Original Unpublished story in Stevenson's hand.

# The Go-Between
## A Tale Boy's Romance.

### Chapter I.
Which tells of An Angel's Visit.

Upon a piece of seaboard, which I must not too particularly describe, because the tale is not yet old and the people concerned are were of good standing, upon a piece of seaboard which was dear to me the writer before I-- he was breached and, from a variety of occasions, some romantic and some trivial, has been visited by many of his readers-- there stood (and still stands in ruins) a little an ancient but inconsiderable mansion house. It takes its name from the estate, and that again from a sea-reef that lies in front and is dangerous to ships; and for several centuries the Archerfields of the Red-Scares have been people of repute in a circuit of some miles. The first we hear of followed the Red Douglas; one fell against Cromwell, and his body was brought home from the not distant battlefield; another, fell under-the-enmity in the days of Lauderdale, was immured in a sea prison even neared to his hearth and garden; and there subaltern exploits and misfortunes include the history of the race. The rest is kept in charter chests or written in the leaves of the family bible.

The house was to match. It stood in the landward angle of a bay, on the margin of a green declivity which burst at the two headlands into crags. In all the reentrant part, the slope was not more steep than grass may grow on; but the paths that climbed it were crooked as a corkscrew; and when the sea-birds cried and the wind blew in a man's ears going down, each step seemed giddy. The house was of a

2

red stone of the country, built in two wings, of which one was single; betwixt them, a stair tower with an extinguisher roof, a landmark for the pilots of the firth. A garden ran-over the brow of the declivity in front, in three small bartizans or terraces. Upon the landward side, a kitchen yard led to an ancient, dwarfish wood of elder trees.

One day of the early summer, when the trees of this wood were white and green with blossom, and there was a clear sea-sun and keen sea-wind about the house, there came up the path to the back door a solitary lad. He was not yet seventeen; his features were two big for each other, and for his face, and his limbs and body not yet well adjusted. Between his--clear his mouth--ser-straight-between his-clear lips, A judge of men would have looked at the lad twice. Even a cursory passer-by might have perhaps remarked a certain air of eagerness that breathed about him as he went, as of a young creature zealous to taste life and not the ignoble parts of it. He had been bathing, a towel fluttered in his hand, there was a freshness of the sea in his dark eyes. Had any been by the boys elbow they would have heard him mouthing verses as he ran.

Thus he came light-footed to the back door, and paused suddenly upon the threshold. So do birds pause at the report of a gun; and yet what struck upon his ear was no more than the fresh voice of a young woman talking within. He had that expectant innocency which grows of an experience confined to books; and the voice and accent hit him fair in the heart with the appositeness of a thing desired. The bashfulness of youth, which is strong as terror, and the natural instinct to prolong whatever is delightful, combined to hold him where he was. And the strange voice within continued, with many winning inflections, to pour out a stream of questions and cajoleries. When was he coming? Effy must know; would she not tell? "They are all banded against him and me, and we are so dear to each other!" and the like-appeals; to which Effy Rimtoul, the housekeeper of the Red Scares, replied at intervals with insignificant excuses.

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When it came suddenly upon the boy that he was eavesdropping, and he raised the door hasp and went in. The sun and the wind came in with him, and the old kitchen was enlivened in every corner with dancing lights and blowing napery. The girl turned and faced him; there were tears in her eyes, a smile and a flush upon her cheeks; not a ribbon on her dress, not a brown hair upon her head that did not flutter and flow back in the sudden entry of the wind. The pair made a strong contrast; he in the shadow, she in the shine; and for all that so few years divided them, he still a slip of a boy, she already a ripe woman.

"And who is this?" she asked.

"It's Maister Francie," said the housekeeper.

"O, so this is Francie!" said the stranger. "How do you do, Francie? Do you know we can count cousinship?"

He doffed his bonnet to her with a movement that was awkward and yet gallant. "You are to think, Madam, that I do not know your name," said he, and added with a blush, "But you are very welcome."

"That is as it should be," she replied. "You do not know my name and you are not to know it. Do you mind me, Effie? Francie must not have my name,"

The old woman grunted.

"I am a vision, Francie." pursued the stranger, "and pretty soon I'll disappear. You are to think of this as of an angel's visit."

"I will that!" replied the boy with ardour, "of an angel's that just shined here and was gone." He was gazing at her with the boldness of fascination, then he smiled, "And if I am never to hear your name, I'll just have to call you that when I remember your appearing," he added.

The angel was at least human, enough to be amused, and by the direct advance; and in her next speech, which was seemed to herself to be all diplomatic peeph, there was perhaps mingled an unconscious dash of coquette.

