Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.In the Highlands.“I hope you had a pleasant excursion, my dears, on the moor,” said Mrs Maclean, when they entered the house.“Oh, we had very good fun, and we should have had more if Fanny would have gone farther,” answered Norman. “She cannot stand jokes, and because I just touched her with my stick she would not go on.”Fanny cast a reproachful glance at Norman. She had determined not to complain of him, and now he was trying to make it appear that he had come back through her want of temper. This was very hard indeed to bear, but she did not attempt to defend herself, for she knew that her granny would be aware of the truth, and that satisfied her, and she was unwilling to make her little brother appear to disadvantage in the eyes of their hostess.“I shall be very happy to take Norman out again whenever he likes, and I hope that I shall be able to draw him farther than I did to-day,” she said quietly.Mrs Maclean was a very kind lady, an old friend of their granny’s, and Fanny thought her very like her; she had the same quiet, but yet firm, manner, and she seemed to take an interest in what she and Norman said and did, and to be anxious to amuse them.Mr Maclean was a Highland gentleman who preferred spending his days among his native moors and heathery hills, to living in a town and mixing in the world.Norman whispered to Fanny that he thought he was an old farmer, when he first saw him in his tartan shooting-coat and trowsers, with a bonnet on his head, a plaid over his shoulders, and a thick stick in his hand. Old as he was, however, he could walk many a mile over those heathery hills he loved so well, and not only Norman, but Norman’s papa, might have had some difficulty in keeping up with him. He was as kind as Mrs Maclean, and soon took a great fancy to Fanny; Norman discovered that, somehow or other, he did not stand so well in his opinion.The laird, as he was called, now entered the room—“Well, young people, you took but a short excursion to-day,” he observed; “perhaps, Mistress Fanny, you found the carriage rather heavy to drag, and if you have a fancy for a row on the loch, as I am going down after luncheon to try and catch a few trout for dinner, I shall be glad to take you with me.”“Oh, thank you, Mr Maclean, I should so like to go,” answered Fanny. “May we, mamma? may we, granny?”Mrs Leslie and her mamma willingly gave their consent.“I must ask you to take care that Norman does not tumble into the water, though,” said Mrs Vallery.“I will make a line fast to the young gentleman’s leg, and soon haul him out again if he does,” answered Mr Maclean, laughing.“I can take very good care of myself, thank you,” said Norman; “but I should like to see you catch some fish, if they are good big ones.”“There are not finer in any loch in Scotland, but they will not always rise to the fly,” observed Mr Maclean.As soon as luncheon was over, the laird, carrying his rod and fishing-basket, and accompanied by his two young friends, set off for the loch. On their way they were joined by Sandy Fraser, a tall, thin, old man, with grey hairs escaping from under his bonnet. Sandy had been Mr Maclean’s constant attendant from his boyhood, and had followed him to many parts of the world which he had visited before he settled down in his Highland home.On reaching the loch, they found a boat, and Sandy took the oars. The two children were placed in the centre, Mr Maclean took his seat in the stern, and Sandy rowed away towards the further end of the loch. On one side the hills, with here and there bare, grey rocks appearing on their steep sides, rose directly out of the water, and were reflected on its calm surface.“Why, the hills are standing on their heads,” exclaimed Norman, who for the first time in his life had witnessed such a scene.Rowing on, they passed several pretty islands covered thickly with trees, among which, Fanny said, she should like to have a hut and live like Robinson Crusoe.“No, I should be Robinson Crusoe, and you should be Friday,” exclaimed Norman, who knew the story, as it was in one of Fanny’s picture-books.“Young gentleman, you should be proud of working for your sister,” observed the laird, who was busy getting his fishing-tackle ready. “It is far more manly to work for others, than to let others work for you.”Norman held his tongue, for he had an opinion that he had better not contradict the old gentleman as he was accustomed to do other persons.Fanny watched Mr Maclean with great curiosity, as, at length having reached a spot where, the breeze playing over the surface, he expected the fish to rise, he began to throw the little fly at the end of his long line. Now he made it skim the water from one side to the other, now he drew it towards him, always keeping it in motion, just as a real fly would play over the surface. On a sudden there was a splash, and for an instant the head of a fish was seen above the surface, and the tip of the light rod bending, the line ran rapidly out of his reel. The laird began at length to wind up the line, in vain the poor fish swam here and there, it could not get the sharp hook out of its mouth. Sandy, laying in his oars, got the landing-net ready. The rod was so light that it could not have borne the weight of the fish, but by putting the net beneath it he easily lifted it into the boat.“Oh, what a fine fish,” exclaimed Fanny, as she examined the large loch trout which had been caught; “what delicate colours it has! How beautifully it is marked on the back!”“We must get a few more, though, to make up our dish,” said Mr Maclean, getting his line ready for another throw.A second unwary trout was soon caught, and a third, and a fourth.“I should like to fish too,” exclaimed Norman. “Won’t you let me have your long stick and string, Mr Maclean? It seems very easy, and I am sure I should soon catch some.”The laird laughed heartily.“You are more likely to tumble into the water, and then we should have to catch you, young gentleman,” he answered. “It will take a good many years before you can throw a fly, let me tell you.”Norman was not convinced.“I’ll get Sandy to row me out some day.”“He is welcome to do that; but remember, you must not be tumbling overboard.”“I can take very good care of myself,” answered Norman, folding his arms, and trying to look very grand.A broad grin came over the countenance of Sandy, who knew enough of English to understand him. He nodded to his master.“If he comes with me I will take gude care of the child, and maybe he will catch a big trout some day; and you will come, young lady, and I will teach you to catch fish too,” he said, turning to Fanny.“Oh, I am sure I should not like to ran a hook into their mouths, it must hurt them so dreadfully,” answered Fanny.“They are given to us for food, my little girl,” observed Mr Maclean, “and most conscientiously I believe they suffer no real pain, and although the instinct of self-preservation makes them wish to escape, I doubt even whether they are frightened when they feel the hook in their mouths.”Still Fanny was incredulous, and thought she should never agree with the laird on that point.“I do not care whether the fish are hurt or not if I want to catch them,” observed Norman, showing his usual indifference to the feelings of others, whether human beings or animals.Fanny enjoyed the row very much, and thanked Sandy for offering to take her and Norman out.They reached home in time to have the trout dressed for dinner, and the laird insisted that the children should come down, and partake of some of the fish which they, as he said, had assisted to catch.The laird was fond of the study of natural history, and narrated a number of anecdotes especially of the sagacity of animals.“Fanny and I have a difference of opinion as to whether fish when caught do or do not feel pain,” he observed. “I remember reading an anecdote which, if true, supports what she thinks. A surgeon was one day walking by the side of a pond in a gentleman’s grounds in England, when he saw a large pike, which had struck its head against a piece of iron projecting from a sunken log, and was struggling in the water close to the bank. The fish did not attempt to swim away, nor did it seem alarmed, when the surgeon stooped down, and lifted it gently out of the water. He at once saw that the jaw of the fish had been broken, and with his penknife and some strips of wood and linen, which he had in his pocket, he dexterously managed to bind up the jaw, after doing which, he placed the fish in the water. It did not even then swim away, but as long as he remained on the bank, kept watching him attentively.“The next day, going down to the pond what was his surprise to see the fish swim towards him, and poke his head out of the water. He perceived that some of the bandaging had been displaced, and lifting the fish as before gently on the bank he dressed the wound, and again returned it to its native element. As he walked along the bank, the fish swam by his side, and not till he turned his back, did it dart off into deep water.“The following day, he again went down to the pond, when the fish swam up to where he stood, though it did no more than come to the edge, being apparently satisfied that its wound was going on well. As long as he remained in the place, the fish invariably appeared whenever he went to the pond, and swam close to the edge, as he walked along the bank.“I must confess that that fish must have had as much sense as many other animals, and probably felt more pain when injured, and would have been alarmed, if it had been attacked, or had found a hook in its jaws.”“But is the story really true?” asked Fanny.“It is at all events as well authenticated as many other anecdotes,” answered the laird. “By-the-by, Mrs Vallery, I should like to witness the performances of the snake-charmers in India. Have you ever seen them?”“Frequently,” answered Mrs Vallery. “They are very wonderful, and my husband has taken some pains to ascertain whether there is any imposture, but without success. They profess to charm the Cobra de Capella and other snakes, which are excessively venomous, and abound in all the hotter parts of the country. It is said, indeed, that 12,000 natives are killed annually by bites from them. The snake-charmers do not previously train the snakes, but will charm those only just caught, quite as well as those they carry about with them.“They use for this purpose, a hollow gourd on which they play a buzzing music. On one occasion, three men appeared, dressed only in their turbans and waist cloths, in which it was impossible they could have concealed any snakes. My husband took them to some wild ground, where they speedily caught a couple of large cobras, and returning with the venomous creatures having placed them on the ground, made them rear up their bodies, and raise and bow their heads, keeping exact time with the music. After they had ceased, my husband speedily killed the snakes, and on examining them the poison fangs were found to be perfect. Generally, however, the snake-charmers either extract the fangs of the snakes they carry about with them, or wisely employ those which are harmless. They allow the creatures to crawl over their bodies, and twist and twine themselves in the most horrible manner round their necks and arms, and I have seen a snake putting its forked tongue into its master’s mouth.“There are instances, however, of the venomous serpents biting the snake-charmers, who have thus lost their lives.“At one of the stations where my husband was quartered, snakes were very numerous, and we used to keep a mongoose in the house to destroy them. It is a pretty little animal, a species of ichneumon with catlike habits and a very prying disposition. The common idea is, that if bitten by a venomous serpent, it runs to find a particular herb, which prevents the venom taking effect. This, however, is not really the case, the mongoose depends upon its own vigilance and great agility for escaping from the fangs of even the most active serpent, for if bitten, it would die like any other animal.“I should not like to see men allowing snakes to put their tongues in their mouths, even though I knew that the fangs had been taken out,” observed Fanny. “But I should like to see the jugglers you were speaking of, mamma, who performed such wonderful tricks.”“I was mentioning the Indian gipsies or Nutts, as they are called, who travel as those in England used to do, from one end of the country to the other, and appear to have no settled home. A party arrived one day at our station, and offered to exhibit their tricks, and your papa gave them leave to do so.“There were among them several persons of all ages. First an old man took his seat on the ground and began violently beating a drum, shouting out that we should soon see what we should see. Meantime a young man and a boy had fixed firmly in the ground a bamboo nearly thirty feet high, and while thus engaged, another man singing in a monotonous voice, was running round and round it. Presently a woman who was standing by, leaped on the shoulder of the running man, who did not stop, but continued his course as before, rapidly increasing his speed. In another minute she had leaped on his head, and there she stood with perfect steadiness, while he ran still faster, and the old man beat the drum louder and louder, shrieking all the time, even more shrilly than before, till the noise became almost deafening.“While our senses were somewhat bewildered by the sound, the boy ran up to the running man with a large earthen pot, which the latter in a wonderful way placed on his head; the woman having, I suppose, in the meantime put her feet on his shoulders, for before I could follow her movements she appeared standing on the top of the pot, the man still running round as before.“The man who had been fixing the pole in the earth, now advanced, and taking up a heavy stone ball which it would have required a strong man to lift even a few inches from the ground, began playing with it, catching it now on one shoulder, now on the other, then in his hands, and on his arms and feet. Next he threw up two ivory balls, quickly adding others in succession, till there were no less than eight kept in motion at the same time, flying up in the air.“The first party, who had in the meantime been resting, now arranged a flat circular brass dish, of considerable size, on which were placed four pillars about three inches high. These were connected by four sticks, with other sticks above them, and then more pillars, and so on, till there were fully thirty pillars one above another, with a brass dish on the top of all. We thought it surprising that this structure could stand as it did, but greater was our amazement to see it lifted on the man’s head while he was circling round the post, and still more astonished were we, when the woman sprang like lightning up in the air and stood on the top of all, as steadily as if she was on the ground, while the man continued rapidly circling round.“After this, one of the men leaped on the shoulders of the other, who was standing close to the pole, and then the woman making use of them as a ladder, sprang to the very top of the pole, on the point of which she lay in a horizontal position, when one of the men who had followed her, touching her foot, she began to spin round and round, like the card of a pocket compass on its point.“The men performed a variety of other tricks, but those I have mentioned are the most wonderful.“Here was no room for deception, though many of the tricks performed by Indian jugglers are really the result of clever sleight-of-hand.”“I think I would rather see the tricks which the conjuror did when we went to the Egyptian Hall last year with granny,” said Fanny; “I never like to look at people who are doing things by which if they make a mistake they may hurt themselves. I should not like to have seen Blondin, and the other people we read of in the newspapers, who run along tight ropes high up in the air.”“I should think them very foolish for their pains, and wish them a better mode of gaining their livelihood,” observed Mr Maclean, “and I agree with Fanny. A sailor has to climb the rigging of his ship, but then he goes in the way of duty, and when people mount in balloons, they have generally a scientific object in view, or some reason to offer. But in my opinion, the rest of the world should keep their feet on the earth as long as they can.”Even Norman, was interested in this conversation, and declared that he recollected the performances of the jugglers which his mamma spoke of. He then described several scenes which he had witnessed in India, in a very clear way.“You have got a head on your shoulders, young gentleman,” observed the laird; “I only hope you have got your heart in its right place.”Mrs Leslie sighed, for she was afraid that her little grandson had been so long allowed to have his own way, that though his heart might be in its right place, as the common expression is, it was sadly choked up with the bad seed of weeds, which were already beginning to sprout The next day was rainy, and neither Fanny nor Norman could go out. He behaved himself tolerably well in the drawing-room, but when they were at play together, he ordered her about in his usual dictatorial manner, and said several things which greatly tried her temper.“Although he is so forward in many things, and talks so well, he is but a little boy after all,” she thought; “it is, however, easy to feel amiable and good when I am not opposed, but I ought to try and be so, notwithstanding all he says and does.”The following day was bright and fine, and as Sandy could not take them, out in the boat, the laird asked Fanny and Norman whether they would like to make another excursion with the carriage. “Oh yes! I shall like it very much,” exclaimed Norman. “Please cut me another long stick, for Fanny broke the one you gave me the other day.”Fanny did not say why she broke it, so the laird cut another long thin wand, and gave it to Norman.“Ah, this will make my horse go on at a good quick pace,” he observed, flourishing it. “I won’t ask you to drag me up the hill, because you can’t,” he said to Fanny, “so if you will pull, I’ll push behind.”“That is very right of you,” observed the laird, as his young friends set off on their excursion. “He is a fine little fellow, though too much addicted to boasting.”Fanny, with Norman pushing behind, soon dragged the carriage up the hill. He then declared that he was tired, and getting in told her to move on.As the ground was tolerably smooth, she was able to do so at a speed which satisfied the young gentleman.“Capital,” he cried out, flourishing his stick, “my horse draws fast, go on, go on; now see if you can’t gallop.”Fanny exerted herself to the utmost, and the air being pure and fresh she felt in good spirits.The ground after some time became rather rougher, but Norman did not mind the bumping and thumping of the carriage, though it was much harder work for Fanny.She at last began to go slower.“Can’t you keep it up,” he cried out. “If you do not! Remember I have got my stick!”“You must also remember how I treated you the last time,” said Fanny, “and if you use your stick as you did then, I will leave you in the carriage and run away.”“You had better not,” said Norman. “You promised to take care of me. Mamma will be angry if you leave me on the moor all alone by myself.”“Very well, do not beat me with your stick, and I will drag you on as fast as I can,” said Fanny.Norman remembering that Fanny had broken his stick before, thought it would be wise not to tempt her to do so again, and therefore, though he continued to flourish it, and now and then to touch her frock, he did not venture to beat her.Fanny went on contentedly, sometimes turning round to speak to him and sometimes stopping to rest. As the ground looked smoother to the right, Fanny turned off from the main track and went towards a clump of trees which she saw in the distance, knowing that it would serve as a guide to her and believing she could easily find her way back again.On and on they went—Norman was delighted.“This is great fun; I wonder where we shall get to at last,” he said, when Fanny again stopped to rest. “I think it will be soon time, however, to go back again,” she observed, “for though Mr Maclean told us we could come to no harm on the moor, we might lose our way if we went very far.”Norman urged her to go on.“I see a cottage a little way off between the trees, let us go as far as that, and then we can turn back,” he said.Fanny wished to please him and though she already felt a little tired, she thought there would be no difficulty in reaching the cottage, and that she would like to talk to the people who lived in it. At length, however, the ground became rougher than ever, and they soon came to a shallow burn or stream which made its way from the higher part of the moor, and went winding along till it fell into the loch below.“I am afraid we must turn back now at all events,” she said, “I shall never be able to drag the carriage over this rough ground and across the stream, so we must go back and give up visiting the cottage.”“Oh no, no! go on,” cried Norman, “you can easily cross the water, it is scarcely above the soles of your shoes and see there are some big stones on which you can tread while you drag the carriage along on one side of them.”“I think I could do that if you were not in it,” said Fanny, “I must not let you, however, run the risk of wetting your feet; mamma objects to that as she is afraid of your catching cold. If you will cling round my neck, I will carry you across in my arms, and then I will go back and get the carriage.”“That will do very well,” said Norman. “Lift me up! Be quick about it, and we shall soon be across.”Fanny dragging the carriage to the edge of the stream took up Norman, and though he was a heavy weight for her to carry, still she thought that she could take him across in safety. She had to tread verycarefully and slowly as the stream though shallow was wide and the stones uneven.They had not gone many paces when Norman declared that she did not move fast enough.“If I attempt to move faster I may let you fall,” she answered.“You had better not do that or mamma will be angry with you, and I am sure if you chose you could go faster than you are doing. Come, move on, move on,” cried out the young tyrant, nourishing his stick, and ungrateful little boy that he was, he began to beat Fanny with it knowing that she dare not let him fall.“Keep quiet, Norman,” she exclaimed, “it is very naughty of you! You will make me let you drop, though I should be very sorry to do so.”Norman looked wickedly in her face, and only hit her harder.As he was flourishing his stick, he knocked off her hat—she caught it, however, but in doing so she very nearly let him drop into the water. Still, though she begged and begged him to be quiet, he continued beating her, till after considerable exertions she reached dry ground in safety, and gladly put him down.“Now, Norman,” she exclaimed, “what do you deserve?”“I do not care what I deserve, but I know that you had better not slap my face, for mamma was angry with you when you did so before, and papa says he won’t allow anybody to beat me but himself, so just go and get the carriage as you said you would. You must not leave it there, somebody will run away with it, and I shall have to walk all the way home.”“Very well, do you stay where you are, and I will go and bring it across,” said Fanny.Norman agreed to stop, and Fanny went back carefully making her way over the stepping-stones. She found the task of dragging the carriage across without stepping into the water much greater than she had expected. Norman shouted to her to make haste.“I am doing my best, and cannot go faster,” she answered.“If you are not quicker I will stay here no longer,” answered Norman.Without stopping to see whether she did move faster, off he ran.At that moment poor Fanny’s foot slipped, and before she could regain her balance, down she fell into the stream. In doing so she hurt her arm, and wet her clothes almost all over. Norman, instead of coming to help her, laughed heartily at her misfortune, and scampered away crying out, “It served you light, you should have come faster when I told you.”Poor Fanny felt very much inclined to cry with vexation, but knowing that that would do no good, she managed to scramble up again, and as her feet were wet, she stepped on through the water, and soon got the carriage to the other side of the stream. As Norman did not come back to her, she ran after him, dragging it on.“Norman! Norman!” she cried out, but instead of coming back, he made his way towards the cottage.She had nearly overtaken him just as they had got close to it, when the door opened, and an old man appeared, followed by a little fair-haired child, much younger than Norman.“What is the matter?” asked the old man, eyeing the two children whose voices he had heard.“My young brother ran away from me, and I tumbled down and wet my frock,” answered Fanny.“Come in, then, and dry yourself,” said the old man.“But I have wet my stockings and shoes,” said Fanny, “and they will take a long time to dry.”“I shall be happy to have your company, my pretty lassie, as long as you like to stay,” said the old man. “I ken ye are staying with Glen Tulloch and ony of his friends are welcome here.”“We are staying with Mr Maclean,” answered Fanny, “and were making an excursion over the moor, when we saw your cottage, and thought we should like to visit you.”“We call Mr Maclean Glen Tulloch about here, as that’s the name of his house,” answered the old man. “Come in! come in! We will soon get your wet shoes and stockings off, though I am afraid you must sit without any while they are drying, for Robby there has never had a pair to his feet, and my old slippers are too large for you, I have a notion.”Fanny observed that though the old man used a few Scotch expressions, he spoke English perfectly. His dress, too, was more like that of a sailor than the costume worn by the surrounding peasantry.Norman, who had also come into the house, stood while they were speaking, eyeing the little boy, without saying anything. At last, looking up at the old man, he asked, “Is that your son?”“No, young gentleman, he is my grandson,” was the answer, “he is the only one alive of all my family, and I am to him as father and mother, and nurse and playmate. Am I not, Robby?”“Yes, grandfather,” answered the child, looking up affectionately at the old man, “I do not want any one to play with but you.”“Would you not like a ride in our little carriage?” asked Fanny. “As soon as my shoes and stockings are dry I shall be happy to draw you.”Robby nodded his head, and came near to Fanny.“Would you not like to go out and play with the young gentleman?” asked the old man.“I do not want him,” said Norman haughtily; “I am not accustomed to play with little brats of that sort.”“Oh, Norman, how can you say that?” exclaimed Fanny, very much annoyed.“Is he your brother, young lady?” asked the old man, looking with a pitying eye on Norman, but not at all angry.“Yes,” said Fanny.“I should not have thought it. There is a wide difference between you, I see.”Fanny did not quite understand him.Norman sat himself down on a stool in the corner of the room, and folded his arms in the fashion which he adopted when he wished to be dignified.“You have come a long way from Glen Tulloch, young lady, and I must see you safe back, for your young brother I have a notion is not likely to be much help to you,” said the old man; “Robby, though he is very small, is accustomed to take care of the house, for I often have to leave him by himself.”Fanny thanked him, for, recollecting the difficulties she encountered in coming, she felt somewhat anxious about the homeward journey, especially as Norman had behaved so ill, and very likely would continue in his present mood.Her stockings were soon dry, but her boots took longer, and were somewhat stiff when she put them on. They were some which her mamma had brought her from Paris, and were not very well suited for walking in the Highlands.“I am afraid I have nothing to offer you to eat suitable to your taste, young lady,” said the old man, “though you must be hungry after your long journey. Robby and I live on ‘brose’ to our breakfast, dinner, and supper, but will you just take a cup of milk? it was fresh this morning, and you may want it after your walk.”Fanny gladly accepted the old man’s offer, and then looked at Norman.The cup of milk greatly restored her. The old man, without saying a word, brought another and offered it to Norman.The young gentleman took it without scarcely saying thank you. Again, the old man cast a look of compassion on him.“Poor boy,” he said quietly, “he kens no better.”Robby bad in the meantime run out, and was admiring the carriage by himself, thinking how much he should like to have it to drag about, and to bring the meal home in, instead of allowing his grandfather to carry it on his back.Fanny was curious all the time, to learn something more about their host. He was evidently different to the other people around, and it seemed so strange that he and the little boy should be living together in that lone cottage on the wild moor. But she did not like to ask him questions, and as he did not offer to say anything more about himself than he had done, she restrained her curiosity intending to ask Mr Maclean more about him when she got home.At last her clothes, and boots, and stockings being dry, she told the old man that she thought it was time to begin their homeward journey.“As you wish, young lady,” he answered, and accompanied her and Norman out of the cottage. They found Robby at the door, looking at the carriage.“Oh, you must get in,” said Fanny, “and I will draw you. My brother can walk very well some of the way.”“Thank you, young lady,” said the old man; “if you will let Robby have a ride, I will draw the carriage, and let him come a little way, but he must go back, and look after the house, and it would be over far for him to return, if he came with us to Glen Tulloch.”Norman looked very angry when Robby got into the carriage, and he himself had to walk, but he dared not complain, as there was something in the old man’s manner which made him stand in awe of him.After they had gone a short distance, his grandfather told Robby to run back, and thanking Fanny, invited Norman to get in. The young gentleman did so, but he did not use his stick, as he had done when Fanny was dragging him.They easily crossed the stream, and Fanny was surprised to find how soon they reached the top of the hill near Glen Tulloch.“Now, young lady, you can easily take the carriage home, so I will wish you good-bye,” said the old man; “I hope you will come soon again—it does my heart good to see you.” Fanny promised, if she was allowed, soon again to pay him a visit, and wishing him good-bye, while he strolled back over the moor, she dragged the carriage down the hill. She met the laird setting out to look for her and Norman.“Why, my bonny lassie, the ladies were afraid that you had wandered away over the moor and lost yourselves, you have been so long away, and they sent me off to try and find you.”Fanny, without blaming Norman, told him of their adventure in the stream, and their meeting with the old man and his little grandson in the lone hut on the moor.“Ah, that was old Alec Morrison,” observed the laird. “His is a sad history, I will tell it you by-and-by, but come along home and satisfy the ladies that you are not lost.”“I am very glad you have come back at last, Fanny, we were getting anxious about you,” said Mrs Vallery. “I must not allow you to make excursions with Norman unless you can manage to come back with him in good time.”“I will try and manage better another time, mamma,” she said, looking up after a minute’s silence. “I should very much like to pay another visit to the old man who was so kind to us, and to take something for his little grandson. Poor little fellow, I pity him so much having to live out on a wild moor, where there are no other children to play with him. His grandfather says he often leaves him alone in the cottage by himself.”“I cannot promise positively to let you go,” said Mrs Vallery, “but I am sure that you will do your best to return in good time. I hope to be able to do so, and I should wish you to take something for the poor little child you speak of.”“Thank you, mamma,” said Fanny, kissing Mrs Vallery affectionately, and forgetting all about the way Norman had treated her, she ran off to prepare for tea.

