his wanderings, even though he had lived so long without prizing its contents; but then the inscription on its blank leaf explained the secret. The ink was faded, and the date was twenty years back, but still the writing was quite legible. It ran thus :"Archibald Ramsay, Blinkbonny; the gift of a loving mother." And then followed the simple lines called 66 66 A MOTHER'S GIFT." 'Remember, love, who gave thee this, When she who had thy earliest kiss "That mother sought a pledge of love, She chose for her beloved boy The source of light, and life, and joy ; “And bade him keep the gift, that when They might have hope to meet again In an eternal home. She said his faith in that would be "And should the scoffer in his pride That he from youth had borne- "A parent's blessing on her son The love that would reclaim the one A mother's gift!-remember, boy." The next day the body of Ramsay was lowered into its watery grave, the chaplain repeating over it these solemn words, "We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up the dead," and then with a heavy plunge, the corpse, swathed in its rough cerement, disappeared with a gurgling sound amidst the waves, and shut out for ever all that was mortal of Ramsay, the prodigal son. CHAPTER XXV. "All was ended now, the hope, the fear, and the sorrow; JUMMERS have passed away at Grey Craigs noiselessly as our summers pass-with purple mornings when the sun rose amidst an anthem of singing birds, until the hour when the long fiery gleams of red light thrown across the waters to the shore told that it was setting again. Through the quiet fields the cows went soberly to and from the rich pasture tended by the little herdboys and girls to whose voice distance lent a strange charm and cadence. Summer, when the guelder rose and the sweetbriar filled the air with fragrance, and the dainty eyebright and blue-bell flourished on the auld fauld dykes of many a Scottish moor and lea, while the yellow broom waved luxuriantly on the hillsides or by the sunny braes where the burns wimpled down to the sea. Autumns, too, had come and gone with their crisp breezes bearing aloft ripened odours of orchard and forest, where the white blossoms of the hawthorn and rowan trees had given place to bunches of red hips and scarlet berries which hung over crystal pools in many a copsewood glen, and in the uplands the ripened grain waved golden in the wind, studded here and there with blue corn-flowers and scarlet poppies. And so had followed winters with their sparkling mantles of snow, under which everything lay sealed, when trees and shrubs were draped in white, and the sunsets come before the early dark, flaming crimson in the west, mellowing into a liquid orange, and the vehicles which passed along the scarcely distinguishable roads with a dull muffled sound, seemed like objects moving in a dream. And so in like manner springs had been, and were gone, mingling with the things of the past. Springs with their fresh winds, lengthening days, and magical sunshine, under which the old elms became clothed in a livery of tender green, when unfolding leaflets pushed off their varnished cases and sprung into beauty, and restless swallows darted, like gleams of silver, from their nests in cottage eaves. It was five years now since Davie Gordon and the other fishermen of Grey Craigs had been pressed. Occasionally tidings of them had reached the little town to cheer and gladden the hearts of those who loved them, but some were not spared to hear of good and noble deeds done by husband and son. Davie had written comforting words when he had opportunity. He was rising in his profession, he had thrown his heart into it, manly fellow that he was, with his nobleness, his hatred of sham, and his eager grappling with the life he had been forced to take up, while all the time his heart and affections were at Grey Craigs; and though Effie longed to see him again, she rejoiced when she heard how true and loyal-hearted he was, and the large place he was filling in the world. She knew his stern justice, his honesty clear and true, and his searching into what was good and pure, and she wept quietly with a deep pride in her heart, for to her, her lover was the ideal of a man. His plain sincerity in speech had underneath it an almost woman's softness, but that was better than a false-polished grace. It must be some time still before she could hope to see him, for his years of service had not expired; till then she would wait and pray, and accept letters in room of himself. But, as I said, there were others not spared to hear tidings of the loved and lost. Kirsty Temple, the young and cherished wife of one of the finest and lightest-hearted of the band, had joined the congregation of the dead in the |