71

door; but I could hear them speakin' to ane anither, though no the words they said. But ae thing pat me sair about. I saw the leddy was in the family way, and this was a notion I couldna bide; for what did I ken but they michtna be married? Hooever, I couldna help it now, and she was sae kind-lookin' and innocent, that I hoped that it was a' richt.

Whan Thamas cam hame, I telt him the hale story, wi' the exception o' my last suspicion, and he was pleased wi' the thocht that we had got sic a nice lodger. Weel, days passed on, and I fand the leddy, Mrs Smith, as she ca'd hersel', a' thing that I thocht at first. She was the sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted, blithest body ever I met in wi', never sad nor dooncast, but merry, hopefu', and happy. For a time, the gentleman cam every day to see her, and then his visits stoppit; and letters cam, and O how she did grip these letters, and rin wi' them into the bed-room! Then for hours she wad sit, and I kenned she was answerin' them, for she wad aye come oot wi' her bannet and shawl on, and gang, as I suspected, to the Post Office. In aboot a month, she had a little ane; and on the very day it was born, the gentleman cam at nicht and saw her; and frae the way he dandled and kissed the baby, I saw he was its faither. questioned him, but durstna; and he said naething to me, only telt Whan he gaed awa, I wad fain hae me to look weel after the leddy, and pat a five-pound note into my hand.

"The bairn was a very healthy ane, and Mrs Smith soon recovered; and, if possible, she seemed happier than ever, divertin' hersel' wi' her little son frae mornin' to nicht. Months passed awa, and a' that time the gentleman visited her often, but never stayin' lang. My doots as to them no bein' married stayed wi' me; but sae dearly did I come to love the leddy and the bairn, that they ceased to distress me, and Thamas himsel' didna ken what to dae to mak' them comfortable. The laddie was named Henry, and a brisk, speerity thing he was. his bit crawin' laugh soonded cheerily through the hoose. He scorned to greet like other bairns, and sooner was the guidman within the door, than he gaed wild to be Nae till him, and there wad the twa play for hoors, while the mother and mysel❜ lookit on, my heart maist as fu' as hers o' pride and affection.

"But I needna lengthen the story this way. months after Henry was born, ae day, I mind it weel-mind it, ay, Aboot nine or ten I'll never forget it-I was in the kitchen washin' the dishes after dinner. Thamas had just gaen awa to his wark, and left the Courant lyin' on the table. Mrs Smith, after puttin' Henry to bed, cam butt for the paper, to sit beside him, and read while she watched. She took it awa, and I was left by mysel'. The gentleman hadna been here for a guid while, and I noticed that our

lodger was mair dull and dowie than her usual; but the bairn keepit her frae wearyin' sae muckle as she wad hae done. No very lang, maybe a half-an-hour after she had left me, I heard a cry sae lood and shrill, sae fu' o' mortal agony. The like o't I never heard afore nor since, and I hope to the God o' mercy I never wull again. And then after the cry, a soond as o' somebody fa'in', and then a' was silent. Wi' terror I ran ben to the room; and, oh the sicht that met my een! There was puir Mrs Smith lyin' a' her length on the floor, wi' the paper in her hand, and the bluid rinnin' oot o' her mooth. I sprang forrit, and lifted her head into my lap. Her face was white as paper, and her eyes shut; but even then, it had an expression o' despair maist pitiable to see. I spak' to her: I poured cauld water on her face, and did every thing I could think o' to bring her aboot, but it had nae effect. Then I laid her gently doon again, and ran for a doctor. He cam alang wi' me that minute; and what was my horror to hear him say, that she was dead! I couldna, I wudna believe it; but, alas! alas! it was ower true. A' our efforts couldna bring her back to life, and wi' a sair heart we gied them up in despair. I canna picture to you the grief into which baith Thamas and me were plunged. We didna ken what to dae, indeed, we could dae naething; for we kentna wha the leddy was, nor whar her friends were to be found. The tall, weel-faured gentleman was the only ane we ken'd her to be acquaint wi'; but wha he was, or whar he lived, was a secret; and if he didna cast up by chance, he wudna ken what had happened. Weel, we keepit her as lang as we could, though Thamas was resolved to gie her a decent funeral, and at last had to tak' and lay her in the Canongate kirkyard, where she lies, at this moment, a stranger in a strange place.

