crew left work and took their several ways home
ward. Susy had the company of her friend Lily Hewat as far as Chancery
Lane. Beyond that point she had to go alone. Being summer-time, the
days were long, and Susy was one of those strong-hearted and
strong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.

She had just passed over London Bridge and turned into a labyrinth of
small streets on the Surrey side of the river, when a drunken man met
her in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass. The
man seized her by the arm. Susy tried to free herself. In the struggle
that ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on the
kerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible. Seeing this,
the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her,
and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance on
the scene of a lowland Scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd's
plaid--a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braes
of Yarrow.

CHAPTER THREE.

A VISITOR FROM THE NORTH.

How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is
soon told.

"Mither," said he one evening, striding into his father's dwelling--a
simple cottage on a moor--and sitting down in front of a bright old
woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and
baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, "I'm gawin' to
Lun'on."

"Hoots! havers, David."

"It's no' havers, mither. Times are guid. We've saved a pickle siller.
Faither can spare me for a wee while--sae I'm aff to Lun'on the morn's
mornin'."

"An' what for?" demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on
which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into
the grave countenance of her handsome son.

"To seek a wife, maybe," replied the youth, relaxing into that very
slight smile with which grave and stern-featured men sometimes betray
the presence of latent fun.

Mrs Laidlaw resumed her sock and needle with no further remark than
"Hoots! ye're haverin'," for she knew that her son was only jesting in
regard to the wife. Indeed nothing was further from that son's
intention or thoughts at the time than marriage, so, allowing the ripple
to pass from his naturally grave and earnest countenance, he continued--

"Ye see, mither, I'm twunty-three noo, an' I _wad_ like to see something
o' the warld afore I grow aulder an' settle doon