been heard so loud-ejaculating against this very doctor, and the weather, the roads, the darkness or the light-that the servant had shaken her head to Mr. Rowland, whispering that they were frightened at him; and the room had seemed even full of orgies and profanity, and of the thirsty call for strong liquor instead of medicine. The sick man hurled an epithet after the woman as she went; he struggled to his elbow, and tore aside the curtains to see his friend the doctor that had ridden to him, through the snow and drift, eight miles from Thirlstane; but, when he perceived who it was thus drawing near, to stand erect and still, he stared at him with dismay, and gasped fretfully, almost angrily, with a burning face, and fell back again, and turned his face in sullenness to the

wall.

It was a night that, of which Mr. Rowland never disclosed much. The snow-drift might lull or be renewed, and the snow-shower fall or cease, but it mattered not. For he remained all night at Wanton-Walls, staying up late by the bed of Mr. Murray, in order that by any means he might awake a dull conscience-a seared one, as he called it -and rouse a soul which might be near to die, for all the strong health of the bodily frame. Now, once for all, he was fain to have it awakened even by terror and remorse to the hope of a new life, whether here or hereafter. Very severe and solemn, probably, was the minister that night-too much like the prophet brought miraculously there, if not the avenging angel. There were certain points on which the minister of Kirkhill was austere and terrible almost to the pitch of fierceness in those days; and at the sight or vicinity of such as Mr. Murray of Wanton-Walls, perhaps he was fiercer. At all events, he must have terrified the man, already drawing, as Mr. Murray was, to the elderly time of life, and unaccustomed to be unwell even for a day, after his worst excess. Foxhunting had kept him healthy, it might

be; and probably he was not terrified by any reproach connected with that sport. But in the book of the records of the

parochial court, y-clept the Kirk-session, there was a thing written on suspicion and testimony against him; which, although the only witness had long been dead, and he himself had always repudiated the whole charge with scorn, he that night did confess and own to. Thereafter terror must have possessed Mr. Murray, for he began to wander in his mind, and poured forth not only confessions, but many fragments of wild discourse and reminiscence, which were well nigh terrifying to Mr. Rowlandalso exhausting him and unfitting him to await their end, or soothe them down, or offer cure. But, as the doctor did not come that night at all, the minister did not confine himself to the sphere of his own calling. He knew something of the physician's part; and, having bled the patient, having prescribed convenient remedies and waited till he slept, he went to bed for the night himself, greatly wearied by all these offices.

Again in the morning he returned to Mr. Murray. The latter was then more composed. He welcomed the fresh visit in reality, and asked for the prayers that were offered beside him, closing his restless eyes as he lay still with difficulty, and putting together his hot hands openly above the bed-clothes. He, too, had been a child once, and had walked, it seemed, with his parents through Sabbath air in times very long before, when the days were pious by comparison, to a church where there was a good man preaching. Things which that good man had said he tried to repeat. He recollected parts of hymns or paraphrases set him by his mother to learn, and said to Mr. Rowland that he was sorry, and that some of these things had perhaps risen to him before. Nay, he said that if Mr. Rowland would not preach at him on account of the past, he would be regular at church in future, and offend no more. If possible, he would like to be readmitted to church privileges, some time-without too public a discipline, seeing it was now so long ago since his chief sin was done, and that the partner of the sin was gone long ago. Then the messenger for the doctor returned at

length, at some risk through the snow, which still fell or drifted-cheering them with the promise that the doctor would come soon, though another distant patient had required him, almost costing him his own life. So Mr. Rowland prepared himself to set out for home at the first opening in the weather that day. But, ere he left, he did not fail to speak of the terrors of an enemy whom the doctor might not be able to keep away. He spoke more mildly, also, than before, of cures beyond the power of both friend and enemy—at which Mr. Murray did his best to listen and provide himself; still eager at the hint, however, of a substantial reparation and a tangible proof of repentance. So eager was he on that point, that, ere the minister departed, he asked that a solemn statement should be written; which he could there formally subscribe before other witnesses, and deliver it to Mr. Rowland before he went, that the Kirk-session might believe his word upon good grounds. The reparation which he thus dictated was so far beyond what Mr. Rowland approved, that the latter objected to it as an exces sive thing; but Mr. Murray said he had no friends who could rightly expect the property he thus disposed of, nor did he mind any greedy kindred, wishing for his decease before the time. The full purport of this paper was between him and Mr. Rowland for the present-except that before the others, who were called, he sat up and appended his tremulous signature. He then gave the paper to the minister, who folded it, looking upon him thoughtfully, and took it with him when he came away.

