The record-union., 1894-01-27

Joan gently kept him at distance, an
Swering quietly with eyes and speech:
INA, ma; when th' MIGHTY paintin' IS
din, ye'll ne'er COON back"
He read there in her eyes and words
such clear truths of and such keen in
sight into mems nature that it startled
him. He recalled her simple life and
mysterious history, as they had come TO
him little by little from the crCfters and
gamekeepers roundabout; how, when
but tiny, wailing babe, twenty years
before, she had been left one night at
Davy Saunders door; how the crotter and
his guidwife. being sore in heart for their
own bonnie lassie who had year or two
before been spirited away by some hunts
man nobleman never to be heard from
again, had given the waif their own
bairn's name and place in heart and
home; how she had grown from babe to
bairn, from bairn to lasse, from laSsie to
lass and on to Womanhood, beloved in all
the valley crOfts, the pride of the min
lister and wife who taught her In the
mossy manse below the cliff, hard by the
ancient church and bridge Of Fasnakyle,
the peasant pet and favOrite at Guesa-
chan, until she had become his almost
inseparable companion, but ever true
and strong, and free of heart until Art
had come with Love to grand Strath-
glass.
All this he remembered, and with it his
own often half-formed conviction that,
could the truth be known, somewhere
behind this wild flower crofter life was a
strain of blood which. as these things are
counted in the heredity of beast and hu-
man, would make her the equal OF any,
for intellect, pride and true nobility were
in every movement OF her graceful form,
in every quiet, well considered act of her
life. in every tone and thought she ut
tered, and shone forth almost majestic in
the luminous calm Of her splendid eyes
of gray.
"Come here, Joan," he said at last, lead
ing her to the messy rock from which the
hundreds of valley sketches had been
made in all the pleasant summer days.
Il have something curious to tell you
about myself"
well, you see, I am an orphan, too,
just like yourself, JOAN"
"Guid!' said Joan, complacently.
81 never had a half-crown of my own
in all my life"
''Guid, guidp' was the quiet response.
II just 'growed up like Topsy. You
never heard of darky Topsy, JOan?"
"Na, na; bit gang on wiz th' tale.'
81 was 'minder,' put out to be cared
for in London. Joan. My father, Ross
shire barrister, had been driven out of
the North here for his lingering love of
Prince Charlie. He went to London and
starved and died. Then the mothers life
light was soon dimmed, and she followed
him. Then the parish beadle tossed Hugh
Ritchie into an orphan asylum"
"Guid, guild, guidn' interrupted Joan,
joyously.
"And why so very good when all so
very sad, Joan?"
"Ablins, ilka guild mon that rises oot o.
sair hecklin' an fiotter, maun dow am
thriveo
"Weu," continued the artist, smiling
at the happy prophecy, there learned
to draw little, and by and by the curate
of the asylum took me into his own scan
ty home and helped me along very
kindly. Some one saw my poor little
sketches and sent me to Rugby, and
there l got on so well with the lads that
one fine, lazy fellow took me with him
to London, put me into q little studio in
High Holborn, with three years rent
paid, clapped me on the shoulder bravely
with, NOW win or stafven and went
away"
"An' ye did ma starve." Joan insisted,
rapturously.
well, not exactly. But 1 am afraid I
would have starved, Joan, only for the
queerest old lady you ever saw in all
your life-Lady Mac Tavitt, whom we
expect at the lodge this very day.
THE dear old lady is an odd picture,
Joan. She is taller than your foster
father, Davy Saunders; uglier than Sandy
Nichols, your fighting stone-mason
neighbor across the way, scraggier than
this fir, and her nose is as big as a tur-
nip and crimson as that dogwood copse.
Her little eyes snap and glitter in their
deep hollows like fiery black diamonds.
Her furrowed face, mottled with rich
streakings of snuff, is a perfect lichen-
nest OF moles and warts, each with its
own tuft of bristies, like clump OF alder
branches in winter, while her polished
head is as bare OF locks as are Lord
Glebemoth's polled Angus cattle of
horns"
"Hechl' exclaimed Joan in amaze
ment, "bit it's gre-carling froWdie for a
leddyw
"True, Joan; but hard as are her face
and heart to others, she has been very
good to me. | would not have seen
Strathglass, nor you, but for her. She is a
rich and grand lady besides, and owns
half OF berdeenshire with many, many
London houses.
Her brother was Lord Mac Tavitt,
Duke of Fyvie, who died in India. His
only son, young Lord Barlsfold, sad
scapegrace, married a woman far below
his station but as far above his deserts,
whom Lady Mac Tayitt always calls the
brat and the two died, after one child
was born, and was spirited away"
'Puir lassie!" murmured Joan sympa-
thetically,
1.-The old lady is little soft on three
subjects which are of endless importance
to herself and OF as endless torment to
others,' continued Hugh, as if kindling
with lnirthful reflections. The first is
her mission to find the brat's BARN,
which she is certain must be a boy who
is TO restore the family line. The second
is her wonderful wig. This she is con-
tinually losing, often 10 the distraction of
whole communities, and which, during
her travels, while swathing her head in
shawls and plalds, she carries in preci-
Gus casket OF curious Indian workman
ship. The other frenzy OF her strange old
life is to recover the mate of this Indian
wig easket, a gift from the Duke to the
young Lord at the same time the one was
sent 10 her from India, and which disap-
peared fully twenty years ago from the
family possessions"
"Puir, puir dottled auld bodyl / ken
We fettle her weeli''
''Oh, yes, Joan; I always comfort her
when she will let me. But that's not
often. Why. she's not yet eighty years
of age. She's far too spirited for much of
that.
81 fell into her favor entirely by acci-
dent She had learned that some London
artist had painted miniature of the lass
Lord Barlsfold married. With this, as a
Dossible clue, she rummaged every stu
Iio in London, becoming quite an ogre to
the artists, and occasionally having regu-
lar set tos with few, because they treated