of death.

Not a line of weariness was left on the old face, not

a furrow of pain-a grand repose.

Instead of being terrified, Easie was strangely attracted by the sight-awed indeed, but calmed and reassured.

"Eh, Janet, she's awfu' bonnie-and that still!' she exclaimed through her tears. She did not now weep for Grannie, if she had only known, but for herself-for the charge that had been taken out of her willing little hands for ever.

So Easie stood, gazing at the quiet face, for a long time; and then suddenly she turned and ran out of the room without saying a word. She had remembered the charge that was still left to her. The bairn, rather crumpled and forlorn, lay awaiting her care. Easie caught it up in her arms, and fell to work washing and dressing it with tremendous energy.

Grannie died on Saturday, and her funeral was to be on Tuesday. Monday evening saw a new member added to the family party at Leeks. This was Lizzie, the mother of the bairn. When Easie heard that Lizzie was expected, she formed a mental picture of the sort of girl who would appear; she would be shrinking and ashamed-looking, Easie concluded, for the mistaken bairn would probably have crushed all her self-respect.

But on Monday evening arrived a big, rollicking, red-cheeked, good-natured-looking young woman, about as different from Easie's idea of her as anyone could well have been. The death in the house made it necessary for her to enter it soberly; but one could guess that on any other occasion her entrance would have been a noisy one.

Sae puir auld Grannie's awa'?' she said. 'Weel, she was gettin' gey stiff and blind. I was whiles sorry for her mysel', sittin' there she paused, to glance at Grannie's empty chair. Then, catching sight of Easie, who sat in the chimney corner with the bairn on her knee, she ran across the kitchen and caught the child up in her arms.

Eh, my bonnie wee lamb, there ye are!' she cried, without a trace of shame or contrition in her voice or manner. She danced the bairn about in her strong arms till it crowed with delight. Easie stood up, her eyes fixed jealously on her charge. Lizzie in the meantime was exclaiming with genuine admiration on the improvement in her child.

'She's a real fine lassie noo,' she said. Then she glanced at

Easie. 'Y're wee tae mind a bairn,' she said, with a sound of goodnatured contempt in her voice.

'Aye, I'm wee,' said Easie. She did not try to assert herself as in former days. Lizzie laughed and dandled her baby in her

arms.

'I'll be takin' her mysel' soon,' she said mysteriously. 'D'ye hear what I'm sayin', mither?' she continued, addressing Kate, who was baking at the window.

'What's yon?' her mother grunted out.

'Weel, it's this,' Lizzie began, depositing the bairn again on Easie's knee, and going across to where her mother stood, 'it's this, mother-John and me's tae be marrit this day fortnight.'

'Nane too sune,' said Kate darkly. Lizzie tossed her head. 'We've got a fine bit hoose oot Kippen way, and I'll tak' the bairn wi' me there.'

"A good thing tae,' said Kate, 'sic a fash she's been sin' ever ye had her.'

'She'll no' be a fash tae me,' said Lizzie hotly, an' gin John and me had got a hoose sooner, ye'd no' have had her a' this while.'

At this point of the discussion William McLeod came in from the fields. He greeted his daughter very sternly, but the greeting did not seem to annoy her in the least. She began at once to tell him the news she had just given her mother. He received it without a word.

And what aboot Easie there? Kate said. She's engaged wi' me for six months-gets a shillin' a week and her meat-an' noo Grannie's awa, an' gin the bairn gaes, what for wad I keep Easie?'

Send her hame,' Lizzie suggested.

'She hasna a hame.'

'Weel, then, ye maun keep her tae work oot bye.'

The discussion raged thus for fully ten minutes, while Easie sat silent, listening as these arbiters of her fate disputed over her future. Too well she knew that within a day or two quite another solution of the problem would be given. Still she kept silencenot a word of the Inspector; she held on grimly to what remained to her of the life of responsibility. Even now, however, it seemed that her kingdom was going to be taken from her bit by bit. Grannie was gone, and now Lizzie was claiming the bairn.

'I'll tak' the bairn the nicht,' Lizzie told her, and Easie had to

renounce the child to its mother with as good grace as she could

muster.

'She'll maybe cry a wee,' she said. 'Being used wi' me, she'll ken a difference.'

Lizzie laughed. 'She'll surely ken me,' she said proudly, as she lifted the bairn from its cradle and carried it off upstairs. Easie felt inclined to cry. Here she was, thrust aside, not needed by anyone; she slipped away to bed (pausing for a moment at the door of Grannie's room where so lately she had always been going in and out) and crept into her own cupboard-like little chamber. She was free to sleep now without fear of interruption. No longer would Grannie be cryin' on her. No longer would she be roused by the whimperings of the bairn. Yet by some strange freak of our human nature, Easie wept bitterly at the thought of this undisturbed repose. The bed felt cold and empty where the bairn used to lie, and once and again she started up, dreaming that she heard Grannie's voice calling her name. Each time she fell asleep once more, but at last an unmistakably real voice sounded in her ear, and the next minute Lizzie came in with the bairn in her arms. It was screaming lustily.