"And I think, Francie, that when a lady visits you," said she, "you might

4

offer her your hand to see the garden."

He blushed high. "I have my orders, ma'am," said he, and led her out by the door, and down by a flight of ruinous stone stair upon the second bertizan. An air of decay eluded hung about these terraces, about the very crags that framed the bay, and the towers of the old feudal fort that tottered on the western headland. But the place was bright with the inimitable brightness of the sea and flowers.

The girl had been thinking very deep as she came down, and Francie had respected her manifest abstraction.

"So this is where you live?" said she, leaning her albows on the wall and turning to him with her eyes.

"It's where I try to," he replied; "but I make rather a poor hand of it whiles."

"Are you not contented then?" she asked.

"Not me!" was the reply. "I would be a miserable man, if I was that, I think. It's not that I dislike the place, I was scarce ever anywhere else-- though I have been to Edinburgh too." He looked up at her, at that, to see if he had risen in her esteem. The touch was so purely childish that she smiled outright; and the boy drank silently the cup of shame. "I have more than I deserve, at least," he added.

"So you think, but not me," said the girl. "I think that you deserve far more. I would like to see you better 'put upon' and moving with people of your own degree and age. "She was ruthlessly bent to flatter him, for she had her end in view Could she say he was good-looking? She could not, but she did. "A good-looking lad like what you are, and so clever too! ought to be about with those of his own age. Youth is the time for amusement." She felt forty at least, her imagination not overtaking any greater age. "And here you are all alone!"

"Ay," said he, with an access of country speech, "Ay, I am that, I am dreidfully alone."

"And you feel it?" she asked.

5

"I will feel it worse than ever now!" he cried.

She had her opportunity readymade, and (the coquette prompting once more) she glanced aside from the line of her inquiry to put a question. "How do you mean?" she asked, and knew what answer to expect, or thought so.

But the boy made none de, only looked at her with a slow, heavy glance, and repeated: "Worse than ever!"

The coquette being disappointed, the diplomatist resumed, "Well!" said the diplomatist, "You will soon have company now."

"What company?" he asked, and blushed again with the guilt of his eavesdropping.

"O," said she, "you know very well, and your face betrays you, sir."

"I think shame to make a confession," he replied. "It was an accident, I would never deceive a lady. I--I heard what you said to Effie-- some of it. I saw you expected some one to come here, and...." his explanation died in silence.

"And that I cared for him?" she cried. "Well, I am not caring if you know. I do."

"And that is all I know of it," said Francie, looking quickly down.

"You do not know when he is coming?" she asked.

"No, I do not," he replied.

"Francie, you would never deceive me!" she cried. "You have kind eyes, and I have been so honest with you too! I know you would be kind to me, I feel it in my blood."

"Your blood says the truth then!" cries the boy, looking up. "But what am I to tell, when I know nothing?"

"They never even told you of the captain's coming?" she pursued.

"I never even knew he was captain till that word," he replied.

"It's not possible, Francie. Not heard of Captain Archerfield? Why he's your own cousin g-rmane! she exclaimed.

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"I never heard of him till here upon this bartizan," said he.

"You will hear plenty ill of him before you are done, and I dare you to believe it. It's all lies!" cried the girl, "foul lies!"

"They'll never say ill of him to me then," replied Francie, "I'll promise you that; neither of him nor yet of you; I'll make a charge of it."

"I do believe you're a true boy," said she, "You have a true face after all, and a bright one, whether it's bonny or not. I believe a lady could depend upon your honour."

"Ay-- or I would die first," cried the boy.

"I believe it, too," said she. "You'll never tell that I was here, then?"

"Never," said he.

"Nor what I said?"

"I'll not even think of that," said Francie.

"Nor you'll never try to find out who I am or where I came from?" she pursued.

"Deil a hair of that!" cries Francie. "It's just what I will do."

"O Francie!" said she. "I didn't think this of you. What: a lady gives you her confidence, and she asks you to be discreet, and you refuse? This is not like my cousin."

"It's like me, though," said Francie. "And I'll wear the soles off my shoes and walk the country through till I have found you out. I don't think you can understand. You're the only lady I have spoken to, except the minister's wife, since I was quite a boy."

"Keep me!" cried the visitor. "And when was that? It must be a great while past."

"No, it's no very long past. It's past, though," said Francie. "I am a man now, whatever you may think, though I allow I'm still a young one. And if I had never been a man before, I'd be a man from now. You don't know what you've done by coming here. You've made this craggy, bare place gold to me; there's more room

7

to breathe under the sky. And you think I will let all this drop out of my life
without an effort? If you wanted that, you should never have come here, or you
should have been someone else."

