ndly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am your
friend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know how
much you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-hearted
young man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. It
is all right."

Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, brought
a stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to the
exile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the golden
West, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of the
heather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had been
his lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams and
fair romance.

In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Mysie flung her arms round the neck
of the older woman, pouring out her young heart and all its troubles in
an incoherent flood of sorrow and vexation.

"There now, dearie," said Mrs. Ramsay, again stroking Mysie's hair and
her soft burning cheek. "Don't be frightened. You must go to your bed,
for you are tired and upset, and will make yourself ill. Come now, like
a good lass, and go to your bed."

"Oh, dear, I wonner what my mither will say aboot it," wailed the girl,
sobbing. "She'll hae a sair, sair heart the nicht, an' my faither'll
break his heart. Oh, if only something could tell them I am a' richt,
an' safe, it would mak' things easier."

"There now. Don't worry about that any more, dearie. You'll only make
yourself ill. Try and keep your mind off it, and go away to bed and
rest."

"But it'll kill my mither!" cried Mysie wildly. "Her no' kennin' where I
am! If she could only ken that I am a' richt! She'll be worryin', an'
she'll be lyin' waken at nicht wonderin' aboot me, an' thinkin' o' every
wild thing that has happened to me. Oh, dear, but it'll break her heart
and kill my faither."

It needed all Mrs. Ramsay's tact and patience to quieten and allay her
fears; but gradually the girl was prevailed upon to go to bed, and Mrs.
Ramsay retired to the next room. But all night she heard Mysie tossing
and turning, and quietly weeping, and she knew that despair was
torturing and tearing her frightened little heart, and trying her beyond
endurance.

Mysie lay wondering how the village gossips at home would discuss her
disappearance. She knew how Mag Robertson, and Jean Fleming, and Leezie
Johnstone and all the other "clash-bags," as they were locally called,
wo