in idle flirtation--nor Aggie the girl to listen
if he had done so. They had both seen too much of the stern side of
life to condescend on trifling.

Once, by a superhuman effort, and with an alarming flush of the
countenance, Peter succeeded in stammering a declaration of his
sentiments. Aggie, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes, accepted the
declaration, and the matter was settled; that was all, for the subject
had rushed upon both of them, as it were, unexpectedly, and as they were
in the public street at the time and the hour was noon, further
demonstration might have been awkward.

Thereafter they were understood to be "keeping company." But they were
a grave couple. If an eavesdropper had ventured to listen, sober talk
alone would have repaid the sneaking act, and, not unfrequently,
reference would have been heard in tones of deepest pathos to dreadful
scenes that had occurred on the shores of the Solway, or sorrowful
comments on the awful fate of beloved friends who had been banished to
"the plantations."

One day Jean--fair-haired, blue-eyed, pensive Jean--was seated in the
cellar with her uncle. She had brought him his daily dinner in a tin
can, and he having just finished it, was about to resume his work while
the niece rose to depart. Time had transformed Jean from a pretty girl
into a beautiful woman, but there was an expression of profound
melancholy on her once bright face which never left it now, save when a
passing jest called up for an instant a feeble reminiscence of the sweet
old smile.

"Noo, Jean, awa' wi' ye. I'll never get thae parritch-sticks feenished
if ye sit haverin' there."

Something very like the old smile lighted up Jean's face as she rose,
and with a "weel, good-day, uncle," left the cellar to its busy
occupant.

Black was still at work, and the shadows of evening were beginning to
throw the inner end of the cellar into gloom, when the door slowly
opened and a man entered stealthily. The unusual action, as well as the
appearance of the man, caused Black to seize hold of a heavy piece of
wood that leaned against his lathe. The thought of being discovered and
sent back to Dunnottar, or hanged, had implanted in our friend a
salutary amount of caution, though it had not in the slightest degree
affected his nerve or his cool promptitude in danger. He had
deliberately made up his mind to remain quiet as long as he should be
let alone, but if discovered, to escape or die in