about the old place, pretending to be as fine as the like of you."

It was circumstantial indeed. If it should be true?

"I don't believe it," said Mrs. Whin. "Do ye think I would vex you with a lee?" said Dow, dropping from his state language with relief. "Oh, mem, it isna spite, and it isna jokin'. I made sure it was truth before I wad trouble you with the story. He keeps himsel' to himsel', and he darena speak; but there's some in the place knows him for Archie Thomson the flesher's son, who ran awa' to the wars."

Mrs. Whin's bright eyes grew dull

"What would your friends say, mem -and what would the duke say-if they knew you were getting familiar with the son of a butcher-body?"

remembered-yes-driving past that old snop in King Street-stopping to order something that had been forgotten, and seeing the general inside. She had wondered then what a man staying in a

"You are out of your mind!" said she. Dow shook his head in a melancholy fashion, and fixed her look with a pair of solemn eyes.

66

"Tis Thomson the flesher in old King Street," he said convincingly. "The old folks died, and Anderson's bought the shop, but they aye keep the name to hold customers together. I mind it well-that is" (hastily) "I heard it so often that it was as good as seeing it a' myself. Young Archie would not bide and mind the shop. He wanted to shoot people, he said, it was better than sticking sheep-and he ran away for a soldier. And old Ann Thomson would cry, 'He'll come back yet; he'll come hame when he's weary o' the wars.' But he didna come, and the cornels and folks got shot, and somebody took a fancy to him and shoved him up, and there was no more hoping for him to come home and drive the cart and tie on his apron. Sae the old folks died, and maybe he has come home at last to see if he can light on Ann Thomson's stocking-for she kept aye putting by for Archie, and they couldna find where she put it. Anderson has a look whiles in odd corners, and up the lum; but he hasna got it-and he is come creepin'

look of surprise he, reddening, had answered, "Buying collops."

Mrs. Whin was not very bold. She had great ideas about family, and she would run faster from ridicule than from a cow. So she gave a gasp.

"I'm awful vext," said Dow sympathetically, looking up at her with big round eyes; "but I thought it was a pity you an' the duke should be lowerin' yoursels, no' kennin'—”

"He is a brave man and a general," murmured Mrs. Whin, in an uncertain voice.

"Ay, he's brave and a generalmaybe. They tell me he was aye fightin' with the baker's lad. An' many a time the loaves would lie in the mud, an' the legs o' mutton would need a scrubbin'. The baker's lad aye cam' by the worst," said Dow.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Whin.

She clenched her hands with a feeling of intense humiliation that brought the tears smarting into her eyes. Her general,

her interesting, aistinguished general-a butcher's son! How the county would laugh at her if they knew! Oh, it all fitted in so well with the little things she had noticed and paid no attention to at the time. And to think that she had nearly

"There was a lass at Hendarroch aince, a servant-lass," said Dow, "and he used to court her at the back gate when he came wi' the meat. But she wadna wait sae lang. He maun hae been sair putten about to find his auld sweetheart a grannie!"

"That will do," said Mrs. Whin. Her horse was backing against the pavilion fence, and the groom was clucking to keep it still.

Dow moved out of her way, and in another minute she sat up in the driving-seat, took the reins from the groom and started. The high red wheels flashed across the links and vanished; and Dow turned to one of the lesser caddies:

"You see to Sir Thomas this afternoon," he said in his lordly English, "I hae got other business."

Then he stalked off the ground.

"I am General Thomson," he said gruffly, expecting to be instantly let in. "I know, sir. But my orders are to say that my mistress is not at home."

There was no mistaking this. The general stared blankly at the man, ready to swallow him in the extremity of his wrath. Mrs. Whin had made it plain-so plain that he could only wonder at the ways of a woman and beat a retreat. He had better pack up at once, and take the morning train to the south.

"I will leave my card," he said, with a grim flicker in his eyes, and he wrote on it "P.P.C."

There was a shadow in the corner of the gateway that the general, striding through, did not see. As he passed, however, with chagrin written on his

countenance, the figure rose up and chuckled.

Creeping in the lee of some big bushes, Dow arrived at the lowermost windows of the house. There was one where he had seen a stirring of the window-curtains when the general came away. A big laurel bush leaned over against this window, and Dow made himself small, stretching his neck cautiously out of the laurel leaves. Mrs. Whin sat in the curtain-shadow, with her face fallen in her hands, crying bitterly in the dusk.

"Losh!" muttered the watcher blankly, as he slid out of the laurel bush, "an' she might hae the juke himsel'!"

II.

Mrs. Whin lay long awake that night wondering at herself. 'She had been very angry, and she had said she would never speak to the man again; but she had sat at the window to watch his discomfiture, and to see if he looked ashamed, and sitting there she had had to fight with some strange feeling that pushed her to call him back. She clenched her hands and scolded herself till he reached the gate. And then the servant brought in his card, with the "P.P.C." written big and unsteadily across it, and she knew that he was gone for good. The door shut softly, and she turned and looked wildly down the drive, and he was out of sight. "I am a fool" she said angrily, in a voice that shook.