"It was a sair sicht to see the bairn wauken up, and look for his mother; and it was as muckle as Thamas and me could dae, to haud him frae greetin' his little heart oot. But, wae's me, young folk ■une forget their sorrows, and in less than a week he was as blithe and canty as ever. Up to that time, neither my husband nor me had said a word aboot what was to come o' him, as it cam' oot after, we we were feared to speak; for though ilk ane o' us wanted to keep the bairn, we thocht the ither wad object. But ae nicht, as I was sittin' wi' him on my knee, Thamas says, 'Puir little lamb, what will come owre him?' I said naething, but lookit earnest like at him, and the tear cam' into my ee. Dae ye want to dae it, he. says 'If ye will alloo me,' says I. He cam' owre and gied me a kiss, and pressed baith me and the bairn to his heart. If naebody comes to claim him,' he said, 'he'll just be to us as if he were oor ain.' And so the matter was settled, and Henry stayed wi' us, for he never was askit for; and frae that day to this wo hinna seen the tall gentleman."

then?'

"Did you not examine the newspaper which was in the lady's hand?" asked Richard, who had been deeply interested by Mrs Ford's narration.

"Yes; we examined it, but could see naething to explain the awfu' event," answered the landlady.

Depend upon it, it was something which she read there that caused the sad circumstance; probably the announcement of the gentleman's marriage, for I doubt not it was a case of seduction and desertion. He must have been a villain—a despicable, heartless villain."

"I canna think that either," rejoined Mrs Ford, musingly. "To a' appearance, he was a kind, generous man, and I'm shure he loved her maist tenderly. It's a mystery, and a mystery it's likely to

remain."

"Did she leave no papers or property of any kind?" asked

Richard.

as well as rare.

"Naething o' consequence. The only thing that she brocht wi' her whan she cam was that bureau; but whan we ventured to look into it after her death, we could see naething but her claes." "Ah! was that bureau hers?" said Richard, looking at it with much interest. "" Now, it is very curious; but often I have fancied that I have seen one exactly similar somewhere or other. It is, I think, a piece of French workmanship, and is very unique, I cannot recollect where I have seen its companion, but certain I am that I have seen it. then, that she left no papers? Are you certain, drawers? That is just the kind of article for such contrivances." Have you discovered no secret "Weel, to tell you the truth, I fancy that there are sic things aboot it, frae something that I ance saw. very last time the gentleman was here. He cam' unexpectedly, for It was, I think, the Mrs Smith had been sittin' a' the forenoon writin' a letter, and had just gotten it dune whan he cam' in. I followed him ben to the room, to ask if he had gotten his denner, and heard her say wi' a lauch that she had had her forenoon's wark for naething. She had the letter in her hand, and he was wantin' it frae her; but she wadna gie him it, and I saw her thraw it into a hole somewhere at the back o' the bureau, when in a moment something gied a click, and it vanished. After her death, Thamas and me lookit carefully, but could see naething like a spring or a private drawer."

"It will have them, though, I should think," said Richard. "However, be kind enough to proceed with your story."

In

"Weel, years passed on, and Henry grew into a fine callant. I needna tell ye his character. Ye ken that weel eneuch that he is just aboot the kindest, warmest-hearted youth that breathes. time we almost fancied that he was oor ain bairn; and shure I am we couldna hae loved him better if he had. We pat him to schule

74

as sune as he could gang, and keepit him there till he was a grand scholar. But, waes me! a time o' dark trouble cam'; for my guidman dee'd, and I was left alane. Then did I feel the blessin' I had been storin' up for mysel' by keepin' Henry. God bless him, he cheered me, and said that he was able and would work for me; and then he threw his arms roond my neck, and it was nae mair like the caress o' a bairn, but the embrace o' a protector. In twa or three weeks he gaed as an apprentice into the King's Hoose, and brocht me every ha'penny that he earned. For some years needit little o' his wages, for we had a gey bit sum in the savings bank; but the time cam' when this was dune, and Henry has keepit up the hoose ever since. So ye see, Mr Everly, I wad has nae richt to interfere or object to his marryin' whan and wha he

liket."

