tu .^. ^% % ^/^.^"^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // S" 4?^ I.I 1.25 1.0 ;f:l^ lii£ 11!" I Q I.O U 11.6 V2 '# >W^ ^ r '^'"'^"'^^ o / 4 Photographic Sciences Corporation ^> iV

. O^ '1>"^ '^^^ ^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET ^ WEBSTER, N.Y. MSbO (716) 872-4503 A,^^ V .<^ i^. Ua i % % CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. H Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques 1980 Technical and Bibliographic Notas/Notas tachniquas at bibliographiquaa The Inatituta has attamptad to obtain tha bast original copy availabia for filming. Faaturas of this copy which may ba bibliographically uniqua. which may altar any of tha imagas in tha reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. D D D n Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur I 1 Covers damaged/ Couverture endommag^s Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaur^e et/ou pelliculie I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque Coloured maps/ Cartes giographiques en couleur Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que hteue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Relid avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along intirior margin/ La reliure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge int^rieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajoutdes lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque ceia dtait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6t6 filmdes. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppl6mentaires: L'lnstitut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 4t4 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-Atre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la mithode normale de filmage sont indiquAs ci-dessous. I I Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommagdas Pages restored and/oi Pages restaur^es et/ou pellicul^es Pages discoloured, stained or foxe( Pages dicolordes, tachetdes ou piqu6es I I Pages damaged/ I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ r~3 Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ □Pages detached/ Pages d6tach6es \/ D Showthrough/ Transparence I I Quality of print varies/ Qualitd in6gale de I'impression includes supplementary material/ Comprend du materiel suppi^mentaire Only edition available/ Seule Edition disponible Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalament ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont 6t6 film6es A nouveau de fapon d obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est filmd au taux de reduction indiqu^ ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 7 26X 30X 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X The copy filmed here hes been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: National Library of Canada L'exemplaire film6 fut reprodui'. grAce A la gAnArosit* de: BibliothAque nationale du Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Les images sulvantes ont 6x6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nettetA de l'exemplaire film6, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprimAe sont filmis en commenpant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la derni6re page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont filmAs en commenpant par la premiere page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la derniire page qui comporte une telle empreinte. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol — ^ (meaning "CON- TINUED "), or the symbol V (meaning "END "). whichever applies. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ', le symbols V signifie "FIN '. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure ere filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre film6s A des taux de reduction diffArents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clichA, il est filmA A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 T ■M WHAT THE PEOPLE SAY ABOUT Electro-G^ratiVe Belts. To A. NoBMAN, M.E. : Paudash, Ont. DcAB Sir, — Please find enclosed 60 cents, for which I want a Teething Necklaoe. A good while ago I got your " Acmo " set, as I was suffering from a Norvous Debility and Impotency, and I am now thankful to say it cure4 me ; and the best evidence I can give is the above order, ad I got married since and have now a big bouncing baby boy, which, for nize and strength, uo baby in Canada can beat, and before I sent for the Belts I had no hopa of such a bleciaing, not even of marriage. I remain, yours in gratitude, G. W. D. Mb. a. Norman : Toronto, Ont. Dbar Sir, — I have S^eat uleasure in being able to testify to the efficacy of your Electric Belts. They nave benefited nie greatly. Before Igot them I used to suffer with Catarrh in the head and General Debility. Tue Belts deansed my blood, and cured my Catarrh ; I scarcely ever catch cold now. I recommend them to all who suffer. Yours truly, N. MoM. 199 YoNOE Strret, A. Norman, Tbb^i. : Toronto, Dec. 6, 1887. Dear Sir, — Twelve months ago I had to leave m^ biisinefls through complete prostration, and by the advice of my physician I travelled and stayed at different country resorts. After tour months, circumstances occurred which compelled me to return to my business. I hardly knew how to do so, as my heau felt so bad with creeping sonsations through it, and my thoughts I could not concentrate for two minutes together ; also I could not rest at night owing to dreams and sweats. In this condition I consulted you, and you told me if I carried out the course you recommended, I would get relief in a few days. I was doubtful, but I tried it, and I must own in two days I felt like a new man, since which time I have rested more and worked leu, and to-day I am in better health then I have been for years past. Yours respectfully, AUVE BOLLARD. NORMAN'S Electro-Curative Belt InstitutioD, ESTABLISHED 1874. 4 Queen Street East, Toronto. N.B.-BATHS OF ALL KINDS. Consultation and Catalogue Free. 1 YATISI CORSE^ Becommenddd by the SI9SSST HSSIOAL AUTEOBiTT. T Is modeled from a design of one of the most celebrnted Parisian makers. It gives the wearer that ease and grace so much admired in French ladies. The Yatisi Corset, owing to the peculiar diagonal elasticity of the cloth, will fit the wearer perfectly the first time worn, no matter what her style of form is — either long or short waisted. To ladies who wish to lace light and net feel uncomfortable at the bust or hips they are indispensible. ii6«fiS^aDB8&i^ The Yatisi Corset dots not stretch at the waist, requi'es no !)reaking in, fits comfortably the first time worn. As it gives to I every motion of the wearer, it will outlast n?',y of the cld-stylc rigid I corsets. The Tatisl Corset is made of the best materials, and being elastic (without rubber or springs), is invaluable for invalids, as it can- not compress the vital parts of the body. The Yatisi Corset is the only one that the purchaser > in wear ten days and then return aiid have the money rulundetl if not found to be the most perfect-fitting, healthful and comfortable corset ever worn. Every merchant who sells the Yatisi Corset will guarantee every claim made by the manufacturers, and refund the money to any lady who is not per- fectly satisfied with the corset. The Yatisi Corset is patented in Canada, Great Britain and the United States. Every pair of YatiSX Corsets is stamped with our name, without which none is genuine. MANUFACTURED ONLY BY The Grompton Corset Co. /fr In Exchange for a Soul Jk- Sonitl BY MARY LINSKILL, AUTHOR OP ' BBTWBBN THB HKATHBR AND THB NORTHBKN SBA," ** THB HAVSN UNDBS TUB HILL," " HACAR," BTC. {Entored according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada in the Office of the Minitter of Agriculture by die National Publishing CoMrANV, Toronto, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine.] A NEW EDITION. NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. V >• ©he ^vitsiSimaksv9* nAsie * SGAI2E. culw. WILL. O. ROOD'8 PATENT. CutKpro- ■rnti th« Maglo Srtlc.hriugone-ninUi it* ■rtiiftltizc. It tinots iiindcinrcbart.but a 8ca1c of liicbM Dv It any lady can cut from any taililop plato, inakinK a prrfrct fit without CI.:iii;:i-of Seam. Agcnti wanted, tnclose thrco Cunts l<>r VU • The Simplest a?id most Perfect Tailor System of Cuttmg. • MISS E. J. CHUBB, • 179 KljNG ST. WEST, - TOF^ONTO. Best Tape Measures, Measure Books, Tracing Wheels, &c., always on hand ; also^ an assortment of both Wicker and A djustable Wire ; Fcathcrbone and other Corsets, &c. Dresses and Linings Cut and Fitted. Perfect Fit Guaranteed. mrwtWL Remove on Ist October, \%%%y to 41S«>^ YONCE STREET. W' IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. CHAPTER I. TIIORHILDA THEYN. ' what a thin;; ia man I bow far from power From settled peace ami rest I He is some twenty several men at least Each several hour 1' Georoe Herbf.rt. • Happy ! What right hast thou to be happy ?' This prej?uant question, asked once emphatically by Carlyle, and repeated often by him in modified form, is certainly worthy of attention. Consciously or unconsciously, the need for happiness is a factor in the life of each one of us : and no attempt to deny the need is so successful as we dream. Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to self -questioning. So far, perhaps, there had seemed to be no special necessity for it in her life — that is, no necessity caused by pressure of outward cir- cumstance, by any of the strong crises that come upon most human iives at one time or another. She was yet young ; she was very beautiful. Life was all before her, and the promise of it exceeding fair. "What need for question so far ? Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy May morning, she felt herself decidedly in the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry, born within her apparently of the day and of the hour, strong at its birth, and demanding attention. The waters of the North Sea were her grand outlook. They were spread all before her across the bay, rippling from point to point, leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, rustling sound was sweeter to her always than the similar sound of the wind in the woodland trees ; and it was soothing as soft music to watch the wavelets at play, leaping into light, flashing for a gay, glad moment, then dissolving instantly into apparent nothingness. Over and over it was all repeated, and the entrancingly uncertain cer- 1 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL tainty was as a spell to bold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs of Umtan Bight as one held in a dream. 'They say that life is like that— the poets, the philosophers,' Thorhilda said to herself, leaning lightly upon the uarapet, tall and •traight, and still, and beautiful. She was dresseu as became her ■tately style, in a fashion that might have been of that day or of this, io few of its details were borrowed from any extraneous source. Her gown fell gracefully about her feet : her long cloak almost ooYored it ; her small hands were crossed lightly, and held her hat, 80 that the fair face, so sweet and yet so strong, was all unshaded from the morning sun. And it was a face that could well bear the full, clear light ; no thought-line was yet graven upon the wide forehead, on either side of which the dark abundant hair was braided ' Madonna-wise ' ; deep, changeful gray eyes looked out from below the white drooping lids that give to any face a touch of pathos — a touch contradicted at that moment on Thorhilda's face by an evidently half- unconscious smile, which played fitfully about ner mouth. It was a mouth that was almost childlike in the fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was the lower part of tha face that displayed firmness, decision. The eyes were all gentle- ness, all tenderness, in repose. When the lips smiled in convei'sation the eves smiled too; and a fascinating piquancy of expression would suddenly light up features that had seemed too grave and gentle ever to be piquant. The effect was apt to be surprising ; but it was always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the observer to admiration, though no such effect had been expected on the one side, or certainly intended on the other. Thorhilda was innocent of the art of producing effects. That such an art existed was a matter of hearsay, and therefore dubious. ' They say that life is like that I' she had murmured half audibly, 'like ,« •" A momentary ray, Smiling in a winter's day. ■ 'Tis a current's rapid stream, 'Tis a shadow, 'tis a dream.' " So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred years ago ; so others have written,' she went on. ' And yet how different one feels ! I feel this morning as if life were ages long. I have lived but four- and-twenty years, yet I seem to have centuries in my personal memory.' Presently definite thought passed on into indefinite. Dreams came up out of the past, with reminiscence sad and sunny ; and finally came that bright yet questioning mood of which mention has been made already, the disposition to ask herself, not * What right have I to be hat>py ?' but ' Why am I so happy ?' Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea-wall, watching the gulls float up and down with folded wing and yielding breast upon the gently heaving waters, an answer came suddenly. Was it from THOK HILDA THEYN. of tho tall cliffs ed half audibly, rhich mention tho heart, or from the braiu only? Though she wim alone, she bluHhed, the long eyelashes drooped ; and a little inst^int, negative movement of the head might have been detected had anyone to detect it been there. ' No, no / It is not that, it is not that /' she made haste to assure herself. *I do nut feel that he could make happiness of mine. No, it is not that !' It was perhaps significant that she did not long continue to dwell upon the idea of Percival Meredith. He was a neighbour, the owner of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles nearer to the sea than Yarburgh ; indeed, from its terraced gardens you could look out over the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Percival, who was an elderly-looking man if you considered his thirty-four summers, lived at Ormston with his mother, a lady who might easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. It had been made evident for some time to Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the Merediths had especial motives for gladly accepting every invitation that was sent to them from the Rectory, and for inviting the in- habitants of the Rectory to Ormston on any and every possible occasion. Of late Thorhilda had herself discovered the reason of all this ; and she was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. Only at rare moments was she conscious of any true satisfaction in thinking of Percival Meredith and his too evident intentions. Yes ; it was certainly significant that at the present moment she made haste to put away all thought of him, and went on thinking, meditating, on the strong, glad sense of her life and its happiness. She was not old enough, or tried enough, to know how on such days the mere sense of living is enough for unusual exultation. ' lilisH was it on that morn to be alive, . But to be youiiy was very heaven.' So wrote Wordsworth ; but he had passed his youth when he wrote this. Had anyone in Thorhilda's circle of friends — Gertrude Douglas, for instance, who was considered to be her most intimate friend, been asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn's happiness, Gertrude would have made answer, ' How should she not be happy ?' Her home in the house of her uncle. Canon Godfrey, the Rector of Market Yarburgh, was, admittedly, as happy a home as a woman could have. The Canon's wife, Milicent Godfrey, was the sister of Thorhilda's dead mother; and, being a childless woman herself, with a passionate love for children, she had done all that might be done to make Thorhilda's life a life full of all sweetness, all light, all good. It was for her niece's sake that the old Rectory had been refurnished, made beautiful with all artistic beauty that fair means could command. Indeed, nothing had been left undone that love could suggest as better to be done. And Thorhilda, having a keen appreciation of the material good of life — too keen, said some of 1-2 i I I ! 4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. the friendlieHt of her friendH — wan neither unconociouB nor un- grateful. Therefore what rciiHon for not hoing happy ? Is it true, that old saying, ' Every light han its shadow' ? Scientifically, it must be true, always ; but surely the analogy will not bear stretching to meet and to tit this human life in every tossible phase. We know that it will not, and are happier for the nowledge— happier and better. But the bnght picture of Thorhilda Th^yn's life was not without that enhancing touch of dt^pth in the background of it, which gives both to colour and light their rightful prominence and effect. There had been hours, nay days, when that dark background had claimed more of the girl's life r.hiin any foreground object that could be put before her for her distraction. 'I must think of thene things, Aunt Milicent,' she had said. ♦Qarlaflf Grange is my own home. They are my own people who live there.' *No; there I cannot agree,' Mrs. Godfrey had replied. 'Your mother gave you to me solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying. She entreated me to promise that the lleotury should be your home. ... I have tried to Keep my promise.' The touch of emotion with which tlieso and other sayings wei > uttered was usually conclusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on with arguments presented to her only by an inade({n;ite sense of duty. If people so much older and wiser than herself as Canon Godfrey and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom to sit still, why should she not agree — especially since movement in the direction indicated by conscience was so eminently distasteful? And yet from time to time conscience would have its way. Did she really do all that it was her duty to do in going to the Grange now and then when it was quite convenient to her aunt to drive round that way; in sending presents on birthdays and Christiius Days ; in calling occasionally to see how her sister llhoda was, or to inquire after her Aunt Averil ? It was not pleasant for her to go there — the reverse of that — and she did not for a moment imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. She was saved from all illusion on that head. So far as she could remember, her father had never once in his life said, ' I am glad to see you !' never, even when she was a child, offered her any greeting or parting kiss. Once or twice he had shaken hands ; once or twice he had — not at all ironically — taken off his hat as the Rectory carriage drove away with only Thorhilda in it ; and there bad seemed nothing incon- gruous in his doing so. His daughter knew little of him except what she heard from others ; and it was long since she had heard any pleasant thing. For years past everything had been going down at GarlafF Grange ; and though repeated efforts had been made by Canon Godfrey and others to stop tho descent, no such efforts had availed, and it was long now since Squire Theyn had permitted anything of what he termed ' interference.' THOR HILDA THEYN. % * Ahll ha' neii nmir on't !' he had said to his only son, ITartaB, on one occaHion. Canon (iotlfioy had l)een Hpending an hour with Sqaire Theyn — spending it mostly in farnest entreaty; and he had left the (rrange with the Sqiiiru'M ' words of high disdain' ringing in his ears painfully. 