eaving
breast, and Mercy sobbed.

The old man looked at her through a blinding mist in his hazy eyes.
"Tell me, my little lassie, tell me," he said.

"Oh, it's nothing," said Mercy. She had brushed away the tears and was
smiling.

The Laird Fisher shook his head.

"It's nothing, father--only--"

"Only--what?"

"Only--oh, it's nothing!"

"Mercy, my lass," said the Laird Fisher, and the tears stood now in his
own dim eyes, "Mercy, remember if owt goes wrong with a girl, and her
mother is under the grass, her father is the first she should come to
and tell all."

The old man had seated himself on a stout block cut from a trunk, and
was opening the basket, when there was a light, springy step on the
road.

"So you fire to-night, Matthew?"

An elderly man leaned over the stile and smiled.

"Nay, Mr. Bonnithorne, there's ower much nastment in the weather yet."

The gentleman took off his silk hat and mopped his forehead. His hair
was thin and of a pale yellow, and was smoothed flat on his brow.

"You surprise me! I thought the weather perfect. See how blue the sky
is."

"That doesn't argy. It might be better with never a blenk of blue. It
was rayder airy yesterday, and last night the moon got up as blake and
yellow as May butter."

The smile was perpetual on the gentleman's face. It showed his teeth
constantly.

"You dalesmen are so weather-wise."

The voice was soft and womanish. There was a little laugh at the end of
each remark.

"We go by the moon in firing, sir," the charcoal-burner answered, "Last
night it rose sou'-west, and that doesn't mean betterment, though it's
quiet enough now. There'll be clashy weather before nightfall."

The girl strayed away into the thicket, and startled a woodcock out of a
heap of dead oak leaves. The gentleman followed her with his eyes. They
were very small and piercing eyes, and they blinked frequently.

"Your daughter does not look very well, Matthew."

"She's gayly, sir; she's gayly," said the charcoal-burner shortly, his
mouth in his can of tea.

The gentleman smiled from the teeth out. After a pause, he said: "I
suppose it isn't pleasant when one of your hurdles is blown down, and
the charcoal burning," indicating the wooden hurdles which had been
propped about the half-built charcoal stack.

"Ey, it's gay bad wark, to be sure--being dragged into the fire."

The dog had risen with a startled movement. Following the upward
direction of the animal's no