her manner, though calm, was strange. It seemed to Robin that her previous agitation was even less alarming. She appeared almost unable to speak to him.

They had gone out together to walk in the fields, when Robin, unable longer to endure the oppressive silence which seemed to have fallen on both, said: 'Ye sent for me, Jessie; can I do onything for ye? God kens, I wad shed my heart's blude to do ye ony gude.' 'Ay, Robin, I sent for ye to ask ye a favour.'

'Favour! dinna speak o' a favour.'

'Will ye promise to do what I ask-solemnly?'

I promise, Jessie.'

'An' will ye do it even if'

"If what, Jessie?'

'Even if you an' me should never see ilk other mair-even if some time ye should think nae better o' me nor ye think now o' Helen Gray?'

'Dinna speak that gate, Jessie : it gangs till my very heart to hear ye.'

'Ay, Robin-but do ye promise?'

'Yes, Jessie.'

'Then, will ye seek in this field for the gowd brooch or ye find it ?'

'But if it shouldna be here?'

'But it maun be here.'

'That deevil—that I sud say sic a word-that Helen has cast some glamour owre ye.'

'O Robin !'-with a look of pain and anxiety-'an' will ye no haud to yer promise?'

'Ay, Jessie, that I will, for a' that, or ye lowse me frae it yersel'. And now, Jessie, will ye do naething for me? Our bit hoos is a' ready. It's no kind o' ye, Jessie, for the sake o' a wretch like Helen Gray, to behave as ye do to me-me, that wad lay doon my life for yer dear, dear sake. O Jessie, ye are mair to me than a' the warld! A' the gear, an' the bonny hoos, I ha' nae pleasure in but for you '

Here Robin suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence, on catching a glimpse of Jessie's face: the expression terrified him. Robin,' she said slowly, her heart torn with unspeakable love and anguish, but her resolution still unshaken-'I sent for ye the night for another reason: I wanted to see you aince mair.' Here she stopped, as if her breath failed her.

"Aince mair!' he repeated, almost doubting the evidence of his

own ears.

Without noticing the exclamation, she continued in a tone which at once betrayed the grief of her soul and the strength of her purpose: 'Maybe it wad ha' been better no, but I couldna pairt or I had seen your dear een looking kind at me aince mair, Robin. Dinna

ask me now; ye'll ken a' sune. Oh, fare-ye-weel!' As Jessie spoke, she hastily seized Robin's hand, pressed her burning lips to it for a moment, then letting it drop, fled towards the house with the fleetness of a roe.

Robin gazed after her for a second, dumb and motionless with amazement and terror. He now believed what he had once or twice before vaguely dreaded-that her mind was touched with insanity. He hurried after her, and as she reached the yard-gate, he had nearly overtaken her. Suddenly she turned round: her face was pale, wild, and determined. ‘Dinna!' she said in a tone of command, which, strangely to himself, he felt forced to obey-'dinna, Robin! I'm no mad. Ye'll sune ken.' And without trusting herself to bestow one parting glance, she vanished into the house. Robin did not dare to follow her: he sank down on a large stone behind the wall of the farmyard, and bowing his head on his knees, sobbed aloud in the desolation of his heart.

VI.

Since the imprisonment of Helen Gray, Jessie had occupied the little room next to Miss Ann's, that she might be ready to attend her during the night.

On the morning succeeding her last-mentioned interview with Robin Rae, Miss Ann rang her bell twice; but no Jessie answered. Mrs Young hastened to her daughter at the last summons, wondering what could have become of the usually prompt and active Jessie. Supposing that she must have overslept herself, her mistress went to call her; but, to her surprise, the room was tenantless; and although the bed looked as if some one had lain above the clothes, they had never been turned down. Mrs Young, much surprised, immediately alarmed the rest of the household, inquiring of the other two female servants if they knew where Jessie was. Both answered, that they had supposed she was in her own room; neither of them had seen her that morning. She was not to be found in the house or about the yard. The cook then stated, that on going to open the back-door, she had been surprised to find it on the latch; but that although she could not remember that she had forgot to lock it, she had at the time supposed she must have done so.