“I hope you had a pleasant excursion, my dears, on the moor,” said Mrs Maclean, when they entered the house.

“Oh, we had very good fun, and we should have had more if Fanny would have gone farther,” answered Norman. “She cannot stand jokes, and because I just touched her with my stick she would not go on.”

Fanny cast a reproachful glance at Norman. She had determined not to complain of him, and now he was trying to make it appear that he had come back through her want of temper. This was very hard indeed to bear, but she did not attempt to defend herself, for she knew that her granny would be aware of the truth, and that satisfied her, and she was unwilling to make her little brother appear to disadvantage in the eyes of their hostess.

“I shall be very happy to take Norman out again whenever he likes, and I hope that I shall be able to draw him farther than I did to-day,” she said quietly.

Mrs Maclean was a very kind lady, an old friend of their granny’s, and Fanny thought her very like her; she had the same quiet, but yet firm, manner, and she seemed to take an interest in what she and Norman said and did, and to be anxious to amuse them.

Mr Maclean was a Highland gentleman who preferred spending his days among his native moors and heathery hills, to living in a town and mixing in the world.

Norman whispered to Fanny that he thought he was an old farmer, when he first saw him in his tartan shooting-coat and trowsers, with a bonnet on his head, a plaid over his shoulders, and a thick stick in his hand. Old as he was, however, he could walk many a mile over those heathery hills he loved so well, and not only Norman, but Norman’s papa, might have had some difficulty in keeping up with him. He was as kind as Mrs Maclean, and soon took a great fancy to Fanny; Norman discovered that, somehow or other, he did not stand so well in his opinion.

The laird, as he was called, now entered the room—“Well, young people, you took but a short excursion to-day,” he observed; “perhaps, Mistress Fanny, you found the carriage rather heavy to drag, and if you have a fancy for a row on the loch, as I am going down after luncheon to try and catch a few trout for dinner, I shall be glad to take you with me.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Maclean, I should so like to go,” answered Fanny. “May we, mamma? may we, granny?”

