of when they left home, for they well knew that the young ladies from Saughleas could not, on such a day, go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship set sail for northern seas. If the day had been fine, they might have gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to while away an hour. Even in the wind and sleet Jean might have gone with her father, if the ship had not been the “John Seaton,” or if Willie Calderwood had not been on board. But as it was, she could not even name such a thing to her father. He would have been angry, and it would have done no good.

So it was to the rocks above the Tangle Stanes they must go. If the day had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal would have been given as the ship went by. But they had the high desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold violence.

And there was no sign of the ship. There was nothing but great wild waves rising and falling as far as they could see, and masses of white foam here and there, where they broke themselves on half hidden rocks beneath. There was no sign of life except that now and then a solitary sea-gull shrieked sadly through the blast.

“Eh! but it’s dreary and cold,” said May with a shudder.

“Go down to yon sheltered nook and bide there till I tell you that she is coming.”

“But it’s a’ nonsense, Jean. She mayna come at all, as auntie said.”

“Since we’re here, we’ll bide a while:” So May went down to the sheltered nook, and wrapping her cloak about her, she took from her pocket a biscuit or two with which she had providently supplied herself, and prepared to wait with what patience she could till her sister chose to go. And Jean, unable to stand still in the bitter wind, struggled up and down the narrow limits of the ledge,—not thinking—hardly feeling—for she needed all her power to keep her footing on the slippery rock—only waiting for the ship.

She came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was doubtful whether any signal from those on shore could be seen on board.

“Are you coming, May? Haste you,” cried Jean, and while her sister lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. At the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. It was but for a moment. Before May had clambered to her side, the clouds met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all.

“Take it, May. It is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. He must have seen it when the sun shone out. Take it, and hold it fast.”

“It is easy said, hold it fast, and it’s all nonsense,” said May pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet signal, and carried it out to sea.

“My shawl!” gasped May. “My bonny scarlet shawl?”

“It’s an ill omen, I doubt,” said Jean in a whisper. “But never mind the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. And now we may go home.”

“It is all folly from first to last,” said May. “And what I am to say about my shawl, I canna tell.”

“Say nothing. Who has a right to ask? And, May, I think I’ll walk home—to warm myself, for I am cold.” She looked cold and could not keep herself from trembling. “Go back to Auntie Jean’s. My father will be sure to seek us there, and I’ll be home before you.”

May was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the afternoon. But hoping that she might get to her aunt’s house before him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her aunt’s pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the desolate wind-swept height.

And there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way, “carrying her life with it,” she said to herself, in vague wonder at the utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon her.

“What has come to me?” she muttered. “What is Willie Calderwood to me, but a friend? He has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to my bonny May—why that makes him more to me—and not less, surely. And friends must part. There is many a sair heart in Portie the night—and folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. And oh! if Geordie would but come home?”

Again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water, giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she went down to the north, and then there was but “the fearsome waves of the sea,” from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. But she had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields, the near way home. She lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing dark when she went in at the gate.

“Is it you, Miss Dawson?” said a voice in the darkness. “Has any thing happened? Are ye your lane?”

“Nothing has happened. I preferred to walk. Are they not come yet?”

“Nobody has come yet, Miss Dawson, and there has been nobody here but Robbie Saugster, wantin’ a book that you promised him—or Miss May maybe it was,” said Phemie. “You were hardly awa’ ere he was here, and he said he’d come back the morn.”

Jean sat down wearily in the hall.

“I am wet and tired,” said she.

“I was sure you would be that,” said Phemie, “and I made a bit fire in your ain room, and I’ll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy. No wonder you are tired.”

“That was well done. They cannot be long now in coming. I’ll go and make myself ready, and have the tea made at once.”

Phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress.

“Eh! Miss Dawson, but you are white and spent looking. It’s the heat, I dare say, after being in the cold.”

She knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary feet with kindly care, and Jean let her do as she would, saying nothing for a while.

“I’m better now. Yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after the cold of the afternoon. Thank you, Phemie, that is comfortable. I will be down in a minute now.”

She was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father came in.

“You are late, papa.”

“Yes—too late—too late,” said he, and then he sat down by the fire without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his shoulders above it.

“Something has happened,” said Jean to herself. But she knew he would not in his present mood answer her questions. She rose and took the plaid and his hat, and carried them away. Then she helped him to take off his coat. He did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the time he was seated at the table, May came down. Her sister met her at the door, asking softly,—

“What has happened to my father?”

“Has any thing happened? I do not know. I waited at auntie’s till I was weary, and then I went to Jamieson’s, and waited there. He came at last, but he has not opened