birth there had been an Andrew Carrick, who, flying for life to these solitudes, had gradually acquired an affection for them; and he had built the house in which his descendant and namesake lived. It It was of gray stone, and stood upon the cliff, boldly facing the restless channel in which the Solway Firth and the Irish Sea hold such stormy revels.

But it was founded upon a rock, and built of huge blocks of granite; and its deep, narrow windows and thick doors defied the winds that waged nearly constant battle against its walls. The Lone House had originally contained only the " but" and the "ben" common to Scotch cottages; but Andrew's father had built a second story, with dormer windows facing the moor and the sea. Besides, there was a byre for the cattle, and a small sunk cellar used as a dairy and store-room.

The Carricks were of noble strain, and had been endowed with a double portion of that "protesting" spirit inherent in their race. They had followed Wallace, fought with Bruce, "protested" with Knox, been "out with the Covenanters, seceded with the Relief Kirk, and at the time my tale opens the man Andrew Carrick was in the midst of a soul-searching inquiry regarding the movement of Dr. Chalmers for the glory of a Free Kirk, with a most decided natural inclination to follow the great doctor.

Andrew was a shoemaker, and he sat upon his bench mending a fisherman's boot, and arguing the question conscientiously out with himself; and the jerky or solemn way in which he pulled his waxed thread through the leather was an emphatic, though quite unconscious, commentary upon his thoughts. He had a large, stern face, with that remarkable length of jaw from ear to chin which is a leading trait in the portraits of all the men of Covenanting note. His hair was long

and black; his brow seamed with firm, broad wrinkles; his large, gray eyes had no sparkle in them, but they gleamed with a haughty independence of virtuous honesty, mingled with much spiritual pride.

By-and-bye he became conscious of some sound interrupting the even flow of his thoughts. He lifted his head and looked towards the fireside. On a creepie before it, and softly singing to herself, sat his youngest daughter, Jeannie. She had been combing wool, and her lap and her idle hands were full of the fleecy stuff. He listened to her a moment, and then he asked,What is it you are singing at a', Jeannie?"

There is nothing ill in that, father." And there's naething good in it. And whar there is no good, thar is plenty o' ill. Forbye, I'm thrang wi' a controversy that taks a' the grace and skill God has gi'en me."

Jeannie smiled at him brightly, but did not speak, and Andrew softened under the smile. Jeannie Carrick was not beautiful, but she had that charm which strictly beautiful faces often want. Her eyes fascinated and her smile compelled. Everyone was glad to please Jeannie Carrick, and sorry even when they were obliged lawfully to grieve her. So in a very few minutes Andrew became restless in the silence he had commanded. The want of Jeannie's song was now worse than its sweet, low murmur; and he said kindly,

"I dinna approve o' Robbie Burns, Jeannie, but there are plenty o' songs that are lawfu' and not a'thegither devoid o' a gracious memory. I'll put by my ain work and my ain thoughts a wee and you can sing The Covenanter's Lament,' and maybe I'll slip a word or two in mysel', dearie."

Then he left his bench and sat down beside her in the firelight, and after a moment's silence Jeannie began to a wild, pathetic melody the mournful lament:

"There's nae Cov'nant noo, Lassie!
There's nae Cov'nant noo;
The solemn League and Cov'nant,
Is a' broken through.

There's nae Renwick noo, Lassie!
There's nae gude Cargill,
Nor holy Sabbath preaching

Upon the Martyrs' hill!

The last four lines were almost like a sob, and Andrew's stern face reflected the sentiment, as if he personally had been bitterly wronged in the matter.

"The Martyrs' hill's forsaken

In summer's dusk sae calm;
There's no gathering noo, Lassie!

To sing the evening psalm!
But the Martyrs sweetly sleep, Lassie,
Aneath the waving fern."

Then she stood up and looked at her father, and in a tone of triumph finished the verse.

"But the Martyr's grave will rise, Lassie, Above the warriors' cairn !"

In these last two lines Andrew joined his daughter; indeed, it seemed to be an understood thing between them, and a part of a programme often rehearsed.

The solemn enthusiasm of the singers was not a thing to be repeated or transferred to some other subject, and Andrew sat with head in his palms, gazing into the fire. He was enjoying a retrospective reverie which sufficed him; for his soul was wandering in a part of Scotland very dear to him, and to which he made frequent pilgrimages -that pastoral solitude where Pent.

land falls with easy slope into the Lothian plain. For there mighty

deeds had been done for the faith by those iron apostles whom God sends in iron times to make smooth his ways. There the solemn chant and the startling war-cry of the Covenanting men had rung, and there God's saints had died for faith and freedom, and gained the martyr's crown.

