in the sight of Heaven? I ran off to
consult my brother Moncrieff. I found him riding his great bay mare, an
especial favourite, along the banks of the highest _estancia_ canal--the
canal that fed the whole system of irrigation. Here I joined him, myself
on my pet brown mule.

'Planning more improvements, Moncrieff?' I asked.

He did not speak for a minute or two.

'I'm not planning improvements,' he said at last, 'but I was just thinking
it would be well, in our orra[11] moments, if we were to strengthen this
embankment. There is a terrible power o' water here. Now supposing that
during some awful storm, with maybe a bit shock of earthquake, it were to
burst here or hereabouts, don't you see that the flood would pour right
down upon the mansion-house, and clean it almost from its foundations?'

'I trust,' I said, 'so great a catastrophe will not occur in our day.'

'It would be a fearful accident, and a judgment maybe on my want of
forethought.'

'I want to ask you a question,' I said, 'on another subject, Moncrieff.'

'You're lookin' scared, laddie. What's the matter?'

I told him as much as I could.

'It's a queer question, laddie--a queer question. Heaven give me help to
answer you! I think, as the oath was to keep a secret, you had best keep
the oath, and trust to Heaven to set things right in the end, if it be for
the best.'

'Thanks, Moncrieff,' I said; 'thanks. I will take your advice.'

That very day Moncrieff set a party of men to strengthen the embankment;
and it was probably well he did so, for soon after the work was finished
another of those fearful storms, accompanied as usual by shocks of
earthquake, swept over our valley, and the canal was filled to
overflowing, but gave no signs of bursting. Moncrieff had assuredly taken
time by the forelock.

One day a letter arrived, addressed to me, which bore the London
post-mark.

It was from Archie, and a most spirited epistle it was. He wanted us to
rejoice with him, and, better still, to expect him out by the very first
packet. His parents had yielded to his request. It had been the voyage to
Newcastle that had turned the scale. There was nothing like pluck, he
said; 'But,' he added, 'between you and me, Murdoch, I would not take
another voyage in a Newcastle collier, not to win all the honour and glory
of Livingstone, Stanley, Gordon-Cumming, and Colonel Frederick Burnaby put
in a bushel basket.'

I went tearing away over the _estancia_ on my