Mrs Young was seriously alarmed, and her alarm was increased when she recalled the unsettled state of Jessie's mind for some time past. The household were now dispersed in search of her, Mrs Young returning to the poor girl's room, to try to discover some trace of her, and to see if she had taken her bonnet or any part of her dress with her. She found that her bonnet and shawl were both gone, and that her working-dress was left behind. More and more surprised, Mrs Young was proceeding with her examination, when she noticed an awkwardly folded epistle lying on the top of the

drawers. It was addressed to herself. Not without a feeling of dread, she opened it, in the expectation that the contents might elucidate the mystery.

For the elucidation they offered she was not prepared; and when she had finished the awkwardly but ingenuously penned epistle, she stood with it for some minutes in her hand, motionless with surprise and consternation. As the reader has of course guessed, it contained Jessie's confession and Helen's justification, accompanied, however, by a protest on the part of the former, that she had not taken the gold brooch. She knew now, she said, she had been guilty of as great a sin, but she did not think so at the time. Before Mrs Young was out of bed, she should, she said, be on her way to prison.

Leaving the family at Todlaw Mains in the greatest astonishment and in no little distress, I shall return to Robin Rae, who, although he went to bed on returning home, did not once close his eyes during all that dismal night. Some terrible misfortune-all the more terrible that it was vague and undefined—seemed ready to burst upon him. Jessie's pale countenance, and wild, despairing, yet resolute glance haunted him all night. He resolved to return to Todlaw Mains in the morning: he could not rest till he had seen her again. Unable to sleep, he rose early, and, by way of occupation, began to nail some roses and honeysuckle to the walls of the cottage, till it should be time to go to Todlaw Mains.

It was a beautiful morning in early summer: the wide lawn glittered with dew-drops in the pleasant sunshine; the birds sang blithely in the trees; the rosebuds blushed brightly in the clear morning light; and the blue smoke, curled by the breeze, rose peacefully from Robin's cottage-roof, while the breath of a thousand flowers shed around a delicious fragrance. Suddenly Robin remembered this was to have been his wedding-day, and as he thought of how bright and joyous this morning ought to have been, and how sad it really was, the heart of the young man chafed at the incomprehensible sorrow which had so strangely overcast his gay prospects. He was yet brooding, half gloomily, half angrily on this subject, when a little boy arrived breathless at the gate. 'Hae,' said the child; 'here's a letter Jessie Gibson gae me a penny to bring till ye. I met her walking like mad to Ruthersholm a while syne.' Robin eagerly opened the letter. It ran thus:

'DEAR, DEAR ROBIN-Forgie me for calling ye sae once more. I dinna call ye my Robin, for that, I ken weel, ye can never be. Ye said yoursel' that nae thief should ever be your wife, and ye are right; and O Robin, it's no Helen Gray that is the thief. I havena kenned a moment's peace sin' she was ta'en up. Or ye get this letter, I'll be on my way to jail. Helen will tell ye a' about it; that is, if ye want to hear. O Robin, forgie me for a' the misery I ha' wrought ye; and for the sake o' what has been, seek the

gold brooch; for, indeed, I never tuke it, and I wud like ill to be sent owre the sea. But, ony gate, I'm no sae miserable now as I hae been. Fare-ye-weel, Robin. God bless ye for evermair.

JESSIE.'

A few minutes after the receipt of this epistle, Robin Rae might have been seen on the Ruthersholm Road, tearing along like a madman. He was just approaching the town when an open car passed him quickly, but not ere he had recognised his Jessie seated in it, and by her side a constable. She saw him too, for her head, which had been raised for a second, sank down again on her bosom in an agony of grief and shame. Robin threw himself down by the roadside. The sound of the wheels died away in the distance. It seemed that his heart must burst with the misery, too big to find any ordinary vent. He remained thus for an hour, motionless and speechless, then suddenly starting up, strode as if frenzied towards Todlaw Mains. Arrived thither, he began to search, as if more than life depended on his labours, in the field which Jessie had indicated, for the gold brooch.