Mrs Leslie and her mamma willingly gave their consent.

“I must ask you to take care that Norman does not tumble into the water, though,” said Mrs Vallery.

“I will make a line fast to the young gentleman’s leg, and soon haul him out again if he does,” answered Mr Maclean, laughing.

“I can take very good care of myself, thank you,” said Norman; “but I should like to see you catch some fish, if they are good big ones.”

“There are not finer in any loch in Scotland, but they will not always rise to the fly,” observed Mr Maclean.

As soon as luncheon was over, the laird, carrying his rod and fishing-basket, and accompanied by his two young friends, set off for the loch. On their way they were joined by Sandy Fraser, a tall, thin, old man, with grey hairs escaping from under his bonnet. Sandy had been Mr Maclean’s constant attendant from his boyhood, and had followed him to many parts of the world which he had visited before he settled down in his Highland home.

On reaching the loch, they found a boat, and Sandy took the oars. The two children were placed in the centre, Mr Maclean took his seat in the stern, and Sandy rowed away towards the further end of the loch. On one side the hills, with here and there bare, grey rocks appearing on their steep sides, rose directly out of the water, and were reflected on its calm surface.

“Why, the hills are standing on their heads,” exclaimed Norman, who for the first time in his life had witnessed such a scene.

Rowing on, they passed several pretty islands covered thickly with trees, among which, Fanny said, she should like to have a hut and live like Robinson Crusoe.

“No, I should be Robinson Crusoe, and you should be Friday,” exclaimed Norman, who knew the story, as it was in one of Fanny’s picture-books.

“Young gentleman, you should be proud of working for your sister,” observed the laird, who was busy getting his fishing-tackle ready. “It is far more manly to work for others, than to let others work for you.”

Norman held his tongue, for he had an opinion that he had better not contradict the old gentleman as he was accustomed to do other persons.

Fanny watched Mr Maclean with great curiosity, as, at length having reached a spot where, the breeze playing over the surface, he expected the fish to rise, he began to throw the little fly at the end of his long line. Now he made it skim the water from one side to the other, now he drew it towards him, always keeping it in motion, just as a real fly would play over the surface. On a sudden there was a splash, and for an instant the head of a fish was seen above the surface, and the tip of the light rod bending, the line ran rapidly out of his reel. The laird began at length to wind up the line, in vain the poor fish swam here and there, it could not get the sharp hook out of its mouth. Sandy, laying in his oars, got the landing-net ready. The rod was so light that it could not have borne the weight of the fish, but by putting the net beneath it he easily lifted it into the boat.

“Oh, what a fine fish,” exclaimed Fanny, as she examined the large loch trout which had been caught; “what delicate colours it has! How beautifully it is marked on the back!”

“We must get a few more, though, to make up our dish,” said Mr Maclean, getting his line ready for another throw.

A second unwary trout was soon caught, and a third, and a fourth.

“I should like to fish too,” exclaimed Norman. “Won’t you let me have your long stick and string, Mr Maclean? It seems very easy, and I am sure I should soon catch some.”

The laird laughed heartily.

“You are more likely to tumble into the water, and then we should have to catch you, young gentleman,” he answered. “It will take a good many years before you can throw a fly, let me tell you.”

Norman was not convinced.

“I’ll get Sandy to row me out some day.”

“He is welcome to do that; but remember, you must not be tumbling overboard.”

“I can take very good care of myself,” answered Norman, folding his arms, and trying to look very grand.

A broad grin came over the countenance of Sandy, who knew enough of English to understand him. He nodded to his master.

“If he comes with me I will take gude care of the child, and maybe he will catch a big trout some day; and you will come, young lady, and I will teach you to catch fish too,” he said, turning to Fanny.

“Oh, I am sure I should not like to ran a hook into their mouths, it must hurt them so dreadfully,” answered Fanny.

“They are given to us for food, my little girl,” observed Mr Maclean, “and most conscientiously I believe they suffer no real pain, and although the instinct of self-preservation makes them wish to escape, I doubt even whether they are frightened when they feel the hook in their mouths.”

Still Fanny was incredulous, and thought she should never agree with the laird on that point.

“I do not care whether the fish are hurt or not if I want to catch them,” observed Norman, showing his usual indifference to the feelings of others, whether human beings or animals.

Fanny enjoyed the row very much, and thanked Sandy for offering to take her and Norman out.

They reached home in time to have the trout dressed for dinner, and the laird insisted that the children should come down, and partake of some of the fish which they, as he said, had assisted to catch.

The laird was fond of the study of natural history, and narrated a number of anecdotes especially of the sagacity of animals.

“Fanny and I have a difference of opinion as to whether fish when caught do or do not feel pain,” he observed. “I remember reading an anecdote which, if true, supports what she thinks. A surgeon was one day walking by the side of a pond in a gentleman’s grounds in England, when he saw a large pike, which had struck its head against a piece of iron projecting from a sunken log, and was struggling in the water close to the bank. The fish did not attempt to swim away, nor did it seem alarmed, when the surgeon stooped down, and lifted it gently out of the water. He at once saw that the jaw of the fish had been broken, and with his penknife and some strips of wood and linen, which he had in his pocket, he dexterously managed to bind up the jaw, after doing which, he placed the fish in the water. It did not even then swim away, but as long as he remained on the bank, kept watching him attentively.

“The next day, going down to the pond what was his surprise to see the fish swim towards him, and poke his head out of the water. He perceived that some of the bandaging had been displaced, and lifting the fish as before gently on the bank he dressed the wound, and again returned it to its native element. As he walked along the bank, the fish swam by his side, and not till he turned his back, did it dart off into deep water.

“The following day, he again went down to the pond, when the fish swam up to where he stood, though it did no more than come to the edge, being apparently satisfied that its wound was going on well. As long as he remained in the place, the fish invariably appeared whenever he went to the pond, and swam close to the edge, as he walked along the bank.

“I must confess that that fish must have had as much sense as many other animals, and probably felt more pain when injured, and would have been alarmed, if it had been attacked, or had found a hook in its jaws.”

“But is the story really true?” asked Fanny.

“It is at all events as well authenticated as many other anecdotes,” answered the laird. “By-the-by, Mrs Vallery, I should like to witness the performances of the snake-charmers in India. Have you ever seen them?”

“Frequently,” answered Mrs Vallery. “They are very wonderful, and my husband has taken some pains to ascertain whether there is any imposture, but without success. They profess to charm the Cobra de Capella and other snakes, which are excessively venomous, and abound in all the hotter parts of the country. It is said, indeed, that 12,000 natives are killed annually by bites from them. The snake-charmers do not previously train the snakes, but will charm those only just caught, quite as well as those they carry about with them.

“They use for this purpose, a hollow gourd on which they play a buzzing music. On one occasion, three men appeared, dressed only in their turbans and waist cloths, in which it was impossible they could have concealed any snakes. My husband took them to some wild ground, where they speedily caught a couple of large cobras, and returning with the venomous creatures having placed them on the ground, made them rear up their bodies, and raise and bow their heads, keeping exact time with the music. After they had ceased, my husband speedily killed the snakes, and on examining them the poison fangs were found to be perfect. Generally, however, the snake-charmers either extract the fangs of the snakes they carry about with them, or wisely employ those which are harmless. They allow the creatures to crawl over their bodies, and twist and twine themselves in the most horrible manner round their necks and arms, and I have seen a snake putting its forked tongue into its master’s mouth.

“There are instances, however, of the venomous serpents biting the snake-charmers, who have thus lost their lives.

“At one of the stations where my husband was quartered, snakes were very numerous, and we used to keep a mongoose in the house to destroy them. It is a pretty little animal, a species of ichneumon with catlike habits and a very prying disposition. The common idea is, that if bitten by a venomous serpent, it runs to find a particular herb, which prevents the venom taking effect. This, however, is not really the case, the mongoose depends upon its own vigilance and great agility for escaping from the fangs of even the most active serpent, for if bitten, it would die like any other animal.

“I should not like to see men allowing snakes to put their tongues in their mouths, even though I knew that the fangs had been taken out,” observed Fanny. “But I should like to see the jugglers you were speaking of, mamma, who performed such wonderful tricks.”

“I was mentioning the Indian gipsies or Nutts, as they are called, who travel as those in England used to do, from one end of the country to the other, and appear to have no settled home. A party arrived one day at our station, and offered to exhibit their tricks, and your papa gave them leave to do so.

“There were among them several persons of all ages. First an old man took his seat on the ground and began violently beating a drum, shouting out that we should soon see what we should see. Meantime a young man and a boy had fixed firmly in the ground a bamboo nearly thirty feet high, and while thus engaged, another man singing in a monotonous voice, was running round and round it. Presently a woman who was standing by, leaped on the shoulder of the running man, who did not stop, but continued his course as before, rapidly increasing his speed. In another minute she had leaped on his head, and there she stood with perfect steadiness, while he ran still faster, and the old man beat the drum louder and louder, shrieking all the time, even more shrilly than before, till the noise became almost deafening.

“While our senses were somewhat bewildered by the sound, the boy ran up to the running man with a large earthen pot, which the latter in a wonderful way placed on his head; the woman having, I suppose, in the meantime put her feet on his shoulders, for before I could follow her movements she appeared standing on the top of the pot, the man still running round as before.

“The man who had been fixing the pole in the earth, now advanced, and taking up a heavy stone ball which it would have required a strong man to lift even a few inches from the ground, began playing with it, catching it now on one shoulder, now on the other, then in his hands, and on his arms and feet. Next he threw up two ivory balls, quickly adding others in succession, till there were no less than eight kept in motion at the same time, flying up in the air.

“The first party, who had in the meantime been resting, now arranged a flat circular brass dish, of considerable size, on which were placed four pillars about three inches high. These were connected by four sticks, with other sticks above them, and then more pillars, and so on, till there were fully thirty pillars one above another, with a brass dish on the top of all. We thought it surprising that this structure could stand as it did, but greater was our amazement to see it lifted on the man’s head while he was circling round the post, and still more astonished were we, when the woman sprang like lightning up in the air and stood on the top of all, as steadily as if she was on the ground, while the man continued rapidly circling round.

“After this, one of the men leaped on the shoulders of the other, who was standing close to the pole, and then the woman making use of them as a ladder, sprang to the very top of the pole, on the point of which she lay in a horizontal position, when one of the men who had followed her, touching her foot, she began to spin round and round, like the card of a pocket compass on its point.

“The men performed a variety of other tricks, but those I have mentioned are the most wonderful.

“Here was no room for deception, though many of the tricks performed by Indian jugglers are really the result of clever sleight-of-hand.”

“I think I would rather see the tricks which the conjuror did when we went to the Egyptian Hall last year with granny,” said Fanny; “I never like to look at people who are doing things by which if they make a mistake they may hurt themselves. I should not like to have seen Blondin, and the other people we read of in the newspapers, who run along tight ropes high up in the air.”

“I should think them very foolish for their pains, and wish them a better mode of gaining their livelihood,” observed Mr Maclean, “and I agree with Fanny. A sailor has to climb the rigging of his ship, but then he goes in the way of duty, and when people mount in balloons, they have generally a scientific object in view, or some reason to offer. But in my opinion, the rest of the world should keep their feet on the earth as long as they can.”

Even Norman, was interested in this conversation, and declared that he recollected the performances of the jugglers which his mamma spoke of. He then described several scenes which he had witnessed in India, in a very clear way.

“You have got a head on your shoulders, young gentleman,” observed the laird; “I only hope you have got your heart in its right place.”

Mrs Leslie sighed, for she was afraid that her little grandson had been so long allowed to have his own way, that though his heart might be in its right place, as the common expression is, it was sadly choked up with the bad seed of weeds, which were already beginning to sprout The next day was rainy, and neither Fanny nor Norman could go out. He behaved himself tolerably well in the drawing-room, but when they were at play together, he ordered her about in his usual dictatorial manner, and said several things which greatly tried her temper.

“Although he is so forward in many things, and talks so well, he is but a little boy after all,” she thought; “it is, however, easy to feel amiable and good when I am not opposed, but I ought to try and be so, notwithstanding all he says and does.”

The following day was bright and fine, and as Sandy could not take them, out in the boat, the laird asked Fanny and Norman whether they would like to make another excursion with the carriage. “Oh yes! I shall like it very much,” exclaimed Norman. “Please cut me another long stick, for Fanny broke the one you gave me the other day.”

Fanny did not say why she broke it, so the laird cut another long thin wand, and gave it to Norman.

“Ah, this will make my horse go on at a good quick pace,” he observed, flourishing it. “I won’t ask you to drag me up the hill, because you can’t,” he said to Fanny, “so if you will pull, I’ll push behind.”

“That is very right of you,” observed the laird, as his young friends set off on their excursion. “He is a fine little fellow, though too much addicted to boasting.”

Fanny, with Norman pushing behind, soon dragged the carriage up the hill. He then declared that he was tired, and getting in told her to move on.

As the ground was tolerably smooth, she was able to do so at a speed which satisfied the young gentleman.

“Capital,” he cried out, flourishing his stick, “my horse draws fast, go on, go on; now see if you can’t gallop.”

Fanny exerted herself to the utmost, and the air being pure and fresh she felt in good spirits.

The ground after some time became rather rougher, but Norman did not mind the bumping and thumping of the carriage, though it was much harder work for Fanny.

She at last began to go slower.

“Can’t you keep it up,” he cried out. “If you do not! Remember I have got my stick!”

“You must also remember how I treated you the last time,” said Fanny, “and if you use your stick as you did then, I will leave you in the carriage and run away.”

“You had better not,” said Norman. “You promised to take care of me. Mamma will be angry if you leave me on the moor all alone by myself.”

“Very well, do not beat me with your stick, and I will drag you on as fast as I can,” said Fanny.

Norman remembering that Fanny had broken his stick before, thought it would be wise not to tempt her to do so again, and therefore, though he continued to flourish it, and now and then to touch her frock, he did not venture to beat her.