'Ah'U ha' neii nmir on't!' repented the old man; and Hartas helped greatly to contlnu hitu in this decision. The younger man's dislike to anythinf? that could touch his liberty was at least as strong as the same feeling in the elder one. There were some who said that Squire Theyn and his son were not unworthy of each other ; and it is possible that the saying had more in it than appciirud on the surface. Certainly it waa one to bear investigation, had any uniilytically minded person been drawn to interest himself in tlie mutter. And a student bent upon humanity might have travelled fur before finding two more unique subjects for his reseurch. CHAPTER II. ▲ NORTH YOKKSMIKK FISIIBK-.MAIDEN. ' Sho was a ciiri'l«3ss, fearless nitl, And inadu her uiiswer plHiii, Outspoken she to earl or <-linrl, Kiudheurted in the main.' CuUiSTINA ROSSETTT. WirY Thorhilda's thou<,'hts, as slio stood there by the margent of the sea, sliotild suddenly he dniwn to hiT lir-otlier Hartas she could hardly have told in that first moment. Sb(i had not been thinWing of him as she stood, letting the breez(;s blow upon her forehead, turning from watching the wide, white tlecked sea to note the fisher folk on the beach and on the (juays. She knew nothing of any of these save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of something prompting her interest in a group of tall, handsome fisher-girls who were down by the edge of the tide — such girls as you would hardly see anywhere else in England for strength and straightness, for roundness of foim and bright, fresh healthfulness of countenance. They wore blue flannel petticoats, and rough, dark-blue masculine- looking guernseys of their own knitting. Their heads were either bare, or covered with picturesque hoods of cotton — blue, pink, lilac, buff, pale blue. One, the tallest of them, and decidedly the handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her rich chestnut hair blew about in the breeze in shining rings and curls in a way that attracted Thorhilda's attention, and even her admiration, though as a rule ■he 1. id slight sympathy with the 'admired disorder' school of aesthetics. And as she watched the girl, all at once there darted a new thought across her brain, a new and disturbing conviction. i i I IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. / 1. \ ' That is Barbara Burdas !' alio said to herself. Then fihe amileil a liMlo. and wondered at the force of a feeling that had so far-off a cause. Miss Theyn knew vei-y little of Barbara Bnrdas. Though the reputation of the handsome fisber-girl was rapidly spreading along the coast from Flamborough Head to Hild's Haven, her name had seldom been heard within the walls of the Rectory at Market Yarburgh ; but one day Canon Godfrey had spoken in a somewhat grieving tone to his wife concerning some new rumour which had reached his ear — a story in which both Barbara's bravery and the influence of her beauty were brought into prominence. Mrs. Godfrey tried to prevent liis sonow from deepening. *It will do the girl no harm,' she said, with her usual somewhat emphatic vivacity. ' Barbara Burdas is as good a woman as I am, and as strong. Think of her life, of all she is doing for her grand- father and the children ! Oh, a little admiration won't harm Barbara ! It may even be some lightness in her life — some relief ; I hope it will. She has not known much pleasure.' Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey had made no reply at that moment ; but later he had confided to his wife the things that he had heard in the parish concerning Barbara Burdas and her own nephew, Hartas Theyn. Subsequently some guesses had been made by Thorhilda, but they were little more than guesses, arising out of a word dropped by her aunt in an unguarded moment. Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a sudden desire to know something of the truth came upon her ; and after a few moments' consideration she left the promeuaae, and went down between the nursemaids and the babies, the donkeys and the Bath-chairs, to where the shore was wet and shining, and, for the present, almost untrodden. The wind seemed freer, and the sun brighter there by the changing edge of the sea. Miss "Theyn was not a woman to saunter on aimlessly, to wait for .in opportunity of speaking to Bab alone. She went straight across ihe stretch of brown sea-tangle, going directly to the group of laughing girls, with that firm nerve and presence which comes mostly of good health and right training. The laughter died down an she came nearer ; and with apparent courtesy Bab and her iiiende half turned and drew togutlier waitingly. They were not aMused to conversation with curious strangers. Thorhilda was the first to speak. She looked at Bab as she did so, and there was involuntary admiration in her look, which Bab saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an unconscious touch of scorn about the fisher-girl's mouth, a half-disdain in the inquiring glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate gray silk dress had come in contact with tlie slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand, and whose small dainty Loots were surely being ruined as they sank and slipped among the great drifting fronds that lay h«ap«d upon th« thai*. Thorhilda understood th« disdain. OUL. If. Then Hhe smilcii g that had so far-off inrdas. Though the idly spreading along laven, her name had Rectory at Market token in a somewhat ' rumour which had ra's bravery and the prominence. Mrs. ening, her usual somewhat d a woman as I am, Joing for her grand- ration won't harm r life — some relief : ire. d made no reply at wife the things that Burdas and her own jsses had been made guesses, arising out I moment. Iden desire to know ter a few moments' down between the he Bath-chairs, to he present, almost brighter there by ulossly, to wait for cnt straight acrosa to the group of nee which comes tughter died down esy Bab and her They were not at Bab as she did look, which Bab n scions touch of in the inquiring ay silk dress had irse, brown sand, ;ned as they sank lay litap«d upon A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN, 7 * Are you not Barbara Burdas ?' she asked, in her clear yet gentle Toice, as she drew quite near. Bab hesitated a moment, during which her lips compressed them- selves firmly, yet without discharging the scorn from the curves at he corners. Her gaze was still steady and inquiring. A slight inge of colour crept under the creamy olive of her cheek. She was about to reply ; but it was a moment too late. Her friend. Nan Tyas, a young fish-wife, almost as tall, almost as hand- some as herself, but in a different way, had come to an end of her slight store of patience. Looking over Bab's shoulder, her keen dark eyes glittering as she tared straight into Miss Theyn's face, an expression of suspicion n every feature, she asked : •Whca telled ya her neame ?' This was meant to be facetious, and there was esprit de corps enough among the girls to cause it to be received as it was meant. A general titter wont round, in the midst of which another voice found courage to remark : * Mebbe she kenned it of her o/in sharpness.' A second laugh was heard, less restrained than before. Thorhilda looked on with interest, but not smilingly, still less resentfully. The moment and its experience were new to her. Moreover, she discerned that a grave clear look from Bab was quelling the tendency to sarcasm. ' Hand yer tongues, ya fools,' Bab said quietly, but with a certain force in the tone of her voice. Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the lingering displeasure still about her mouth. Speaking with decidedly less of the northern accent and intonation than before, she said : ' Yes, Barbara Burdas ; that's what they call ma. Ah'm noan shamed o' my name. . . . Did ya want anything wi' me ?' ' Yes ; I wished to speak to you for awhile. I do not know that I have much of importance to say at present ; but I wished to know you. to ask you one or two questions. I thought that perhaps your friends would permit me to speak to you alone.' A certain power in Miss Theyns glance as she looked round upon the six or seven young women might have as much to do with their compliance as the tone of expectant authority which she in- voluntarily used. They smiled satirically to each other ; and then went gliding away with the strong easy grace of movement which seems their birthright. Thorhilda watched them admiringly for a few moments ; then she turned to walk with Bab in the opposite direction ; and for a little while there was silence ; but it was not at all an awkward silence. Though the moment was not a facile one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist for these two, who walked there side by side, so near, yet so widely separated. Again it was Thorhilda who spoke first. She did bo naturally, and without constraint. i 8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. * Thank you for telling me your name,' she said. ' It is only fair that I should tell you mine in return ; it is Thorhilda Theyn.' Bab did not quite stay the firm ste]i that was going on over the beach ; but Miss Theyn perceived the partial arresting of move-l ment ; she divined the cause of it ; and she understood the presence! of mind that gave Bab the power to go on again as if nothing had] happened. 