The girl was perturbed by his vehemence and his directness. "And yet I think,
"francie," said she, "I think hope you would not like to harm me."

"What harm do you suppose that I would bring you?" he exclaimed. "Why,
you'll never even know that I come seeking you. I've just a lonely, unknown child --
boy, if you like!-- to whom you have appeared, and all I want is to wear your colors
in my own hole. You would surely never grudge me that!"

"Francie," she said, "I think you know very little of the world."

"Me!" he cried, "I know nothing. I live here like a slater under a stone."

But I am sure you are very good." she continued, "and would always be very
careful, and I have no fear at all that you would ever do anything that might betray
me. I believe we shall all be proud of you some day yet, and I'll look forward to
hearing of it, to hearing of fine things that you will have done. And so now, good
bye to you, Kinsman," holding out her hand.

"Ah, but you must give me a keepsake of the angel's visit first!" he cried.

"You don't know how lonely I am, you don't know how I'll keep thinking, and
thinking, and dreading of you when you're gone. If it was only a chucking stone,
give me something from your hand to mine."

The boy's countenance-perplexed, -if-it-did-net-trouble, -her. To refuse,
appeared mere cruelty and to make a mountain of a molehill; to turn it laughingly
jestingly, was somehow not within her means. She picked plucked a flower at
random, and gave it, with a laugh that, to her own fine ear, seemed foolish.

"There-- goodbye!" she said, and ran up a part of the stair, before she had
thought of any adequate repartee. Then she turned. "Good bye!" she said again,
"be a good boy, and if ever you are tempted to do wrong, just mind upon the angel!"

With that she was a good deal cheered, for it seemed she had regained a lost

8

position; crossed the house with but a word to the-h- Effie; sped through the
low wood of elders where the birds were singing, and found in the farm yard
road beyond a coach awaiting her. The read way was very rough, but she did
was not conscious of the jolting as she drove away; being absorbed in a review
of the late interview. She had gone wrong, she had lost caste, she she had
been foolish and scarce saw how. She blamed herself sherplya little; not the
boy. Well, it was lucky she would never see him any more, she thought, as it
might be awkward. And the brightness of his eyes danced before her in the
coach.

**************************************************

On the back of page 8:--

Ward of the captain.

The captain comes.

Colgate Sale 208

BOND

Manuscripts-- typewritten copy.

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. Original Unpublished Manuscript, "The Go-Between, A Tale Boy's Romance. Chapter I. Which tells of An Angel's Visit." 6pp., folio. A typewritten copy of the original ms., sold in the Isobel Strong Sale, Jan.25-, 1915, p.33,no.314.

No.315, same sale, the same chapter was also sold, with portions of Chapter II, and 2pp. of prefatory remarks; the text of the chapter containing many cancellations and corrections which makes it vary from item 314. No.315 was sold again in the Roderick Terry Sale, May 3, 1934, no.325. We have no transcript of this.

The Go-Between is set in Scotland, the beginning showing the main character as a slip of a boy, 'Francoie. If this story was completed, the manuscript has not been discovered so far. Of it, R.L.S. says, writing to Sidney Colvin, June 6, 1893: "......I might likely have some more stories soon: The Owl, Death in the Pot, The Sleeper Awakened......Then there's The Go-Between, which is not impossible altogether...."

A note to this letter by Colvin states that The Go-Between would have been laid in the Pacific Islands; in the text, the characters are Sootch and the youth speaks of having been to Edinburgh.

The text of Chapter I, no.314 Isobel Strong Sale, was resold in the Colgate Sale, no. 208 Feb. 8, 1928.

In case: Typescripts and Facsimiles.

Over

"THE GO-BETWEEN"

STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS). Original Autograph Manuscript of a Portion of "The Go-Between", written on 12 pp., folio. Over 4,700 words, with a neatly typewritten transcription. Bound in full crimson crushed levent morocco, gilt tooled scroll borders, gilt decoration at each corner, gilt paneled and tooled back, gilt edges, by Sangerski and Sutcliffe, in a folding cloth box, fleece-lined. [Samoa, 1893-4]

The splendid unpublished manuscript of an unfinished novel, comprising a rough draft of the first eleven chapters and the first writing of the preface, the first chapter, and part of the second chapter.

The story, as far as Stevenson carried it before his death, is set in Scotland, beginning with the main character as a child of uncertain parentage living in a gloomy and forbidding house, persecuted and plagued by his contemporaries.