As he sat musing thus, Jeannie drew her little wheel to his side and began to spin. There was silence in the house-place, but a silence full of meaning; peopled with the distinct thoughts of minds which had not learned the modern trick of generalization; which were not crowded with events, but could set each one in space, and survey it from every side.

Very soon a heavy shower of rain smote the window smartly, and recalled Andrew to the actualities of daily existence.

"Whar is Ann?" he asked.

"She will be in the byre, no doubt."

"The kye ought to be milked lang ere this hour."

The grass is green now, and they are long in coming home."

He rose in a hurry, as if moved by some urgent thought, and went out. In a few minutes Jeannie heard Ann in the dairy straining the milk, and shortly afterward her father returned to his chair and resumed his meditations. But they were evidently of a very different character. A contemplation on the suffering of the martyrs imparted to his dark, solemn face the rapt enthusiasm of a Jewish seer. His own trials gave it a much more earthly expression. Anger, fear, hatred, a sense of wrong, were all there, but with nothing that elevated them above the natural feelings of the man. To ennoble passion all self must be taken out of it. And Andrew Carrick's anger that night was full of selfish considerations,

though he gave them much more lofty names.

Jeannie watched him in silence. She had in her own mind a glimmering of the subject which annoyed him. And her suspicions were justified by her father's impatience. The mere movement of the dishes in the dairy appeared to fret him, and when Ann entered the room he never glanced at her. She smiled faintly at Jeannie, and began to prepare the evening meal, making as she moved about in the mingled twilight and firelight, a picture well worth looking at. She was fair, and finely proportioned, with a round, rosy face, and good features. "A pretty, pleasant girl" would have been anyone's first impression; but to a closer scrutiny, the broad forehead, firm chin, and clever, capablelooking hands revealed a far nobler character.

She set the round table before the fire, and began to put out the cups and plates and infuse the tea. Then Jeannie laid by her wheel and watched her sister as she went quickly and quietly to and frowatched her with interest, and perhaps also with a shade of jealousy; for there was an unusual brightness in Ann's face, a gleam of happiness that Jeannie could only read in one way-Walter Grahame had been in the byre when Ann was milking.

The meal was a silent one. After the "blessing of the bread," few words were spoken. But when it was over Ann said:

His

to Galloway, and it stirred Andrew Carrick's heart like a trumpet. swarthy face glowed, his eyes kindled, his fingers twitched the potent leaflets as if he were handling a sword. It took him but a very short time to come to a decision.

"Lasses!" he cried, "I maun awa' to Edinbro'. What for will I be sitting quiet in my ain house when the Kirk is in danger? My forbear and namesake was among the saxty thousand wha' signed the covenant in the auld Greyfriars' Kirkyard. If I wasna to the forefront now I wad be shamed to meet him in anither warld. I sall stand by Dr. Chalmers and the Free Kirk to the last breath I hae!"

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Thae days are over," said Ann quietly. "King nor Kaiser could light again the martyrs' fires in the Grassmarket."

"Weel, I'll stand by them to my last shilling then, and maybe that is as gude a test as the ither ane."

He was in a fever of religious excitement, as he read aloud paragraphs of extraordinary power, and then amplified them.

"There will be a searching o' consciences now, lasses!" he said, triumphantly; "and the men who hae had their sops out o' the dish o' patronage will hae the question to answer now. And there's many that will not thank Dr. Chalmers for putting it to them; but they are men, and I dinna doubt but they will speak out as they should do. I'm trusting most o' them; but I'll be easier in my mind if I am on the vera spot, bairns"; and he looked first at one, and then at the other, with a singular indecision.

Ann stood on the hearth beside him, her knitting in her hand, and her whole attitude full of interest. Jeannie sat on a low rush chair opposite, and its gay patchwork cushions made an effective background for her small, dark head. The great national question did not trouble Jeannie much. She was

thinking of the unusual light in Ann's eyes, and connecting it with the fact that Walter Grahame had been talking to her.

"I shall ride my pony into Wigton. I can get the railway from thar to Edinbro'; and I shall be awa' the morn's daylight. You will lock the doors at sundown, Ann; and you will let neither man-body nor womanbody o'er the threshold till I win hame again."

"I canna promise all that, father: for it is a sin to make a promise that you arena like to keep. I shall want women to help me with the spring cleaning and bleaching; and there's many an occasion that might bring both men and women folk across the door-stone. You hae left us often before, and we aye did the thing that pleasured you. What are you feared for the now?"