'Here, Easie, tak' her. She's that strange wi' me I canna get a wink o' sleep,' she said impatiently.

Then indeed was Easie's hour of triumph. Sitting up in bed, flushed with delight, she joyfully received the bairn back into her arms. And the child, recognising her well-known touch, hearing her familiar voice, ceased its screams as if by magic, and snuggled down to sleep.

'Did ever ye see the like o't!' Lizzie exclaimed.

Easie positively smirked with delight.

'She's that used wi' me this long time,' she said modestly. 'I'm thinkin' I'll hae a job wi' her yet,' Lizzie said ruefully, 'but if ye'll keep her the nicht, I'll get some rest.'

Easie acquiesced condescendingly, and the discomfited mother went off to seek repose.

In this way Easie felt that her dignity had been a good deal vindicated, and she came down to the kitchen next morning, proudly carrying the bairn, and fully aware that she, not either of the elder women in the house, was able to manage it.

This was the funeral day, and from all the district round the neighbours had been invited to the 'buryin'. By twelve o'clock they began to arrive in twos and threes, black-coated and solemn.

Then the minister appeared-dreadfully solemn also, and in the darkened 'best room' they spoke together in low tones.

Easie was much impressed-or rather oppressed; for somehow, she thought, in her childish way, they should not be so sad. If they knew as well as she did all the weakness and weariness that poor old Grannie had got away from, they would not look so gloomy. But then the neighbours perhaps didn't know about these long hours of sitting in her chair, stiff and weary and not able to help herself or about the long, long afternoons with nothing to do— or the blindness. Well, all these things were passed away now, and Grannie rested; surely it was well with her they need not look sad about it at all.

So Easie questioned as she watched the solemn assembling of the mourners; and yet after the plain little hearse, followed by the company of black-clad men, had disappeared round the turn of the road, tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she gave big gulping sob. She, if no one else in the house, missed Grannie. Hoots, Easie, dinna stand greetin' there-it's a' ower noo; gang ben the hoose and lift the blinds, we maun get tae wurk,' quoth Kate.

The next morning as they sat at breakfast the postman came up to the door-a most unusual event at Leeks. Easie was sent to bring in the letter, whatever it might be. She did so reluctantly. 'Thae taxes,' William McLeod growled, as he opened a large, official-looking envelope.

He read over the contents of the letter twice, then broke out with, for him, unusual violence, as he brought his fist down heavily on the table :

'Weel, I'm damned

'What is't, Willum ?' Kate asked, curiously.

'Tell us what it's aboot, father,' cried Lizzie.

Only Easie kept silence. She knew.

Slowly, because he was no scholar, William read aloud the summons. It was quite distinct, and accused him, William McLeod, of employing as a domestic servant one Isabella or 'Easie' Dow, the said Isabella being under age. The summons directed that Easie be sent to school immediately on receipt of the letter, should be kept there until she had attained her fourteenth year, and that William McLeod should pay the school books necessary for her

education.

When the truth penetrated to Kate's brain, she turned upon. poor Easie in a very tempest of wrath. In vain the child protested her innocence, telling even with tears that she had been ignorant of all offence, and that she only wanted to earn her living and be a burden to no one. Not a word would Kate listen to; and just because the blame rested entirely with herself she was doubly angry.

Then William began to question the legality of the summons. Had Kate known Easie's age when she engaged her? Kate was reluctantly forced to admit that she had. And, knowing this, she had taken the risk? Aye, she never took thocht. This, of course, was strictly untrue, for Kate had weighed the probabilities of the case well before she engaged Easie. Some bitter vituperation ensued between the husband and wife, while Easie sat dumb and scared in the corner. Then she came up to the table and stood there, resting her hand upon it to steady her trembling limbs.

'Please, maister-what for will ye no send me back til my uncle?' she asked.

'Whaur's he gane a' this while?' William asked.

Easie shook her head. No letter had reached her from this relative, whose one wish had been to be rid of the charge of a helpless child.

'Div ye ken whaur he is?' William inquired.

'Na-he had no wurd when he left here,' Easie admitted. There was a short silence.

'Please, maister,' Easie said then, I'll wurk wi'oot pay between whiles. I'm no' wantin' tae be a burden on onybody.'

'Losh me, father,' Lizzie struck in suddenly, 'yer makin' an awfae clash aboot a wheen buiks.'

She was feeding the bairn at the moment, and as she looked up to make this remark, it contrived to jerk all the contents of the spoon down upon its pinafore. Easie, distracted as she was, made a dart at her charge, and deftly scraped up the porridge with a spoon. She could not bear to see the child's frock spotted.

Lizzie's comment on the parental stinginess went home, for William suddenly broke out into a laugh.

'Dod, Lizzie, yer richt!' he said. The buiks winna send me tae the poorshoose; it's mair that I've been sic a gowk.'

'Ye have that,' Lizzie agreed. Onybody could see the lassie was ower wee.'

But though her husband had laughed, Kate was not willing