८८ 'Ay, Dick can take his toddy like another man," Sandy Andrews would say to himself, though it was his own hand which filled the glass. "Dick's no milksop. Losh! I wish my head would stand what his does." And so matters went on. There was nothing very much amiss, nothing very much more than usual amiss, at any rate. The young man was not vicious, nor mischievous, nor inclined to evil ways, had better ones been presented to him; but at this point he stopped. He would make no effort. He could not bring himself to choose a difficult path, however directly it led to his end, if an easy one lay near. He could not give up Sandy Andrews, because he had fallen into the way of going to his house and had habituated himself to his company, even though vaguely aware that such a course would be advisable and must be adopted so soon as the return of his master, or of any of the family to the Castle, should bring their people once more under supervision. That, however, was a part of the future which our hero left in his imagination to take care of itself. It was hinted to him once that he was often now absent from home, and he had his answer on the tip of his tongue; there was nothing, he said, to keep him at home, no work to be done at that time of year. He would yawn as he spoke, and wearily saunter away, as though the discussion bored him, and the country folks, looking after the big, strong, lazy fellow, marvelled for what such legs and such arms had been bestowed. But in the very midst of all this an event occurred which startled Dick Netherby out of his lethargy with a vengeance-he fell in love. CHAPTER XVII.-"NAETHIN' COULD RESIST BUT who was there to fall in love with at Castle Aird? Nobody. And how, then, did Dick achieve the feat? We shall see. Five-and-twenty years ago the good old coach was still in use all over the unfrequented districts of Scotland, and every morning about eleven o'clock one of these cumbrous vehicles rumbled into the Port, and carried off its cargo of passengers to Girvan in time for a good jogging and stopping afternoon train. Now it fell out one July evening, about five months after the sudden and vehement intimacy above recorded had been entered into, that Andrews made a proposal to his very dear friend Dick. "Dick," said he, Glasgow fair is on this week." Dick looked up; what was Glasgow fair to him? "Glasgow fair is on this week," proceeded Andrews, "and instead of being the busier for it here, we shall be slack. None of the folks will come our way; they go to Rothesay, Dunoon, and all the places up and down the Clyde; so as they don't bother themselves about us, what about going to them? Hey, then, what d'ye say to having a spree ourselves, my lad?" suddenly clapping his companion's shoulder. It was soon arranged. The young men were to find quarters with the family of Andrews; but, although proposing to be housed and fed there, it was not without sly looks of intelligence that they agreed it would be odds but they would find sufficient entertainment elsewhere to keep them from being a burden on their hosts. Andrews had never forgotten the slight estimation in which his native city had been held by his friend's mother, whose experience of life had been gained in a loftier sphere than his own. Ever since he had heard Glasgow described as a busy but not a fashionable place, he had longed to make her eat her words; he had yearned to exhibit the grandeur and vastness of his birthplace, with her numberless dignities and resources; and since it was out of the question that Mrs. Netherby herself should be at home in Sauchiehall Street, where his father and sisters were the plainest of plain good people, he considered that the best plan would be to strike at her through her son. Dick was a choice spirit after his own heart, and the idea of instructing his ignorance and patronising his simplicity was more than delightful. He had learned, indeed, several things from young Netherby while at the Port; but in Glasgow -on that hallowed ground-he knew whose foot would metaphorically stand upon its native heath. On the other hand, he would have to show to his former intimates a presentable fellow and creditable acquaintance. My Lord Galt's gamekeeper sounded well. He prophesied that they would both have more invitations than they would know what to do with. To all of this did Dick seriously incline. To be going somewhere, with some one, was enough. At last he should shake off, for a time at least, Castle Aird, with all its mortifying associations; at last he should behold some other outline than that of the frowning hillsides; at last he could break away from his own thoughts. Never before had such an offer been made him, and he set off in a tumult of joyous anticipation, huddling together in his mind visions of circuses, music-halls, ministers and mountebanks-all the various boasts and brags of Andrews. How was it, then, that that very night, and the next, and yet the next again, found him racking his brain for excuses to remain in the quiet family circle, or with heavy and reluctant heart dragged thence by his friend against his will? It was not for Janet's sake, nor yet for Jemima's. Those excellent young women, Sandy's sisters, apprentices at a Berlin-wool shop near at hand, were not outwardly attractive. They had cold, red-tipped fingers, and pale faces. Bred in a spinsterly atmosphere, Dick Netherby was too much for them. They did not know what to make of him, nor he of them. They took refuge in the tea-pot and the bread-knife. This might have been embarrassing, had any one cared to be embarrassed; but no one did, least of all the visitor himself,-he had neither