'Then you'll live at the Grange,' Bab said, speaking as if even| cariosity were far from her. 'No,' Thorhilda replied. 'I live at Market Yarburgh, at the' Rectory ; but the Grange is my real home.' An' the Squire is yer father ?' ' Yes. . . . And Hartas Theyn is my biother.' The sun was still shining down with brilliancy upon the blue waters of the North Sea, ui)on the white wavelets that broke gently but just below where the two girls were sauntering. A couple of sea-gulls were crying softly overhead ; the fishing boats in the offing were ploughing their way northward. A light breeze fluttered the loops of gray ribbon that fastened Thorhilda's dress. Bab's attention seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the ribbon. Her eyes followed its fluttering as she walked on in silence, but it was not of the ribbon that she was thinking. Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in any true sense of the word ; yet she was .aware of some new and gentle influence that was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an admiration that was almost emotion ; subduing the natural pride that was in her ; the strong natural independence of her spirit, an independence of which she was as utterly unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsations of her heart ; but which was yet one of the dominant traits of her nature ; and produced difficulties, perplexities, which she had often found bewildering, but never more bewildering than at the present moment. Here was one, far above her by birth, by beauty, by position, by education, yet possessing a something (Bab did not know it to be sympathy) that had the power to charm, to extract the bitterness from pain, and the sting from an unacknowledged dread. Bab hesitated some time, sighing as she repressed one impulse after another toward unsuitable speech. The right words would not come. At last came some awkward ones. 'If ya've anything to saiiy, Miss Theyn. ya'd better say it,* the girl remarked, decidedly more in the tone of one urging blame than deprecating it. ' It is evident that you ha^e nothing to fear,' Thorliilda replied, turning to look into the proirl yet winning face so near her own. 'Fear !' exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flashing in lier eyes and on her lips. ' Fear ! what would / ha' to fear, think ya ? If ya dream that I'm feared o' yon brother o' yours, or of ony mischief he can bring aboot for me, ya can put away the notion without a second thowt. It's as big a mistake as you've ever made. Fearl I'm 1 iOUL. horhiJda Theyn.' t^as going on over the il arreating of move- derstood the presence iin as if nothing had , speaking as if even et Yaiburgh, at the iancy upon the blue ets that broke gently jering. A couple of ashing boats in the d. A light breeze d Thorhilda's dress, id way to the ribbon, on in silence, but it y true sense of the mtle influence that dmiration that was at was in her ; the ependence of which ordinary pulsations linant traits of her k'hich she had often than at the present ■th, by beaury, by ling (Bab did not charm, to extract u unacknowledged she repressed one The right words les. better say it,* the urging blame than riiorhilda replied, > Jioar her own. 1 lier eyes and on 'a? If ya dream ^ mischief he can iv'ithout a second do. Fear I I'm A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 9 noan feared of him. . . . Noa ! ... But Ah know what it is, Miss Theyn. I know what's brought you here ; you'we feared for him—foT your brother ! You've feared he's goin' to disgrace hisself, an' you, wi' marryin' a flither*- picker. Don't hev no fear o' that sort, Miss Theyn !' And here even Bab's voice grew fainter as her breathing became overpowered by betraying emotion. * Don't hev no fear o' that sort. I'll , . . well, I'll let ya know when he's i' daanger !' It was evident that Bab had not intended to end her speech thus ; and other things more important were evident also. Thor- hilda's experience ha'^ not been wide, but she had her woman's instincts to guide her, and her instinct told her plainly that Bab's emotion could only have one cause. This and other new knowledge complicated the feeling which had brought Miss Theyn to saunter there, in the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara Burdas. Other complications were at hand. Thorhilda herself hardly knew what drew her to notice that Bab's perturbation had suddenly and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes followed the direction of her companion's eyes, and almost to her distress she saw that the figure advancing rapidly toward them oa er the beach was the figure of her brother Hartas. Thorhilda's exclamation of concern did not escape Bab's notice. CHAPTER III. ULVSTAN BIGHT. • For hftst tbou not a herald on my cheek, To ti'U the coming nearer of thy ways, And in !ny veins a stronger blood tliat flows, A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart, Submissive life that proudly comes and Roea Through eyes that burn, and speechless lips that part? And hast thou not a hidden life in mine, In thee a fioul which none may know for thine?' Mauk ANDitfi Raffalovitch. Hartas Tiievn was coming down the beach slowly, yet with more intentness in his deliberate gait than wa-^ usually to be observed. He had seen fiom the road by the Forecliff that the lady who was walking with Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder sister. Thoihilda consciously repressed all outward sign as she watched lus approach ; her face did not betray tlie sadness she felt as she noted his slouching air— his shabby, shapeless clothing. The very hut he wore, an old gray felt, seemed to betray what manner of man its wearer had come to be ; and as he came nearer, his bauds in the pockets of his trousers, a pipe between his lips, a sullen, defiant, yet questioning look in the depths of his dark eyes, a tou^-h of something that was almost dread entered into her feeling. It * Flither8 = limrt■t^. used for bait. 1 ! lO /A' EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL, was bnt momentary, this stranjjft emotion ; and Bhe offered her greeting without more restraint than was usual between them. * You did not expect to see me here, llartas ?' she said pleasantly. * No, I didn't,' replied the youni; man, after half a minute's irritating silence. ' An' if I'm to tell the truth, 1 don't know ';it I'd any particular wish to see yo'\' And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious of a certain amount of daring in his speech. If this daring were ventured upon for Bab's sake, or because of her presence there, it was. a mistake ; but this llartas had not dis- cernment enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with interest, jut she repressed all tendency to smile. Thorhilda replied instantly and easily. * That is not polite, Hartas,' she said. ♦ But let it pass. I did not come here to irritate you. And ' * Could you say what you did come for ?' interrupted Hartas, with a certain coarse sharpness in his tone. ' Readily. I came down to make the acquaintance of Barbara Burdas. I wished to know her ; I had wished it for some time. So far, I am glad I did come. Don't try to make me regret it.' * I don't spend my breath in such efforts as them, as a rule,' re- joined the young man. t?'iing his pipe from his mouth, and speaking with evident strong effort to restrain himself. ' But have a care ! I don't force myself upon your friends.' ' True,' said Thorhilda ; and again, before she could find the word she wished to use, the opportunity was taken from her. ' D'ya want yer sister to think she's forced herself upon a friend o' yours?