LITMIR.BIZ

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resumed the laird. “A man may count his money without being a miser!”

      He stood and stared, still trembling, at his guest, either too much startled or too gentle to find fault with his intrusion.

      “I beg your pardon, laird,” said George. “I knocked, but receiving no answer, feared something was wrong.”

      “But why are you out of bed—and you an invalid?” returned Mr. Fordyce.

      “I heard a heavy fall, and feared the lightning had done some damage.”

      “We shall see about that in the morning, and in the meantime you had better go to bed,” said the laird.

      They turned together toward the door.

      “What a multitude of books, you have, Mr. Fordyce!” remarked George. “I had not a notion of such a library in the county!”

      “I have been a lover of books all my life,” returned the laird. “And they gather, they gather!” he added.

      “Your love draws them,” said George.

      “The storm is over, I think,” said the laird.

      He did not tell his guest that there was scarcely a book on those shelves not sought after by book-buyers—not one that was not worth money in the book-market. Here and there the dulled gold of a fine antique binding returned the gleam of the candle, but any gathering of old law or worthless divinity would have looked much the same.

      “I should like to glance over them,” said George. “There must be some valuable volumes among so many!”

      “Rubbish! rubbish!” rejoined the old man, testily, almost hustling him from the room. “I am ashamed to hear it called a library.”

      It seemed to Crawford, as again he lay awake in his bed, altogether a strange incident. A man may count his money when he pleases, but not the less must it seem odd that he should do so in the middle of the night, and with such a storm flashing and roaring around him, apparently unheeded. The next morning he got his cousin to talk about her father, but drew from her nothing to cast light on what he had seen.

      CHAPTER IX. IN THE GARDEN

      Of the garden which had been the pride of many owners of the place, only a small portion remained. It was strangely antique, haunted with a beauty both old and wild, the sort of garden for the children of heaven to play in when men sleep.

      In a little arbor constructed by an old man who had seen the garden grow less and less through successive generations, a tent of honeysuckle in a cloak of sweet pease, sat George and Alexa, two highly respectable young people, Scots of Scotland, like Jews of Judaea, well satisfied of their own worthiness. How they found their talk interesting, I can scarce think. I should have expected them to be driven by very dullness to love-making; but the one was too prudent to initiate it, the other too staid to entice it. Yet, people on the borders of love being on the borders of poetry, they had got talking about a certain new poem, concerning which George, having read several notices of it, had an opinion to give.

      “You should tell my father about it, George,” said Alexa; “he is the best judge I know.”

      She did not understand that it was a little more than the grammar of poetry the school-master had ever given himself to understand. His best criticism was to show phrase calling to phrase across gulfs of speech.

      The little iron gate, whose hinges were almost gone with rust, creaked and gnarred as it slowly opened to admit the approach of a young countryman. He advanced with the long, slow, heavy step suggestive of nailed shoes; but his hazel eye had an outlook like that of an eagle from its eyrie, and seemed to dominate his being, originating rather than directing its motions. He had a russet-colored face, much freckled; hair so dark red as to be almost brown; a large, well-shaped nose; a strong chin; and a mouth of sweetness whose smile was peculiarly its own, having in it at once the mystery and the revelation of Andrew Ingram. He took off his bonnet as he drew near, and held it as low as his knee, while with something of the air of an old-fashioned courtier, he stood waiting. His clothes, all but his coat, which was of some blue stuff, and his Sunday one, were of a large-ribbed corduroy. For a moment no one spoke. He colored a little, but kept silent, his eyes on the lady.

      “Good-morning, Andrew!” she said at length. “There was something, I forget what, you were to call about! Remind me—will you?”

      “I did not come before, ma’am, because I knew you were occupied. And even now it does not greatly matter.”

      “Oh, I remember!—the poem! I am very sorry, but I had so much to think of that it went quite out of my mind.”

      An expression half amused, half shy, without trace of mortification, for an instant shadowed the young man’s face.

      “I wish you would let me have the lines again, ma’am! Indeed I should be obliged to you!” he said.

      “Well, I confess they might first be improved! I read them one evening to my father, and he agreed with me that two or three of them were not quite rhythmical. But he said it was a fair attempt, and for a working-man very creditable.”

      What Andrew was thinking, it would have been hard to gather from his smile; but I believe it was that, if he had himself read the verses aloud, the laird would have found no fault with their rhythm. His carriage seemed more that of a patient, respectful amusement than anything else.

      Alexa rose, but resumed her seat, saying:

      “As the poem is a religious one, there can be no harm in handing it you on Sunday after church!—that is,” she added, meaningly, “if you will be there!”

      “Give it to Dawtie, if you please, ma’am,” replied Andrew.

      “Ah!” rebuked Miss Fordyce, in a tone almost of rebuke.

      “I seldom go to church, ma’am,” said Andrew, reddening a little, but losing no sweetness from his smile.

      “I understand as much! It is very wrong! Why don’t you?”

      Andrew was silent.

      “I wish you to tell me,” persisted Alexa, with a peremptoriness which came of the school-master. She had known him too as a pupil of her father’s!

      “If you will have it, ma’am, I not only learn nothing from Mr. Smith, but I think much that he says is not true.”

      “Still you ought to go for the sake of example.”

      “Do wrong to make other people follow my example? Can that be to do right?”

      “Wrong to go to church! What do you mean? Wrong to pray with your fellow-men?”

      “Perhaps the hour may come, ma’am, when I shall be able to pray with my fellow-men, even though the words they use seem addressed to a tyrant, not to the Father of Jesus Christ. But at present I can not. I might endure to hear Mr. Smith say evil things concerning God, but the evil things he says to God make me quite unable to pray, and I feel like a hypocrite!”

      “Whatever you may think of Mr. Smith’s doctrines, it is presumptuous to set yourself up as too good to go to church.”

      “I most bear the reproach, ma’am. I can not consent to be a hypocrite in order to avoid being called one!”

      Either Miss Fordyce had no answer to this, or did not choose to give any. She was not troubled that Andrew would not go to church, but offended at the unhesitating decision with which he set her counsel aside. Andrew made her a respectful bow, turned away, put on his bonnet, which he had held in his hand all the time, and passed through the garden gate.

      “Who is the fellow?” asked George, partaking sympathetically of his companion’s annoyance.

      “He is Andrew Ingram, the son of a small farmer, one of my father’s tenants. He and his brother work with their father on the farm. They are quite respectable people. Andrew is conceited, but has his good points. He imagines himself a poet, and indeed his work has merit. The worst of him is that he sets up for being better than other people.”

      “Not an unusual

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