In a published letter to Sidney Colvin begun on May 29, 1893, Stevenson wrote under the date of June 6: "What do you suppose should be done with "The Ebb Tide"? It would make a volume of 200 pp.: on the other hand, I might likely have some more stories soon: "The Owl", "Death in the Pot", "The Sleeper Awakened"; all these are possible. "The Owl" might be half as long; "The Sleeper Awakened", ditto; "Death in the Pot" a deal shorter, I believe. Then there's the "Go-Between", which is not impossible altogether. "The Owl", "The Sleeper Awakened", and the "Go-Between" end reasonably well; "Death in the Pot" is an ungodly massacre."

It would seem from the above that the story might have been finished, yet, since no other portion is traceable and as mention of his stories before completion is frequent in Stevenson's letters, this may well be all that was written.

ROBERT • LOUIS • STEVENSON

Original • Autograph • Manuscript

"THE GO-BETWEEN"

AN • UNPUBLISHED • STORY • OF • SCOTCH • LIFE,
WHICH • THE • AUTHOR • NEVER • LIVED • TO •
COMPLETE.

SAMOA

1893-94

The Go-Between.

1. An angel's visit.

2. Another.

3. An errand given.

4. Anchentinny.

5. Capture and examination. Francis the liar.

6. Francis the go-between.

7. The Go-between speaks for himself.

8. A quarrel. Well, I've nothing to lose or gain
now, and I'll ever do my duty.

9. Result of the Go-Between. Jimsie intervening.

10. Anchentinny again. Thrashed, by the same person
who wrote the letter. Was that the true reason.
"I'll never deny I had another", but that was the
reason. Thou God seest me. Are you in any
danger - but now I go and

11. The Lea-head.

12.

(Preface)

The part I have played in this affair has been vastly
misrepresented; I have found many detractors who could lay
upon a child - I was scarce more - such hateful criticism
as might oppress a man; and the mere facts have been twist-
ed out of nature, like a landskip through a bull's eye
window pane. The whole course of the business shall be
here set forth with sincerity. I do not say I will not
plead my case, that is my right, but I will let facts plead
it.

Our family house is not very great, but there are parts
of it extremely ancient and that speak to the permanency
of the race. It stands in the inward end of a bay, on the
margin of a green declivity which bursts at the two head-
lands into orags. Elsewhere it is but as steep as grass
may grow on; the paths by which we wind up and down to the
seaside are crooked as a corkscrew; and when the seabirds
 cry about, and the winds blow, in a man's ears going down,
each step seems giddy. The house is in two wings; of
which one is single; betwixt them, a stair tower.
A garden lies to landward, and runs down the brae in three
small bustiyans (bastions). Certain sundry flowers bloom
there about the autumn plentifully; and beyond upon the
stair side, is a wonderful, small, ancient wood of bour-
trees (elders) dipping in one part into a bit of a dell;
such a place for elderflower in the early summer as was
never witnessed!

This was the home of my rearing: an orphan child, since
before I could remember; hastened there by a kinsman, in an
hour of cold benevolence; keeping company mostly with ser-
vants; and less concerned as to my future, or indeed I may
say as to my present standing, than I can now easily believe.
Mrs. Rintoul kept house there, a plain, kind, sonsie, prac-
tical woman; godly too, but not to be oppressive. Jims
Hendryson was the head man out of doors; he was one that I
could never love or at all fathom; a dour, dark, solemn man,
sparing of his words and ever begrimed with snuff. Day in,
day out, I tramped it inland to the parish school of Gray-
kirk, and the minister, by a special covenant with my pro-
tector, gave me evening rehearsals twice or three times in a
week. "Master Francie" was my common title in the house
and about the country; with scarce ever the edition of the
family name, to which my right was doubted.

I grew up in this way solitary and self contained: a
great reader and dreamer of dreams; yet active, too, a
horseman, a boatman, a marksman, and a climber of the crags.
My favorite reading was in ancient history, the pilgrim's
progress, and such-like adventurous narratives. In my
rambles on the sea sands, as on the broken reefs at the
cliff's foot, my mind would be exalted almost to the pitch
of delirium by dwelling upon brave deeds, and forecasting
for myself unusual and gallant destinies. I doubt if there
was ever any child more set upon this class of thoughts;
and I am sure I would at any time have braved death, and I

fear I would have risked disgrace itself, to step a little
forth out of the common track of men.

From the most of my companions in the parish school,
I was ever ready to start back; the attractions of common
childhood led me on with them into the usual enterprises of
the country boy; remembrance of something irregular in my
own standing, drunk in from Hendryson and Mrs. Rintoul
(perhaps also from the minister) caused me to recoil again
into a kind of aristocracy of bearing that got me a bellyful
of enemies first and last; and I have been stoned home from
school, and was once even dooked in the Thornieburn.