Through the still flying drift Mr. Rowland passed out from the fir-woods. The open road below was deeply wreathed-though then so plain above him stood Kirkhill that he rode up to its glebe hedge without swerving. When he came to the glebe hedge corner, whence the smoke was obvious, the very windows looking from under the trees, he thought he knew the level course upon one side the fence, from the sunken ditch upon the other, that lay within his own glebe field. Yet, pressing Ruther

ford in haste, he found himself mistaken. For, shortly afterwards, he reached the front door on foot, and the first sound that announced him was the stamping that shook off the snow upon the mat, with the loud prefatory hem! which they all knew so well—a little louder this time, taking breath to speak. With a cry of sudden joy sprang out little Hannah-and lesser Joey shouted following-while the mother hurried speechless from beyond, Hugh silently drawing near-to greet papa through his wintry disguise; who stood erect, smiling, but calling first for Andrew, with spades and shovels, and all the help that could be, to dig out "Rutherford" from the snow-drift. Solicitude for Rutherford diffused even a tenderness around his gravity, covering or postponing numberless deeper words; and Andrew hastened —nay, with him also Hugh and his especial garden-spade-to follow for the work of rescue. Half merry work, half serious, how pleasantly breaking the icy forethought and pre-imagined distance of the paternal presence now brought back again! Rutherford is successfully led home, having given a deep sob through the snow, and struggled up by the help of his mane, with Andrew's grasp upon the bridle, and then shaken himself till bit and stirrup rang. His master spoke of him to Andrew, who now inferred the exact truth about the animal's previous ownership, not just clear to himself before. Meanwhile Rutherford had plunged his mouth into the smoking pail, with a bottle of strong ale in it, which Andrew held for him at the stable-door; and still, as the horse sucked and drank, it was looking out sideways at Andrew with its large liquid, patient eye, like one that could have told a tale. Then, after all, Andrew having put shrewd questions himself by turns, pawkily looked up askance at the minister, and said in his obstinate way, "Maybe, though, sir, it was just about as well the way it was, considering, ye'll mind, Sir, that until now we were na just fully aware o' the whole facks o' the case."

"True-true, Andrew," was the musing answer. Indeed, the facts were

now by no means known to Andrew. "I aye missed Mr. Murray, mysel', Sir," the latter persisted. "But wi' siccan a decidet leading, as we might say, Mr. Rowland, o' unseen powers, the WantonWalls pew canna be long vaucant after the thaw comes, l'se warrant it! Will there be ony orders then, Sir, the' night -ony errands or session-business thereanent ?"

To which the Minister replied but curtly, turning toward the housethough few, save the man-Andrew, could have ventured to probe so far.

Fear was scarcely there that evening. They ran to unbutton the moist over-alls, to take off the spurs, to carry the cloak away and hang it up-all proud of their respective offices, only permitted to children who were good. Up the dark stair-case, without candle, ran the boy on his errand of peculiar privilege to bring down the older sitting-coat, and fold up the best one, and also take it carefully away. The little parcels that lay still closed on a sidetable, reserved till after dinner, scarce interfered with such a rapturous sense of favour; nor could it even be dispelled by impatience for those other packages, not yet taken from the portmanteau, which were more exciting yet. When the slippers were on, and the easy chair wheeled in from the study-room, it was again joyful as of old for Hugh. There would be no studious retirement that night; and they would hear for hours of the coach, the city, the news, the public business of the churchpartly of the private business itself that concerned the Rowlands! Something was heard of Wanton-walls too; and a little of Mr. Murray-once an unheardof man, a sheep departed beyond hope of the fold.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DREEING OF THE WEIRD.

