ng sweetened and comforted.
Bitter thoughts and cynical criticisms, as well as vain regrets and
peevish complaints, fell away from Carmichael's soul, and gave place to
a gentle melancholy. He came to the heart of the wood, where was the
lovers' grave, and the place seemed to invite his company. A sense of
the tears of things came over him, and he sat down by the river-side to
meditate. It was two hundred years and more since the lassies died,
who were never wedded, and for him there was not even to be love. The
ages were linked together by a long tragedy of disappointment and
vanity, but the Tochty ran now as in the former days. What was any
human life but a drop in the river that flowed without ceasing to the
unknown sea? What could any one do but yield himself to necessity, and
summon his courage to endure? Then at the singing of a bird his mood
lightened and was changed, as if he had heard the Evangel. God was
over all, and life was immortal, and he could not be wrong who did the
will of God. After a day of conflict, peace came to his soul, and in
the soft light of the setting sun he rose to go home.

[Illustration: "He sat down by the river-side to meditate."]

"Miss Carnegie . . . I did not know you were here . . . I thought you
were in London," and Carmichael stood before Kate in great confusion.

"Nor did I see you behind that tree"--Kate herself was startled. "Yes,
the General and I have been visiting some old friends, and only came
home an hour ago.

"Do you know"--Kate was herself again--"the first thing I do on arrival
is to make a pilgrimage to this place. Half an hour here banishes the
dust of a day's journey and of . . .

"Besides, I don't know whether you have heard"--Kate spoke
hurriedly--"that it is now settled that I . . . we will be leaving the
Lodge soon, and one wants to have as much as possible of the old place
in the time remaining."

She gave him this opportunity in kindness, as it seemed, and he
reproached himself because he did not offer his congratulations.

"You will, I . . . the people hope, come often here, Miss Carnegie, and
not cast off Drumtochty, although the Lodge be not your home. You will
always have a place in the hearts of the Glen. Marjorie will never be
grateful enough for your readings," which was bravely said.

"Do you think that I can ever forget the Glen and my . . . friends
here? Not while I live; the Carnegies have their own faults, but
ingratitude i