eyes nor ears at liberty. The former were always straying in one direction, | hand and step following the lead directly opportunity offered; and when it came about that he had to sing, and that without a moment's ado he lifted up his voice and, in accents melodious, lilted out the sweetest love-song ever mortal breathed, there was a smile on everybody's face but on that of one, and on that one there was a blush. What was it all about? Why must needs the singer throw such a glow of warmth, such a fervour of significance into the simple strain? He had sung it many a time; had beguiled poor Meg McClintock's beating heart from her bosom by the amorous ditty then, oh, so carelessly rendered! but now, now all was different. “I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Nacthin' could resist my Nancy." And there sat Nancy, lovely Nancy Irvine, grave and sad in her black dress, a newlymade orphan, all abashed, aroused and trembling at the bold homage of the stranger. It had been on Nancy's account that worthy Mr. Andrews, when informed of the young men's unexpected and, as it had seemed to him, inopportune arrival, had exclaimed in perturbation extreme, "Sandy here! Sandy here, and company with him! Bless me, here is a mischance! Hoot-toot, this will never do. On this day of all days in the year! I would nearly as soon they had come on a Fast! Janet-Jemimawhat's to be done, lasses? Not a word of it beforehand, not a syllable; all must be brought upon us in a fuss and a bustle; that's Sandy -"the entrance of to the life! Ahem-ha the self-invited guests necessitating an abrupt change of tone. "Well, Sandy, my man, how are you? This is your friend? How are you, sir? This-this is rather sudden, Sandy.” That had been all; but presently the apparent coolness of the welcome had been explained. "'Twas for Nancy's sake, Sandy; only for Nancy's sake, I tell ye. There's a woman in trouble in the house. She came this mornI was ing. The funeral was last week. there myself. I went to Mauchline on purpose,—for he was a great friend of my own was Peter Irvine. Nancy is Peter's only daughter, and my home is hers till she gets another. Poor thing! So now you'll understand, both of you, and we'll do our best; but you must be quiet, Sandy, my mandouce and quiet, d'ye see? As for your friend-young men can aye amuse themselves. You'll go and you'll come, you'll go and you'll come; and all I mean is, just when you are in the house keep down your tongues a bit; cheep a wee thing lower when Nancy's by, and walk gently, gentlydon't go stamping and tramping about. Oh, here she comes." In she came at the word, and so sensibly had both the youths been impressed by their host's thoughtful premonitory exhortation that their behaviour, instead of deviating from that inculcated, exceeded it in degree; insomuch as stamping and tramping having been prohibited, not one nor other of them stirred a foot, and whereas they had been enjoined to lower their voices, neither emitted a sound. But the demeanour of the two was widely different. Sandy, awkwardly mute, coloured to the roots of his hair and the lobes of his ears, breathed hard, fidgeted with the knuckles of his fingers, fastened his eyes on the floor, and omitted any sort of salutation. Dick, on the other hand, bowed low, and nothing else seemed to be required of him. Every one present, including probably Nancy herself, felt the contrast, and all that followed seemed but the natural sequence of that moment. Sandy Andrews was not, however, to be put down without some show of fight on what he considered to be his own "midden." He was soon by Nancy Irvine's side, contesting her favour, happily vulgar, innocently pert; and it was not without a valiant resistance that she was permitted to occupy any chair which he had not placed for her. He was not particularly successful. He The sneer was met by a smile, the smile was accompanied by a laugh in the eyes, and a reddening of the cheek. Sandy marked it all, his own colour rose, and the next words were spoken ere he thought. could not make much of it. However But Netherby had never sung to an instrument in his life. He sat where he was, and tunefully struck a note that needed no helping out; nor, when once started, was he permitted long to be silent, for one song led to another, and while all the circle listened mute, softened, motionless, Andrews had only himself to thank for having unlocked a fountain whence flowed for him such distasteful springs. He could not even shorten an evening which was one of enjoyment to every one but himself. And Dick dreamed and woke, and dreamed and woke again and again that night, and whether waking or sleeping, the image of Nancy Irvine was ever present with him. The persevering assurances of his friend that the two were not wanted at home, that they had best be off for the day directly breakfast was over, were met by a coldness which needed no interpretation; and when at length such hints could be evaded no longer, the hours were hurried through with one thought only uppermost-" When shall I get back to Nancy?' "Home to see Nancy Irvine, eh?" "Home to see Nancy Irvine? Ay." "You're a bold lad to say so," observed Andrews, after a moment's consideration. My father won't stand any nonsense under his roof, and “He shan't have any." "You are in earnest, then?" But he knew before he spoke that to such a question no response was needed. None came, and that evening was a repetition of the one before. On the next, however, there was a change in the programme. It had been a lovely summer's day, and, instead of spending the balmy hours cooped up within doors, whether at home or abroad, it