TO-MORROW, what convenient aid there was from circumstance and nature, joint conspirators for Hugh's profit! For it was Saturday; and, although few could

come to church on the Sabbath, yet those few must have their spiritual sustenance provided, equally with the many, and so the Minister had to be busy with his sermon, and there was no time for the immediate resumption of the lessons and the other inquiries which Hugh dreaded. Moreover, there was work to do; seeing the very path to each out-house or shed had to be cleared again. Lesson-time itself would have had to be added, to permit complete access to be made to every imprisoned roost or hutch, crib or cote, the blocked store-places and the buried garden-herbs. But there was no likelihood of such a mistake again on Hugh's part as the idleness in which he had indulged during his father's absence. Rather subtracting from his lawful play-hours, to help the task-time in this most fortunate interval, he was eager in his diligence with Ruddiman; and, if Cornelius Nepos had a difficulty too hard to revise, there was a gracious glance at hand when explanation was requested, if the mental want of ability implied no moral failure of the will.

The Sabbath-day itself then became as a shining shield, behind which there was fresh immunity and new protection for the young Rowland; for, after that day was passed, day after day followed without too much retrospect on his father's part into the manner in which time had been employed during the period in which Hugh had been his own master. Nurse Kirsty seemed to press her lips together from a determination to reserve her impeachments to a future time, or to be kept mute by toothache. The cow-herd was not seen, nor the kyloe-herd and his dog, save when they had presented themselves at church. The snow locked up and sealed together everything for a time, even to the very possibility of slides, or the remains of fowls and foxes. Lying thus deep, though placid, for days and days together, it made other scenes fade in recollection, till they became as dreams. But a thousand sights and novelties of its own did it show forth to recompense the loss. Beauties

beyond utterance were about it-paradisaical or fairy splendours that cannot be told, taking back to infancy. There were sports above number in it. The new pleasure flowed from it, or at its suggestion, of imitating and of making. For, after lessons that seemed to pass more fluently and briefly, they ran out to build temples and shape colossal statues out of the snow; their father walking near, when walks were few and limited, to countenance or counsel the join effort. In-doors, from frosted tracery of the panes, the younger ones covered their dark slate, with white arabesques, over and over, never the same day was too short for the patience of the eldest, stooping where the glass was transparent, to set down, from snow to paper, those little blemishes and blacknesses, blots, spots, and shades and lines, that still delightfully distinguished between winter and an utter blank of things.

Meantime the parish wearied of this stillness, counting it a drear seclusion and weary vacancy that lasted too far toward the spring. All the people had begun to cut out roads, from every farm-stead and cottage-row, into the ways that led to village and markettown and the rest of the world. As for roads to the church, that each hill-path might be beaten and trodden to join them as before, it seemed a business left to chance,, unless seen-to by that man of many offices, Andrew. He alone appeared idle, alone unequal to the task required, alone deploring, by his looks, this preference of temporal things, amidst the very admonitions and signs to look elsewhere. His week-day duties were then but slight. When he rang the morning-bell on Sabbath, or rang-in at church-time, it had been a mere empty ceremony; and he bore in the books from the manse with a crestfallen air, or spiritlessly shut the pulpitdoor upon the minister-sitting down in his own place, like one who doubted the use of so ample a discourse, or even the likelihood of much essence in so full a doctrine, to a congregation so scanty and chill. It might have been gathered

from his manners, that for a short time he almost questioned the zeal which could content itself with awaiting the thaw, and would fain himself have anticipated it, whether by busy return to his laic functions, or by open exercise of the clerical.

With the increasing intercourse, however, and spread of news, some sudden official message did come to Andrew one morning, which brought him speedily to the alert. He hurried from the stable to the back-door of the manse, without preparatory delay, and kept his business, whatever it was, for the minister's private ear in the study. A Latin lesson with Hugh was interrupted there, and put by, for the business which Andrew secretly mentioned. Yet Andrew made amends to himself for unimportance that was past, by hiding now, from all idle curiosity, the reasons for importance that was present. Off he rode to summon meetings of the elders in session, or to set humbler parishioners at work on the church-road at last-mentioning to no one the reason for this renewed bustle and activity, but maintaining a reserve and gravity derived, as it seemed, from some authoritative source within.