She had a queer dream that night, when she stopped scolding herself, and trying to shut out the general's reproachful face-that had no right to be reproachful, and still was so.

First she and the general stood alone on the links, and there did not seem to be anybody else in the world, or upon the green. They were playing a match, they two together, against some creature of indiarubber that had a mocking laugh as it bounded up in the air, and the face of Dow, her caddie. It had all the clubs, and they had to play with

sticks. The wind blew their balls aslant, and the thing was mocking.

"We must win," said the general, and she pressed to his side, and held on to his coat, putting her cheek against it; but the thing was grinning.

Then suddenly all their acquaintances seemed to come crowding round, and there was scorn in their expression. They were pointing to her and the general, and making faces. The duke came forward in his mackintosh, and looked amazed, and all Mrs. Whin's pet aversions pushed to the front. She looked up. The general was standing up in a cart, wearing a long apron of butcher-blue, and as she looked he leaned over the wheel and cried:"Will you ride with me?"

They were all laughing shrilly as she started back, and the sound of it was maddening; but she could not withstand the look in the general's eyes as he said again:

"Will you ride with me?"

"Where are you going?" the duke said, catching her arm, and the mocking chorus behind grew louder. The general stretched out his hand to grip her, and help her up-and then she awakened crying.

It was in the cold grey morning that Mrs. Whin came down to the links. The two or three enthusiasts who were there already remarked that her manner was curt and restless. She kept turning half-consciously to the railway cutting where in an hour or so the south express would be whisking past.

Dow, for once, was not on the spot. She missed him with a feeling of relief, and brought out her driver to go round the long course in the hills and hollows by the side of the sea. The sprightliness had gone out of her walk this morning; she followed up her ball with a dragging step, and listlessly played the strokes, not caring.

It was going to rain. The sky was very dull and leaden. There was a ruffle of wind across the sea, and the gulls were all ashore. Yes, it was going to rain, and the smoke would lie in the track of the south express; it would

pass in a cloud and leave clouds behind it-and so good-bye!

Lifting her eyes then, Mrs. Whin gave a little cry. She was face to face with the general.

He was having a last look round, walking slowly among the familiar places, and he did not see her until she gave that cry-then he moved, standing aside in the withered bracken to let her pass.

He did not speak, but his look was dark with reproach, and she could not bear to see it. The impulse she had had to fight with yesterday grew suddenly all too strong, and broke down her pride.

"Don't go! don't go!" she cried, "forgive me."

The general looked doubtful-shy. He did not venture to take the impetuous words for earnest until he saw that her eyes were dim with tears. Then he took her hands.

"You should have told and trusted me," said Mrs. Whin, glancing thus at the dangerous subject. She felt strangely happy in recklessness, like one who has thrown away a burden, and she was ready to dare the world. "I-I did not like," said the general, but she interrupted the apology.

"Don't speak about it," she said with a little shudder, for there was still a stirring of her trampled pride and the prejudice of high family. So the general did not speak.

"They packed up a lunch-basket for me," Mrs. Whin said later. "I was ashamed to tell the servants I could not eat. Come and have lunch with me in the hut"-her name for the majestic pavilion-"you will get nothing good, only poor little thin sandwiches and claret!"

"My train is gone," said the general, eying a faint, white puff of smoke.

"Your train? it is not your train!" Mrs. Whin cried quickly. "Your train is put off for my convenience!" She smiled down to him, tripping up the pavilion steps, and the general followed meekly.

"Will you light the fire?" said she, glancing round for a tablecloth, "and

then I can make some tea. There are matches, and there are sticks-and, I fancy, cinders.

The general retreated behind the varnished partition that shut off the kitchen corner of the hut from the rest. He knelt down before the grate and struck match after match with the patience of an old campaigner but the wood was damp, and the chimney would not draw.

Mrs. Whin hung up her coat. It had come on to pour, and the rain was beating against the windows. They would have to stay in here till it cleared a little before they could venture out. drew out the provisions gingerly. Was there enough for two?

She

There was a sudden dash in of rain and wind as the door opened and let in Dow.

The wet was trickling along his cheeks and pouring down his coat; he wiped it out of his eyes, shut the door, and spoke.

"They said you were here you were round the links by your lane this mornin'-I hae been fightin' mysel' a' night up till this very minute, and at last I hae made my mind up, and I hae come to tell."

"To tell?" Mrs. Whin said faintly.

Dow was twisting his wet cap in his hands. Yesterday he had looked virtuous and calm, but to-day his mien was disturbed.

"I didna think you wad take on so," he said lamely. "I said to mysel': 'She's no a flighty bit lass to fret an' wish hersel' deid, as lasses do when they're crossed. She's a wiselike weedow woman, an' she'll be angry and send him aboot his business-and he'll be offended and gae doon south-an' she'll tak the juke.' It's awfu' easy to tell a lee, an' pit more to it; but it's awfu' difficult to spoil it an' tell the truth."

