ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved
black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper's mother. They found
her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth
of which a very small fire was burning--not for the sake of warmth, but
for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.

The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl--a gift from the
"Hoose." She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or "mutch," which was
secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her
spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her
knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up
inquiringly as her visitors entered.

"Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill."

"Na, mem, I'm weel eneuch in body; it's the speerit that's ill. And ye
ken why."

She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been
crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down
her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to
demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went
close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.

"My bonny doo! It's a pleasure to look at ye," said the old woman,
laying her hand on the child's head.

Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.

"Tell me about it," she said confidentially; "has he given way again,
after all his promises to Mr Jackman?"

"Oo, ay; Maister Jackman's a fine man, but he canna change the hert o'
my son--though it is kind o' him to try. No, the only consolation I hev
is here."

She laid her hand on the open Bible.

"Where is he just now?" asked the lady.

As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper's cottage,
which, as we have said, stood close to his mother's abode.

"Ye hear till 'im," said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the
head. "He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters
are crawlin' ower him, an' whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin' at
him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel' has gotten haud
o' him, an' then he screeches as ye hear."

"Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think
you?"

"Na, ye'd better let him lie. He's no' hissel' the now, and there's no
sayin' what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!" cried the old creature,
clasping her hands; "ye took my man awa', an' now ye're ruinin' my so