tch
adage says of 'the stout heart to the stey brae.'"

"And you might have found more comforting words, lassie,--how the
winds can be tempered to the shorn lamb," said the old lady, almost
rebukefully; and Dolly drooped her head in silence.

"I think it's a bad scheme," said Tony, boldly, and as though not
hearing his mother's remark. "For a man at the doctor's age to go to the
other end of the globe, to live in a new land, and make new friendships
at his time of life, is, I 'm sure, a mistake."

"That supposes that we have a choice; but my father thinks we have no
choice."

"I cannot see that. I cannot see that what a man has borne for
five-and-thirty or forty years--he has been that long at the Burnside--I
believe he can endure still longer. I must have a talk with him myself
over it." And unconsciously--quite unconsciously--Tony uttered the last
words with a high-sounding importance, so certain is it that in a
man's worldly wealth there is a store of self-confidence that no mere
qualities of head or heart can ever supply; and Dolly almost smiled at
the assured tone and the confident manner of her former playfellow.

"My father will be glad to see you, Tony,--he wants to hear all about
your campaigns; he was trying two nights ago to follow you on the map,
but it was such a bad one he had to give up the attempt."

"I'll give you mine," cried the old lady,--"the map Tony brought over to
myself. I 'll no just give it, but I 'll lend it to you; and there's
a cross wherever there was a battle, and a red cross wherever Tony was
wounded."

"Pooh, pooh, mother! don't worry Dolly about these things; she 'd rather
hear of pleasanter themes than battles and battle-fields. And here is
one already,--Jeanie says, 'dinner'."

"Where did you find your sprig of myrtle at this time?" asked Dolly, as
Tony led her in to dinner.

"I got it at the Abbey. I strolled up there to-day," said he, in a
half-confusion. "Will you have it?"

"No," said she, curtly.

"Neither will I, then," cried he, tearing it out of his button-hole and
throwing it away.

What a long journey in life can be taken in the few steps from the
drawing-room to the dinner-table!

CHAPTER LXIV. THE END

As Dr. Stewart had many friends to consult and many visits to
make,--some of them, as he imagined, farewell ones,--Dolly was
persuaded, but not without difficulty, to take up her residence at the
cottage till she should be able to return home. And a v