Soon the scene was busy along the encumbered road outside-from the hillbrow, past the house and the stableback, to the little lane that turned in toward the church gate, between the office gables and the farmer's barn-yard, with the threshing-mill. It was odd to watch, and lively to mingle with. All the strong hinds and sturdy lads who had nodded in the nearest pews about the pulpit, in the finest summer day, seemed there awake, and straining as they dug or shovelled; others there were, seen far off, busy in like manner and as assiduously upon the upland road, where it issued from the firplantation. So many willing men, so many spades and shovels, it had not before appeared that there were in all the parish. Ignorant of what could be done with snow, they yet turned it unmeaningly to curious accidents and diverting chances. In great slices they trenched it up, or heaved it high

in solid squares and longer blocks, thrown aside at random, piled above by joint efforts, till the passage went on deeper at the open turn, and entered broad, at length, into the track which had had been sheltered by the paddock-hedge and the young trees. Andrew, with spade, shovel, and mattock, had been seen, for a time, amongst the foremost, burdened with implement and weight of duty, as a leader well might be—accompanied by one inferior agent of his will, and also bearing the church keys. And what although Andrew afterwards proceeded out of view, and remained for hours absent-even shut in so long with his companions in the closed church that it seemed as if they had fallen asleep, or had secretly gone home through a window? His feigned reserve was now useless, save to eyes that pried but as short a distance as Nurse Kirsty's could. All this mute importance could not be explained by supposing only that he was making ready for the Kirk-session as for a grand new thing, or preparing for congregations again to meet as they had done before. It could be no bright intentional thought of Andrew's which had hit upon this unexpected avenue of novelty through the snow, this curious vista of beauty for the approach of old dull things,—a road which lay onward like pictures of Palmyra in the desert, of marble ruins or of a street disinterred from under ashes of volcanoes, with slabs thus glistening, and fragmentary pillars shining so, stained with iron rust, or fluted and marked by the tool,-the green mould brought up with them, or the weed. clinging to their tops. The sight faded into the dark when day was done, and showed itself again, solitary, the next day and the next.

Trivially, with an unconnecting purport, do parish tidings spread and come, or Kirk-sessions meet, for children and boyhood. Whispers of vague churchbusiness, or plain mention of decease that had nothing peculiar or surprising in it, bring no point of interest to that special quarter. Mr. Murray of Wanton-Walls was dead. So much was now

certainly known. Equally doubtless was the fact that the subsequent kirk-session had had some duty to perform in consequence, and that the funeral would take place that week. Possibly on grounds connected with this event, a more numerous congregation was expected to gather on the next day of rest to hear a sermon more impressive, more solemn, if not more moving and affectionate, than usual.

out.

But the day which came before that last one was the most eventful. Already had Andrew's chief mystery been found Instead of the church having been his secret place with that companion, it was the end-aisle he had let himself into by the keys-locked in amongst the snow, and working quietly till night. If he did it to be unmolested, or did it out of considerateness for those who had never seen such work, it would have been kinder to have let them look in, at least, through the keyhole. All the morning, and all the forenoon, the greater dread of a nameless thing did but creep over the covered hills, under the wan brightness of the air-gathering beforehand near the back-gate, at the first sight of Andrew himself beyond, in his best black clothes. He looked out from the church-lane, as in hospitable expectation; and towards him there collected other waiting friends or spectators-while, out of the kitchen porch close by, stood Kirsty, with the children and the other servant, heedless of the cold, with lowered voices, gazing forth to the road. But on the other side of the road was a high hedge-bank, from above which, over the bare trees, one could see sooner far to the white hill-side, where the way from WantonWalls came first out of the plantation. There the boy Rowland ventured rashly, and stood on tiptoe till there came upon him a dreadful fascination. For he had seen it coming and disappearing. He thought that, at the very first re-appearance of the horses' heads above the brow of Kirkhill, he would spring back across the road, within the gates of home, content to see it pass, as others were. Yet, as in a helpless dream, he