of hesitation, "had-a daughter, if I remember right." "If you remember right! Susie Logan, that you played with when you were both bairns-that grew up with you that I once thought -a daughter! Well I wot, and you too, that he had a daughter." "Well, mother," he said, subdued, "I remember very well, if that will please you better. Susie: yes, that was her name. And Susie I suppose she is married long ago?" "They are meaning," said Mrs Ogilvy, with an intonation of scorn, "to marry her now." "What does that mean to marry her now? Do you mean she has never married-Susie? And why? She must be old now," he said, with a half laugh. "I suppose she has lost her looks. And had no man the sense to see she was well, a pretty girl-when she was a pretty girl?" "If that was all you thought she was!" said Mrs Ogilvy—even her son was not exempted from her disapproval where Susie was concerned. She paused again, however, and said, more softly, "It has not been for want of opportunity. The man that wants her now wanted her at twenty. She has had her reasons, no doubt." "Reasons-against taking a husband? I never heard there were any-in a woman's mind." "There are maybe more things in heaven and earth-than you just have the best information upon," she said. She thought it expedient after this to go up-stairs a little, to look for something Janet wanted, she explained. Sometimes there were small matters which affected her more than the greater ones. The early terrible impression of him was wearing a little away. She had got used to his new aspect, to his new voice, to the changed and altered being he was. The bitterness of the discovery was over. She knew more or less what to expect of him now, as she had known what to expect of the boyish Robbie of old; and, indeed, this man who was made up of so many things that were new to her had thrown a strange and painful light on the Robbie of old, whom during so many years she had made into an ideal of all that was hopeful and beautiful in youth. She remembered now, yet was so unwilling to remember. She was very patient, but patient as she was, there were some things, some little things, which she found hard to bear; as for instance about Susie Susie: that she was a pretty girl, but must be old now, and had probably lost her looks,—was that all that Robert Ogilvy knew of Susie? It gave her a sharp pang of anger, in spite of her great patience, in spite of herself. It took her some time to find what Janet wanted. She was not very sure what it was. She opened two or three cupboards, and with a vague look went over their contents, trying to remember. Perhaps it was nothing of importance after all. She went down again to the parlour at last, to resume any conversation he pleased, or to listen to whatever he might tell her, or to be silent and wait till he might again be disposed to talk; passing by the kitchen on her way first to tell Janet that she had forgotten what it was she had promised to get for her: but if she would wait a little, the first time she went up-stairs, and then the mistress returned to her drawingroom by the other way, coming through the back passage. She had not heard any one come to the front door. But when she went into the room she saw a strange sight. In the doorway opposite to her stood a familiar figure, which had always been to Mrs Ogilvy like sunshine and the cheerful day, always welcome, always bringing a little brightness with her-Susie Logan, in her light summer dress, a soft transparent shadow on her face from the large brim of her hat, every line of her figure expressing the sudden pause, the arrested movement of a great surprise and wonder, nothing but wonder as yet. She stood with her lips apart, one foot advanced to come in, her hand upon the door as she had opened it, her eyes large with astonishment. She was gazing at him, where he half sat, half lay, in the great chair, his long legs stretched half across the room, his head laid back. He had fallen asleep in the drowsy afternoon, after the early dinner, with the newspaper spread out upon his knee. He had nothing to do, there was not much in the paper: there was nothing to wonder at in the fact that he had fallen asleep. His mother, to whom it always gave a pang to see him do so, had explained it to herself as many times as it happened in this way; and there sprang up into her eyes the ready challenge, the instant defence. Why should he not sleep? He had had plenty, oh plenty, to weary him; he was but new come home, where he could rest at his pleasure. But this warlike explanation died out of her as she watched Susie's face, who as yet saw nobody but this strange sleeper in possession of the dew. There rose in Susie's face a look of infinite pity, of a tenderness like that of a mother at the sight of a suffering child. Oh, more tender than me, more like a mother than me! said to herself the mother who was looking on. And then there came from Susie's bosom a long deep sigh, and the tears brimmed over from her eyes. She stepped back noiselessly from the door and closed it behind her; but stood outside, making no further movement, unable in her great surprise and emotion to do more. There Mrs Ogilvy found her a moment after, when, closing softly, as Susie had done, the other door upon the sleeper, she went round trembling to the little hall, in which Susie stood trembling too, with her hand upon her breast, where her heart was beating so high and loud. They took each other's hands, but for a moment said nothing. Then Susie, with the tears coming fast, said under her breath, "You never told me!" in an indescribable tone of reproach and tenderness. Mrs Ogilvy led her into the other room, where they sat down together. "You knew him, Susie, you knew him?" she said. "Knew him!