was suggested-by whom it could hardly be said that all the party should wander forth after supper. Gardens were near at hand, the kind sisters aided and abetted the little love-play which was being carried on beneath their roof, and the indignant brother was powerless. He could not prevent Dick's having his hour of triumph; he had to see him lead away his prize from among them all, and to see that she was willingly led; he had to witness the glow upon her sweet countenance whenever, in the course of their ramble, the two were encountered sauntering in the shadiest paths, and he had to forecast many a repetition of the same. More than once in the days that followed he did indeed, in very desperation, lift up his voice. He knew that it was probably in vain; he felt that he was a fool; but he could not resist the impulse of the moment. That Andrews guessed as much, and that the conviction chafed and fretted him, was equally obvious. He had never, it appeared, been less inclined to hurry; every trivial incident delayed his footsteps, and every roundabout route suggested itself to his memory. Dick must really see this, and must Of course he had the worst of it; Dick by no means miss that; he must just stroll laughed in his face. The fortunate young round this way, and step up that way;-until man did not care to dissemble; why should | at last the impatient and uninterested guest, he? All were on his side except his own his forbearance exhausted and his feet aching personal friend, and as for him, the lover had from hot and hard pavements, to which they but one reply to make to warnings, gibes, or had never been habituated, made a stand. jests, it was nobody's business but his own. He would go no farther, and fare no worse. Other sights and sounds could surely wait; they would not take wings and fly in the night; he was deafened by the din and blinded by the glare; he had no fancy for the music-hall or the theatre. "Your partial fancy' takes you another way, I'm thinking?" scoffed Sandy, biting his lip, with a sudden resolve to have it out. "Can I help it, man?" he said one day, Sandy having been unusually sarcastic and irritating. "Am I to blame? What's the use of talking ?" "It is provoking; that's all. It was not for this we came here." "True enough. What of that ? " "Get the better of such sickly rubbish; pluck up spirit, and be a man again." “I never was more of a man than I am at If you will sit down"-and he turned to this moment." "Be as you were before." "That's beyond me.” "Come, I'll show you the way." "Let me alone." After that Sandy saw the case was hopeless. He was not himself in love, had never been, but the shock of astonishment and admiration with which the first glimpse of Nancy Irvine had inspired him, had given place to a humiliating sense of envy as he marked his friend's success, and contrasted it with his own failure. This penniless lass had preferred a poor keeper, with literally nothing that he could call his own, to all that he could offer. He had taken care that she should know of his own excellent business, and of the numerous comforts and luxuries wherewith he could supply a wife; but the recital had fallen flat. One whisper! from swarthy Dick had been sufficient to turn her attention, and, try as he might, he could not regain it. CHAPTER XVIII.—AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. It might have been thought that this being the case, it would have been but poor fun to Sandy to accompany the party on a sober and sensible expedition, which was one day undertaken by them at the instigation | of Mr. Andrews, senior. Mr. Andrews thought that there was no reason why Nancy should not see the fine old Cathedral, nor why, if she approved, and if the young men behaved themselves, and did not go talking and laughing, but remembered they were in a church, and not on the deck of a steamboat, if they would recollect that, there was no reason why the whole set of them should not go together. Nancy professed herself willing, and so did one and all, Sandy included. Where the others went he would go, and whether he enjoyed himself or not, was his own affair, Off they set, and all went well until one moment, one unlucky moment. Dick had lingered behind a pillar with Nancy, both of them perchance hoping that the rest of the party might pass on out of sight, and leave them awhile to each other, when a voice, which seemed to him familiar, said in courteous accents, Be so good as to let this lady pass." The young keeper drew back hastily, pleased by a request so opportune, and ready to make the most of the chance it afforded. "Stop a moment," he said to Nancy, detaining her also. "We are in the way here. | look for a seat. He turned, and the next instant confronted his master, Lord Galt. It so happened that Lord Galt had run down to Glasgow for a public dinner, at which he had conceived it his duty to be present, and he was now, in further pursuance of such duty, escorting the guests on whom he had been in attendance, over the principal places of interest in the city. To find himself all at once shoulder to shoulder with his gamekeeper, and that gamekeeper apparently engaged in the same task, was rather surprising, and the impulse of the moment was to exclaim, "Dick!" and stand still awaiting explanation. Accordingly this was precisely what his lordship did. "Dick!" It ap "Yes, my lord." The colour mounted high on the young man's bronzed cheek こう but he stood his ground well, on the whole. "What are you doing here?" peared to be of no use to wait for Dick to speak, and time pressed. