen inside a school afore.”

The young lady smiled, and, taking Aimee by the hand, led her into the school, and offered the old man a chair. Aimee was delighted with the singing, but the lessons tried her a. little. They confused her mind, and she was glad to be once more outside in the free, cool air.. , \

> “Well, -.Aimee, so . ye’ye beeu in t “'fichool, an’ how do ye like it' t"

“Not much. Granddad; it’s too craruje eu up. 1 don’t want to go to school, but I do want to learn to read and write." "That ’minds me, Aimee, that we’ve just got time to walk to High-street, aid buy ye son* lesson books." They crossed the Stanmore Bridge, and turned to the right along Avonside, then crossed the East belt into Armagh-afreet. For the time living they appeared to have forgotten their depression, and chatted gaily to each other until they turned into t’olombo-street. Then, all at once. Aimee stood still, her eyes riveted on a man who was walking on the opposite side of the street. Dunean was a few yards ahead before he noticed that Aimee was not at his side, and he turned round in some alarm. Just then Aimee recollected herself, and hastened up to him. “Ye mus’n’t lag, Aimee, ye might get lost, dearie. What were ye lookin’ al sae scared like?” “I at least, the people make me sort of silly, Granddad, and I forget what I’m doing.” It was the first time she had equivocated when asked a question, ami it was solely for her grandfather’s sake that she did so. She would much rather have discussed the subject of her thoughts with him; indeed, she was longing to do so, but dared not. “Aweel, we're not fur off the shop now,” said Dunean, as he took hold of the girl’s arm. They soon reached the shop, and, to the old man’s surprise, Aimee showed very little interest in the purchases. After paying for the books, Dunean said: “Come along, lassie. Poor wee bairn, she’s tired out,” and, tucking the little brown hand under his arm, they made their way back to Rose Cottage. ***** Christmas had come and gone, and the Hills knew the old man and the girl no more. They were now settled far up country, in an out-of-the-way place called Salt Water Creek, and had already resumed their usual occupations. Duncan had a large piece of ground under cultivation, and Aimee had her pets and flower garden, which had licen a source of pride to the previous tenant. Roses covered the: picturesque little cottage, hung over the doors, and peeped lovingly into Aimee’s bedroom window, while huge boxes of mignonette adorned the sills. Apparently there had been done to make, the girl's life happy all that a loving heart and willing hands could do. There was even a pony.-which Dunean had bought with a view to bringing in his products to the city, and which Aimee was learning to ride. It had been offered to Duncan for a few pounds; and he decided to buy it and teach Aimee to ride. Later on he intended to get a spring eart, but not just yet, for he had crippled himself a little through his change of residence. And so matters continued for three months.