tried the _Paradise Lost_ upon Mrs Whaup, as she had tried it
long ago upon Tibbie Dyster; and Mrs Whaup never seemed tired of
listening to it. I daresay she understood about as much of it as poets
do of the celestial harmonies ever toning around them.

And Peter Whaup was once known, when more than half drunk, to stop his
swearing in mid-volley, simply because he had caught a glimpse of Annie
at the other end of the street.

So the maiden grew in favour. Her beauty, both inward and outward, was
that of the twilight, of a morning cloudy with high clouds, or of a
silvery sea: it was a spiritual beauty for the most part. And her
sorrow gave a quiet grace to her demeanour, peacefully ripening it into
what is loveliest in ladyhood. She always looked like one
waiting--sometimes like one listening, as she waited, to "melodies
unheard."

CHAPTER XCI.

One night, in the end of October, James Dow was walking by the side of
his cart along a lonely road, through a peat-moss, on his way to the
nearest sea-port for a load of coals. The moon was high and full. He
was approaching a solitary milestone in the midst of the moss. It was
the loneliest place. Low swells of peat-ground, the burial places of
old forests, rolled away on every side, with, here and there, patches
of the white-bearded canna-down, or cotton-grass, glimmering doubtfully
as the Wind woke and turned himself on the wide space, where he found
nothing to puff at but those same little old fairies sunning their
hoary beards in the strange moon. As Dow drew near to the milestone he
saw an odd-looking figure seated upon it. He was about to ask him if he
would like a lift, when the figure rose, and cried joyfully,

"Jamie Doo!"

James Dow staggered back, and was nearly thrown down by the
slow-rolling wheel; for the voice was Alec Forbes's. He gasped for
breath, and felt as if he were recovering from a sudden stroke of
paralysis, during which everything about him had passed away and a new
order come in. All that he was capable of was to cry _wo!_ to his
horse.

There stood Alec, in rags, with a face thin but brown--healthy, bold,
and firm. He looked ten years older standing there in the moonlight.

"The Lord preserve's!" cried Dow, and could say no more.

"He has preserved me, ye see, Jeamie. Hoo's my mother?"

"She's brawly, brawly, Mr Alec. The Lord preserve's! She's been
terrible aboot ye. Ye maunna gang in upo' her. It wad kill her."

"I hae a g