his lips all the way home.”

And he did not open his lips during the meal. He ate and drank as usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done, and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. He was scarcely more silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that Jean had seen only once or twice upon it—a look at once grieved and angry, of which she had learned to be afraid. She longed to ask him if any new trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in silence with her work in her hands till Phemie appeared at the door.

“If you please, Miss Dawson, will you speak here a minute. It’s Robbie Saugster again.”

Jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father’s eye followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. She went into the room where her father’s books and papers were kept, and in a minute Phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. He waited till Phemie had shut the door, and then he said:

“It is this I was bidden give you, Miss Jean. I cam’ afore, and then I looked for ye on the pier and a’ way, but I couldna see ye, and I doubt it’s ower late for an answer new.”

He offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance and put in her pocket.

“What is this about a book that I promised you, Robbie?” she asked.

“Oh! ay, Miss Dawson. I had to tell Phemie something. And I’ll be glad o’ an orra book or two, as I’m goin’ to the school—a count-book or maybe a Latin grammar. But I’ll come back for it again.”

“Wait a minute, Robbie,” said Jean. She went into the parlour again where her father was sitting.

“May, what is this about a book for Robbie Saugster? Did you promise him one? He says he is going to the school.”

“A book? I dinna mind. Maybe I did. What kind of a book was it? I canna look it out to-night, I am too tired.”

The father’s eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny.

“There are old school books enough, and I’ll tell him that you’ll look them out to-morrow.”

“You should have had them ready, no’ to keep the laddie coming back again,” said her father sharply.

“I didna mind about it, and I dare say Jean promised as well as me,” she answered pettishly.

“Mind next time then; and, Jean, tell Phemie to give the laddie his supper before he goes home.”

“Yes, papa,” said Jean as she shut the door.

“Something has happened and he was watching. It is about poor Geordie, and I’m not sure whether I should tell him or not I must think about it first.”

Robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then Jean came in and sat down with her work at her father’s side, working quietly and busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. May, weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her chair.

“Bid them come ben to worship, and let the lassie go to her bed,” said her father.

When worship was over, Jean folded her work, saying she was weary too. “Unless you may want any thing, papa,” said she turning before she reached the door.

He looked at her a moment as if in doubt, and then he said shortly, “I want nothing,” and Jean went away to let herself think over it all.

“No answer!” said she as she took the note from her pocket again. A leaf torn from an account-book it seemed to be. She spread it before her on the table; there were only a few words written on it.

“Miss Dawson,—

“If it is possible, come to the pier head before the ‘John Seaton’ sails. Maybe the sight of you will do what no persuasion of mine can do. But no ill shall come to Geordie that I can keep from him. Come at all risks.

“Your humble servant,—

“W.C.”

“And I might have been there, if I had but known. What will he think of me? And can it be that Geordie has sailed on the ‘John Seaton’? No wonder that my heart grew sick as the ship went out of sight. And oh how can I ever tell my father?”