# THE GO-BETWEEN.

## Chapter I.

### An Angel's visit.

The house of Red-Scarea was not great, but there were
parts of it extremely ancient and that spoke to the per-
manency of the race. It stood at the inward angle of a bay,
on the margin of a green declivity which burst at the two
headlands into crags. In all the reentrant part, the slope
was not more steep than grass may grow on; but the paths
that climbed it were crooked as a corkscrew; and when the
seabirds cried, and the wind blew, in a man's ear going
down, each step seemed giddy. The house was of a red stone
of the countryside; in two wings, of which one is single:
betwixt them, a stair tower. It holds a fine view down
upon the surf and the sea beach, and forth upon a piece of
sea and the ships passing. A garden runs down the brae in
front, in three small bustiyans, (bastions) where certain
sundry flowers bloom plentifully. Upon the landward side,
a kitchen yard leads to an ancient, dwarfish wood of elder
trees.

One day of the early summer, when the small trees of
the wood were white and green with flowering, and there was
a clear sea-sun and a keen sea wind about the house, there
came up the path to the back door, a solitary lad. Perhaps

he was seventeen; his features were too big for each other
and for his face, and his limbs and body not yet well adjust-
ed. A judge of men would have looked twice at him; even
a passer-by might have perhaps remarked a certain air of
eagerness that breathed about him as he went, as of a young
 creature zealous to taste life, and not the ignoble parts
of it alone. It would seem he had been bathing; his
breeches were unbuttoned at the knee, a towel fluttered in
his hand, there was a freshness of the sea in his dark eyes;
had any been by the boy's elbow, they would have heard him
mouthing verses as he ran.

This clean young lad, scarce truly nubile, came
lightfooted to the back door of the Red-Scares, and sudden-
ly paused upon the threshold. So might a bird at the
report of a gun; and yet what struck upon his ear was no
more than the fresh voice of a young woman talking within.
He had that incredible expectant innocency, which grows of
experience confined to books; and the voice and accent hit
him fair in the heart with the appositeness of a thing
desired.

"And so you will tell me nothing?" said the voice.

"I dinnae ken naethin', an' that's what I'm tellin' ye", replied the hard tones of the housekeeper, Mrs. Rintoul.

There was the noise of a chair thrust hastily back
and shoes pattering on the stone floor; it seemed as though
the visitor had started up and caught Mrs. Rintoul by the

broad shoulders.

"You wicked auld wife!" cried the voice, "would ye
lee to me too? When I know that he is coming - coming
here - and know that you must know - and you put me off
with a pack of auld wive's tales! There, hinney, be guid
to me - they're all banded against him and me, don't you
desert us! Mind upon the time", she checked herself.
"And ye have a jo of your own too - I see it in your face.
Ye couldn't be hard upon me, dear? tell me when he is coming".

It came in upon the boy that he was eavesdropping;
perhaps, too, that he didn't care for what he heard, (heard
that which displeased him.) And he raised the door hasp
with a rattle and stepped into the kitchen. The sun and
the wind came in behind him, and the low old kitchen was
enlivened in every corner by dancing lights and blowing
napery. The girl turned, and faced him, tears in her eyes,
a smile and a flush upon her cheeks; not a ribbon on her
dress, not a brown hair upon her head, that did not flutter
and flow back in the sudden entry of the wind. The pair
made a strong contrast; he in the shadow, she in the shine;
he a slip of a boy, she already the ripe woman.

"And who may this be?" she asked.

"O, this is Francie? How do you do, Francie? Do you
know we can count cousinship?"

He took his bonnet off to her with a movement that
was awkward and yet gallant.

"You are to think, madam, that I do not know your name," said he; and a little after, added with a blush, "But you are very welcome here."

"No, you do not know my name," she replied, "no more
you are to know it. Do you hear that, Effie? Francie must
not hear my name."

The housekeeper grunted.

"I am a vision, Francie," pursued the stranger, "and
pretty soon I'll disappear. You must think of this as of
an angel's visit."

"I will that!" replied the boy, with ardour, "of an
angel that just shined here and was gone. And if I am not
to hear your name, I'll just have to call you _that_, when I
think about your appearing."

The angel was at least human enough to be amused by
these direct advances.

"And I think, Francie, that when a lady visits you,"
said she, "you might offer her your hand to see the garden."

He blushed high. "I have my orders, ma'am," said
he, and led her out by the door, and down by a flight of
ruinous stone stairs upon the second bustiyan (bastion),
An air of decay breathed about these terraces, about the
very crags that formed the bay, and the towers of the old
Feudal fort that tottered on the western headland; but the
place was bright with the inimitable brightness of the sea
and flowers.