"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Whin hastily.

Dow wriggled slightly. Behind them the general was getting the fire alight; he was still stooping over it earnestly, blowing up the flue.

"He's no gane yet," said Dow. "He missed the train. I ken that, for I was at the station. I-I couldna bide to think of you, mem, greetin' sae sair."

He made an effort-feeling keenly the lack of dignity, to take up the mincing English he used upon great occasions.

"I informed you, mem, that the general was the son of a butcher-body of this town-a ne'er-do-weel who ran awa' to the wars-and you would na' see him because of it. I told you a falsehood, mem!"

"I should think so!" shouted the general, appearing suddenly. "You young imp!"

But Dow had fled, bolting into the rain.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Whin, covering her face.

"I'll tell you why I came here," said the general, sitting down beside her. "I was ashamed to tell you sooner, for it seemed so silly, and I did not want you to laugh at me. But when I was young I came here to stay with a Sandhurst chum, and-and I used to moon round a girl who lived at Hendarroch. It is a poor little story. She married a richer man. Well, I had a queer whim to come here again and see the old place

and I heard she was left a widow. It has changed-and she is changed, for she did not know me. She must have forgotten the very name of her first admirer-”

"Who is she?" asked Mrs. Whin eagerly.

"Mrs. Milne of Pollaine."

"Fat Mrs. Milne?"

"Fat Mrs. Milne. She is changed." Then he took her hands and looked seriously down in her brightened face. "What was this crazy story of that little rascal, Dow? You believed it?"

"I believed it," said Mrs. Whin, laying her cheek on his shoulder, “but” "But you would have had me all the same?" said the general.

"I would," answered Mrs. Whin. And somehow Dow was forgiven.

R. RAMSAY.

From The Contemporary Review OUTDOOR LIFE IN HOLLAND. The town life of Holland is so highly organized and so picturesque that visitors, travelling by short stages from one quaint and populous city to another, through mazes of artificial dykes and canals, may well doubt if there is any wild outdoor life worth seeing in the country. It is a natural inference that the elaborate perfection of "Dutch interiors" whether in real mansions, or farmhouses, or on the canvas of Dutch painters, has been reached at the expense of the natural beauties which ought to surround them, and that in bridling the sea, and barring out the great rivers from their land, and keeping down the inland waters, the people have also banished most of the uncovenanted grace of natural scenery.

This view is only true in part. There are districts of Holland which are as wild as the sand-hills of Morayshire; others, though in the artificially reclaimed area, are peopled with birds and clothed with plants and flowers all characteristic of the peculiar land in which they grow; and apart from the special interest of the Dutch farming, flower raising, and canals, there is enough genuine wild country to delight the sportsman and naturalist. Any one residing in Holland for a time soon discovers that the Dutch themselves are well aware that this is the case, and that in their own way they appreciate wild Holland as we do wild England.

The country house, and the outdoor life and social enjoyments which we associate with it, are very dear to the gentlemen of Holland, but although the sentiment which orders the establishment is the same, the house and its management are thoroughly Dutchnot English. We seem for centuries to have had something of the gifts of Orpheus, and called the best trees and the rocks and the running streams up to our doors, while the deer, birds, and fish have followed them. Part of this success is due to the instinct for choosing the right sites for country houses, part to the endeavor, rarely absent, exLIVING AGE. VOL. XV. 752

cept in the case of some of the great palaces built in the eighteenth century, to adapt the house to its site and surroundings. Hence the delight and novelty of visiting the good houses even in a single county, or a single neighborhood. No two are alike, and each has something fresh to offer in garden, park, stream or woods. In regard to its country houses Holland differs both from England and from France. It is full of fine demesnes, not large in area, but maintained, and managed, as an English proprietor would wish his house to be, entirely with a view to the enjoyment of outdoor life. The country houses are not left in shabby splendor for ten months in the year, while the owner enjoys himself in the capital, as is too often the case where an old family has a maison de campagne in France. Many Dutch proprietors own both a fine town house in the Hague, where their arms and escutcheon may be seen carved on the pediment, and a large country house only a few miles off. But since the court has almost ceased to exist as a social institution, the town house is shut up, and the owner prefers to live on his country property. There, however, he does not often own the broad acres of the English squire. These have usually been divided among his brothers and sisters, if he has any, by the action of the law compelling equal division of property among children. On the other hand what under the new English law of settled estates is called the "mansion house" and demesne remains his property. Most of these houses were built before the Code Napoléon was established in Holland, and were intended for the expenditure of good incomes, and designed with a considerable dignity and sumptuousness. By saving. and often by lucky investments in the Dutch East Indies, the owners of most of these houses are still rich, and can live the life they please without pinching, like many English country gentlemen. We are dealing with the social and not the economic side of outdoor life, but so much must be said to explain the conditions under which the