cloud after cloud of them. He heard the knock, and it brought him sharply back to his duty. He lifted the candle and listened a moment. Old Grizel's rheumatism was bad, Adam's sight was failing him, there was no movement in the kitchen; he went to the door himself.

He supposed that some one of his parishioners was ill, a child perhaps, who was not baptized,—and his mind was set to the necessary key. When, therefore, he saw in the gloom outside the white, lovely face of Scotia Rodney, he was speechless in his amazement.

"May I come in a moment, Mr. Bruce."

His lips moved, and he closed the door and went with her into the parlor. But he could find no words. He knew that the hour of temptation had come to him, and in the first moments of it his soul was afraid. And his manner was solemn and distant; how could Scotia know that there was a heart of unflaming fire behind it?

She felt that she must hurry, or lose command over herself. Nervously fingering the strings of her bonnet with one hand, and holding her mantle tight with the other, she said quickly, almost abruptly: "Mr. Bruce, I was very rude to you. I am very sorry. I could not rest until I told you so. Forgive me!"

At the first words her eyes were dropped, but with a sudden determination she lifted them to his face. It was an almost stern face they rested on, but a look of trouble came into it as she spoke.

"All that I can forgive, I forgave at once."

"I was in a passion, and I was unkind. I wounded a noble heart without caring, but immediately I was angry at myself."

"I think the passing unkindness of the passionate,

is perhaps more kind than the wisdom of those who are always calm and indifferent. People who have no faults are terrible."

"I am forgiven, then? Quite?"

"Yes."

He could say no more-he durst say no more. To give his heart speech, would be like the letting out of water. He said "yes," and cast his eyes upon the open book on the table. For her lovely face, sensitive with feeling, her sorrowful eyes, seeking his for some sympathy, the slight flush and disorder of her hurried. walk, appealed to him with a power that made him tremble with the strain. His heart beat with fierce throbs; in his ears the reverberation was like the regular blows of a great hammer. A moment's silence in such circumstances is a long time; Scotia endured it a moment, and then said wearily :

"Thank you! I will go home, then."

"I will walk with you. You should not have come alone-in the dark-so late."

"If I had waited for company-for the light-for to-morrow morning, I might never have come at all. Have I done wrong?"

"No."

"Have I done right?"

"Yes. But I will walk back with you."

He lifted his hat, and they went together into the night. A great peace was between them. He drew her hand within his arm, and they walked on through the lonely lane and the darker park into the sweet garden, quiet and happy, as if they were walking in a dream. Suddenly from the thick woods there rose a song; mysterious, solemn, heavenly, sweet, and joyful.

"It is a nightingale!" said Scotia. ing to his mate."

"He is sing

She spoke very softly. They were within the garden, standing in a lonely walk, bordered with roses. To both had come at the same moment the thought that there they must say "Good night." Bruce lifted his hat. Scotia pulled, in an apparently purposeless manner, a couple of white roses. She laid her hand again upon his arm, her eyes, luminous as those of a child, caught his eyes; her face, fair, sweet, loving, was the only thing he could see. Almost in a whisper she spoke :

"Forgive me, again."

"Scotia Rodney! Oh, Scotia! Scotia!" and he took the roses from her hand, and kissing them passionately, turned abruptly from her, and walked with rapid steps into the darkness.

She stood still, smiling. His swift footsteps had music in them. "He loves me! He loves me! He loves me!" All the secret way to her room she kept repeating the words: "He loves me! And I will make him say so! What words in life could be half so sweet! For I love him! I think I have always loved him. There are faces one dreams of in childhood. I used to dream of Angus Bruce. To-night I know that I love him. The moment I had spoken insolently I wanted to say so. Those cruel words were like the rude pushing open of a door. They let me into my own heart. What a strange night! Love-at least the knowledge of love-has come to me, as it comes to most, I think—at a moment unexpected and by a road never looked for.

She was undressing herself to such thoughts. The company were leaving. She knew that she must

hasten her night toilet, or Bertha would be full of questions she did not intend to answer that night. She made haste, and lay down in the darkness and tranquillity, and smiled happily to herself when she remembered the minister's face and his quick theft of her roses, and the kiss he gave them as he hastened from her presence.

"The kiss was my kiss! I will let the roses keep it a little while. He will kiss them again and again, and tell them how much he loves me; and to-morrow I will ask him for the roses. I will say, 'Perhaps they may hold a secret that ought to be mine.'

The clock struck midnight, and then she noticed that the house was quiet, and that all the gay, noisy "farewells" of departing guests were over. So Bertha was not coming to see her that night; she could go to sleep and dream of Angus Bruce. Very likely Bertha was already asleep.

On the contrary, Bertha was wide awake, for there had came to her a new idea, an overpowering desire and determination. It had been stirring in her heart for some weeks, but it had suddenly taken form, assumed an imperative attitude. Scotia's retirement from the festival had revealed to her in the clearest possible manner the pleasure of being first and foremost. It was delightful to be deferred to, to be consulted, to usurp the enviable homage of Blair Rodney. Among the young people, she had that night felt herself mistress of Rodney, and a determined ambition to reach that position took possession of her.

Now, when Bertha Rodney had a desire, she gave neither herself, nor any other creature able to forward it, any rest until her interests were considered. Mrs.

Rodney was weary, but Bertha followed her to her room and fretted her into a discussion of the worry which kept her young heart awake and anxious.

"You see, mother, I cannot sleep. All my future is at Scotia's mercy; and you know how Scotia is—so unreliable. One day, I think she has made up her mind to marry Blair; and I try to imagine Sir Thomas will suit me better than Blair; and then the next day, she is positively rude to Blair; and Blair comes to me for comfort, and I think my chances as good as Scotia's. It may be fun for Scotia to play with a lover and a sister, like a cat with two mice; but I do not enjoy it nor does Blair."

"Why, then, does not Blair put an end to Scotia's game by asking her the direct question, which would. compel her to say 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"Because he is afraid. I really think father advises him about Scotia, and you might advise me, mother. No one cares for me much, but you."

"Do not say anything like that, Bertha. Your father and I love both our children equally. You must guard against such imprudent speech."

"Yes, dear mother, but what must I do?"

"You wish to marry Blair, and be heiress of Rodney Law? Speak sincerely."

"Yes, I do."

"There is just one way to insure your desire. Go to your sister. Tell her you love Blair, and want to be his wife. Tell her you are made miserable by her indecision, and throw yourself upon Scotia's love and generosity."

"Will she do as I wish?"

"Do you know Scotia so little as to doubt it. If you trust her, you may rely on Scotia Rodney to the