The girl had been thinking very deep, as she came

"So this is where you live?" she said leaning her
elbows on the wall and turning to him with her eyes.

"It's where I try to," he replied, "but I make rather
a poor hand of it whiles."

"O, not me!" was the reply. "I would be a miserable
man, if I was that, I think. It's not that I dislike the
place: I was scarce ever anywhere else, though I have been
to Edinburgh, too." He looked up at her, at that, to see
if he had risen in her esteem. The triumph was so purely
childish that she smiled outright; and his face darkened.
"I have all that I deserve, at least," he concluded.

"I do not believe that," said she. "I think you
deserve a great deal, Francie. I would like to see better
put upon, and moving with people of your own degree and age."
She was ruthlessly bent to flatter him, for she had an end
in view; could she say he was goodlooking ? She could not,
but she did. "A good looking lad like what you are, and so
clever too! ought to be about with people of their age;
youth is the time for daffing." She forty, at least; her
imagination could overtake no greater age. "And here you
are all alone."

"Ay," said he, with an access of country speech,
"Ay, I am that. I am _dreidfully_ alone."

"And you feel it?" she asked.

"I will feel it more than ever now!" he cried, and
plucked a wallflower from the parapet.

"Why that?" she asked.

It was out of the path of her inquiry, and of course
she knew what answer to expect. But he made none, only
looked at her with a slow, heavy glance, and repeated, "More
than ever!"

"Well," said she, "you will soon have company now."

"How that?" he asked, and blushed again with the
guilt of his eavesdropping.

"O", said she, "you know very well, and your face
betrays you, sir."

"I think shame to make a confession," he replied,
"It was an accident; I could never deceive a lady. As I
came in there - I - I heard what you said to Effie - some
of it."

"Well, I care not if you know. I love him," said
the girl, and now both faces were flushed.

"You do not know when he is coming? Francie, you
would never deceive me?" she pleaded. "You have kind eyes.
You would be sorry for my sorrow, I know you would be kind
to me, I feel it in my blood."

"Your blood says the truth, then!" cried the boy.
"But what can I tell, when I ken nothing."

"They never even told you that the Captain was
coming here?"

"I never even knew he was a captain."

"It's not possible, Francie! Have you never heard

of the Captain?" she asked.

"I never heard of him till here upon this bustiyan",
said he.

"You will hear plenty of ill of him before you are
done, and I dare you to believe it. It's all lies!" cried
the girl, "foul lies!"

"They'll never say ill of him to me, then," replied
Francie. "I'll promise you that."

"I believe you're a true boy," said she, "You have
a true face after all, and a bright one, whether it's
bonny or not. I believe a lady could depend upon your
honour."

"Ay, or I would die first," cried the boy.

"I believe it, too," said she, "You'll never tell
that I was here, then?"

"Never," said he.

"Nor what I said."

"Deil a hare of that!" cried the boy, "It's just
what I will do!"

"O Francie!" said she, "I didn't think this of
you. What! a lady gives you her confidence, and she asks
for your obedience, and you refuse? This is not like my
cousin."

"It is like me, though," said Francis. "And I'll
wear the soles off my shoes and walk this country through

till I have found you out. I give you fair warning of that.
But you'll be none the wiser or the worse. I'll never let
you know."

"You are not likely to be much made up then," said she.

"I'll be made up all I want," returned the boy. "I'll
never sleep easy till I ken who and where you are. "I'll
wear your colours in my own hole. You're the only lady I
have spoken to except the minister's wife since I was quite
a boy."

"Keep me!" cried the visitor, "and when was that? It
must be a great while past."

"No, it's no very long past. It's past though," said
Francie. "I am a man now, whatever you may think; though
I allow I'm still a young one."

"Well, Francie, I believe you are, and I believe you'll
be a fine man yet, and make us all proud of you," said she.
"And now I must be gone, and here's good bye, and I know
that you'll not try to follow me."

"I will not," said Francie. "Yet I'll find you out,
too, and before you think for it. I'll tell you, my cousin,
if you are my cousin, you have made this craggy bare place
gold to me by the just coming here. Just do the one thing
more! Give me a keepsake of the angel's visit - if it was
a chucky stone - give me something out of your own hand to
mine."

"She laughed, but there was a tremor in her laughter
for the boy's warmth affected her.

"Ha'e Francie, there's my napkin!" she said, "And now

goodby, and be a good boy, and if ever you're tempted to do
wrong, just mind upon the angel."

With that she ran up the terrace stair, leaving him
behind, round the house with but a word to Effie, sped
through the low wood of elders where the birds were singing,
and found in the farm road beyond, a coach awaiting her.