Fanny went on contentedly, sometimes turning round to speak to him and sometimes stopping to rest. As the ground looked smoother to the right, Fanny turned off from the main track and went towards a clump of trees which she saw in the distance, knowing that it would serve as a guide to her and believing she could easily find her way back again.

On and on they went—Norman was delighted.

“This is great fun; I wonder where we shall get to at last,” he said, when Fanny again stopped to rest. “I think it will be soon time, however, to go back again,” she observed, “for though Mr Maclean told us we could come to no harm on the moor, we might lose our way if we went very far.”

Norman urged her to go on.

“I see a cottage a little way off between the trees, let us go as far as that, and then we can turn back,” he said.

Fanny wished to please him and though she already felt a little tired, she thought there would be no difficulty in reaching the cottage, and that she would like to talk to the people who lived in it. At length, however, the ground became rougher than ever, and they soon came to a shallow burn or stream which made its way from the higher part of the moor, and went winding along till it fell into the loch below.

“I am afraid we must turn back now at all events,” she said, “I shall never be able to drag the carriage over this rough ground and across the stream, so we must go back and give up visiting the cottage.”

“Oh no, no! go on,” cried Norman, “you can easily cross the water, it is scarcely above the soles of your shoes and see there are some big stones on which you can tread while you drag the carriage along on one side of them.”

“I think I could do that if you were not in it,” said Fanny, “I must not let you, however, run the risk of wetting your feet; mamma objects to that as she is afraid of your catching cold. If you will cling round my neck, I will carry you across in my arms, and then I will go back and get the carriage.”

“That will do very well,” said Norman. “Lift me up! Be quick about it, and we shall soon be across.”

Fanny dragging the carriage to the edge of the stream took up Norman, and though he was a heavy weight for her to carry, still she thought that she could take him across in safety. She had to tread verycarefully and slowly as the stream though shallow was wide and the stones uneven.

They had not gone many paces when Norman declared that she did not move fast enough.

“If I attempt to move faster I may let you fall,” she answered.

“You had better not do that or mamma will be angry with you, and I am sure if you chose you could go faster than you are doing. Come, move on, move on,” cried out the young tyrant, nourishing his stick, and ungrateful little boy that he was, he began to beat Fanny with it knowing that she dare not let him fall.

“Keep quiet, Norman,” she exclaimed, “it is very naughty of you! You will make me let you drop, though I should be very sorry to do so.”

Norman looked wickedly in her face, and only hit her harder.

As he was flourishing his stick, he knocked off her hat—she caught it, however, but in doing so she very nearly let him drop into the water. Still, though she begged and begged him to be quiet, he continued beating her, till after considerable exertions she reached dry ground in safety, and gladly put him down.

“Now, Norman,” she exclaimed, “what do you deserve?”

“I do not care what I deserve, but I know that you had better not slap my face, for mamma was angry with you when you did so before, and papa says he won’t allow anybody to beat me but himself, so just go and get the carriage as you said you would. You must not leave it there, somebody will run away with it, and I shall have to walk all the way home.”

“Very well, do you stay where you are, and I will go and bring it across,” said Fanny.

Norman agreed to stop, and Fanny went back carefully making her way over the stepping-stones. She found the task of dragging the carriage across without stepping into the water much greater than she had expected. Norman shouted to her to make haste.

“I am doing my best, and cannot go faster,” she answered.

“If you are not quicker I will stay here no longer,” answered Norman.

Without stopping to see whether she did move faster, off he ran.

At that moment poor Fanny’s foot slipped, and before she could regain her balance, down she fell into the stream. In doing so she hurt her arm, and wet her clothes almost all over. Norman, instead of coming to help her, laughed heartily at her misfortune, and scampered away crying out, “It served you light, you should have come faster when I told you.”

Poor Fanny felt very much inclined to cry with vexation, but knowing that that would do no good, she managed to scramble up again, and as her feet were wet, she stepped on through the water, and soon got the carriage to the other side of the stream. As Norman did not come back to her, she ran after him, dragging it on.

“Norman! Norman!” she cried out, but instead of coming back, he made his way towards the cottage.

She had nearly overtaken him just as they had got close to it, when the door opened, and an old man appeared, followed by a little fair-haired child, much younger than Norman.

“What is the matter?” asked the old man, eyeing the two children whose voices he had heard.

“My young brother ran away from me, and I tumbled down and wet my frock,” answered Fanny.

“Come in, then, and dry yourself,” said the old man.

“But I have wet my stockings and shoes,” said Fanny, “and they will take a long time to dry.”

“I shall be happy to have your company, my pretty lassie, as long as you like to stay,” said the old man. “I ken ye are staying with Glen Tulloch and ony of his friends are welcome here.”

“We are staying with Mr Maclean,” answered Fanny, “and were making an excursion over the moor, when we saw your cottage, and thought we should like to visit you.”

“We call Mr Maclean Glen Tulloch about here, as that’s the name of his house,” answered the old man. “Come in! come in! We will soon get your wet shoes and stockings off, though I am afraid you must sit without any while they are drying, for Robby there has never had a pair to his feet, and my old slippers are too large for you, I have a notion.”

Fanny observed that though the old man used a few Scotch expressions, he spoke English perfectly. His dress, too, was more like that of a sailor than the costume worn by the surrounding peasantry.

Norman, who had also come into the house, stood while they were speaking, eyeing the little boy, without saying anything. At last, looking up at the old man, he asked, “Is that your son?”

“No, young gentleman, he is my grandson,” was the answer, “he is the only one alive of all my family, and I am to him as father and mother, and nurse and playmate. Am I not, Robby?”

“Yes, grandfather,” answered the child, looking up affectionately at the old man, “I do not want any one to play with but you.”

“Would you not like a ride in our little carriage?” asked Fanny. “As soon as my shoes and stockings are dry I shall be happy to draw you.”

Robby nodded his head, and came near to Fanny.

“Would you not like to go out and play with the young gentleman?” asked the old man.

“I do not want him,” said Norman haughtily; “I am not accustomed to play with little brats of that sort.”

“Oh, Norman, how can you say that?” exclaimed Fanny, very much annoyed.

“Is he your brother, young lady?” asked the old man, looking with a pitying eye on Norman, but not at all angry.

“Yes,” said Fanny.

“I should not have thought it. There is a wide difference between you, I see.”

Fanny did not quite understand him.

Norman sat himself down on a stool in the corner of the room, and folded his arms in the fashion which he adopted when he wished to be dignified.

“You have come a long way from Glen Tulloch, young lady, and I must see you safe back, for your young brother I have a notion is not likely to be much help to you,” said the old man; “Robby, though he is very small, is accustomed to take care of the house, for I often have to leave him by himself.”

Fanny thanked him, for, recollecting the difficulties she encountered in coming, she felt somewhat anxious about the homeward journey, especially as Norman had behaved so ill, and very likely would continue in his present mood.

Her stockings were soon dry, but her boots took longer, and were somewhat stiff when she put them on. They were some which her mamma had brought her from Paris, and were not very well suited for walking in the Highlands.

“I am afraid I have nothing to offer you to eat suitable to your taste, young lady,” said the old man, “though you must be hungry after your long journey. Robby and I live on ‘brose’ to our breakfast, dinner, and supper, but will you just take a cup of milk? it was fresh this morning, and you may want it after your walk.”

Fanny gladly accepted the old man’s offer, and then looked at Norman.

The cup of milk greatly restored her. The old man, without saying a word, brought another and offered it to Norman.

The young gentleman took it without scarcely saying thank you. Again, the old man cast a look of compassion on him.

“Poor boy,” he said quietly, “he kens no better.”

Robby bad in the meantime run out, and was admiring the carriage by himself, thinking how much he should like to have it to drag about, and to bring the meal home in, instead of allowing his grandfather to carry it on his back.

Fanny was curious all the time, to learn something more about their host. He was evidently different to the other people around, and it seemed so strange that he and the little boy should be living together in that lone cottage on the wild moor. But she did not like to ask him questions, and as he did not offer to say anything more about himself than he had done, she restrained her curiosity intending to ask Mr Maclean more about him when she got home.

At last her clothes, and boots, and stockings being dry, she told the old man that she thought it was time to begin their homeward journey.

“As you wish, young lady,” he answered, and accompanied her and Norman out of the cottage. They found Robby at the door, looking at the carriage.

“Oh, you must get in,” said Fanny, “and I will draw you. My brother can walk very well some of the way.”

“Thank you, young lady,” said the old man; “if you will let Robby have a ride, I will draw the carriage, and let him come a little way, but he must go back, and look after the house, and it would be over far for him to return, if he came with us to Glen Tulloch.”

Norman looked very angry when Robby got into the carriage, and he himself had to walk, but he dared not complain, as there was something in the old man’s manner which made him stand in awe of him.

After they had gone a short distance, his grandfather told Robby to run back, and thanking Fanny, invited Norman to get in. The young gentleman did so, but he did not use his stick, as he had done when Fanny was dragging him.

They easily crossed the stream, and Fanny was surprised to find how soon they reached the top of the hill near Glen Tulloch.

“Now, young lady, you can easily take the carriage home, so I will wish you good-bye,” said the old man; “I hope you will come soon again—it does my heart good to see you.” Fanny promised, if she was allowed, soon again to pay him a visit, and wishing him good-bye, while he strolled back over the moor, she dragged the carriage down the hill. She met the laird setting out to look for her and Norman.

“Why, my bonny lassie, the ladies were afraid that you had wandered away over the moor and lost yourselves, you have been so long away, and they sent me off to try and find you.”

Fanny, without blaming Norman, told him of their adventure in the stream, and their meeting with the old man and his little grandson in the lone hut on the moor.

“Ah, that was old Alec Morrison,” observed the laird. “His is a sad history, I will tell it you by-and-by, but come along home and satisfy the ladies that you are not lost.”

“I am very glad you have come back at last, Fanny, we were getting anxious about you,” said Mrs Vallery. “I must not allow you to make excursions with Norman unless you can manage to come back with him in good time.”

“I will try and manage better another time, mamma,” she said, looking up after a minute’s silence. “I should very much like to pay another visit to the old man who was so kind to us, and to take something for his little grandson. Poor little fellow, I pity him so much having to live out on a wild moor, where there are no other children to play with him. His grandfather says he often leaves him alone in the cottage by himself.”

“I cannot promise positively to let you go,” said Mrs Vallery, “but I am sure that you will do your best to return in good time. I hope to be able to do so, and I should wish you to take something for the poor little child you speak of.”

“Thank you, mamma,” said Fanny, kissing Mrs Vallery affectionately, and forgetting all about the way Norman had treated her, she ran off to prepare for tea.

