been scattered, to take up other work in the world. William Martin returned to his home feeling like Naomi when she returned in her bereavement to the land of Judah, and with her words, too, in his heart, "Call me not Naomi, but call me Mara, for the Lord hath dealt bitterly with me."

"Willie," said his mother that same evening, as she saw, on her return from milking the cow, her son sitting leaning his head on his hand in deep sorrow, “Willie, I maun leave you the morn, I canna be langer spared frae hame."

"Aweel, mother," answered the smith without raising his head, "ye've been kind to me, and you were aye kind to her that's gane, sae I canna complean."

"Aye, she's won hame at last, Willie, the Lord has ta'en her to Himself! but about you, I will come every wee while an' look after ye, an' Tibbie will do very well in my absence, she's a thoughtfu' lassie to be sae young. Effie I will take wi' me till she can run about hersel."

"Take Effie away! take my wee lassie!" cried the smith, "na, na, mother, I canna part wi' my bairn; it's a' I hae left me now o' my deid; God help me, if ye took my bairn, ye would leave me desolate."

“But what can ye do wi' a wee months auld?" asked his mother.

thing hardly six

"Tibbie is o'er

young for such a charge, an' unless ye get a steady elderly woman to keep your house an' take care o' her, ye must just let me get her away wi' me."

"I'll keep her myself, mother," replied her son. "I'll have a bit place for her in the smithy, out o' harms way, an' then I'll be able to see after her myself; ye ken," added the poor man sadly, "Mary aye said I was handy at keeping her, liker a woman for that work than a man."

"The thing's out o' a' sense and reason," replied his mother, aghast at the proposal, "I daresay such a scheme was never afore thought of by a man in his right mind; bring up an infant in a dirty, sooty place like a smiddy, among wild horses and wilder men! Never speak about such a thing, Willie."

Deed, but mother," said the smith, "the mair I think o't, the mair feasible it looks; I'll keep her crib in yon corner that's now filled wi' rubbish, an' either Davie or me can be looking after her when Tibbie is busy in the house."

"Your father used to take nonsensical notions into his head," sighed the poor woman, helpless before her son's determination, and yet strongly opposed to the plan; but she knew by experience how vain it was to argue further in the matter.

As is often the case with these quiet natures, there was in the smith a resoluteness of purpose which, when once formed, could not be shaken. And yet it

B

is that very resoluteness of purpose which has made the Scottish nation what it is; and her favourite bard has said of it

"Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van,

Thou stalk of carle-hemp in man.'

However, as every virtue has its bad as well as its good side, this virtue needs to be married to wisdom and prudence, otherwise the results are evil.

Mrs. Martin, at this time finding her son so determined, could only reply—

"Aweel, Willie, ye'll soon enough tire o' the work, though ye'll take your ain way the now, an' much that laddie Davie will help you, he seems fit for naething but workin' mischief; it's a pity Uncle John winna let him gang to the sea, for it's little comfort he'll ever get wi' him."

"Mother," said the smith, "ye a' wrang Davie; I think I should ken him by this time, an' so did Mary, an' mony a time she said there wasna a kinder heart than Davie's in a' the toun; but he's only a bairn yet, an' I have heard ye often say, 'we needna try to put an auld head on young shoulders."

"An' so," queried the mother, "will ye let me gang away the morn, Willie, without Effie? Oh! I

wish ye would yield this point, an' let me take her for some months."

Na, na, mother, it canna be," said the man; and then he added, his voice trembling with emotion, “I couldna look her in the face when we meet in heaven if I neglected her bairn."

CHAPTER III.

"These struggling tides of life that seem,
In wayward aimless course to wend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end."

-W. C. BRYANT.

HERE is a time in the morning which unites the softness of noon with the brilliancy

of dawn. It is then the sportsman steps forth with his bag and gun, refreshed from his night's rest, brushing, as he passes along, the dewdrops that hang from every blade of grass or clover flower. The labourer, too, bearing his mattock and spade, leaves his woodbine covered cottage, from the chimney of which ascends the aromatic fragrance of the turf fire that has made his early breakfast.

The sun had just appeared over the hills behind Grey Craigs, and was bathing the uplands in light, while the grey mist still lingered in the valleys, and the beeches cast their long shadows on the dewy grass. The sea all around lay like an unbroken mirror, but near the shore it came rippling up with gentle breaks, only to crowd back again, wave upon