d out my hand to him eagerly:

"Let me see it, Angus; my own mother is with God."

He hesitated but a moment, then drew it forth and handed it to me.

"All the world may see it," he said quietly, "it is my mother--you may
read the letter if you will."

The portrait was of a woman still rich with girlhood's charm. Of about
nineteen years, I should say, tall and graceful and sweet of
countenance, with a great wealth of hair, with eyes that no flame but
love's could have kindled, her lips, even in a picture, instinct with
pure passion, and her whole being evidently fragrant and luscious as
Scottish girlhood alone can be. For the sweetest flowers are nourished
at the breast of the most rugged hills.

I was still reading the story of love and innocence and hope, all of
which were written in the lovely face before me, when Angus said very
gently:

"Read the letter, sir."

The writing on the paper which enclosed the picture had escaped my
notice. It was a letter from Angus' mother, sent with the
daguerreotypes. Its closing words ran thus:

"I send ye this picture o' masel' and the ane o' the man I loved
sae weel. No ither picture have I had taken, nor ither shall there
be. It was taken for yir faither before the gloamin' settled doon
on you and me, ma laddie. It was taken for him, as was every breath
I drew, for I loved him wi' every ane.

"Ye maunna think ower hard o' him, laddie, for yir mother canna
drive him forth, so ye maun bide thegither in this broken hairt o'
mine. And laddie, I am askin' God to keep me pure, for my love will
hae its bloom some day far ayont us, like the bonny heather when
the winter's bye. And I want to be worthy when it comes. I'm sair
soiled, I ken, but love can weave its robe o' white for the very
hairt it stained. And I maun be true till the gloamin's gone. So
think o' yir mother as aye true to yir faither, and it'll mebbe
help yir sorrow to ken there's aye this bond between yir faither
and her wha bore ye. And Angus, dinna let him ken, gin ye should
ever meet. Yir mother's bearin' her sorrow all alane in Ettrick and
her laddie'll bear it ayont the ocean. We're a' in God's guid
hands. Your loving mother,

JANET STRACHAN."

I returned the well worn letter to the unhappy hand from which I had
received it. He tenderly wrapped it about his mother's picture and
thrust the parcel back beside the