mysel' to feed, and I hae been sa strang and weel that onything would do me. But your wife and bairns need mair than I hae needed. I dinna like to see them sa thin and pale."

A cry from one of the children attracted Jeannie's attention, and she left the room.

"It canna be, Rab, that they hae na been weel keepit," he continued. "Plenty o' aiten meal would mak them look better than they do."

Rab was confused, and did not reply. He could not look into the clear gray eyes of honest Wullie and tell him that a part of his wages went to the innkeeper, that he often treated a set of idle, jolly fellows with the money that should have given bread to his family. So he only said, "Jeannie has never complained o' her fare."

"Weel, Rab, the pale cheek will sometimes tell o' suffering when the tongue refuses to speak o' it. I dinna say it is so in Jeannie's case; ye ken that best yoursel'."

"Wullie, ye are o'er plain o' speech. Ilka ane wouldna tak it frae ye."

"I am plain-spoken, Rab. I never say yea when I mean nay; neither do I stand aboot tellin' a freend his fauts when ony gude can come o' it. 'Faithful are the wounds o' a freend,' ye ken."

"That may be; but sic talk maistly sits too snug to fit weel. Ye are ca'ed honest Wullie, and ye cam as honestly by the name through your plain, outspoken way as by your fair dealing."

"Weel, I am no ashamed o' the name, however I cam by it."

Jeannie's return changed the conversation to some other subject.

CHAPTER II. THE NEW HOME.

The next morning was the Sabbath. Of course honest Wullie was at home on that morning. It was a strange thing for him to have children in his house. But his face brightened as little Jamie's curly head and happy face appeared, and instinctively he extended his hand. "Come to me, come to your uncle, my wee man," he said in winning tones.

The child approached him rather slowly, and suffered himself to be lifted to his uncle's knee. Soon the broad palm of honest Wullie was stroking Jamie's head, and from that time Uncle Wullie's knee was the child's favorite seat. The other child was a mere babe, a sweet, delicate little girl, named Isabel, whom Wullie always called "the wee lass." This child he did not at first attempt to take, for she was "sic a wee bit thing," he said, he would be "a'maist sure to let her fa'."

There was soon a decided improvement in Rab's family. The children grew plump and rosy, and the mother lost the pale, sad look. Rab seldom went to town, and when he did he returned early. His wife began to breathe more freely; she inwardly felt that Wullie's influence would save her husband.

Spring came, and with it a change of labor for Robert Murdoch. His brother secured employment for him on Mr. Lindsay's farm, as he had proposed. Jeannie now moved about the house with a light step and a lighter heart. The cottage too was undergoing a change; not under the carpenter's hand, but under the skilful, remodelling hand of a woman. The bareness was less apparent. In the best room were a chest of drawers and a clock, the only heirlooms Jeannie possessed. The windows were curtained, some of the rough chairs and unsightly stools were cushioned; here was a small mirror, and there a bright pincushion and housewife. The cradle, too, with its many-colored covering and tiny pillow, and little Isabel's sweet face half hidden in it, made the cottage seem more like a home. True, there was no elegance or beauty, but there was a change; for honest Wullie had considered his home furnished when he had a bed, a table, a few chairs, shovel and tongs, parritch-pot, and bake-kettle. As to time, he could always tell that by the crowing of the cock or the position of the sun. He was so accustomed to these methods of telling time that he seldom needed to look at the noon-mark cut in the south window. But Wullie appreciated the change that had taken place, and smiled approvingly. He even went so far as to say, "It taks a woman's hand to mak hame tidy." He began to perceive that he had received as well as afforded comfort by opening his door to others.

Quickly passed the spring and summer seasons. On warm afternoons Jeannie often sat in the pleasant cottage door sewing on some pretty garments for the little ones who were playing at her feet. She had watched the budding trees with unusual interest, for the new life in nature seemed to harmonize with her own fresh hopes. Her heart was again blithe and hopeful, and as the birds carolled their notes of joy, she too sang old songs of love and happiness. But hers was a happiness founded on the constancy of frail humanity. Alas, that cannot always be trusted.

CHAPTER III. DAFT JAMIE'S.

About two miles from the cottage was a small inn and dramshop familiarly known as Daft Jamie's. The nominal proprietor was James McAllister, but the house was kept by his wife; for, many years before, McAllister had been so badly injured in a drunken brawl that he had never fully recovered his reason, and had ever since borne the name of Daft Jamie. This was a place of resort for all the idlers of the neighborhood, who came here to gossip and drink and empty their pockets into Mrs. McAllister's money-drawer. Rab well knew the road to this place, but since he had brought his family to his brother's house he had kept away from it.

One evening late in autumn Robert Murdoch failed to come home as usual. As the evening advanced Jeannie's fears fast deepened into certainty; but she concealed her anxiety as well as she could and endeavored to appear cheerful.

Wullie had no fears concerning his brother. He sat down near the fire, preparing to doze until Rab should return; but before he was lost in slumber Jeannie broke the silence by remarking that the night was dark, and it was a long way to Daft Jamie's.

"What puts Daft Jamie's into your heid?" said Wullie. "Surely Rab is no there. He is crackin' wi' Donald McPherson or some o' the neebors. Dinna worry yoursel'. Gang to your bed, and I'll wait for Rab."

But Jeannie did not go to bed. She resumed her work and relapsed into silence.

Again Wullie settled himself into an easy posture and succeeded in falling asleep. The unhappy wife still listened for the footsteps of her husband, but all the sound she heard was the heavy breathing of the weary man in the chimney-corner. After another hour had passed she again roused the sleeper.

"I am right sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I am worried about Rab. Would you be sa kind as to gang and look for him?"

"Ay, I will gang, to please you," said he, putting on his bonnet and going out into the darkness. It was now late. As he passed the neighbors' houses one after another, he found only darkness and silence. The inmates were wrapped in slumber. Rab was not there. He kept on till he saw the light of Daft Jamie's. As he approached the house he heard loud laughing. He opened the door and beheld with astonishment his brother, who had always been as lithe as a willow, performing sundry feats for the amusement of the company. Rab was so much engaged that he did not notice the entrance of the new-comer.

"Gude save us!" exclaimed one of the company, "if here isna honest Wullie! I would liefer see the de'il himsel' in this place."

Wullie walked straight to his brother. "It is time all honest folk were at hame," said he.

Robert looked at him a moment, hardly knowing whether to be angry or to yield and feel foolish.

"Can a man no hae a bit