know it is queer. I call Uncle Hugh the bandbox man—to myself only, of course. He is never untidy, or hot, or cold. He seems to get up out of bed tidy; because I saw him in his night-shirt one morning, and his hair was all straight and smooth.

Mine isn't now when I get up, because they don't cut it so short here, and it has got all curly. I will ask Maggie to cut off a bit for you to see.

Maggie has got such a nice brother. He says he remembers you when you were a little girl, and my eyes are like yours. He is the head-keeper now, and lets me go out fishing with him. He has got straight red hair, and oh, such a red beard! and he talks in such a queer way—they all do here; but I am beginning to understand. Maggie is going to live at Sandy's cottage soon. He had a wife, but she is dead, and there is no one to work and cook for him. But I shall see Maggie nearly every day, and Nan—that is Jessie's nurse—will mend my clothes.

The primroses have been quite lovely. It will be all withered when it has been through the Red Sea, and will have no smell, but I send you one all the same. Mother, you forgot to tell me what English flowers were like—they are beautiful.

I hope the major is quite well, and I do hope he doesn't get any fatter, because of his poor little horse. I wish he could see how thin Uncle Hugh is—sometimes I wonder I can't see through him. He walks up the steepest hills and over the heather without ever stopping.

Tell father I can ride quite as well as Brian, and Uncle Hugh says I have a good seat. It must be true, because he never praises anybody.

Oh, dear darling mother, my hand is quite tired, and I have taken two afternoons to write this letter. I wish I could see you and feel you, though I don't in the least forget what you are like. I can't bear to look at your picture often, because it makes the tears come in my eyes, and you might not like me to cry. At night when I go to bed I shut my eyes very quick and very tight, and try not to remember anything in India. I generally go to sleep very quick. The next time I write perhaps I shall be nearly a hero. I am a long way off it yet. It would be dreadful if I was not one before you come. A thousand kisses to you and father from your own loving little boy,

JEFF.

The letter did not stand so irreproachably spelt, but that is what it said and meant.

CHAPTER IV.

My poor little boy sadly missed many things that were joys or daily events at home in India. Yet he did not magnify their importance unduly, and remembered that he must not grieve the loving heart which probably ached with just as keen a longing as his own. This was heroism of a negative kind, I fancy.

At Loch Lossie they were not at all demonstrative people. They never kissed each other in the day-time, or walked arm in arm, or sat very near together.

To Jeff these things had become natural, and his spontaneous, affectionate nature seemed suddenly frozen up by circumstances. The dull ache of longing for kindly, smiling eyes, for little playful speeches, at times seemed more than he could bear.

And to him who had lived in the constant presence of his mother the many restrictions laid upon the children at Loch Lossie seemed cruelly hard; and it was a discipline that seemed to have no meaning, that seemed to presuppose disobedience.

He might not go in the drawing-room or conservatory without leave, or look at the books in the library, or pick the commonest flowers in the garden, or walk near the loch. No promise was ever regarded as sacred by his seniors.

"But if I give you my word, Uncle Hugh," he had pleaded in early days, "not to go near the water, or touch the boats, surely I may go down the drive."

Uncle Hugh only looked down on him with cold denial.

"Little boys are not to be trusted; their promises are not worth much," he answered.

Then Jeff got very red, and burst out passionately:

"You must have known only boys who were liars. Did you not speak the truth yourself when you were young?"

Brian pulled at his jacket to modify his speech. Jeff wrenched it away.

"Don't touch me, Brian; I shall say what I like; and I know you don't always speak the truth. Uncle Hugh, don't you know it is only cowards who make false promises? Can't you trust me? No one who is brave—really brave—or who tries to be brave—would tell a lie."

But the appeal seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Not long after this little scene the Rev. Mr. M'Gregor had reason to complain of Jeff's negligence. He was very inattentive to instruction and his lessons were never properly prepared.

"The boy, moreover, Mr. Colquhoun, has a tiresome habit of reasoning with regard to actions, even my actions. This approaches disrespect. Logic, you are aware, cannot be conveniently applied to every circumstance of life."

"It ought to be," said rigid Mr. Colquhoun, with a certain degree of sternness.

"I respect the boy for his fearless questionings and outspoken sentiments, though I admit they are embarrassing at times."

"I am not sure, Mr. M'Gregor, if Geoffry does not teach us a lesson sometimes."

Uncle Hugh called him Geoffry, much to Jeff's amusement.

Secretly Uncle Hugh did not highly esteem the boy's tutor, though necessity compelled him to employ his services.

The Rev. Mr. M'Gregor was, no doubt, a clever man in his way, but he was not a man of high principle. He hated trouble of any sort, and expediency was usually his guide. Still he had had much experience in teaching, and Aunt Annie was quite equal to the task of sounding his knowledge of classics and mathematics.

These were beyond reproach, and she esteemed it a very fortunate accident which had thrown him in her way.

One of the most strict laws laid down at Loch Lossie was that the boys were never to make use of the boats moored at the little landing-stage.

It came to Jeff's knowledge that Brian repeatedly disobeyed this order. He knew that at dusk his cousin frequently went out alone in a little skiff that was easily managed. Finally, after many anxious days, he resolved to tell Brian that he was aware of his disobedience.

Brian turned on him fiercely, calling him "Spy," "Sneak," and "Holly."

Jeff did not lack in daring or intrepidity, and it was hard to be reproached with timidity by one he knew his inferior in the respect of courage. Then he remembered that to be patient was not the least part of a hero's task, and checked the angry words that were about to rise.

One morning Uncle Hugh came into the school-room, where the boys were always to be found at this hour. His face was graver than usual, and his voice sounded cold and cruel in Jeff's ears.

"One of you boys has disobeyed me. You have been out in the skiff. I suppose it was last evening while we were at dinner."

He looked steadily at the two lads, who were gathering their books together to take down to Mr. M'Gregor's house. Jeff coloured up to the roots of his curly hair, and looked down, unwilling to confront the guilty one's confusion. But Brian, with the angelic face and innocent aspect he habitually wore, was self-possessed enough to ask:

"Did somebody say they saw one of us, papa?"

Mr. Colquhoun looked at his own son, and never doubted his innocence.

"No, my boy, but I found a pocket-knife in the skiff and a coil of gut, with two fish. I know you have both knives exactly alike, and probably only one of you can tell me to which it belongs. Geoffry, have you your knife in your pocket?"

Silence, and no movement on Jeff's part. In a moment Jeff looked up, and in his steady brown eyes there was something which Uncle Hugh could not read.

It was a bold glance, but not a defiant one; a resolute gleam, but yet a sad one. For days afterwards Mr. Colquhoun remembered that dauntless look.

"No, Uncle Hugh," he said firmly.

"Brian, where