I

“This narrative is honourable alike to you and to him," exclaimed Richard, grasping Mrs Ford's hand, and pressing it warmly. Ho had scarcely resumed his seat, when Henry entered abruptly, very pale, and much agitated.

"Guid guide us! what ails the laddie?" cried Mrs Ford, starting up, and running towards the youth.

Henry spoke not; but, sinking into a chair, he laid his head on his knees and sobbed, while his whole frame shook with emotion. "Henry, Henry, laddie, what's the matter wi' ye?" repeated the landlady, intensely alarmed.

Still no reply came from the agonized youth. Indeed, her anxious inquiries seemed only to add to his grief, and in silence she hung over him, while Richard, also, looked on with wondering sympathy.

He grew calmer at length, and, lifting up his face, gazed first at Everly, and then at her who had been to him as a mother. It was a look of sad appeal; and, throwing her arms about his neck, she

exclaimed,

66

think shame to tell me.

My puir bairn, what is it that troubles ye sae sair? Dinna wi' Diamond Hunter?" she whispered tenderly in his ear. Am I richt in thinkin' that it's connected Richard rose to leave the room, thinking that his be a barrier to the outpouring of that confidence which he observed presence might was so necessary; but Henry, holding out his hand and smiling faintly, caused him to stay.

I love

"Do not leave us, Mr Everly. You are the two truest friends I have in the world, and I desire to have nothing secret from you. Mrs Ford, you have rightly guessed the cause of my sorrow. Diamond-love her with all my heart-and I am not ashamed of the passion. To-night, I asked her to become my wife, and"And what?" interrupted Mrs Ford, breathlessly. refuse?"

"She didna

75

"Alas! yes," replied Henry, again hiding his face in his hands to conceal his agitation.

"Weel, I never heard the like o' that!" ejaculated the landlady, in a somewhat indignant tone. "I'm shure sic' an offer she'll never get again; and if she prefers anither to you, I think she has puir taste and little prudence."

Stop, stop; do not blame Diamond," said Henry, hastily. "She may be wrong, and I think she is; but she is not worthy of blame. She has told me that I am the only one she loves."

"And what way will she no marry ye, then?" asked Mrs Ford, in amazement.

"Because she is a foundling, and believes she is a child of shame," was the low, sorrowful reply.

"What nonsense!" observed Mrs Ford. "I thocht Diamond wad hae mair sense than that. Houts, but cheer up, Henry, lad. This storm will blaw by, and afore a week's owre yer head, Diamond will promise to be yours."

"Never, never," answered Henry, shaking his head. "Right or wrong, the idea has become a fixed principle of her nature, and even I would not urge it to be violated."

66

Right, my dear friend," said Richard, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder. "Whoever this girl is, she is full of genuine womanly nobility. Her resolution to sacrifice herself-for I doubt not her rejection of you to-night is the sacrifice of all her earthly hope and joy-evinces the nobility of her nature. worthy of all honour, and can only be the result of the most exalted It is a resolution views of moral purity. It bespeaks a deep, clear insight into the law of human happiness; for the doubt which, it seems, rests on her birth, would to fine minds be proud of having gained the love of such a woman as this; and prove destructive. Henry, you may though it may be that you can never possess her, you will have the consolation of knowing that your heart was set on a worthy object, and that it forfeited its happiness in obedience to a holy and sacred idea. It is still a trial, and I doubt not a severe one, and I accord you my warmest sympathy; but it does admit of alleviation, and, my dear young friend, there are trials in this world, sharp and sore as this one, which can in no way be lightened. I have had such to bear, and for your instruction will give you a sketch of my past history. Do not leave us, Mrs Ford. I also wish you to know something of what I am."

They sat beside him while he narrated the leading incidents of former Chapters, and were at once awed, solemnized, and horrified by the suffering, the cruelty, and the bereavement to which he had been subjected. As Henry thought of what Richard had to bear, and contrasted this with his own disappointment, he felt how much lighter was his load.