* Bab asked, still seeming as if she tried to restrain the sarcastic smile that appeared to play about her lips almost cease- lessly. Hartas Theyn's manner changed instantly in replying to Bab. It was as if the better nature within him asserted itself all at once ; his higher manhood responded to her slightest touch. * I don't want no quarrellin',* he replied, speaking with a mildness and softness so new to him that even his sister discerned it with an infinite surprise. ' I don't want no quarrellin', an' it's only fair to expect that if I keep away f ra them, as I always hev done ' [this with an unmitigated scorn], 'they'll hev the goodness to keep away fra me. Friends o' that sori 's best separated ; so I've heard tell afore to-day.' Then, warming with his own eloquence, Hartas turned again to Thorhilda, saying emphatically : * I mean no harm ; an' as I said just now, I want no quarrellin ; but if you want to keep out o' mischief, keep away fra me an from all interference in my affairs. I can manage them for myself thank ya all the same.' Thorhilda hesitated a moment, recognising the effort Hartas had made, and also the element of fairness in his words, yet it was intvitabl* that other thoughts should force themselves upon her. UL, nd Bhe oflFered her between them, she said pleasantly. Br half a minute's ih, 1 don't know 'nt f a certain amount sake, or because of liutas had not dis- J on with interest. let it pass. I did iterrupted Hartas, ntance of Barbara it for some time, e me regret it.' hem, as a rule,' re- outh, and speaking * But have a care ! he could find the en from her. self upon a friend ed to restrain the lips almost cease- ly in replying to asserted itself all ghtest touch. ng with a mildness discerned it with , an' it's only fair ^8 hev done ' [this ness to keep away 80 I've heard tell IS turned again to at no quarrellin ; away fra me an them for myself jffort Hartas had ^ords, yet it was jlves upon her. ULVSTAN BIGHT, %t * Hartas, do yon remember that you are my brother ?' she asked after a moment of swift, deep thinking. * An' what o' that ? It's neither your fault nor mine.' * Ko ; it is no one's fault ; but it is a fact, a fact that means much, and, for me, involves much. If I could forget it I should be — well, something I hope I am not. Fortunately for me I cannot forget it ; more fortunately still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot let you and your life's deepest affairs pass by me as if no tie existed. ... I do not wish to forget or to ignore. Why should you wish it ?' ' Because I'm made of a different sort n' stuff — a commoner sort, if you will ; an' because I'm cast in a different mould. Say what you like, it isn't easy for you to look down — fool as I am I can see as much as that. But, take viy word for it^ it i$nt any easier for me to look up. An' wliy should either you or me strive to look up or down against the grain ? Because the world expects it ! Then let it expect, I'm good at disappointin' expectations o' that sort. We're better apart, an' you know it /' Then turning away, a little excited, a little angry, disquieted by nervous perturbations of various kinds, he lifted his eyes to discern the approach of influences J ret more disturbing to him than any he had encountered that uckless morning. And yet it was only two ladies who were approaching, two elderly and, more or less, elegantly dressed ladies. Hartas instantly divined that they were his aunts in search of Thorhilda. ' Heaven help us !' he exclaimed. * Here's two more of 'em ! Bab, let's fly. There's the cave !' * Me fly !' Bab exclaimed indignantly. ' It will be thte first time !* And as she stood watching the two ladies advancing slowly over the slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again the half-satirical smile gathered about her mouth. Hartas watched her face with admira- tion expressed on every feature of his own ; and Thorhilda stood, controlling the fear of a scene that wa& mingled with her ex- pectancy. Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon's stalely and still beautiful wife ; Mrs. Kerne, the sister of Squire Theyne, an elderly and rugged-featured woman, the widow o^ a rich shipowner, had not much in common ; and therefore, very wisely, seldom sought each other's society. There certainly seemed to be something strange ir the fact of their leaving the wide sea-wall together, aud coming down over the wet unstable beach. Besides, there was that in the expression of one of them that was at lea^*^ oniinous. iTT- I i 1 11 !i la IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER IV. SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. ' O how this i^pring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an Ai)ril day ; Which now shows all the beauty of tue son And by-and'by a cloud takes all away.' Shakespeabb. 'Think again, Bab,' Hartas whispered to the only quite self- poHsessed one of the waiting three. ' Think again ! There's the Pirate's Hole !' * Go into it, if you're frightened,' replied Bab curtly. Hartas was silenced ; but the unpleasant anticipation of the moment was not done away. He smoked on more vigorously than before. Thorhilda utterea some small nothing to Bab, and then turned to meet the two approaching figures. To her comfort her Aunt Miliccnt's face was tne face it usually was— beautiful, kind, smiling ; free from all disfigurement of untoward exi)rea8ion. She was not a woman to mar any influence she might have by un- controlled feminine petulance. * Well !' she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. * I thought you were to wait for me on the promenade, dear ! But how lovely this ia I How breezy ! — And there is Hartas ! I haven't seem him for an age. . . . Hartas — how do you do ? And how are you all at the Grange ? We were thinking of driving round that way, but now we needn't. . . . All quite well ? Delightful ! But, of course, that doesn't include your poor Aunt Averil. How I should like to hear for once that she was quite well !' So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, woman-of-the-world way ; glancing at Barbara Burdas, understanding, feeling acutely, all the incongruity of the elements that made np the surrounding atmosphere ; knowing herself to be ten time'j less distressed than Mrs. Kerne, who stood by her side, yet not too near — silent, hard, stern, disapproving to the uttermost. And yet Mrs. Godfrey's social nerves should surely have been as Iceenly sensitive as those of Squire Theyn's sister. All the world knew of the upbringing of the latter in a household where a fox-hunting mother had been the only feminine influence ; and a seldom sober squire, with his like-minded brother, the ruling masculine powers. There had only been one son, the present Squire Theyn ; and only one daughter, the present Mrs. Kerne ; who bad attained the height of her ambition in marrying a rich and vulgar man. The rich man was dead ; his widow was a rich woman ; and none the more pleasing because durint; a dozen years of companionship she bad managed to add some of her husband's coarsenesses and vulgarities to her own innate ones. The force of natural assimilation was never more clearly proved. OUL. 3 0THER3. I V oe son my." Shakespeabb. ;he only quite self- again ! There's the b curtly. anticipation of the lore vigorously than ig to Bab, and then To her comfort her '^as— beautiful, kind, 1 to ward expression. I might have by un- I thought you were how lovely this ia I [t seem him for an k are you all at the that way, but now But, of course, ow I should like to of-the-world way ; ing acutely, all the the surrounding ess distressed than near— silent, hard, Mrs. Godfrey's sensitive as those of the upbringing mother had been squire, with his peers. There had and only one ned the height of The rich man I none the more nionship she bad es and vulgarities lilation was never SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 13 Mrs. Godfrey's early recollections were of a different order. She [was one of the five daughters of the Rector of Luneworth, a small Ivillage in a midland county— a village where a kindly duke and Iduchess had reigned supreme, making much of the Rector's pretty children, and affording thera many advantages as they grew up Iwhich could not otherwise have been obtained. As all the neigh- jurhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had shared the lessons that jasters came down from London to give to the Ladies Haddiugley. I And, later in life, some of the Rector's daughters had made a first social appearance on the same evening, and in the same place, as some of their more favoured friends. And they were truly friends, [who had remained friendly — much to Milicent Godfrey's permanent jood, pleasure, and satisfaction— much to her Mister Avcril's leterioration. Averil had been the eldest of them all— a clever, fretful, nervous woman, who had all her life magnified her slight [ailments into illnesses, and who had condescended to share her [sister Grace's home when the latter married Squire Theyn, with an inexpressible disgust. That her sister Milicent had never offered \ her a couple of rooms at the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained j a standing cause for bitterness. It was not likely to be removed so long as Mrs. Godfrey should care for her husband's peace of mind. It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the Squire's widowed sister, I that had discerned the group upon the beach. She had met Mrs. i Godfrey at the turn leading down to the promenade, accepted her ' invitation to walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an indifference that was more than merely ungraciousness, and when they found that Thorhilda had left the promenade, her instinct led her to express her shallow satisfaction in somewhat irritating speech. Peering round above the rim of her gold eye-glass, she exclaimed at last : ' There is Miss Theyn ! — there is your niece !' — speaking as if she herself were no relation whatever. ' What can have ied hor to seek the society of fish-wives, I wonder ? . . . Ah, I see ! Master Hartas is there. That accounts. But I did not know that the brother and sister were on such affectionate terras as to induce her to lend her distinguished countenance to such as Bab ^iurdas for his sake. Dear me 1 What a new departure !' Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, moving with the ungainly movement natural to her age and proportions. Her red face grew redder as she descended the narrow, unsavoury road that led to the beach, and her usually unamiable expression did not grow more amiable. By the time sh(5 had arrived at the point when it was necessary to shake hands with Thorhilda she had — perhaps unaware, poor woman ! — acquired a most forbidding aspect. Thorhilda shrank, as from a coming blow ; but this was only for a second ; her larger nature conquered, and she stood considei-ate, courageous. The influence of Barbara Burdas alone held Hartas Theyn to i/ 14 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. the spot of wet, wecd-strcwn sand on which he stood, his pipe stilll in his mouth, his big, unlcept brown hands still in the pockets ofl bis trousers. The mere sight of him .seemed to awaken the ire ofl Mrs. Kerne. That he should stand there before her, calmljl smoking, with Barbara Burdas by his side, was too much for the I small amount of equanimity at her disposal. No description madal by means of pen or pencil could do justice to the expression of her face as she broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she did so as an ill-tempered horse sniffs it at the beginning of the mischief he has it in his head to bring about. | * I can't saj that I see exactly why I've been brought down here,' | she remarked, glancing from her niece to her even less favoured nephew. ' What is the meaning of it ? An' why are you standing there, Hartas, looking more like a fool than usual, if that's possible ? . . . 1 suppose the truth is I've been tricked ! brought down here to be introduced to your ' * Stop a minute,' Hartas interposed, at last taking the pipe from between his lips, putting it behind him, and letting his dark eyes flash their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. ' Stop a minute,' he said. ' If you've been brought down here, it's been by no will o' mine. I haven't seen you this year past, and wouldn't ha' minded if I hadn't seen you for years to come. . . . All the same, say what you've got to say to me, but take my advice for once, leave other folks alone — especially folks 'at's never me'lled wi' you.' ' It isn't much I've got to say to you,' Mrs. Kerne replied, the angry colour deepening on her face as she spoke, and a keen light darting from her small eyes. ' It isn't much I've got to say ; an' first I may as well just thank you for your plain speaking. I'll not forget it 1 You may have cause to remember it yourseli', sooner or later. It 'ill not be the first time 'at the readiness of your tongue has had to do with the emptiness of your pocket.' ' Mebbe not,' interrupted Hartas. ' I'd as soon my pockets were empty as try to fill 'em wi' toadyin' rich relations .... Most things has their price.' * I'm glad you've found that out,' replied Mrs. Kerne. * But you've more to learn yet, if all be true 'at one hears an* sees. However, as you say, perhaps I'd better leave you to go to ruin by your own road. You've been travellin' on it a good bit now, by all accounts, an' from the very first I've felt that tryin' to stop you would be like tryin' to stop a thunderbolt.* 'Just like that ; an' about as much of a mistake,' said Hartas, with an irritating attempt to seem cool. But the effort was obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too plainly whither these amenities were likely to lead, turning to her brother, said gently : * Hartas, it is my fault that this has happened. I couldn't foresee it, of course. But let us put an end to it. Aunt E^therine will take cold if she remains bore on the wet beaoh any longer ; and we SOUL ho stowl, his pipo stjuj Htill in the pockets of i I to awaken the ire of ; 8 before her, calmly; was too much for the No description made the expression of her le air as she did so as ig of the m:8chief he I brought down here,' 5r even less favoured «vhy are you standing ihan usual, if that's sen tricked I brought :aking the pipe from letting his dark eyes ' Stop a minute,' he 8 been by no will o' wouldn't ha' minded II the same, say what 'or once, leave other wi' you.' Kerne replied, the ^e, and a keen light I've got to say ; an' n speaking. I'll not t yourseli', sooner or uess of your tongue on my pockets were lations .... Most VIrs. Kerne. 'But one hears an' sees, 'ou to go to ruin by rood bit now, by all tryin' to stop you stake,' said Hartas, ut the effort -was >o plainly whither ) her brother, said I couldn't foresee int Katherine will ny longer ; and we \quire theyn's sister, and some others. 15 going home — Annt Milicent and myself. Hadn't you better go ? And shall you be at the Grange to-iiiorrow, in the afternoon ? Iwant to see you. Don't refuse me, Hartas ; I don't often ask rours of you.' [It was strange how Thorhilda's voice, speaking gently, kindly, jietly, seemed to change the elements of that untoward atmo> ►here. Mrs. Kerne's countenance relaxed all unconsciouisly ; Mrs. Ifrey smiled, and turned with a pleasant word to Barbara irdas, who had been standing there during those brief moments, [ent, wondering, perplexed, and not a little saddened. Bab knew >thing of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the poet's verses was ikling in her heart— _ * If this be high, wliat is it to be low ?* lb could not put the inquiry in these words, but in her own way, id of her own self, she asked the question ; and later, in her own )me, it came back upon her with fuller force than ever. Was lis the surrounding of the man who had seemed to step down rom some higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, to seem if he stood on the verge of ruin in making known to her his deep id passionate affection ? Bab understood much, more even than le knew that she understood, but naturally, from her social stand- )int, there was a good deal that was confusing to her. Hitherto 10 had not cared to know of any dividing lines there might be in inks above her own, and though discernment had seldom failed ier in such cases of pretension as she had come across, she yet had 10 knowledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between class and ^lass, and are only now and then bridged over by bridges of gold. "^ut ignorant as she might be, she had yet discerned, instantly and [nstinctively, that Mrs. Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as Ear above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and that the lines in which Mrs. Kerne's life was laid down were more familiar to lim, and, in a certain sense, more consonant, than the lines of the two other lives into which Bab had had so mere a glimpse. Yet Srief aa the insight had been, it had developed an infinitude of suggestive ideas ; and it was significant that Bab's thought was Irawn to dwell mainly upon the gentler, the higher phase of the [humanity presented to he" in those few moments. Naturally, her jthinking and wondering was of a vague and inexact order, but it jwas not without its influence, for she recognised clearly that the [hour of her meeting with Miss Theyn was the most striking land- jmark of her hitherto uneventful history. i6 /A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. \\ Mi; ill ii i. CHAPTER V. ON THE FORECLIFF. • Whither away, Delight 7 Thon earnest but now ; wilt thou so sooQ depart^ And give me up to-nifjht? For weeks of liugeriug pain and sjnnrt, But one bolf-hour of comfort for my luart !' GeOROE BKRbEAT. ' Yes ; I'm glad to have seen them,' P>ab said to herself, as she stood alone at the door of her grandfather's cottage at night. The children were all in bed, litllp Stevie with his grandfather, Jack and Zeb in another bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie was in Bab's room, down below, a little square, dark place, with only room for a bed and a chair and the box in which Bab kept her ' Sunday things ' — her own and Ailsie's, and the latter were more than the former. Few thin<;s pleased Bab more than to be able to bnv some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsio's hat, or a kerchief for Ailsie's neck. No child on the Foreclilf was more warmly and prettily clad than Ailsie Burdas. It was moonlijjht now, the tide was half high, and the bay was filled from point to point with the sparkling of the silent silver sea. There were a few fishing-cobles in the offing, two or three more were lan3ing, making a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines upon the white margin of the waters. Bab was no artist, no pcot, but something of the poet temperament there was in the girl, and that something was heightened at the present moment by the emotion she was contending against, striving to hide its intensity even from her own self. Bab had never acknowledged, even in her inmost thonqht, that there was any possibility of Uartas Theyn winning f r> m bor a return of the affection he professed so passion- ately. Bather was she conscious of that spirit of rebellion which so often dawns with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of shrinking reluctance. Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife of a man whose posi- tion in life was superior to her own had held but little temptation for her. She was not dazzled by the knowledge of Hartas Thevn's higher standing, of his better birth, of hia reputed wealth. She would have been glad to exchange her life for one that offered greater freedom from care, greater ease, more ability to procure for herself and those belonging to her some of the things that were now counted as luxuries not to be thought of ; but she had never been prepared to sacrifice herself too completely for such advan- tages as these. She was young and stroni;, and as willing to work as she was able. Why, then, should she dream of purchasing at a great price the things she did not very greatly desire to have ? But now to-night other thoughts came across her as she stood ON THE FORECUFF. • 7 there, other visions filled her bmin, vntrne visions of a gentler and more Iteautifiil life — ft life far from all roughness and rudiMieMg — in a word, the life that might he lived by the woman to whom Misa Theyn would say, ' My sister !' ' My ni«tcr /' Uib had said the words to herself ; then she uttered them half audibly, with a thrill like that of the lover who first says to himself, ' My wife' Could Thorhilda Theyn have known it all, could she have looked but one moment into liab's heart and brain as the girl stood there by the cottag* door, feeling almost as if her very breathing were restrained by the force of the new vision, the compelling touch of the new affection, surely for very humility Miss Theyn would have been sad at heart. It was well for her peace that she might not know. Bab had 'lever before come into contact with any woman of such winning grace, such refined loveliness ; never before had she been moved by such attractive gentleness. And there was something more than these — a mystic and far-off something that drew the untrained fisher-girl with a strong and strange fascination, a fasci- nation that she could m ither understand nor resist. ' I'd lay my life down for her,' she said, blushing as she spoke for the warmth of her own word, though no one was by to hear it, or to hold her in contempt for evermore for having used it. The blush was the sign of her heart's inexj»erionce. Thinking thus of Miss Theyn, it was not wonderful that softened thoughts of JMiss I'hoyn's brother should come ; that his humility of manner to heiself should appear in a new and more attractive light ; that the remembrance of his affection should have more force to touch her own ; that his oft-repeated assurance of life-long ])rotection and unfailing devotion should appeal more strongly to ijer imagination. Ah, what a dream it was ! how bright ! how sweet ! how possible ! but, alas, how very brief ! Bab would not look at the ending of the dream : she put it away resolutely. Some day she would be compelled to look at it, but not to-night, not to-night. It was as if she herself were pleading; with herself for a little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a little ease. Some day she might have to pay the price for the dream. Well, let the demand be made, and she would honour it — for Miss Tlieyn's sake she wouM honour it, though it cost all that she liad, to the last limit. ' Yes, I'd do that ; I'd lay down my life if so 'twere to be that she needed it !' Bab repeated, still standing there, watching the dark, picturesque grouping of the men and boats ujjon the silver of the beach, the swiftly-changing lights and shadows seeming to correspond with the changes of her own thought and emotion. Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not roughly or rudely, yet with a strangely jarring effect upon her present mood, an effect that was for thi' iusiant almost as the first rising of anger. No intrusion could have been more unwelcome. o i8 IN EXCHASGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER VI. *AnOVE THK SOUND OF THE SEA.' * * •^ • " JcHsii', JcRHJo rnincron. • Hcur me but tbis once," qiiotli he. " Oood luck no witli jou, nrij,'blionr's Hon, But I'm 110 mato for jon," qtiotb Hbe. Day was TerKin^ towanl the iii({bt, There beside the moaniii({ uea, DitnnesB overtook the litfbt, , There where the breakers be. "O Jessie, Jessie Cameron. I have loved yon long nnd tme," ••Good luck no with you, neighbour's son, But I'm no mate for yor. Christina Rosbeti'I. The voice was the voice of Davi't Aurioe, the brother of Nan Tyas, a brave, strong,', youni^ fislierrnan, with that slow solemnity of speech and movement which secinH always to have been won out of the moments of strife witii death and danger. David was not surprised to find Hah standiiii^ there, though it was nearly mid- night and the world about her was all asleep. Like others of his craft, he was used to the keeping of untimely hours. No, he had no surprise ; but an unusual sense of satisfaction came upon him, almost overpowering him for the moment. * Waitin'for daaylight, Bab ?' ho asked, stopping near the door of the cottage and resting upc^ the ground the end of an oar which he was carrying homeward for rr pairs. It looked like a lance as it stood edgewise in. the moonlight; and he who carried it might certainly have passed for a young knight of an older time had his dress been other than the knitted blue guernsey and the slouching sou'wester of the north coast. There was little difference between BaVs guernsey and his own ; his was knitted in a pattern of broad stripes, hers in a fine 'honey-comb' — the shape was the same precisely. Bab replied to his question \\ ith discouraging carelessness. * No,' 5he said ; I'll get a good sleep in yet afore the sun's above the sea. Im bound to be at the fiither-beds afore five o'clock. . . What bev ya got this tide? Not much to boast about, Ah reckon.' *No,' David replied, half sadly. *It strikes me 'at it'll be a good while afore anybody he rabouts has aught to boast on again. If you could put a stop to ^/he trawlers to-night, it 'ud take years to fill the sea as full o' fish as it was afore them devil's instriments was invented.' * The devil has nongbt to do wi' tuom,' said Bab, perhaps taking a wider outlook for contradiction's sake. 'There's more i' the heaven's above, and i* the e't! beneath, an' i' the waters under the e'tb, than such as you an' me knows on. . . . Let em be wi' their li It: 'ABOVE THE SOUXD OF THE SEA* 19 ISTINA RossEni. trawlers, an' thoir Htt;:im fiHhin' yawls, an' all tlio re^t of it. D'ya think thoy can niter tho ways of Providonco ? Let 'em IVi !' David was nilenced for a inotn(Mit, not fueling qiiitt; Hiire in hin own mind that this hopeful philosophy was being countenanced by actual ciroii instance. Yet for him, as for Bab, there would have been imtnenhe, almost insuperable difliculty in trying to set aside, or ignore, the old, tried belief in tho wisdom of the ways of Provi- dence. In this thoy were happy, in having been trained from childhood to at least reveience for a creed that hold the Fatherhood of God, the Brotherhood of Christ, as facts that none might dis- believe save to his soul's imperilling. Though no intimate spiritual influence had yet been theirs to draw them toattemptany spiritual life of their own. they were yet aware that such a life might be lived ; and David's inner experience had not been so colourless as some of his more fervid mates imagined But, like most of his class, he was uot given to wear his heart upon his sleeve. His life, generally, had much in it o' which the little world about him was only very dimly aware. H.e was one of a rather large family. The father was not a sober man ; the mother was an ill- tempered woman, dirty withal, and intolerably selfish ; caring nothing for the comfort or well-being of her family so that she might sit tho long day through upou the doorstop of her oottag<», idle, half-clad, and almosc repulsive in her personal untidiness. Yet is it strange to confess that David could never rid himself of the old affection for her, the old yearning for her that had so beset him when ho was a little lad, suffering keenly from her cruel humours, yet ."uflering silently and always forgivingly ? He had loved his mother and worked for hur, ai.'d taktm thought for her when there was no one else ; but he knew that his mother loved not him. Then naturally, almost inevitably, the aflFectionateness of his whole strong affectionate nature had gathered itself together in another love — a deeper and more yearning and more passionate love ; but, so far, this had seemed to give no sign, save in the keen and ceaseless aching of his heart. No lonely woman ever suffered a lonelier life, or was ever more sensitive to the lightest touch of alleviation. At the present moment not even Bab herself knew the tremulous way in which one instinct waS lighting against another within him. 'Go home now; leave this preoccupied and unimpressionable girl till a more favourable moment.' So spoke the instinct of common sense. But another and a stronger instinct was there — too strong to utter itself in words. It was by the depth of its silence that he was influenced ; and he made a mistake, nnd he stayed. 'It's all very well to talk i' that way, Bab,' he said at last, answering her word as if uo other thought had intervened. ' Bat 2—2 ! I I' Hi ■■., I 20 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. when one thinks o' what Ulvstan Bi<,'ht was nobbut twenty years agone, an' what it is now. one can't but feel half maddened. Why, there isn't a fifth jiart o' the fish browt into the bay 'at used to be browt in. It isn^t there to be catchrd ; how can it, wi' the spawn lyin' killed at the bottom o' the sea, mashed wi' the trav»i-boam as completely as a railway train 'ud mash a basket of eggs ?' * They tell me, them 'at knows, 'at the spawn doesn't lie at the sea-bottom. It floats on the top.' 