He had many companions in his enterprise; even Mrs Young herself joined the party. She said she would willingly give every ornament in her possession to find the missing brooch; and it was found at last, and by herself, sunk in the earth by the side of a large

stone.

That night, Mrs Young's own conveyance waited at the door of prison for Helen Gray. As soon as the latter arrived at Todlaw Mains, Mrs Young assembled the whole household, and publicly acknowledged her innocence, apologising for the treatment she had received. In the evening, by appointment, Helen met Robin Rae, who, since the brooch was found, had become somewhat calmer. The result of this interview was, that Robin wrote to Jessie the following morning.

The unhappy girl, although she did not for a moment repent that she had done justice to Helen, had spent the whole night in weeping. Everything terrified and shocked her in her new situation. She prayed that, if it were God's will, her miserable life might be shortened. Oh, how she longed through that long night for the sound of a kind voice-for one word of consolation and forgiveness! She was lying sunk and exhausted when Robin's letter was brought to her. Her eyes were so swollen with the tears she had shed, and so dim with those which still continued to flow, that it was with difficulty she read :

'MY JESSIE, MY AIN JESSIE—I dinna say ye havena sinned, for that wadna be true; but ye have repented. If I hae onything to forgie, I forgie ye; and, O Jessie! forgie me for the hard unchristian words that hindered ye frae telling me yer troubles. May God

forgie us baith, my Jessie! I will not come to see ye where ye are, for I ken ye weel, Jessie, and that ye wadna like me to see ye there. But the gold brooch is found; and when ye are free aince mair, the first face ye shall see shall be that o' your ain

ROBIN.'

Jessie wept different tears over this letter from those she had shed in the night; but she resolved not the less firmly that her lover should never share her disgrace. 'No,' she said to herself, 'nae ane shall e'er hae't to say o' Robin Rae that his wife was a thief.'

Slowly the weary weeks wore away to the poor prisoner; but sad though the time was, it was not profitless. Morally, her principles became clearer and stronger, and her spirit more resolute and more peaceful. She felt now that she should be able to endure the public trial with composure. During this period, she saw no one but her mother and Helen. Whether she ever convinced the former of the guilt of her conduct, still remains doubtful there is nothing more certain, than that the continued indulgence of evil inclinations, whether in trifles or in greater things, blinds the understanding to a perception of their wickedness.

At last the dread day of trial arrived. Jessie pleaded guilty at once, and her counsel made a speech in extenuation of her conduct. The court was disposed to be lenient; Jessie's story, and her appearance, which was full of humility and ingenuous shame, having created an interest in her favour. She was sentenced to six weeks in Bridewell. Robin preferred an earnest request to see her before she was removed; but she positively refused. 'No,' she said to Helen, who was Robin's messenger-'no, Helen. I can ne'er be the wife o' Robin Rae; an' I wunna make it mair hard on myself by seeing him now. Tell him I pray for him nicht an' morning, but I will

never see him mair.'

Jessie's residence in Bridewell was not so miserable as she had feared it might have been. Her industry and good-conduct gained the approbation of the superintendent, and attracted the notice of the lady-visitors. One of the latter, more especially, was so much interested in her, that she offered, on her being set free, to procure her a situation; but Jessie had already been offered one. Mrs Young, by way of making amends, in some measure, to Helen Gray, had promised to grant any request the latter should make. The generous and grateful Helen at once asked her to take back Jessie Gibson into her service, after the latter should be liberated from prison. 'I will answer for it with my life,' said Helen, 'that Jessie will never take a pin again that is not her own; and it is the best, if not the only way to restore her character.'

'But do you not think it will be an encouragement to vice, Helen?' asked Mrs Young, with whom the formerly disliked Helen was now a prime favourite. Mrs Young was a woman who neither felt nor