Chapter Six.Learning to Fish.The next morning while they were at breakfast, Fanny asked the laird to tell her something about Alec Morrison, the old man who had been so kind to her and her brother the previous day.“I can only give you the outline of his history, but perhaps you may get him to narrate some of the many adventures he has gone through,” he answered.“He was born not far from this, and his mother was a shepherd’s only daughter. His father who belonged also to this neighbourhood, when quite a young man had driven some cattle to a seaport town when he got pressed on board a man-of-war, and had sailed away to a foreign station, before he could let his friends know what had become of him, or take any steps to obtain his liberation. He had promised to marry Jennie Dow, whom he truly loved, and had hoped soon to save enough by his industry to set up house.“Years and years passed by during which Jennie, who would not believe that he was dead, remained faithful to him. Her father was getting old, and her friends advised her to secure a home for herself. She replied that it would be time enough to do so when her father was dead, and that as long as he lived, she would stay and look after him.“At length, on the evening of a summer’s day, a one-armed man in a sailor’s dress approached the door. He looked ill and hungry and tired. He stopped and asked for a cup of milk and a bit of bannock.“‘I will pay for both, gladly,’ he said, ‘and be thankful besides, for without some food I feel scarcely able to get on even to the village where, if the friends I once had there are still alive, I am sure to get a night’s lodging and to learn about others, though may be they have forgotten me long ago.’“‘Come in and sit down, old friend,’ said the shepherd, and Jennie placed a cup of milk and a bannock on the table.“As she did so she cast an inquiring glance at the face of the stranger.“‘Who are you, friend?’ asked Alec Dow. ‘I am as likely as any one to tell you of the people in these parts.’“‘I am sure it must be,’ exclaimed Jennie, coming forward and placing her hand on the stranger’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you know me, Alec Morrison?’“‘O Jennie, I thought you must be married long ago!’ exclaimed the sailor, jumping to his feet, ‘for I could not think that you would have remembered me. And can you care for me now—a battered old hulk as I am, with one arm and half-a-dozen bullets through me, besides I don’t know how many cutlass cuts and wounds from pikes?’“‘I have never ceased to hope that you would return,’ was Jennie’s answer.“As his daughter was the only being the old shepherd loved, he allowed her to marry the wounded sailor, who took up his abode with them, and served him faithfully till he died.“Times went hard with Jennie and her husband, for Morrison’s constitution was shattered, and he could not work as hard as he wished. They had one son, Alec, who grew up a fine manly boy. The sailor was fond of spinning yarns, to which his son listened with rapt attention, and longed to meet with the same adventures as his father.“The boy was little more than twelve years old when his sailor father died from the wounds he had received fighting his country’s battles.“Though his thoughts often wandered away over the wide ocean which he had never yet seen, young Alec dutifully did his best to assist his mother, but she did not long survive her husband, and he was left an orphan.“It would have been a hard matter for him living all alone to have made a livelihood, so he sold two of his heifers to obtain an outfit, and leaving the remainder as well as his cottage in charge of a relative of his father’s, he started off to the nearest seaport. He had no difficulty in finding a ship, for he was as likely a lad as a captain could wish to have on board.“He sailed away to foreign lands, to the East and West Indies, Australia, and the wide Pacific, and though he may have visited English ports in the meantime, many a long year passed before he again saw the home of his youth.“He at length came back with a young wife, and some money in his pocket. He had undoubtedly pictured in his imagination his cottage on the wild moor as an earthly paradise, and had described it as such to his wife. When she saw it, she expressed a very different opinion, and complained of the wretched hovel and savage region to which he had brought her. Poor Alec told her with all sincerity that he had believed it to be very different to what he owned it really was. He promised to take her back to the town where her father lived, although in order to support her he must again go to sea. His relation was an honest man and promised to take charge of his property as before, for Alec would not sell it, and leaving his young wife he once more went to sea.“On his return from his first voyage, he found that she was dead, and had left behind her a daughter. He had still the little damsel to work for, and so the brave sailor placed her under charge of her grandmother, and again sailed away over the ocean.“His thoughts often wandered back to his little daughter for whose benefit he was enduring hardships and dangers—twice he was wrecked, and many years passed by before he again got home, and found his daughter no longer a little child but a full-grown woman, and as ready I am afraid to spend the old sailor’s money as her mother had been. He had not, however, much to give her, and so in a short time off to sea he went again to get more. Next time he came back feeling that this voyage must be the last, for he was getting too old to endure the hardships of a life on the ocean, he found his daughter married to a sailor. Her husband had soon to go away to sea, and shortly afterwards news came that his fine ship had foundered, and all on board had perished. His poor young wife was heart-broken at the news, and not many weeks afterwards she was taken away, leaving her little boy who was born at the time to the charge of her father. Her mother’s family were all dead, and Alec Morrison found himself alone in the world with his little grandson Robby, and possessed of but scanty means of support. He had just money enough to bring him to his old home in the Highlands.“His cousin though a poor man had done his best to keep the cottage in repair, and to preserve a few head of cattle which he handed over to him.“The old sailor took up his abode with little Robby in the cottage, hoping with the small plot of ground surrounding it and his cattle to obtain the means of supporting himself and his grandson. He, often, I fear has a difficulty in doing so, but he never complains, and recollecting how he lived as a boy, often I believe fancies himself one again.“He employs his spare time in taming birds and making cages for them, and in cutting models of vessels and boats, and manufacturing other articles; indeed, I believe he is never idle, and seems as contented and happy as if he had been prosperous all his life, and never met with a misfortune.“There, I have told you all I know about old Alec and his ancestors and descendants—four generations if I reckon rightly. I daresay as I before said, if you ask him that he will be happy to narrate some of the many adventures he has met with during his voyages. I suspect that he often, while enjoying his pipe, tells them to Robby as he sits on his knee during the long winter evenings, though the little fellow must be puzzled to understand whereabouts they take place, unless he knows more about geography than probably is the case.”“Thank you, Mr Maclean,” exclaimed Fanny, “I long to see old Alec again, after the account you have given us of him; I feel so sorry for him that he should have lost his father and mother, his wife and daughter, and all the money he has gained with so much toil and hardship, and now to be compelled to live alone with a little child to look after.”“I am very sure he thinks the little child a great blessing, and would much rather have it than be without its companionship,” observed Mrs Leslie. “From the account you gave of the boy, he is very intelligent and obedient.”“Oh yes!” answered Fanny, “he seems to understand what his grandfather wishes him to do, and does it immediately. When he was sent back, before going he sprang up into the old man’s arms, and gave him a kiss, and then ran off across the moor singing merrily.”“I thought him a stupid little brat,” muttered Norman. “When I ran out while you were drying your clothes, Fanny, and told him to draw me about in the carriage, he said that he could not till he had asked his grandfather’s leave, as he had to run after one of the cows which was straying further than she ought.”“That, instead of showing that he is stupid, proves that he is sensible and obedient, and I wish that another little boy I know of, was equally sensible and obedient,” observed Mrs Leslie, looking at Norman.Norman tried to appear unconcerned, but he knew very well that his grandmamma alluded to him.“I will make him do what I want, the next time I go there,” said Norman, but he took care that Mrs Leslie should not hear him.The account which Fanny had heard, made her eager to set off that morning to visit the old sailor and his grandchild.“May we have the carriage, Mr Maclean?” she asked. “I should so like to take little Robby some toys, or picture-books, or fruit, or something that he would like it would make him happy, and, I hope, please the old man.”“We shall be very glad to give you some things to take,” said Mrs Maclean, “and though I do not think we have any toys, we may find some picture-books, at all events we can send some fruit and cakes which will be welcome.”“Oh, thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Fanny, “if we go as soon as we have had our reading, we shall be back by luncheon-time, and now I think I know the way too well to run the risk of losing it.”“You must take care not to tumble into the water again though,” said Mrs Vallery.“I will take care not to do that, mamma; indeed, there is no risk of it, as old Alec showed us a safe way across the stream, and I can easily carry Norman over, so that there will be no chance either of his tumbling in, if he does not kick about while I have him in my arms.”“Will you behave properly, and do as your sister tells you?” asked Mrs Vallery, turning to Norman.“I always behave properly,” answered the young gentleman, looking indignant at the idea of his ever doing otherwise.“Norman will be very good I am sure,” said Fanny, fearing that any difficulty might arise to prevent the intended excursion.Just as they left the breakfast-room, however, Sandy Fraser came to the door.“It’s a fine day for the young folks to take a row on the loch, and so I just came up to see if they were willing to go,” he said, as he pulled off his bonnet and wished the laird and ladies good morning.“Oh, I shall like that much better than bumping over the moor in the little cart,” exclaimed Norman. “Fanny, I am going with Sandy Fraser on the loch, and you can pay your visit to old Alec and his stupid little grandson another day. It will be much better fun to row about on the water, and I will take a rod and line, and I am sure I shall catch I don’t know how many fish in a short time.”These remarks were not heard by the rest of the party.“Mamma, do let me go with Sandy Fraser,” exclaimed Norman, as Mrs Vallery appeared from the breakfast-room. “Fanny does not care about the trip over the moor I am sure, and we shall both like a row in the boat much better.”“In that case, as Sandy has come up for you, I certainly would rather you accompanied him,” said Mrs Vallery, and going to the door without waiting to hear what Fanny had to say on the subject, she told Sandy that the children would soon be ready, if Mr Maclean approved of their going.“That’s jolly,” cried Norman. “Mr Maclean can you lend me one of your rods? I want to catch some fish for you.”“You would find it a hard matter even to hold one,” answered the laird, “but I will get a long thin stick cut, which you will be able to manage better than one of my rods. And let me advise you to sit quiet in the boat, and do what Sandy tells you, or you will get into mischief. If you promise me this you may go.”“Oh yes, I promise to sit quiet,” answered Norman, “and you may be sure I will not get into mischief.”Fanny though she liked going on the water, would much rather have paid a visit to old Alec, but she was always ready to give up her wishes to please others, and as Norman seemed so eager to take a row in the boat, she agreed to accompany him.Sandy undertook to dig for some worms for bait, and to cut a rod. When he brought it back, Mr Maclean fastened a line with a float and a hook to it.“There, young gentleman, you are fitted out as an angler,” he observed, as he gave it him. “Would you like a very large basket to bring back your fish in, or will a small one do?”“I think I had better take a large one,” answered Norman. “Fanny can carry it down to the boat, and Sandy and I will bring it back slung on a thick stick when it’s full of fish.”The laird laughed heartily. “You must not blame your fishing-rod if you are not successful, for you will catch quite as many with it, as you would were I to lend you one of mine,” he observed. “Now good-bye, and remember your promise to behave properly, and Sandy will do his part in looking after you.”Fanny came down ready to set off.While she walked on by the side of the old man, Norman frequently started ahead, flourishing his fishing-rod in the way he had seen Mr Maclean flourish his, and eager to begin drawing in the fish he expected to catch.They soon reached the boat.“Now, Miss Fanny, do you sit in the stern, and Master Norman, you keep by me in the middle of the boat, and take care that you do not hook your sister when you are whisking about your rod. We will gang to the end of the loch first, where I promised to take you, and then you can begin to fish on the way back.”“But why should I not begin to fish at once?” exclaimed Norman. “That’s what I want to do, I do not care about the scenery.”“But the young lady maybe does,” observed Sandy, “and I wish to do what she likes best.”“But I want to fish, I say,” exclaimed Norman. “Why cannot I begin while the boat is going on? I wish you would put some bait on my hook, for I don’t like to touch the nasty worms—then you will see how soon I shall catch a fish.”Sandy gave a broad grin, as he put on a worm, and then throwing the line into the water, let Norman hold his stick, while he again took the oars, and rowed slowly along towards the end of the loch.Fanny sat in the stern of the boat, looking like a bright little fairy—admiring the scenery, even more than she did on her first excursion with the laird. She wished that Norman could admire it too, but he kept his eye on the float, thinking much more of the fish he expected to catch than of the mountains and rocks and tree-covered islets.“I am so very much obliged to you for bringing us,” she said to Sandy. “This is indeed very beautiful.”“Oh yes, its very braw,” answered Sandy,—but she could obtain no further expression of admiration from him, for having lived near the loch nearly all his life, he saw nothing very remarkable about it.“I wonder whether there is any other place equal to this in all Scotland,” exclaimed Fanny, after they had gone a little further, and had come in sight of a deep valley opening up on one side, down which a sparkling stream rushed impetuously into the loch, while a waterfall came leaping down from rock to rock among the trees which clothed the valley’s side, now appearing, now concealed from sight by the overhanging foliage.“Oh yes!” answered Sandy, “there are mony streams and lochs in the He’lands, but ye maun gang far to find one with fish bigger than swim in Loch Tulloch.”“But I was speaking of the scenery,” said Fanny, “I dinna ken much about that,” said Sandy, not exactly understanding her.Still Fanny continued to make her remarks, and to utter exclamations of delight, and Sandy was at all events satisfied that she was well pleased.“I wish you would not talk so much, Fanny,” cried Norman. “I have been fishing away for I don’t know how long, and I have not caught anything yet, and I am sure it is all your fault. You frighten the fish away.”“Unless the fish come to the top of the water, they are not likely to bite at your hook,” she replied, “for I have seen it floating there, ever since Sandy began to row.”“Can’t you stop rowing then, and let me catch some fish,” exclaimed Norman, turning round with an aggrieved look to the old man. “It matters much more that I should catch fish, than that we should get to the end of the loch just to please Fanny.”“I have no objection to stop rowing if you wish it, young gentleman,” said Sandy, “though I would rather hear you say that you wanted to please your sister more than yourself.”Norman did not heed the rebuke, but seeing his hook sink down fully believed that he was going to catch a fish. He waited and waited with unusual patience for him, but still his float rested without moving on the calm waters.“There are no fish here, young gentleman, that have a fancy for your hook. We will go on to the end of the loch as I promised your sister, and try what we can do when we come back. Just sit down and let your line hang out if you like. There will be no harm in doing that, though the fish may not be the worse for it.”As Sandy began to move his oars, Norman was obliged to do as he was told. He looked very sulky and angry however, and would not even answer Fanny when she spoke to him.At last they reached the end of the loch. Here the mountain appeared to be cloven in two—a narrow channel running at the bottom of the gorge and uniting Loch Tulloch to another larger loch beyond. Fanny was delighted, especially when Sandy poling the boat along proceeded onwards till the loch and bright sunshine being left behind, they found themselves in the gloom of the narrow gorge with lofty cliffs arching overhead, so that when they looked up, all they could see was a narrow strip of blue sky above them.“We cannot go further,” said Sandy, “for some big rocks stop the passage, or I would take you a row through a larger loch than our ain. If you stand up you can just see its blue waters shining brightly at the head of the gorge.”“I want to go back and begin fishing,” cried Norman, in an angry tone, “we are wasting our time here.”“Yours is very valuable time, young gentleman, I doubt not,” remarked Sandy, standing up in the bow of the boat, which having turned round, he began to pole out by the way they had entered.They were soon again in the loch, which looked brighter and more beautiful than ever after the gloom of the gorge.They had not gone far when Norman again insisted on stopping.“You promised that you would let me fish on our way back, and I am sure there must be numbers about here,” he said, throwing in his line.“I should not wonder that there was no worm on your hook,” observed Sandy, after they had waited some time. “I thought so,” he continued, when Norman pulled up his line; “you canna expect ony fish to bite at a bare hook.”“But put on another worm,” said Norman, who again tried for some time with equal want of success.He was beginning to lose patience.“Try deeper, young gentleman, fish swim further down than you think for,” observed Sandy.Norman did not know what he meant, and so Sandy slipped the float considerably higher up the line. Still no fish were to be tempted by his worm.“I wish you would make them bite,” Norman exclaimed petulantly. “I shall never catch anything with this stupid stick and string; Mr Maclean ought to have lent me one of his own rods, and then I should have caught some fish for him.”Sandy who would never allow anything to be said against the laird in his presence, felt very angry with Norman at this remark.“You are very ungrateful, young gentleman, to say that,” he remarked. “I have let you fish long enough already, though if you were to try till nightfall, you would go back with your basket empty, so just draw in your line and pit quiet, it’s time to be making our way back.”Norman looked somewhat surprised at this address.“It’s all the fault of the stupid stick,” he exclaimed, and standing up he threw it away from him into the loch, and began dancing about to give vent to his anger and disappointment.The old man rowed on, taking no notice of his foolish conduct. Fanny, however, felt very much ashamed of him, and begged him to be quiet, but he only jumped about the more, declaring that he would complain to his mamma of the way Sandy had treated him.After he had thus given vent to his feelings for some time, and had become more quiet, Sandy, who was really good-natured, and was sorry for his disappointment, promised that if he would be a good boy, he would take him out in the evening when the fish were more ready to bite, and show him how he himself caught them. This pacified him, and he sat quiet for some time. Still, as he thought how foolish he would look going back with his big basket and no fish in it, he began again to grow angry.“It’s all Fanny’s fault,” he said to himself, “if she had not wanted to row about the lake, I should have had time to catch some fish.”Not knowing what was passing in his mind, Fanny, whose eyes fell on the basket, laughingly said to Norman.“Shall I carry it home again, or will you and Sandy carry it between you on a stick, as you proposed?”“Why do you say that?” exclaimed Norman, jumping up, “you are sneering at me; you will go and tell them I daresay that I threw my rod into the water.”“Indeed, I will not,” said Fanny, “I do not wish that any one should laugh at you.”“You are always laughing at me yourself,” he answered, growing more angry. “But I will keep you in order, you are but a girl, and girls should always obey their brothers, that’s what I think.”“You are but a little boy, though you think yourself a big one,” said Fanny, somewhat nettled at the way he spoke. “I wish to be kind to you, but I will not obey you, especially when you are angry, as you appear to be now, without any cause that I can see.”Fanny was not aware how very angry Norman was.Suddenly darting at her, he seized her hat and tore it off her head.“Take care, young gentleman, what you are about,” cried Sandy, putting in his oars and about to take hold of Norman, who with Fanny’s hat in his hand, had jumped up on the seat.“Your hat shall go after my fishing-rod,” he cried out, and was about to throw it as far from him as he could into the water, when, in making the attempt, he lost his balance and overboard he fell.For a moment the water which got into his mouth as he struggled and splashed about, prevented him from uttering any sound. When he came to the surface he quickly found his voice.“Help! help! I am drowning!” he shrieked out. “I am drowning! I am drowning! Oh save me, save me!”Sandy quickly leaning over the side of the boat caught hold of him, and dragged him in, though he continued to shriek lustily, and struggle as if he was still in the water.Poor Fanny gave a cry of alarm.“He is all safe, young lady, and the cold bath will cool his anger, and won’t do him any harm,” observed Sandy. “But we will just pull off his wet clothes, and I will wrap him in my jacket.”Norman who soon regained his senses, and became quieter when he found himself safe in the boat again objected to this, but Sandy insisted on doing what he proposed, and in spite of his struggles, took off his wet things, and made him put on his jacket, which he fastened round his waist with a handkerchief.Fanny who had recovered from her flight, could scarcely help laughing at the funny figure he presented, dressed in the coat with the sleeves turned half way back, so that he might have his hands free.“You will keep quiet now, young gentleman, I hope, or you will be tumbling overboard again,” said Sandy. “I don’t know what the laird will say to you, when he hears how it happened.”Norman looked foolish, and made no reply.Sandy had in the meantime picked up Fanny’s hat, and he now spread Norman’s clothes out on the seats that they might dry in the sun. Having done this, he pulled away as fast as he could towards the landing-place near the house.As Norman’s clothes were not nearly dry by the time they reached the shore, he packed them away in the basket, which was thus made useful, though in a different way to what Norman expected. Having secured the boat, and helped Fanny out, Sandy took Norman up in his arms and marched away with him to the house.The laird saw them coming, and of course inquired what had happened.Fanny would as usual, have tried to save her brother from being blamed, but Sandy told the whole story.“You brought it upon yourself, by disobeying orders, Norman,” observed Mr Maclean. “I will go in and tell your mamma and Mrs Leslie what has occurred, that they may not be alarmed, and the best thing you can do is to go to bed, and to stay there till your clothes are dried. You must not expect to go out in the boat again, as I see you cannot be trusted.”“It was all Fanny’s fault, she had no business to make me angry,” answered Norman; “it is very hard that I should be punished because of her.”The laird made no answer, but telling a maid-servant who appeared at the moment to carry Master Vallery upstairs and put him to bed, he entered the drawing-room where the ladies were sitting.The laird took care not to alarm them when he described what had happened.“Sandy did not tell you that I laughed at Norman, and that made him angry,” said Fanny.“He had no business to be angry, young lady,” observed the laird. “Let me advise you, my dear Mrs Vallery, to allow him to remain in bed till he becomes more amiable. His tumble into the water may perhaps be an advantage to him, and teach him the consequences of giving way to his anger.”Mrs Vallery, however, though assured that no real harm had happened to her boy, could not refrain from running upstairs to see him.Norman did not appear at all sensible that he had brought the accident upon himself, and declared that it was all Fanny’s fault, and that he would not stop in bed.Mrs Vallery at last yielded to his entreaties to be allowed to get up, and obtaining some fresh clothes, led him down to dinner, after he had promised that he would tell Mr Maclean he was sorry for having disobeyed his orders. Norman did so, though not with a very good grace, and he could not help feeling for the rest of the day that he was out of favour with the laird.Mrs Leslie did not allude to the subject, for she hoped that his mamma had said all that was necessary, and Norman congratulated himself that he had got off more cheaply altogether than he had expected.Poor Fanny was the chief sufferer, for she longed to say how delighted she was with the scenery, and yet she did not like, on account of her brother, to mention the subject. Norman, however, tried to look as unconcerned as possible, as if he had done nothing to be ashamed of.Fanny, who wished very much to carry the presents to little Robby, and to see the old sailor again, begged the next morning that she might take Norman, as had been before arranged, with the little carriage.“But I do not know if we can trust Norman,” observed the laird; “he may be scampering off by himself across the moor, and give you a great deal of trouble to catch him.”“Oh! but I am sure Norman will behave well to-day,” pleaded Fanny. “Won’t you, Norman? You will promise Mr Maclean that you will do as he tells you.”“Of course I will,” answered Norman. “Because I happen to do one day what you don’t like, you fancy that I must always do what you think wrong.”“If you promise me that you will obey your sister, you shall have the carriage, as I hope that I may trust to your word.”Norman promised that he would do whatever Fanny told him.“Will you cut me a whip, Mr Maclean?” he added, “I cannot drive a carriage without one.”“Pray let it be short then, the horse is not very far off, and a large one may tickle its shoulders and ears more than it likes,” said Fanny, looking archly at Norman, showing that though she had forgiven him, she had not forgotten the way he had treated her on their former excursion.The laird cut a short thin wand which could not do much harm in the hands of Norman, and kindly saw them off as before on the road.The day was fine and bright, and the pure Highland air raised Fanny’s spirits. She drew on the little carriage at a quick rate, singing merrily as she went. Norman felt unusually happy, he flourished his stick without attempting to beat Fanny, and shouted at the top of his voice. When the ground was rough, and the carriage bumped about, he held on to the sides with both his hands, but even that he thought very good fun. Quite regardless, however, of the exertion Fanny had to make on his account, he told her to go faster and faster.“I like the bumping and tumbling. It puts me in mind of being at sea,—go on, go on,” he shouted.Fanny proceeded for some distance, and at last felt so tired, that she was obliged to stop.“I must rest for a few minutes, Norman,” she said, “for really it is very hard work going over this rough ground.”“Oh, nonsense! you are lazy, you see how I like it, and so you ought to keep going on, I cannot give you many minutes to rest,” he replied.“That’s a good joke,” said Fanny, “if you will drag the carriage and let me get into it, you will soon find that it is not so easy as you suppose to drag it over this ground.”“You are heavier than I am, so that would not be fair, and besides, you promised to draw me, and you say you always do what you promise.”“That is true,” said Fanny; “I am much heavier than you are, and I have really no wish that you should draw me, but pray have patience, and I will go on again.”Norman got out of the carriage and ran about, he might just as well have gone on in front, and saved Fanny the trouble of dragging him so far; that, he did not think of.At last Fanny proposed that he should get in again, and on they went. The ground was, however, still rougher than what they had passed over. Norman cried out to Fanny, who was going somewhat slower than at first, to move faster.“I cannot, Norman; indeed I cannot,” she answered.“I shall run the risk of tumbling down, if I do.”“Then I’ll make you,” he shouted out.As he could not reach her with his stick from where he sat, he jumped up to lean forward that he might do so. Just then the carriage gave a violent bump, and out he tumbled, falling on some hard stones. He shrieked out, fancying himself dreadfully hurt, and very angry at what had happened to him.“You did it on purpose, I know you did,” he exclaimed, as Fanny came to pick him up.Fanny was a little alarmed at first, but she soon found that a slight bruise or two was all the harm he had received, so, after stopping a short time till he had ceased crying and complaining, she put him into the carriage again, and went on more carefully than before. Norman did not again insist on her moving faster, as he was occupied in feeling his elbows and shoulders and wondering whether he was much bruised.Soon after crossing the stream, they came in sight of Alec Morrison’s cottage. The ground was smooth near it, so Fanny was able to go on pretty fast, and Norman got into better humour, and shouted and sang as at first.As they approached the cottage they saw Robby, who had heard their voices coming out to meet them. Poor little fellow, as he did not expect visitors, and the weather was hot, he had very few clothes on, but he did not think about that.Fanny, stopping, made Norman get out of the carriage that she might take out the things which were placed under the seat.“Here, Robby,” she said, as the little boy came up, “we have brought you some nice fruit, and some cakes, and some picture-books, which Mrs Maclean gave us for you.”“Thank you, young lady, thank you,” exclaimed Robby, receiving them with delight, as Fanny took them out of the carriage, while Norman stood by, feeling somewhat jealous that the little beggar boy, as he chose to think Robby, should have so many things given him.“Is your grandfather at home?” asked Fanny. “I have been longing to come and see him, and to thank him for helping us on our way back the other day.”“No; I am keeping house alone, but grandfather will soon be back, so don’t go away, please, till he comes,” answered Robby, who was holding the things which Fanny had given him in his arms. “Won’t you come in, young lady, and rest?”“No, thank you, I would rather stay outside in the shade till your grandfather comes back,” said Fanny, as she did not like to go into the old man’s cottage without an invitation from him. “Do you, Robby, go in with the things, and put them away,” she added, for she rather mistrusted Norman, who continued eyeing the little boy with no very kind looks.Robby ran in with his treasures.“Stupid little brat,” observed Norman, “I wonder Mrs Maclean sent him all those things, I should have thought a piece of bread and cheese was quite enough for him.”“When we make presents we should try and give nice things, such as people who receive them will like,” said Fanny. “Old Alec could give his grandson bread and cheese, but he probably would be unable to obtain the sort of things we have brought. I wish when I make a present to give something that I myself like.”“I do not understand anything about that,” answered Norman, turning away, and flourishing his stick as he walked up and down.Old Alec soon appeared, with a basket containing food for himself and Robby, which he had gone to the village to purchase.“It does my heart good to see you and your brother,” he exclaimed, as he came up.“Grandfather!” cried Robby, “they have brought me all sorts of nice things—look here, look here!” and Robby led the old man into the cottage that he might exhibit the gifts he had received. “They would notcome in themselves, but said they would wait till you returned. I think the young gentleman would like some of the fruit, for he looked at it when his sister gave it to me. Can I run out and offer it to him? Perhaps, though, he will be offended, for he looks very proud.”“Yes, Robby, go and give the young gentleman some fruit,” said old Alec, who was at the time turning his eyes towards several cages which hung against the wall, with birds in most of them.He first looked at one, and then at another and another. At last he selected one neater and prettier than the rest, containing a linnet.“This will be the thing for the little damsel,” he observed. “If it was made of gold it would not be too good for her.”Fanny and Norman had still remained outside seated on a bench in the shade. They did not observe Robby, who came back with some of the fruit, intending to bring it to them, but feeling somewhat shy of presenting it, he placed it in the carriage, where he thought they would soon see it.The old man, going to a window which overlooked the spot where they were seated, called to Fanny.“Here, my dear young lady; an old man such as I am has but few things which you would care for, but I shall be greatly pleased if you will accept this little bird and its cage. Hang it up in your room where it can enjoy sunlight and air, and if you feed it and give it water regularly, it will sing sweetly to you in the morning and at all times of the day.”“Oh, thank you! thank you! what a dear, sweet, little bird! There is nothing I shall like to have so much, and I hope mamma and granny will allow me to receive it.”Fanny was so delighted with the gift, that she felt she could not find words enough to thank old Alec for it.“The gift is a very poor one, but I shall be just as much pleased as you are, if you will receive it,” answered the old man, as he put the cage into Fanny’s hands.The bird did not seem at all startled or afraid of her, but hopped about from perch to perch, and uttered a few gentle notes, as if it was much pleased at having her for its future mistress.“But I have kept you waiting a long time outside,” said the old man. “You must come in for a few minutes to rest, before you begin your journey home; and I have got some sweet milk and a fresh bannock—a better one than I had to offer you the other day. You will go back all the merrier for a little food.”Fanny thought it would please the old man to accept his invitation, and perhaps too, she might be able to get him to tell her and Norman some of the adventures which the laird said he had gone through, so calling to Norman, and holding the cage in her hands, she went into the house.