-what would hinder me to know him?" Susie replied, with the same air of that offence and grievance which was more tender than love itself. "Oh, me! I was not like that," the mother cried. She remembered her first horror of him, with horror at herself. She that was his mother, flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. And here was Susie, that had neither trouble nor doubt. "To think I should come in thinking about nothing-thinking about my own small concerns-and find him there as innocent! like a tired bairn. And me perhaps the only one," said Susie, "never to have heard a word! though the oldest friend-I do not mind the time I did not know Robbie," she cried, with that keen tone of injury; "it began with our life." Here was the difference. He too had admitted that he remembered her very well-a pretty girl; but she must be old now, and have lost her looks. Susie had not lost her looks; it was he who had lost his looks. Mrs Ogilvy's heart sank, as she thought how completely those looks were lost, and of the unfavourable aspect of that heavy sleep, and the attitude of drowsy abandonment in the middle of the busy day. But Susie was conscious of none of these things. CHAPTER XII. The day after this was one of the days on which Robert chose to go to Edinburgh, which were days his mother dreaded, though no harm that she could specify came of them. He had not seen Susie on that afternoon, but was angry and put out when he heard of her visit, and that she had seen him asleep in his chair. "You might have saved me from that," he said, angrily ; "you need not have made an exhibition of me." "I did not know, Robbie, that. she was there." "It is the same thing," he cried: "you keep all your doors and windows open, in spite of everything I say. What's that but making an exhibition of me, that am something new, that anybody that likes may come and stare at?" She thought he had reason for his annoyance, though it was no fault of hers and it pleased her that he should be angry at having been seen by Susie in circumstances so unfavourable. Was not that the best thing for him to be roused to a desire to appear at his best, not his worse? He went to Edinburgh next day in the afternoon, after the early dinner. There was no question put to him now as to when he should be back. During that afternoon Susie came again, and was much disappointed and cast down not to see him. Perhaps it was well that Susie's first sight of him had been at a moment when he could say or do nothing to diminish or spoil her tender recollection. None of those things that vexed the soul of his mother affected Susie. The maturity of the man, so different from the boy; the changed tone; the different way of regarding all around him; the indifference to everything, -all these were hidden from her. The only thing unfavourable she had seen of him was his personal appearance, and that had not struck Susie as unfavourable. The long, soft, brown beard, so abundant and well grown, had been beautiful to her; his size, the large development of manhood, had filled her with a half pride, half respect. Pride! for did not Robbie, her oldest friend, more or less belong to Susie too. She had dreamt already of walking about Eskholm with him, happy and proud in his return, in the falsification of all malicious prophecies to the contrary. was her oldest friend, her playfellow from her first recollection. There was nothing more wanted to justify Susie's happy excitement- her satisfaction in his return. He "And he is away to Edinburgh, and has never come to see us! That is not like Robbie," she cried, with a trace of vexation in her eyes. "Susie, I will tell you and no other the secret, if it is a secret still. He had fallen into ill com pany, as I always feared, in that weary, far America." "How could he help it?" cried Susie, ready to face the world in his defence, " young as he was, and nobody to guide him." "That is true; and we that live in a quiet country, and much favoured and defended on every side, we know nothing of the lawlessness that is there. You will read even in the very papers, Susie: they think no more of drawing a pistol than a gentleman here does of taking his stick when he goes out for a walk." Susie nodded her head in acquiescence, and Mrs Ogilvy went on : "Where that's the custom, harm will come. Men with pistols in their hands like that, that sometimes go off, even when it's not intended, as you may also read in the papers every day. Oh, I Susie! it happened that there was an accident. How can we tell at this long distance, and so little as we know their manners and their ways, the rights of it all, and what meaning there was in it, or if there was any meaning! But a shot went off, and a man was killed. am used to it now," said Mrs Ogilvy, her lip quivering, her face appealing in every line to the younger woman at her side notoh! not-to condemn him; "but at the first moment I was as one that had no more life. The stain of blood may be upon my son's hand.' "No, no!" cried Susie. "No, I will not believe it-not him, of all that are in the world!" "God bless you, my bonnie dear, that is just the truth! But the shot came out of the band, he among them. There is another man that was at the head who is likely the man. And he is like Robbie, the same height, and so forth. And he has kept hold of him, and kept "I am not surprised," said Susie, very pale, and with her head high. "For Robbie would never betray him. He would never fail one that trusted in him." "And the terror in his heart is -oh, he says little to me, but I can divine it!