ought it was mine and she took it to me. Mine! Fancy
that! I'm jalousing she was making a joke of me." He produced, as he
spoke, a scrap of paper with some verses on it and handed it to his
brother.

The Cornal held the document far from his failing eyes and perused the
writing. It was the first of those heart-wrung fancies that went to the
making of the volume that lies before me as I write--the familiar lament
for the lost "Maid of the Moor" that shepherds still are singing on his
native hills.

"A ballant!" said he, wondering, and with some contempt.

"That's just what it is," said his brother. "There was never the like
broke out in this family before, I'm glad to say."

The Cornal screwed his lips firmly. "It's what I would call going
altogether too far," he said. "I'm feared your recruit will affront us
again. A song, now! did you ever know the like of it? I'll not put up
with it! Did you say he was down with Miss Mary?"

"I saw her laying the corner of the table," said the Paymaster, "and
I'll warrant it was not to feed herself at this time of day."

The Cornal looked again at the verses, clearing his eyes with his hand,
as if he might happily be mistaken. But no, there were the foolish
lines, and some sentiments most unmanly frank of love and idleness among
the moor and heather. He growled; he frowned below his shaggy brows:
"Come down this instant and put an end to it," said he.

"He's with Mary," his brother reminded him, hesitating.

"I don't care a curse if he was with the Duke," said the Cornal. "I'll
end this carry-on in an honest and industrious family."

He led the way downstairs, the Paymaster following softly, both in their
slippers. Noiselessly they pushed open the door of Miss Mary's room and
gazed within. She and her darling were looking over the window at the
tumultuous crowd of children scrambling for Young Islay's bowl-money
scattered by Black Duncan in the golden syver sand. Miss Mary in that
position could not but have her arm about his waist, and her hand
unconsciously caressed the rough home-spun of his jacket. The brothers,
unobserved, stood silent in the doorway.

"That's the end of it!" said Gilian bitterly, as he came wholly into
the room. His face, shone on by the sun that struck above the tall lands
opposite from fiery clouds, was white to the lips. Miss Mary looked up
into his eyes, mourning in her very inmost for his torture.

"I would say 'fair wind to her,' my dear, and a