Margaret received many letters from Jan;
and she wrote many to him. Nothing is so conducive to a strong
affection as a long sweet course of love-letters, and both of them
impressed their souls on the white paper which bore to each other
their messages of affection. It was really their wooing time, and
never lover was half so impatient to claim his bride, as Jan was to
see again his fair, sweet Margaret. But it was not likely that he
could return for another year, and Margaret set herself to pass the
time as wisely and happily as possible.

Nor did she feel life to be a dreary or monotonous affair. She was far
too busy for morbid regrets or longings, for ennui, or impatience.
Between Dr. Balloch, little Jan, the "Tulloch Homes," and her own
house, the days were far too short. They slipped quickly into weeks,
and the weeks into months, and the months grew to a year, and then
every morning she awoke with the same thought--"Even to-day Jan might
come." Little Jan shared her joyous expectations. He was always
watching the horizon for any strange-looking craft. The last thing at
night, the first in the morning, sometimes during the night, he
scanned the bay, which was now filling fast with fishing boats from
all quarters.

One Sunday morning very, very early, he came to his mother's bedside.
"Wake, my mother! There is a strange ship in the bay. She is coming
straight to harbor. Oh! I feel surely in my heart, that it is my
father's ship! Let me go. Let me go now, I ask thee."

Margaret was at the window ere the child ceased speaking. "Thou may
go," she said, "for I certainly think it is 'The Lapwing.'"

He had fled at the first words, and Margaret awoke Elga, and the fires
were kindled, and the breakfast prepared, and the happy wife dressed
herself in the pale blue color that Jan loved; and she smiled gladly
to see how beautifully it contrasted with the golden-brown of her
hair, and the delicate pink in her cheeks.

As for the child, his clear, sharp eyes soon saw very plainly that the
vessel had come to anchor in the bay. "Well," he said, "that will be
because the tide does not serve yet." John Semple, an old Scot from
Ayrshire, was on the pier, the only soul in sight. "John, thou loose
the boat, and row me out to 'The Lapwing.' It is 'The Lapwing.' I know
it is. Come, thou must be in a hurry."

"'Hurry' is the deil's ain word, and I'll hurry for naebody; forbye, I
wadna lift an oar for man nor bairn on the Sawbath day