-the terror in his heart is that this man will come after him here." "From America!" said Susie ; "so far, so far away." "It is not so far but that you can come in a week or a fortnight," said Mrs Ogilvy; "you or me would say, impossible but naturally he is the one that knows best. And he does not think it is impossible. He makes us bolt all the windows and lock the doors as soon as the sun goes down. Susie, this is what is hanging over us. How can he go and see his friends, or let them know he is here, or take the good of coming home-with this hanging over him night and day?" The colour had all gone out of Susie's face. She put an arm round her old friend, and gave her a trembling almost convulsive embrace. "And you to have this to bear after all the rest!" "Me!" said Mrs Ogilvy; "who is thinking of me? It is an ease to my mind to have said it out. You were the only one I could speak to, Susie, for you will think of him just as I do. You will excuse him and forgive him, and explain it all within yourself- -as I do-as I must do." "Excuse him!" cried Susie ; "that will I not! but be proud of him, because he's faithful to the man in trouble, whoever he may be !" Mrs Ogilvy did not say, even to Susie, that it was not faithfulness but panic that moved Robert, and that all his anxiety was to keep the man in trouble at arm's length. Even in confessing what was his problematical guilt and danger, it was still the first thing in her thoughts that Robbie should have the best of it whatever the position might be. They were walking up and down together on the level path in front of the house-now skirting the holly hedges, now brushing the boxwood border that made a green edge to the flowers. Susie had come with perplexities of her own to lay before her friend, but they all fled from her mind in face of this greater revelation. What did it matter about Susie? Whatever came to her, it would be but she who was in question, and she could bear it -but Robbie! Me! who is thinking of me? she said to herself, as Mrs Ogilvy had said it, with a proud contempt of any such petty subject. It was not the spirit of self-sacrifice, the instinct of unselfishness, as people are pleased to call such sentiments. I am afraid there was perhaps a little pride in it, perhaps a subtle self-confidence that whatever one had to fear in one's own person, what did it matter? one would be equal to it. But Robbie- What blood could be shed, what ordeal dared to keep it from him! "You will feel now that I am always ready," said Susie, "to do anything, if there is anything to do. You will send for me at any moment. If it were to take a message, if it were to send a letter, if it were to go to Edinburgh for any news, if it were to hide the man "Susie !" "And wherefore not? it's not ours to punish. I know nothing about him: but to save Robbie and you, or only to help you, what am I caring? I would put my arm through the place of the bolt, like Katherine Douglas for King James. And why should I not hide a man in trouble? Them that went before VOL. CLVI.-NO. DCCCCXLVI. us have done that, and more than that, for folk in trouble, many a day." "But not for the shedder of blood," said Mrs Ogilvy. "They were all shedders of blood," cried Susie; "there was not one side nor the other with clean hands-and 'our fore-mothers helped them all, whichever were the ones that were pursued: and so would I any man that stood between you and peace. If he were as bad a man as ever lived, I would help him to get away." "We must not go so far as that, Susie. We will hope that nothing will need to be done. Robbie and me, we will just keep very quiet till all this trouble blows over. I have a confidence that it will blow over,' said Mrs Ogilvy, with a shadow in her eyes which belied her words. Certainly it will," cried Susie, with an intensity of assent which, though she knew so little, yet comforted the elder woman's heart. And Susie once more left her friend without saying a word of the anxieties which were becoming more and more urgent in her own life. She had not yet been told what was the true state of the case, but many alarms had filled her mind, terrors which she would not acknowledge to herself. It did not seem credible that she should be dethroned from her own household place, which she had filled so long, to make way for a stranger, strange woman," as Susie, like Mrs Ogilvy, said; nor that the children should be taken out of her hands, and her home be no longer hers. But all other apprehensions and alarms had been confusedly deepened and increased, she could scarcely tell how, by the sudden interference of her father in behalf of an old lover long ago rejected, whose repeated proposals had become the jest of the family, |