As she drove away, the brightness of the boys eyes
haunted her.

## Chapter II. Captain Archerfield.

As Francis sat that afternoon, in the bour-tree wood,
the handkerchief open in his lap, and his mind plunged in
a medley of golden thoughts, he was aware of a clatter of
hoofs near by in the road to the Red-Soares. Aware, and
unaware, it should be rather said; the sensual ear noting
the unusual sound, the mind not marking it. An imaginative
boy, dwelling in so great an emptiness of life, he had
siezed on the new plaything with rapture; and the by paths
where his fancy wandered, still ever proceeded from and
still led back to the one bright image. In how many ways
he served her, in how many dangers his breast was her de-
fence, what sacrifices, what slights he endured gladly for
her nameless sake, not even the memory of youth could have
recorded; these pretty and glittering dreams ran, and were
realised, and scanned, and forgot, in a so swift succession.
Birds sang here and there about him in the decline of the
afternoon, the westering sun fled from the hollow where he
sat, gilded a while the flowering elders, glittered at last

upon their topmost twigs, and vanished; the evening glowed
overhead, a star or two peeped among the elders; and the
boy rose at last and went loathing homeward, where he should
meet lights and people, and the voice of speech must recall
him from that many-tinted palace of dreams in which his
soul was ravished.

It must not be supposed his dreams were practical.
She loved another, that was the title page of his romance,
a not wholly childish love affair. Her heart, her hand
were for the other; and he admitted it so in his romances;
granted the first place to the other, inventing for himself
entrancing but still subaltern parts. At times, indeed,
but with a guilty sense of unreality and presumption Francis
supplanted his unknown rival; more often, when he lay be-
fore her bleeding, dying, suffering and sighing with more
than mortal pangs of pain and delight, the rival would be
there also, and added the tribute of his thanks.

As he came through the kale yard, he was aware of
Jimsie Hendryson washing down a gray horse by the stable
door, and his heart spoke up plain. Whoever he was, the
rival must be here. At the door, old Mrs. Rintoul received
him fluttering like a hen.

"Save's, and here ye are!" she cried, "your Kizzen's
here, Francie - your Kizzen Fred, the captain they call him,
that's Mr. Adam's son. Here, gie your face a dicht at my
sink, and awa up in' ye to the panneled chalmer. And
whatever ye say of it, my bonny doo, never let on that ever
ye hurk' heid in my kitchen, that would be a bonny business

for Fred to ken of! Mind your gentry, Francie; haud up
your heid to him and his nippet English, and his London
ways. Here let me kame your hair to ye? Will ye no pit
on your Sindy things?"

And the good dame having superintended and assisted
in his rustic toilet, Francis went slowly upstairs to the
panelled chamber. Mistrust was his chief feeling; he was
now to have a companion; he was to see the man she loved;
in one day he was to have seen the angel and the angel's
mate. The room to which he was bound was in the single
wing of the Red Scares, taking light on the one yard from
the Kale yard, on the other from the bay and sea. It was
plainly panelled; had once been painted white, but that
was long ago; the chimney was in a corner, and as the room
had been long disused, a fire glittered in the hearth, and
the windows having been set open, the scent and sound of the
sea entered freely. A table was laid for two with the
best old napery and silver plate; at one end of which a
man of perhaps eight and twenty sat. He was remarkably
strong and handsome and well groomed; his eyes blue as the
sea, beautifully groomed, with ingratiating manners.

"Are you Frank?" said he, "Well, I am your cousin
Fred, and I have come down here to stay with you, if you
will permit me." He offered a large handsome hand as he
spoke, and his smile was captivating.

"I am very glad to see you, sir," said Francis, "though,
as you seem to know more of me than I know of you, you must
be very well aware I have no quality to play the host."

"Well then," said Fred with a laugh, "we are going to stay here together, if we will allow each other. And anyhow I think we shall be good friends."

"It will not be my fault - at least not of my intentions - if we do not," returned Frank.

Presently they sat down to a rizzoned haddock, a dish of collops, and a bottle of wine.

"Hullo! This claret is not bad. It's good, sir - it's good!" exclaimed the Captain.

"I always thought it was good," said Francis, "though I have not had many opportunities of comparison."

The Captain looked upon him with a smile. "Have you ever tasted any other, Frank?" he asked.

"At least I prefer it to the minister's Eyworth port," returned the boy.

"I bet you a penny you're right there!" cried the captain. "And what does a man do in this hole?"

"There is some shooting," answered Frank, "and you can go out with the boats to fish. In the herring season, when that begins, it is even a very picturesque experience; and if the take be good, the return at dawn is sometimes very merry."

