soul of memory. For years and years this
deprivation continued, but one day, not long ago, the son of the present
claimant, and probably rightful heir, to Coila walked into her room at the
old manse, gun in hand. He had been down shooting at Strathtoul, and
naturally came across to view the ruin so intimately connected with his
father's fate and fortune. No sooner had he appeared than the good old
dame rushed towards him, calling him by his grandfather's name. Her memory
had returned as suddenly as it had gone. She had even told him of the
vault. 'Perhaps,' continued he, with a meaning smile,

'"'Tis the sunset of life gives her mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadow before."'

A fortnight after this visit a meeting of those concerned took place at
the beldame's house. She herself pointed to the place where she thought
the vault lay, and with all due legal formality digging was commenced, and
the place was found not far off. At first glance the vault seemed empty.
In one corner, however, was found, covered lightly over with withered
ferns, many bottles of wine and--a box. The two men of law, Le Roi's
solicitor and M'Crimman's, had a little laugh all to themselves over the
wine. Legal men will laugh at anything.

'The priest must have kept a good cellar on the sly,' one said.

'That is evident,' replied the other.

The box was opened with some little difficulty. In it was a book--an old
Latin Bible. But something else was in it too. Townley was the first to
note it. Only a silver ring such as sailors wear--a ring with a little
heart-shaped ruby stone in it. Book and ring were now sealed up in the
box, and next day despatched to Edinburgh with all due formality. The best
legal authorities the Scotch metropolis could boast of were consulted on
both sides, but fate for once was against the M'Crimmans of Coila. The
book told its tale. Half-carelessly written on fly-leaves, but each duly
dated and signed by Stewart, the priest, were notes concerning many
marriages, Le Roi's among the rest.

Even M'Crimman himself confessed that he was satisfied--as was every one
else save Townley.

'The book has told one tale--or rather its binding has,' said Townley;
'but the ring may yet tell another.'

All this my father related to me that evening as we sat together on the
lawn by the beach of Rothesay.

When he had finished I sat silently gazing seawards, but spoke not. My
brothers told me afte