an. "You don't mean to say that
there's any siller coming to her?"

"I don't say but what there is," replied Paul, seeing that this might be
the key which might help to unlock the mystery of his mother's life.

"And are you a lawyer chap?"

"Do I look like a lawyer?" he asked with a laugh. He was wanting to get
the woman into a communicative mood.

"You might be," she replied. "You're just one of those keen-eyed men of
the lawyer class, but I ken nothing about her, except that she's dead."

"Who's dead?" asked Paul.

"Donald's lass, Jean," was the reply. "She that was born to his first
wife. And a good thing, too!" she added vindictively.

"Why a good thing?" asked the young man.

"Better dead than disgraced," replied the woman in her hard Scotch
fashion. And Paul understood the fear that his mother must have had of
this woman whom her father had placed in authority over her. A pain shot
through his heart, and he felt like answering the woman angrily. Ever
since their meeting on the Altarnun Moors Paul had been keenly sensitive
about his mother's good name, and resented any approach to light words
concerning her.

"I am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would
be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her
childhood and girlhood up here."

"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."

"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively
that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for
gain.

"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.

"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to
give you five guineas."

"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of
Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.

"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to
find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay
up to the time of her marriage."

"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was
married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too,
it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children.
Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a
good lass as lasses go, although never tractable--always stubborn. An
unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the
moors alone, and I used to tel