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded Lord Galt sternly. It is Glasgow fair, my lord.” but Glasgow fair! Glasgow fair!" replied Lord Galt. "What in the world he paused, for his eye fell on Nancy, and there was something in the young keeper's air and look which made him hesitate. Glasgow fair!" he murmured dubiously. “I have run up for a few days, my lord, with a friend. I hope it is no harm ?" said poor Dick, with a certain wistful anxiety in his voice. It was the best plea he could have had, and happily his master caught it. "No harm? Well-I don't know. Certainly," began Lord Galt briskly-"certainly you ought to have— But again his look softened. "Well well, well well"-under his breath ("for," thought the kind-hearted old gentleman, "I won't disgrace the poor young fellow before his sweetheart ") " well, well, we'll say no more about it. But you know, Dick "—lower—“you know it is the very worst time you could have chosen. The twelfth just coming on“I shall be back again at once, my lord." "At once? To-morrow?” "To-morrow!" said Dick, flushing up again. To-to-morrow!" Certainly, to-morrow." Lord Galt frowned, for he was conscious of having behaved with magnanimity, and of deserving prompt submission and gratitude. "Cer But all in vain, for though not evidence, Nor voice, nor vision, did I ask, The answer ever absent mocked my sense, Did mar me Heaven, and all the good God sends us Disordered thus, and wearied out I lay A feeble victim of despair; A mastless vessel drifting on alway Too light to sink, but kept for ocean's play Long did they list, those earth-born winds, to blow, My anchor slipped; the waves would overflow But never home me in the cool calm depths below. Peace! peace! Poor heart!-across the troubled sea A still small voice, I trembling heard, But Christ alone, in whom henceforth shall be To sport with mockingly, and shroud in wreaths of My life for time, for death, for all eternity. spray. O. H. C. WE ALMSGIVING. BY THE REV. BROOKE LAMBERT, M.A., VICAR OF GREENWICH. E generally think of almsgiving as it affects the person to whom charity is given; we think much less of the influence it exercises on the giver. We assent to the statement that mercy is twice blessed; it blesses him who gives and him who takes. We think it easy enough to see how it blesses him who takes; we might find it more difficult to show how it blesses him who gives. It is true we have discussions on wise and unwise charities, which show that we are not prepared to assent to the view once common enough, that a man had best be on the safe side, that giving might do some good and could do no harm; but the discussion always turns on the effect of giving on the person or class to whom the gift is made. Let us try and look at almsgiving from the other side; we may perhaps incidentally learn how best to do our charity by considering the effect charity has on the giver. And to do this we must, I think, carry ourselves back to a time when there was no danger of charity being abused, because charity did not exist except in that isolated form which was a prophecy of the future habit. For as in nature there is a prophecy of each type of life long before the type has established a power of existence, so in morals there are isolated specimens of what will be one day the reigning habit. yet moved by the sight of one already farther gone than himself to try and revive him to life, and finding that in the effort he had restored his own circulation, is a parable of all exertion. And it may be stated as a general fact that the evils of the world exist to develop in man courage and energy. There were days, we know, when it was necessary to preach charity, because men saw nothing extraordinary in the fact that there should be a Dives and a Lazarus, and did nothing to help Lazarus even vicariously, as Dives always does nowadays. Why was charity enjoined in those days? Assuredly it was not only in the interests of the poor. It is true of all acts whereby mankind is bettered, that in the exercise of them the nature of man is broadened. The wellknown story of the frost-bitten traveller almost succumbing to his death-sleep, and XXII-44 Necessity," says the old proverb, "is the mother of invention," and this is translated into Christian action in the words, "Though He was rich yet for our sakes He became poor, that we through His poverty might be made rich." It is the design of our heavenly Father to call us up to higher things by the duties which the necessities of others impose on us. And having thus made Himself of no reputation, He has received a name which is above every name. He Himself always taught men that the miseries of mankind were a call to exertion. In that most inexplicable of miracles, the feeding of the five thousand, two facts stand out it was not the will of our Master to relieve by mere miracle1st, He must have the material; 2nd, He must have the human agents. The disciples must find the five loaves, and must themselves distribute the bread. So in the first sermon He preached to the people, amongst whom the duty of almsgiving had become an integral part of religion, He, in the Sermon on the Mount, places the duty of giving (and forgiving) on the ground "that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven." They, at least, practised in the habit could understand the appeal. And the history of charity will teach us how the habit reacts on the giver. Charity, which was once restricted to almsgiving, has taken a far wider range. In the general interest taken in all forms of misery, in the abolition of the slave trade, in the use of punishment as a reformatory rather than a penal agent, we can hardly fail to see the reflection of the spirit |