ithers! I saw ye once in the Hags, in my ain howl, and I was wae to see
ye there - in pairt for the omen, for I think there's a weird on the

place - and in pairt for pure nakit envy and bitterness o' hairt. It's
strange ye should forgather there tae! God! but yon puir, thrawn, auld

Covenanter's seen a heap o' human natur since he lookit his last on the
musket barrels, if he never saw nane afore," she added, with a kind of

wonder in her eyes.
"I swear by my honour I have done her no wrong," said Archie. "I swear

by my honour and the redemption of my soul that there shall none be done
her. I have heard of this before. I have been foolish, Kirstie, not

unkind, and, above all, not base."
"There's my bairn!" said Kirstie, rising. "I'll can trust ye noo, I'll

can gang to my bed wi' an easy hairt." And then she saw in a flash how
barren had been her triumph. Archie had promised to spare the girl, and

he would keep it; but who had promised to spare Archie? What was to be
the end of it? Over a maze of difficulties she glanced, and saw, at the

end of every passage, the flinty countenance of Hermiston. And a kind
of horror fell upon her at what she had done. She wore a tragic mask.

"Erchie, the Lord peety you, dear, and peety me! I have buildit on this
foundation" - laying her hand heavily on his shoulder - "and buildit

hie, and pit my hairt in the buildin' of it. If the hale hypothec were
to fa', I think, laddie, I would dee! Excuse a daft wife that loves ye,

and that kenned your mither. And for His name's sake keep yersel' frae
inordinate desires; haud your heart in baith your hands, carry it canny

and laigh; dinna send it up like a hairn's kite into the collieshangic
o' the wunds! Mind, Maister Erchie dear, that this life's a'

disappointment, and a mouthfu' o' mools is the appointed end."
"Ay, but Kirstie, my woman, you're asking me ower much at last," said

Archie, profoundly moved, and lapsing into the broad Scots. "Ye're
asking what nae man can grant ye, what only the Lord of heaven can grant

ye if He see fit. Ay! And can even He! I can promise ye what I shall
do, and you can depend on that. But how I shall feel - my woman, that

is long past thinking of!"
They were both standing by now opposite each other. The face of Archie

wore the wretchedsemblance of a smile; hers was convulsed for a moment.
"Promise me ae thing," she cried in a sharp voice. "Promise me ye'll

never do naething without telling me."
"No, Kirstie, I canna promise ye that," he replied. "I have promised

enough, God kens!"
"May the blessing of God lift and rest upon ye dear!" she said.

"God bless ye, my old friend," said he.
CHAPTER IX - AT THE WEAVER'S STONE

IT was late in the afternoon when Archie drew near by the hill path to
the Praying Weaver's stone. The Hags were in shadow. But still,

through the gate of the Slap, the sun shot a last arrow, which sped far
and straight across the surface of the moss, here and there touching and

shining on a tussock, and lighted at length on the gravestone and the
small figure awaiting him there. The emptiness and solitude of the

great moors seemed to be concentrated there, and Kirstie pointed out by
that figure of sunshine for the only inhabitant. His first sight of her

was thus excruciatingly sad, like a glimpse of a world from which all
light, comfort, and society were on the point of vanishing. And the

next moment, when she had turned her face to him and the quick smile had
enlightened it, the whole face of nature smiled upon him in her smile of

welcome. Archie's slow pace was quickened; his legs hasted to her
though his heart was hanging back. The girl, upon her side, drew

herself together slowly and stood up, expectant; she was all languor,
her face was gone white; her arms ached for him, her soul was on tip-

toes. But he deceived her, pausing a few steps away, not less white
than herself, and holding up his hand with a gesture of denial.

"No, Christina, not to-day," he said. "To-day I have to talk to you
seriously. Sit ye down, please, there where you were. Please!" he

repeated.
The revulsion of feeling in Christina's heart was violent. To have

longed and waited these weary hours for him, rehearsing her endearments
- to have seen him at last come - to have been ready there, breathless,

wholly passive, his to do what he would with - and suddenly to have
found herself confronted with a grey-faced, harsh schoolmaster - it was

too rude a shock. She could have wept, but pride withheld her. She sat
down on the stone, from which she had arisen, part with the instinct of

obedience, part as though she had been thrust there. What was this?
Why was she rejected? Had she ceased to please? She stood here

offering her wares, and he would none of them! And yet they were all
his! His to take and keep, not his to refuse though! In her quick

petulant nature, a moment ago on fire with hope, thwarted love and
wounded vanitywrought. The schoolmaster that there is in all men, to

the despair of all girls and most women, was now completely in
possession of Archie. He had passed a night of sermons, a day of

reflection; he had come wound up to do his duty; and the set mouth,
which in him only betrayed the effort of his will, to her seemed the

expression of an averted heart. It was the same with his constrained
voice and embarrassed utterance; and if so - if it was all over - the

pang of the thought took away from her the power of thinking.
He stood before her some way off. "Kirstie, there's been too much of

this. We've seen too much of each other." She looked up quickly and
her eyes contracted. "There's no good ever comes of these secret

meetings. They're not frank, not honest truly, and I ought to have seen
it. People have begun to talk; and it's not right of me. Do you see?"

"I see somebody will have been talking to ye," she said sullenly.
"They have, more than one of them," replied Archie.

"And whae were they?" she cried. "And what kind o' love do ye ca' that,
that's ready to gang round like a whirligig at folk talking? Do ye

think they havena talked to me?"
"Have they indeed?" said Archie, with a quick breath. "That is what I

feared. Who were they? Who has dared - ?"
Archie was on the point of losing his temper.

As a matter of fact, not any one had talked to Christina on the matter;
and she strenuously repeated her own first question in a panic of self-

defence.
"Ah, well! what does it matter?" he said. "They were good folk that

wished well to us, and the great affair is that there are people
talking. My dear girl, we have to be wise. We must not wreck our lives

at the outset. They may be long and happy yet, and we must see to it,
Kirstie, like God's rational creatures and not like fool children.

There is one thing we must see to before all. You're worth waiting for,
Kirstie! worth waiting for a generation; it would be enough reward." -

And here he remembered the schoolmaster again, and very unwisely took to
following wisdom. "The first thing that we must see to, is that there

shall be no scandal about for my father's sake. That would ruin all; do
ye no see that?"

Kirstie was a little pleased, there had been some show of warmth of
sentiment in what Archie had said last. But the dull irritation still

persisted in her bosom; with the aboriginal instinct, having suffered
herself, she wished to make Archie suffer.

And besides, there had come out the word she had always feared to hear
from his lips, the name of his father. It is not to be supposed that,

during so many days with a love avowed between them, some reference had
not been made to their conjoint future. It had in fact been often

touched upon, and from the first had been the sore point. Kirstie had
wilfully closed the eye of thought; she would not argue even with

herself; gallant, desperate little heart, she had accepted the command
of that supremeattraction like the call of fate and marched blindfold

on her doom. But Archie, with his masculine sense of responsibility,
must reason; he must dwell on some future good, when the present good

was all in all to Kirstie; he must talk - and talk lamely, as necessity