The next morning while they were at breakfast, Fanny asked the laird to tell her something about Alec Morrison, the old man who had been so kind to her and her brother the previous day.

“I can only give you the outline of his history, but perhaps you may get him to narrate some of the many adventures he has gone through,” he answered.

“He was born not far from this, and his mother was a shepherd’s only daughter. His father who belonged also to this neighbourhood, when quite a young man had driven some cattle to a seaport town when he got pressed on board a man-of-war, and had sailed away to a foreign station, before he could let his friends know what had become of him, or take any steps to obtain his liberation. He had promised to marry Jennie Dow, whom he truly loved, and had hoped soon to save enough by his industry to set up house.

“Years and years passed by during which Jennie, who would not believe that he was dead, remained faithful to him. Her father was getting old, and her friends advised her to secure a home for herself. She replied that it would be time enough to do so when her father was dead, and that as long as he lived, she would stay and look after him.

“At length, on the evening of a summer’s day, a one-armed man in a sailor’s dress approached the door. He looked ill and hungry and tired. He stopped and asked for a cup of milk and a bit of bannock.

“‘I will pay for both, gladly,’ he said, ‘and be thankful besides, for without some food I feel scarcely able to get on even to the village where, if the friends I once had there are still alive, I am sure to get a night’s lodging and to learn about others, though may be they have forgotten me long ago.’

“‘Come in and sit down, old friend,’ said the shepherd, and Jennie placed a cup of milk and a bannock on the table.

“As she did so she cast an inquiring glance at the face of the stranger.

“‘Who are you, friend?’ asked Alec Dow. ‘I am as likely as any one to tell you of the people in these parts.’

“‘I am sure it must be,’ exclaimed Jennie, coming forward and placing her hand on the stranger’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you know me, Alec Morrison?’

“‘O Jennie, I thought you must be married long ago!’ exclaimed the sailor, jumping to his feet, ‘for I could not think that you would have remembered me. And can you care for me now—a battered old hulk as I am, with one arm and half-a-dozen bullets through me, besides I don’t know how many cutlass cuts and wounds from pikes?’

