dly, put his hand to his head, and made no reply.
She half led, half supported him down the stair, as far as the first
landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish,

'My bonny leddy!'

'What is it?' asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant her.

'My fiddle! my fiddle! She 'll be a' in bits,' he answered, and turned
to go up again.

'Sit down here,' said Miss St. John, 'and I'll fetch it.'

Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the room. Then she
turned faint for the first time, but determinedly supporting herself,
she looked about, saw a brown-paper parcel on a shelf, took it, and
hurried out with a shudder.

Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out his hands
eagerly.

'Gie me her. Gie me her.'

'You had better let me carry it. You are not able.'

'Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt.'

'Oh, yes, I do!' returned Miss St. John, smiling, and Robert could not
withstand the smile.

'Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem,' he said,
yielding.

He was now much better, and before he had been two minutes in the
open air, insisted that he was quite well. When they reached Captain
Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands for his violin.

'No, no,' said his new friend. 'You wouldn't have Betty see you like
that, would you?'

'No, mem; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, and she sanna
hae a chance o' seein' 't,' answered Robert, not understanding her;
for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had no idea what a dreadful
appearance he presented.

'Don't you know that you have a wound on your head?' asked Miss St.
John.

'Na! hev I?' said Robert, putting up his hand. 'But I maun gang--there's
nae help for 't,' he added.--'Gin I cud only win to my ain room ohn
Betty seen me!--Eh! mem, I hae blaudit (spoiled) a' yer bonny goon.
That's a sair vex.'

'Never mind it,' returned Miss St. John, smiling. 'It is of no
consequence. But you must come with me. I must see what I can do for
your head. Poor boy!'

'Eh, mem! but ye are kin'! Gin ye speik like that ye'll gar me greit.
Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. Maybe ye kent my mamma. Ye're
sae like her.'

This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered in his speech.
Had she lived he would have spoken very differently. They were now
walking towards the house.

'No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead?'

'Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours.'

'Yes; and my fathe