"What extraordinary words you seem to use!" observed the Captain.

"I am sorry if I speak rustically," said Frank.

"You?" cried the Captain, "damme, no! You talk like a book."

"I am a great reader," says Frank, "I suppose it will

be that. Having been very solitary, and indeed with no
one but dependants, I have a great deal of time upon my
hands for study. Sometimes, in winter, when it blows hard
from the seaward, I sit here by the fire and pass whole
nights of application and excitement. I am sure I could
not be more happy if I passed them at Almacks."

"And what do you know about Almacks, Master Frank?"
asked Fred.

"I am afraid very little," answered the boy with a
blush. "But I know - I have picked up in books that it
is a fashionable place of amusement. I have read many
novels, for one who lives as I do. Mr. Swail - that is
the minister - approves of novels in moderation; and he
has given me all the Scotch novels, as well as many others.
Are not the Scotch novels great?"

"I believe you my boy," said the Captain. "Hullo,
this bottle's done; let's have another; no, let's have some
hot water mixture. We're in Scotland after all, and wheth-
er we like it or not we're Scotch, and let me tell you, by
gad, there's worse things than whisky toddy."

"Well, and what is to become of you? We don't know
each other yet. This wine is worth the journey - What is
old Hunks going to do with you?" asked the Captain flauntly.

"I beg your pardon?" said Francis. "To whom are
you pleased to allude."

"To old Hunks," repeated his cousin. "To Mr. Thomas
Archerfield of Red Scares, Q.C., our host, my uncle, and..."
the Captain paused.

["\"And perhaps you were going to add 'my father'?" cried Francis, with red ears", "The Captain considered him with interest. \"I really don't know that I was,\" said he. \"I don't know the circumstances.\"", "\"No more do I, cousin Fred,\" was the reply; \"and in that dubiety, it is impossible I should suffer you to speak of your host unless respectfully.\"", "\"You are perfectly right there, Frank, and I ask your pardon. The pleasure of a glass of wine with you! I like you, Frank; you're a gentleman, my boy. Blood tells. We Archerfields are gentlemen anyway; it's a pity we're such damned poor gentlemen, which brings me back to where I was again. What is......?\" and again he paused.", "\"Mr. Archerfield going to do with me?\" said Frank smiling. \"It appears I am to have a writership in the India Company; I expect my nomination any day.\"", "\"Like him!\" said the Captain.", "\"I do not know, and I do not see how you can,\" returned Frank. \"I am like the carrier in the story, who wakened up on the top of his cart, and found the stilts propped and the horse gone. 'If this is me' said he, 'I have lost a horse, and if this is no me, I have found a cart.' Just so, if I have no claim on Mr. Archerfield, this writership is very handsome; and if I be his son, which he has given me no right to think, well - even then! But you will excuse me, Cousin Frank; you take up my quarrel with so much feeling, I am almost tempted to imagine you must have one"]

of your own."

"And him too!" cried the Captain. "Our host - then
that's inoffensive - brought me up, had me at the best
schools, bought me my commission, bought me my troop, did
all he could to make me suppose myself his heir; and when
a few measly debts crop up - Upon my honour, I grow angry
to speak of it," cried the Captain, shaking his fist. "What
was I to do? I thought myself the man's heir, and lived
accordin'. Any man would; it was five parts loyalty.
Give you my word, I thought he wished me to; thought it
was a kind of a gratification to a dry old lawyer, to have
a dashin' young fellow goin' the pace for him. Give you
my word, I took a pride in the thing. And now! He stops
the supplies; looked at me square in the face, and said he
didn't care. I told him he had led me to consider myself
his heir. -'Well, you see, you're not,' says he. I sup-
pose you are, Frank; God knows I give you joy of it.
'Damn, sir,' says I, 'do you understand that some of these
are debts of honour?' I cried. 'So I see,' says he, 'and
I think it a pity.' Give you my word that's what he said;
cold as ice, with that kind of biting smile that I could
kick."

"He is very cold," agreed Francis, who looked cold
enough himself.

"Now, do you understand my position?" pursued the
Captain, fairly launched on the current of his ways.
"Here am I, a young fellow that never did anybody any harm,
and by gad, sir, it looks as if I was to find myself dis-

honoured!" he roared. "I was goin' the pace, I never deny
it; I thought the man wanted me to. He had no manner of
right to lead me on the ice, and then desert me. And by
gad, it comes to this that I may have to blow my brains out.
Is that fair? Is it fair play, Frank?"

"No, I do not think it was quite fair," said Frank.
"I doubt if he has been perfectly fair to either of us."

The Captain wrung his hand. "Frank, it's an extra-
ordinary thing how I take to you."