“‘I have never ceased to hope that you would return,’ was Jennie’s answer.

“As his daughter was the only being the old shepherd loved, he allowed her to marry the wounded sailor, who took up his abode with them, and served him faithfully till he died.

“Times went hard with Jennie and her husband, for Morrison’s constitution was shattered, and he could not work as hard as he wished. They had one son, Alec, who grew up a fine manly boy. The sailor was fond of spinning yarns, to which his son listened with rapt attention, and longed to meet with the same adventures as his father.

“The boy was little more than twelve years old when his sailor father died from the wounds he had received fighting his country’s battles.

“Though his thoughts often wandered away over the wide ocean which he had never yet seen, young Alec dutifully did his best to assist his mother, but she did not long survive her husband, and he was left an orphan.

“It would have been a hard matter for him living all alone to have made a livelihood, so he sold two of his heifers to obtain an outfit, and leaving the remainder as well as his cottage in charge of a relative of his father’s, he started off to the nearest seaport. He had no difficulty in finding a ship, for he was as likely a lad as a captain could wish to have on board.

“He sailed away to foreign lands, to the East and West Indies, Australia, and the wide Pacific, and though he may have visited English ports in the meantime, many a long year passed before he again saw the home of his youth.

“He at length came back with a young wife, and some money in his pocket. He had undoubtedly pictured in his imagination his cottage on the wild moor as an earthly paradise, and had described it as such to his wife. When she saw it, she expressed a very different opinion, and complained of the wretched hovel and savage region to which he had brought her. Poor Alec told her with all sincerity that he had believed it to be very different to what he owned it really was. He promised to take her back to the town where her father lived, although in order to support her he must again go to sea. His relation was an honest man and promised to take charge of his property as before, for Alec would not sell it, and leaving his young wife he once more went to sea.

“On his return from his first voyage, he found that she was dead, and had left behind her a daughter. He had still the little damsel to work for, and so the brave sailor placed her under charge of her grandmother, and again sailed away over the ocean.

“His thoughts often wandered back to his little daughter for whose benefit he was enduring hardships and dangers—twice he was wrecked, and many years passed by before he again got home, and found his daughter no longer a little child but a full-grown woman, and as ready I am afraid to spend the old sailor’s money as her mother had been. He had not, however, much to give her, and so in a short time off to sea he went again to get more. Next time he came back feeling that this voyage must be the last, for he was getting too old to endure the hardships of a life on the ocean, he found his daughter married to a sailor. Her husband had soon to go away to sea, and shortly afterwards news came that his fine ship had foundered, and all on board had perished. His poor young wife was heart-broken at the news, and not many weeks afterwards she was taken away, leaving her little boy who was born at the time to the charge of her father. Her mother’s family were all dead, and Alec Morrison found himself alone in the world with his little grandson Robby, and possessed of but scanty means of support. He had just money enough to bring him to his old home in the Highlands.

“His cousin though a poor man had done his best to keep the cottage in repair, and to preserve a few head of cattle which he handed over to him.

“The old sailor took up his abode with little Robby in the cottage, hoping with the small plot of ground surrounding it and his cattle to obtain the means of supporting himself and his grandson. He, often, I fear has a difficulty in doing so, but he never complains, and recollecting how he lived as a boy, often I believe fancies himself one again.

“He employs his spare time in taming birds and making cages for them, and in cutting models of vessels and boats, and manufacturing other articles; indeed, I believe he is never idle, and seems as contented and happy as if he had been prosperous all his life, and never met with a misfortune.

“There, I have told you all I know about old Alec and his ancestors and descendants—four generations if I reckon rightly. I daresay as I before said, if you ask him that he will be happy to narrate some of the many adventures he has met with during his voyages. I suspect that he often, while enjoying his pipe, tells them to Robby as he sits on his knee during the long winter evenings, though the little fellow must be puzzled to understand whereabouts they take place, unless he knows more about geography than probably is the case.”

“Thank you, Mr Maclean,” exclaimed Fanny, “I long to see old Alec again, after the account you have given us of him; I feel so sorry for him that he should have lost his father and mother, his wife and daughter, and all the money he has gained with so much toil and hardship, and now to be compelled to live alone with a little child to look after.”

“I am very sure he thinks the little child a great blessing, and would much rather have it than be without its companionship,” observed Mrs Leslie. “From the account you gave of the boy, he is very intelligent and obedient.”

“Oh yes!” answered Fanny, “he seems to understand what his grandfather wishes him to do, and does it immediately. When he was sent back, before going he sprang up into the old man’s arms, and gave him a kiss, and then ran off across the moor singing merrily.”

“I thought him a stupid little brat,” muttered Norman. “When I ran out while you were drying your clothes, Fanny, and told him to draw me about in the carriage, he said that he could not till he had asked his grandfather’s leave, as he had to run after one of the cows which was straying further than she ought.”

“That, instead of showing that he is stupid, proves that he is sensible and obedient, and I wish that another little boy I know of, was equally sensible and obedient,” observed Mrs Leslie, looking at Norman.

Norman tried to appear unconcerned, but he knew very well that his grandmamma alluded to him.

“I will make him do what I want, the next time I go there,” said Norman, but he took care that Mrs Leslie should not hear him.

The account which Fanny had heard, made her eager to set off that morning to visit the old sailor and his grandchild.

“May we have the carriage, Mr Maclean?” she asked. “I should so like to take little Robby some toys, or picture-books, or fruit, or something that he would like it would make him happy, and, I hope, please the old man.”

“We shall be very glad to give you some things to take,” said Mrs Maclean, “and though I do not think we have any toys, we may find some picture-books, at all events we can send some fruit and cakes which will be welcome.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Fanny, “if we go as soon as we have had our reading, we shall be back by luncheon-time, and now I think I know the way too well to run the risk of losing it.”

“You must take care not to tumble into the water again though,” said Mrs Vallery.

“I will take care not to do that, mamma; indeed, there is no risk of it, as old Alec showed us a safe way across the stream, and I can easily carry Norman over, so that there will be no chance either of his tumbling in, if he does not kick about while I have him in my arms.”

“Will you behave properly, and do as your sister tells you?” asked Mrs Vallery, turning to Norman.

“I always behave properly,” answered the young gentleman, looking indignant at the idea of his ever doing otherwise.

“Norman will be very good I am sure,” said Fanny, fearing that any difficulty might arise to prevent the intended excursion.

Just as they left the breakfast-room, however, Sandy Fraser came to the door.

“It’s a fine day for the young folks to take a row on the loch, and so I just came up to see if they were willing to go,” he said, as he pulled off his bonnet and wished the laird and ladies good morning.

“Oh, I shall like that much better than bumping over the moor in the little cart,” exclaimed Norman. “Fanny, I am going with Sandy Fraser on the loch, and you can pay your visit to old Alec and his stupid little grandson another day. It will be much better fun to row about on the water, and I will take a rod and line, and I am sure I shall catch I don’t know how many fish in a short time.”

These remarks were not heard by the rest of the party.

“Mamma, do let me go with Sandy Fraser,” exclaimed Norman, as Mrs Vallery appeared from the breakfast-room. “Fanny does not care about the trip over the moor I am sure, and we shall both like a row in the boat much better.”

“In that case, as Sandy has come up for you, I certainly would rather you accompanied him,” said Mrs Vallery, and going to the door without waiting to hear what Fanny had to say on the subject, she told Sandy that the children would soon be ready, if Mr Maclean approved of their going.

“That’s jolly,” cried Norman. “Mr Maclean can you lend me one of your rods? I want to catch some fish for you.”

“You would find it a hard matter even to hold one,” answered the laird, “but I will get a long thin stick cut, which you will be able to manage better than one of my rods. And let me advise you to sit quiet in the boat, and do what Sandy tells you, or you will get into mischief. If you promise me this you may go.”

“Oh yes, I promise to sit quiet,” answered Norman, “and you may be sure I will not get into mischief.”

Fanny though she liked going on the water, would much rather have paid a visit to old Alec, but she was always ready to give up her wishes to please others, and as Norman seemed so eager to take a row in the boat, she agreed to accompany him.

Sandy undertook to dig for some worms for bait, and to cut a rod. When he brought it back, Mr Maclean fastened a line with a float and a hook to it.

“There, young gentleman, you are fitted out as an angler,” he observed, as he gave it him. “Would you like a very large basket to bring back your fish in, or will a small one do?”

“I think I had better take a large one,” answered Norman. “Fanny can carry it down to the boat, and Sandy and I will bring it back slung on a thick stick when it’s full of fish.”

The laird laughed heartily. “You must not blame your fishing-rod if you are not successful, for you will catch quite as many with it, as you would were I to lend you one of mine,” he observed. “Now good-bye, and remember your promise to behave properly, and Sandy will do his part in looking after you.”

Fanny came down ready to set off.

While she walked on by the side of the old man, Norman frequently started ahead, flourishing his fishing-rod in the way he had seen Mr Maclean flourish his, and eager to begin drawing in the fish he expected to catch.

They soon reached the boat.

“Now, Miss Fanny, do you sit in the stern, and Master Norman, you keep by me in the middle of the boat, and take care that you do not hook your sister when you are whisking about your rod. We will gang to the end of the loch first, where I promised to take you, and then you can begin to fish on the way back.”

“But why should I not begin to fish at once?” exclaimed Norman. “That’s what I want to do, I do not care about the scenery.”

“But the young lady maybe does,” observed Sandy, “and I wish to do what she likes best.”

“But I want to fish, I say,” exclaimed Norman. “Why cannot I begin while the boat is going on? I wish you would put some bait on my hook, for I don’t like to touch the nasty worms—then you will see how soon I shall catch a fish.”

Sandy gave a broad grin, as he put on a worm, and then throwing the line into the water, let Norman hold his stick, while he again took the oars, and rowed slowly along towards the end of the loch.

Fanny sat in the stern of the boat, looking like a bright little fairy—admiring the scenery, even more than she did on her first excursion with the laird. She wished that Norman could admire it too, but he kept his eye on the float, thinking much more of the fish he expected to catch than of the mountains and rocks and tree-covered islets.

“I am so very much obliged to you for bringing us,” she said to Sandy. “This is indeed very beautiful.”

“Oh yes, its very braw,” answered Sandy,—but she could obtain no further expression of admiration from him, for having lived near the loch nearly all his life, he saw nothing very remarkable about it.

“I wonder whether there is any other place equal to this in all Scotland,” exclaimed Fanny, after they had gone a little further, and had come in sight of a deep valley opening up on one side, down which a sparkling stream rushed impetuously into the loch, while a waterfall came leaping down from rock to rock among the trees which clothed the valley’s side, now appearing, now concealed from sight by the overhanging foliage.

“Oh yes!” answered Sandy, “there are mony streams and lochs in the He’lands, but ye maun gang far to find one with fish bigger than swim in Loch Tulloch.”

“But I was speaking of the scenery,” said Fanny, “I dinna ken much about that,” said Sandy, not exactly understanding her.

Still Fanny continued to make her remarks, and to utter exclamations of delight, and Sandy was at all events satisfied that she was well pleased.

“I wish you would not talk so much, Fanny,” cried Norman. “I have been fishing away for I don’t know how long, and I have not caught anything yet, and I am sure it is all your fault. You frighten the fish away.”

“Unless the fish come to the top of the water, they are not likely to bite at your hook,” she replied, “for I have seen it floating there, ever since Sandy began to row.”

“Can’t you stop rowing then, and let me catch some fish,” exclaimed Norman, turning round with an aggrieved look to the old man. “It matters much more that I should catch fish, than that we should get to the end of the loch just to please Fanny.”

“I have no objection to stop rowing if you wish it, young gentleman,” said Sandy, “though I would rather hear you say that you wanted to please your sister more than yourself.”

Norman did not heed the rebuke, but seeing his hook sink down fully believed that he was going to catch a fish. He waited and waited with unusual patience for him, but still his float rested without moving on the calm waters.

“There are no fish here, young gentleman, that have a fancy for your hook. We will go on to the end of the loch as I promised your sister, and try what we can do when we come back. Just sit down and let your line hang out if you like. There will be no harm in doing that, though the fish may not be the worse for it.”

As Sandy began to move his oars, Norman was obliged to do as he was told. He looked very sulky and angry however, and would not even answer Fanny when she spoke to him.

At last they reached the end of the loch. Here the mountain appeared to be cloven in two—a narrow channel running at the bottom of the gorge and uniting Loch Tulloch to another larger loch beyond. Fanny was delighted, especially when Sandy poling the boat along proceeded onwards till the loch and bright sunshine being left behind, they found themselves in the gloom of the narrow gorge with lofty cliffs arching overhead, so that when they looked up, all they could see was a narrow strip of blue sky above them.

“We cannot go further,” said Sandy, “for some big rocks stop the passage, or I would take you a row through a larger loch than our ain. If you stand up you can just see its blue waters shining brightly at the head of the gorge.”

“I want to go back and begin fishing,” cried Norman, in an angry tone, “we are wasting our time here.”

“Yours is very valuable time, young gentleman, I doubt not,” remarked Sandy, standing up in the bow of the boat, which having turned round, he began to pole out by the way they had entered.

They were soon again in the loch, which looked brighter and more beautiful than ever after the gloom of the gorge.

They had not gone far when Norman again insisted on stopping.

“You promised that you would let me fish on our way back, and I am sure there must be numbers about here,” he said, throwing in his line.

“I should not wonder that there was no worm on your hook,” observed Sandy, after they had waited some time. “I thought so,” he continued, when Norman pulled up his line; “you canna expect ony fish to bite at a bare hook.”

“But put on another worm,” said Norman, who again tried for some time with equal want of success.

He was beginning to lose patience.

“Try deeper, young gentleman, fish swim further down than you think for,” observed Sandy.

Norman did not know what he meant, and so Sandy slipped the float considerably higher up the line. Still no fish were to be tempted by his worm.

