e could speak. He cowered before Miss St. John as if
conscious of an unfriendly presence, and seeking to shelter himself by
her tall figure from his grandmother's eyes. For who could tell but at
the moment she might be gazing upon him from some window, or even from
the blue vault above? There was no escaping her. She was the all-seeing
eye personified--the eye of the God of the theologians of his country,
always searching out the evil, and refusing to acknowledge the good. Yet
so gentle and faithful was the heart of Robert, that he never thought of
her as cruel. He took it for granted that somehow or other she must be
right. Only what a terrible thing such righteousness was! He stood and
wept before the lady.

Her heart was sore for the despairing boy. She drew him to a little
summer-seat. He entered with her, and sat down, weeping still. She did
her best to soothe him. At last, sorely interrupted by sobs, he managed
to let her know the fate of his 'bonnie leddy.' But when he came to the
words, 'She's burnin' in there upo' granny's fire,' he broke out once
more with that wild howl of despair, and then, ashamed of himself,
ceased weeping altogether, though he could not help the intrusion of
certain chokes and sobs upon his otherwise even, though low and sad
speech.

Knowing nothing of Mrs. Falconer's character, Miss St. John set her down
as a cruel and heartless as well as tyrannical and bigoted old woman,
and took the mental position of enmity towards her. In a gush of
motherly indignation she kissed Robert on the forehead.

From that chrism he arose a king.

He dried his eyes; not another sob even broke from him; he gave one
look, but no word of gratitude, to Miss St. John; bade her good-bye; and
walked composedly into his grandmother's parlour, where the neck of the
violin yet lay upon the fire only half consumed. The rest had vanished
utterly.

'What are they duin' doon at the fact'ry, grannie?' he asked.

'What's wha duin', laddie?' returned his grandmother, curtly.

'They're takin' 't doon.'

'Takin' what doon?' she returned, with raised voice.

'Takin' doon the hoose.'

The old woman rose.

'Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for what I hae dune this mornin',
but I cud do no ither. An' it's an ill thing to tak sic amen's o' me, as
gin I had dune wrang, by garrin' me troo 'at yer grandfather's property
was to gang the gait o' 's auld, useless, ill-mainnert scraich o' a
fiddle.'

'She was the bonni