'That's true of a few sorts,' said David, half glad that the girl should reply to him at all ; yet suspecting an allusion to one whom he hated with a hate proportionate to his love for Bab, ' It's true of a few sorts ; but it isn't true o' the sorts we depend upon for a livin'. I've had proof anuff o' that ; an' so hcs my father. Why, he was sayin' nobbut yesterday 'at he'd browt into Ulvstan as many as thirteen hundred big fish at a single catch. But he'll never do it again — no, nor no other man,' * The lasi (Reason warn't such a bad season for herrin's,' said Bab, still speaking in a conciliatory, but only half -interested way. David Andoe was roused even more than before. ' Herrin's !' he exclaimed. ' There's nowt like the number catched nowadays 'at used to be. Why, I've known mysel' a single boat to take eighteen lasts at a catch ; an' sell 'em for ten pound a last.* An' 'twas a reg'lar thing wiv us, when Ah was a lad, te fetch in four or five lasts of a mornin'. Now you may go till you're grayhcaded, an' you'll not do it. An' ' (here David's voice changed and softened, and betrayed him to his own great pain), * an' it's moan 'at Ah care so much for money, Bab, nut on my oiin account. Thou knows that ! Thou knows well anuff why Ah'd be fain to see things as they once was, when every man 'at chose to work could live by his work, whether on land or sea. Ah'm naught at landwork mysel', nut havin' been bred to it ; or Ah'd soon try an' see whether Ah couldn't mak' better addlins nor Ah can noo. . . . An' it's that keeps ma back ; an' hinders ma fra speakin' when my heart's achin to saiiy a word.' * Then ilonH say it, David !' protested Bab eagerly ; and the tone of her voice attested to the uttermost her sincerity of appeal. 'I mun saJiy it,' David replied passionately. 'Tho' Ah can't bard the notion o' askin' to leave thy gran'father's home, wi' never another home ready for thee to go to. But I'd try to mak' one ready, Bab ; I'd try all I could to mak' thee a better one ! For it breaks my heart to see thee workin' an' toilin' like ony slave. Ay, it is bad to bear, when Ah'd work mysel' te skin an' bone te save thee. But what can Ah do when neet after neet we toil an' moil, an' come back i' the moruin' wi' barely anuff te pay for the oil i' the lamp, let alone for the bait, or the wear an' tear o' the lines an* * A last consists of ten thotisaiKl liemngs ; but a hundred and twenty-four is counted to each hundred. A* YaniKjuth they count (or used to do so) ou« hundred and thirty-two. iili ABOVE THE SOUND OF TuE SEA: 21 )ut twenty years laddeiied. Why, ly 'at used to be it, wi' the spawn be trav»i-boam as eggs ?' doesn't lie at the lad that the girl ion to one whom ■ Bab. ' It's true pend upon for a ly father. Why, Ulvstan as many t he'll never do it jrrin's,' said Bab, -interested way. ke the number 'n mysel' a single for ten pound a A.h was a lad, te you may go till 2re David's voice )wn great pain), ), nut on my oJin luff why Ah'd be man 'at chose to Ah'm naught r Ah'd soon try or Ah can noo. . a speakin' when y and the tone of appeal, o' Ah can't bard liome, wi' never ;ry to mak' one ter one ! For it ony slave. Ay, an' bone te save we toil an' moil, ly for the oil i' o' the lines an' 3cl and twenty-four ised to do bo) ouu nets? What can Ah do? An' all the while me foariii' 'at some- body else— an' that somebody none so worthy — '11 stop in, an' spoil my life for me. . . . Bab, doesn't thee cave for me a little? An' me sa troubled wi' carin' for thee ! It takes the life out o' me ; because there's nought else, no, nou-^ht iiowheres. An' what is the good o' life to a man if there's no;in to care so as how he lives it ? Xni'iu to see whether the misery on it's more nor he cm bear ; rman to hel]> him i' the beariii' ; noiiu to say "Well done!' wiicu he's got the victory ; an' no;in to speak a word o' comfort when ho falls to the i,'r()iiiid? What's the good o' life when one hes te live it like that ?' ' You might as Wiill say, " Whal's the good o' life at all V" if ya ])ut it so,' Bab replied, sadly and gravely. The visions of the past isMlf-hoiir had not been all illumined by the sun. ' I hope I'd never be bold enough i' the wickedness to saay that /' David replied. ' Still it's of ton been forced in upon rae 'at if folks miss the happiness o'life at the beginning they don't easily o'ertake it after. Ah don't know 'at Ah'm so keen set o' hevin' a happy life ; still — Ah may say it to thee, Bab — A/i'm doled o' mkery, the misery 'at sits at a man's fireside, an' dulls the lowe o' the coal, an' taints the tast ov his every bite and sup, no matter how good it be ! Eh, but Ah am doled o' misery o' that sort, Bab ; an' o' some other sorts. Thee doesn't know the wretchedness of havin' every word — the gentlest ya can utter, re;>liod to wiv a snap o' the tongue, an' a toss o' the head, an' a rasp o' the voice 'at sileucos ya like a blow frev a hammer, an' makes the heart i' ycr body sink as if a stone had been dropped te tlie middle on't ; an' all th<; while the soul within ya achin', an' achin', an' aeliin' for the sound of a kindly word till ya're fit to lay doon yer life wi' the longiii'. An' it's; not for so many days an' weeks ya ha' to bear it — no, nor not for so many months an' years— i/'.s- yt-r life 'c/Z's goin'. . . . But, eh, me, what an Ah saying ? Thou knows nought o' life o' (hut kind, Bab, an' thou shall never know, so it be that Ah hev my wa/iy. It all depends on thysel' ! . . . Doesn't thee care for me a little, nobbut a little, just anufi; to lead thee to promise me to wait a bit ? Things'll be better by-an'-by ; and there'll be two on us to fight instead o' only thyself. Can't thee sa;iy a word ? Bab had listened quite silently ; but not without strongly- repressed emotion. The emotion evident in David Andoe had alone been sufficient to awaken her own ; and theie was more behind. Bab's first girlish though of love aud marriage had been bound up with the thought of David. IMany a morning ho had helped her to fill her flither-basket out of the rocks at the foot of Yarva-Ness ; many a time he had helped her to bring up the lines from her grandfather's boat, or rather the boat in which her grandfather had a single share ; many a time he had helped to shorten her daily task of mussel-scaling. Of late Bab had not accepted his help, but this had not greatly distressed him. The meaning of her refusal might not be so untoward as, on the surface « y 22 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ill ! I 11 ill lili! of it, it seemed to be. And Bab quite understood. Long ago she had discerned the patience in the man, his faithfulness, his power of loving and suffering in silence ; and long ago, at least it seemed long to her now, she had desired to say something that should relieve her own soul from the burden of seeming to encourage attentions she might never accept as they were meant to be accepted. She knew now that it was not love that was in her heart when she thought of David Andoe, and by consequence his love for her was as a weight that she was fain to put away. Hero at last was an opportunity. ' Can't thee say a word, Bab ? David had pled in the gentle, humble tones of true lovingness. ' I'm feared I've nought to say 'at you'd care to hear,' Bab replied quietly, and as she spoke a light yet chill bret/j' came up from the sea, making a stir that seemed to cover a little the nakedness of speech. 'I'm noan thinkin' o' changin' ! nut i' noa waaj'. I'd never leave the childer, still less could I leave my gran'father. Noa, I'll never change.' *Ah'd niver ask thee to change,' David made haste to reply. * Ah've thowt it all oot lang sen ; an' Ah can see no reason why we shouldn't take a place— a bit biggt-r nor this — such a one as Storrs' 'ud do right well. An' we'd all live together ; an' the most o' the work 'ud fall on me, an' Ah'd be as happy as the day's long. An' surely there'll be a chaiinge by-an'-by,' the poor fellow urged, half- forgetful of the prophecy he had uttered but five minutes before. 'Either the fish '11 be easier to come by, or the prices '11 be better, or something '11 turn up i' some way. An' even supposin' noa great chaange comes at all, why we'd go on easier together nor apart. There's nought Ah wouldn't do for thee, Bab — noa, nought i' the world. Ah think, indeed, Ah do think, truly, 'at Ah could never live without thee !' ' Don't talk i' that way. David,' she replied, 'An' try an' forget ivery word 'at you've said. There's half a dozen lasses an' more i' Ulvstan Bight as 'd be proud an' glad to know 'at you cared for 'em. An' there's good women among 'em ; more nor one 'at would make a better wife nor ever I could do wi' four bairns an' a gran'father to start wi'. No, don't saay no more, David ! It 'ud be noJi use. Don't saay no more !' But David was hurt, and his hurt would have words. ' Ah'll only say this,' he urged, his dark eyes flashing in the mor- . light, * Ah'll only say this — you can't lissen to me, because you've thought of another i' yer mind— another 'at '11 bring ya to misery as sure as you're born ; an' make you bite the dust o' the e'th as you've niver been brought to bite it yet. There is a good bit o' pride in ya, Bab — pride 'at Ah've been proud to see, because it seemed to speak o' the high natur' 'at was in ya — a natur' 'at would never let ya ntter no mean word, nor do no mean thing. But yer pride '11 lUL. ;ood. Lon