“I wish you would make them bite,” Norman exclaimed petulantly. “I shall never catch anything with this stupid stick and string; Mr Maclean ought to have lent me one of his own rods, and then I should have caught some fish for him.”

Sandy who would never allow anything to be said against the laird in his presence, felt very angry with Norman at this remark.

“You are very ungrateful, young gentleman, to say that,” he remarked. “I have let you fish long enough already, though if you were to try till nightfall, you would go back with your basket empty, so just draw in your line and pit quiet, it’s time to be making our way back.”

Norman looked somewhat surprised at this address.

“It’s all the fault of the stupid stick,” he exclaimed, and standing up he threw it away from him into the loch, and began dancing about to give vent to his anger and disappointment.

The old man rowed on, taking no notice of his foolish conduct. Fanny, however, felt very much ashamed of him, and begged him to be quiet, but he only jumped about the more, declaring that he would complain to his mamma of the way Sandy had treated him.

After he had thus given vent to his feelings for some time, and had become more quiet, Sandy, who was really good-natured, and was sorry for his disappointment, promised that if he would be a good boy, he would take him out in the evening when the fish were more ready to bite, and show him how he himself caught them. This pacified him, and he sat quiet for some time. Still, as he thought how foolish he would look going back with his big basket and no fish in it, he began again to grow angry.

“It’s all Fanny’s fault,” he said to himself, “if she had not wanted to row about the lake, I should have had time to catch some fish.”

Not knowing what was passing in his mind, Fanny, whose eyes fell on the basket, laughingly said to Norman.

“Shall I carry it home again, or will you and Sandy carry it between you on a stick, as you proposed?”

“Why do you say that?” exclaimed Norman, jumping up, “you are sneering at me; you will go and tell them I daresay that I threw my rod into the water.”

“Indeed, I will not,” said Fanny, “I do not wish that any one should laugh at you.”

“You are always laughing at me yourself,” he answered, growing more angry. “But I will keep you in order, you are but a girl, and girls should always obey their brothers, that’s what I think.”

“You are but a little boy, though you think yourself a big one,” said Fanny, somewhat nettled at the way he spoke. “I wish to be kind to you, but I will not obey you, especially when you are angry, as you appear to be now, without any cause that I can see.”

Fanny was not aware how very angry Norman was.

Suddenly darting at her, he seized her hat and tore it off her head.

“Take care, young gentleman, what you are about,” cried Sandy, putting in his oars and about to take hold of Norman, who with Fanny’s hat in his hand, had jumped up on the seat.

“Your hat shall go after my fishing-rod,” he cried out, and was about to throw it as far from him as he could into the water, when, in making the attempt, he lost his balance and overboard he fell.

For a moment the water which got into his mouth as he struggled and splashed about, prevented him from uttering any sound. When he came to the surface he quickly found his voice.

“Help! help! I am drowning!” he shrieked out. “I am drowning! I am drowning! Oh save me, save me!”

Sandy quickly leaning over the side of the boat caught hold of him, and dragged him in, though he continued to shriek lustily, and struggle as if he was still in the water.

Poor Fanny gave a cry of alarm.

“He is all safe, young lady, and the cold bath will cool his anger, and won’t do him any harm,” observed Sandy. “But we will just pull off his wet clothes, and I will wrap him in my jacket.”

Norman who soon regained his senses, and became quieter when he found himself safe in the boat again objected to this, but Sandy insisted on doing what he proposed, and in spite of his struggles, took off his wet things, and made him put on his jacket, which he fastened round his waist with a handkerchief.

Fanny who had recovered from her flight, could scarcely help laughing at the funny figure he presented, dressed in the coat with the sleeves turned half way back, so that he might have his hands free.

“You will keep quiet now, young gentleman, I hope, or you will be tumbling overboard again,” said Sandy. “I don’t know what the laird will say to you, when he hears how it happened.”

Norman looked foolish, and made no reply.

Sandy had in the meantime picked up Fanny’s hat, and he now spread Norman’s clothes out on the seats that they might dry in the sun. Having done this, he pulled away as fast as he could towards the landing-place near the house.

As Norman’s clothes were not nearly dry by the time they reached the shore, he packed them away in the basket, which was thus made useful, though in a different way to what Norman expected. Having secured the boat, and helped Fanny out, Sandy took Norman up in his arms and marched away with him to the house.

The laird saw them coming, and of course inquired what had happened.

Fanny would as usual, have tried to save her brother from being blamed, but Sandy told the whole story.

“You brought it upon yourself, by disobeying orders, Norman,” observed Mr Maclean. “I will go in and tell your mamma and Mrs Leslie what has occurred, that they may not be alarmed, and the best thing you can do is to go to bed, and to stay there till your clothes are dried. You must not expect to go out in the boat again, as I see you cannot be trusted.”

“It was all Fanny’s fault, she had no business to make me angry,” answered Norman; “it is very hard that I should be punished because of her.”

The laird made no answer, but telling a maid-servant who appeared at the moment to carry Master Vallery upstairs and put him to bed, he entered the drawing-room where the ladies were sitting.

The laird took care not to alarm them when he described what had happened.

“Sandy did not tell you that I laughed at Norman, and that made him angry,” said Fanny.

“He had no business to be angry, young lady,” observed the laird. “Let me advise you, my dear Mrs Vallery, to allow him to remain in bed till he becomes more amiable. His tumble into the water may perhaps be an advantage to him, and teach him the consequences of giving way to his anger.”

Mrs Vallery, however, though assured that no real harm had happened to her boy, could not refrain from running upstairs to see him.

Norman did not appear at all sensible that he had brought the accident upon himself, and declared that it was all Fanny’s fault, and that he would not stop in bed.

Mrs Vallery at last yielded to his entreaties to be allowed to get up, and obtaining some fresh clothes, led him down to dinner, after he had promised that he would tell Mr Maclean he was sorry for having disobeyed his orders. Norman did so, though not with a very good grace, and he could not help feeling for the rest of the day that he was out of favour with the laird.

Mrs Leslie did not allude to the subject, for she hoped that his mamma had said all that was necessary, and Norman congratulated himself that he had got off more cheaply altogether than he had expected.

Poor Fanny was the chief sufferer, for she longed to say how delighted she was with the scenery, and yet she did not like, on account of her brother, to mention the subject. Norman, however, tried to look as unconcerned as possible, as if he had done nothing to be ashamed of.

Fanny, who wished very much to carry the presents to little Robby, and to see the old sailor again, begged the next morning that she might take Norman, as had been before arranged, with the little carriage.

“But I do not know if we can trust Norman,” observed the laird; “he may be scampering off by himself across the moor, and give you a great deal of trouble to catch him.”

“Oh! but I am sure Norman will behave well to-day,” pleaded Fanny. “Won’t you, Norman? You will promise Mr Maclean that you will do as he tells you.”

“Of course I will,” answered Norman. “Because I happen to do one day what you don’t like, you fancy that I must always do what you think wrong.”

“If you promise me that you will obey your sister, you shall have the carriage, as I hope that I may trust to your word.”

Norman promised that he would do whatever Fanny told him.

“Will you cut me a whip, Mr Maclean?” he added, “I cannot drive a carriage without one.”

“Pray let it be short then, the horse is not very far off, and a large one may tickle its shoulders and ears more than it likes,” said Fanny, looking archly at Norman, showing that though she had forgiven him, she had not forgotten the way he had treated her on their former excursion.

The laird cut a short thin wand which could not do much harm in the hands of Norman, and kindly saw them off as before on the road.

The day was fine and bright, and the pure Highland air raised Fanny’s spirits. She drew on the little carriage at a quick rate, singing merrily as she went. Norman felt unusually happy, he flourished his stick without attempting to beat Fanny, and shouted at the top of his voice. When the ground was rough, and the carriage bumped about, he held on to the sides with both his hands, but even that he thought very good fun. Quite regardless, however, of the exertion Fanny had to make on his account, he told her to go faster and faster.

“I like the bumping and tumbling. It puts me in mind of being at sea,—go on, go on,” he shouted.

Fanny proceeded for some distance, and at last felt so tired, that she was obliged to stop.

“I must rest for a few minutes, Norman,” she said, “for really it is very hard work going over this rough ground.”

“Oh, nonsense! you are lazy, you see how I like it, and so you ought to keep going on, I cannot give you many minutes to rest,” he replied.

“That’s a good joke,” said Fanny, “if you will drag the carriage and let me get into it, you will soon find that it is not so easy as you suppose to drag it over this ground.”

“You are heavier than I am, so that would not be fair, and besides, you promised to draw me, and you say you always do what you promise.”

“That is true,” said Fanny; “I am much heavier than you are, and I have really no wish that you should draw me, but pray have patience, and I will go on again.”

Norman got out of the carriage and ran about, he might just as well have gone on in front, and saved Fanny the trouble of dragging him so far; that, he did not think of.

At last Fanny proposed that he should get in again, and on they went. The ground was, however, still rougher than what they had passed over. Norman cried out to Fanny, who was going somewhat slower than at first, to move faster.

“I cannot, Norman; indeed I cannot,” she answered.

“I shall run the risk of tumbling down, if I do.”

“Then I’ll make you,” he shouted out.

As he could not reach her with his stick from where he sat, he jumped up to lean forward that he might do so. Just then the carriage gave a violent bump, and out he tumbled, falling on some hard stones. He shrieked out, fancying himself dreadfully hurt, and very angry at what had happened to him.

“You did it on purpose, I know you did,” he exclaimed, as Fanny came to pick him up.

Fanny was a little alarmed at first, but she soon found that a slight bruise or two was all the harm he had received, so, after stopping a short time till he had ceased crying and complaining, she put him into the carriage again, and went on more carefully than before. Norman did not again insist on her moving faster, as he was occupied in feeling his elbows and shoulders and wondering whether he was much bruised.

Soon after crossing the stream, they came in sight of Alec Morrison’s cottage. The ground was smooth near it, so Fanny was able to go on pretty fast, and Norman got into better humour, and shouted and sang as at first.

As they approached the cottage they saw Robby, who had heard their voices coming out to meet them. Poor little fellow, as he did not expect visitors, and the weather was hot, he had very few clothes on, but he did not think about that.

Fanny, stopping, made Norman get out of the carriage that she might take out the things which were placed under the seat.

“Here, Robby,” she said, as the little boy came up, “we have brought you some nice fruit, and some cakes, and some picture-books, which Mrs Maclean gave us for you.”

“Thank you, young lady, thank you,” exclaimed Robby, receiving them with delight, as Fanny took them out of the carriage, while Norman stood by, feeling somewhat jealous that the little beggar boy, as he chose to think Robby, should have so many things given him.

“Is your grandfather at home?” asked Fanny. “I have been longing to come and see him, and to thank him for helping us on our way back the other day.”

“No; I am keeping house alone, but grandfather will soon be back, so don’t go away, please, till he comes,” answered Robby, who was holding the things which Fanny had given him in his arms. “Won’t you come in, young lady, and rest?”

“No, thank you, I would rather stay outside in the shade till your grandfather comes back,” said Fanny, as she did not like to go into the old man’s cottage without an invitation from him. “Do you, Robby, go in with the things, and put them away,” she added, for she rather mistrusted Norman, who continued eyeing the little boy with no very kind looks.

Robby ran in with his treasures.

“Stupid little brat,” observed Norman, “I wonder Mrs Maclean sent him all those things, I should have thought a piece of bread and cheese was quite enough for him.”

“When we make presents we should try and give nice things, such as people who receive them will like,” said Fanny. “Old Alec could give his grandson bread and cheese, but he probably would be unable to obtain the sort of things we have brought. I wish when I make a present to give something that I myself like.”

“I do not understand anything about that,” answered Norman, turning away, and flourishing his stick as he walked up and down.

Old Alec soon appeared, with a basket containing food for himself and Robby, which he had gone to the village to purchase.

“It does my heart good to see you and your brother,” he exclaimed, as he came up.

“Grandfather!” cried Robby, “they have brought me all sorts of nice things—look here, look here!” and Robby led the old man into the cottage that he might exhibit the gifts he had received. “They would notcome in themselves, but said they would wait till you returned. I think the young gentleman would like some of the fruit, for he looked at it when his sister gave it to me. Can I run out and offer it to him? Perhaps, though, he will be offended, for he looks very proud.”

“Yes, Robby, go and give the young gentleman some fruit,” said old Alec, who was at the time turning his eyes towards several cages which hung against the wall, with birds in most of them.

He first looked at one, and then at another and another. At last he selected one neater and prettier than the rest, containing a linnet.

“This will be the thing for the little damsel,” he observed. “If it was made of gold it would not be too good for her.”

Fanny and Norman had still remained outside seated on a bench in the shade. They did not observe Robby, who came back with some of the fruit, intending to bring it to them, but feeling somewhat shy of presenting it, he placed it in the carriage, where he thought they would soon see it.

The old man, going to a window which overlooked the spot where they were seated, called to Fanny.

“Here, my dear young lady; an old man such as I am has but few things which you would care for, but I shall be greatly pleased if you will accept this little bird and its cage. Hang it up in your room where it can enjoy sunlight and air, and if you feed it and give it water regularly, it will sing sweetly to you in the morning and at all times of the day.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you! what a dear, sweet, little bird! There is nothing I shall like to have so much, and I hope mamma and granny will allow me to receive it.”

Fanny was so delighted with the gift, that she felt she could not find words enough to thank old Alec for it.

“The gift is a very poor one, but I shall be just as much pleased as you are, if you will receive it,” answered the old man, as he put the cage into Fanny’s hands.

The bird did not seem at all startled or afraid of her, but hopped about from perch to perch, and uttered a few gentle notes, as if it was much pleased at having her for its future mistress.

“But I have kept you waiting a long time outside,” said the old man. “You must come in for a few minutes to rest, before you begin your journey home; and I have got some sweet milk and a fresh bannock—a better one than I had to offer you the other day. You will go back all the merrier for a little food.”

Fanny thought it would please the old man to accept his invitation, and perhaps too, she might be able to get him to tell her and Norman some of the adventures which the laird said he had gone through, so calling to Norman, and holding the cage in her hands, she went into the house.

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