"I am feared for that Grahame o' Port Braddon. He sall not speir after my daughters. And he sall not come under my roof-tree, for he is of an evil seed. Mind what I say!"

"He canna help his name, father. Because there was one evil one among the Grahames, are none of them to be good?"

I'll no leemit the possibility, Ann. A bottle may be marked 'Poison' and there may be no poison in it; but a wise body will just tak' it at its name, and not be trying expeeriments wi' it. That is enou' o' Grahame. He isna for either o' you, lasses. I wad stop the joining o' hands in sic a bridal yes, I would-though I called death himsel' in, to strike them apart. You'll not daur to think o' Walter Grahame; neither o' you!"

In Jeannie's downcast eyes there was nothing to intimate any resistance to Andrew's positive command; but Ann's face and attitude spoke dissent and protestation. Andrew supposed that, as a matter of course, his injunction, "You'll not daur to think o' Walter Grahame," settled the question; but an hour after

"He said, 'You'll be going, sir. And if God please to do so, He'll give you a good night; but you will keep in mind that you arena wanted here again-not while me and mine are in the Lone House.""

"Poor Walter! And he so blithe and bonnie and kind-hearted. It was a black affront to Walter. Whatna for is father so set against the Grahames?"

"I am sure he has a because' of his own, and we are bound to take heed to it."

"Father thinks o' siller more than love. I can see that he is aye pleased when Ringan Fullerton speaks to me, or comes to my side. Ringan hasna a single merit but a bank-book. I'll not marry for money! Would you, Nannie?"

"There's no use, Jeannie, in setting up the golden image of our own opinions. If they arena like father's opinions, we shall just require to give them up."

Eh, Nannie! You have a lot o' good sense-on your tongue. But if you wanted to marry Walter ?"

"I don't want to marry Walter. And after father's words anent such marriage, I would think myself daft to give Walter another thought. As for Ringan Fullerton, he is a person of some weight in the world, and you might do worse than think o' him."

"I might do a deal better."

"That is a question neither you nor I, nor yet the General Assembly, can find an answer to. Marriage is simply unaccountable."

"But for a' that father says, 1 think Walter is a very nice young man."

"We had best keep clear of him. He will not now be an improving friend for either of us, Jeannie. We have got our orders, and the road of disobedience is an ill road. The de'il is aye on it, and on all roads leading to it; and we be to take care o' the de'il, Jeannie."

"I dinna take any care for him. He's weel able to take care o' himself, and his ain side."

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You know what I mean, Jeannie. What for are you playing with my words; right is right, in the de'il's teeth, and father is right, and no doubt about it! But I must be up early in the morn, and am requiring to sleep now; so good-night to you, Jeannie, and good dreams."

"Of Walter Grahame?" queried Jeannie with a mocking laugh, as Ann put out the light, and both girls, with little sighs of sleep-content, laid their fair heads down upon their pillows.

CHAPTER II.

Truth is a dangerous thing to say
When high-throned falsehoods rule the day:
But He hath lent it voice and lo!
From heart to heart the fire shall go.

-Blackie.

Andrew did not think it at all necessary to speak to his daughters

in the morning about Walter Grahame. Obedience was the natural result of a parent's injunction to children, and the law was, in his opinion, as firmly settled as any law could be. There might be law-breakers, but he had no more fear of Ann and Jeannie Carrick breaking the fifth commandment than he had of their breaking the sixth.

Neither did the two girls contemplate such a sin. The temptation to commit it had not yet been made to seem reasonable to the heart of either girl. And if they had been questioned on the subject, they would both have unhesitatingly declared that their father's command was just and imperative, and far beyond their breaking. Not until a garment is washed, do we know whether it will shrink in the wetting or not; and a character must be tested by temptation, ere we can safely say whether it may be trusted or not.

Very early in the morning, Andrew rose and called his daughters. He hurried them in the preparation of the breakfast, but he took unusual care and deliberation about

the morning "exercise." He did

the latter as a mortification and reproof to the natural man, which was impatient of any detention. Therefore he read a double portion of the Word, and sang a long Psalm, and prayed for his household and himself, for the heatben, and the Kirk in her sore distress, and for the world in general, with a particularity that it is reasonable to suppose was extremely tedious to everyone present but Andrew Carrick.

Really he had no special anxiety about his daughters. His journey as far as Edinburgh was not an extraordinary affair. He was accustomed to leave them at intervals on matters pertaining to his business -sometimes to drive a few cattle into Dumfries market for sale, sometimes to go even as far as Glasgow, to buy the leather he required for his trade as a shoemaker.