very foremost to welcome home her foster-child.

Her husband was not present. There had been a serious quarrel between them on the subject; but Roger Dorling was inflexible. He had for once in his life been a party to a dishonest action, and had ever since repented it. It was too late now to repair the injury inflicted; but he would not, by his presence, countenance the triumphant Sham. No; not even though that Sham was of his own flesh and blood.

The Sham (but we are departing from our recorded intention; we said a short time since we would accept things as they are)-the Lady Alice, let us rather say, arrived at her ancestral mansion. Very fine and stately-very beautiful and noble-looking was she, of a truth. Hannah Dorling might well be proud of her brilliant foster-child.

Loud and hearty were the cheers that greeted the splendid heiress as the carriage drove up to the door of the old hall, and gracious and affable was her acknowledgment of the same. No returning prodigal

was ever welcomed home with more sincere rejoicings than were the longabsent earl and his beautiful child. Nor were they, in their turn, insensible to the honest outspoken joy of their humble dependents. Absorbed as he was in dreams of his own dignity, the haughty earl experienced a real feeling of repose and comfort as, after so many years of restless wandering, he settled down once more in his old quiet country home. His nephew and successor, Lord M, Alice's destined husband, had accompanied them, and the party that sat down that day to dinner in the long-disused state dining-room might be called a truly happy one. And when the shouting, boisterous crowd of welcoming tenants had dispersed, when, dinner being over, Alice had retired for a while to her own little sitting-room (it had been the late countess's favourite boudoir), she was informed that her old nurse, Hannah Dorling, had requested the honour of an interview.

Alice had not forgotten her childish days. She had a tolerably clear

recollection of an affectionate, though somewhat wayward woman, who had at one time stood in the place of mother to her. But after so many years of separation from her-years bringing with them their own hopes and fears, and varied interests in which the companions of her childhood had no part, she may surely be excused if the announcement of her old nurse's visit called forth no thrill of emotion in her heart.

She received Hannah kindly and affably; asked after Roger's welfare and that of her foster-sister, Martha. But the poor sinning mother felt that it was the well-bred young lady, not the loving child, who spoke. Was this, then, the end of all her scheming? Where was the loving embrace, the fond pressing to the heart, that Hannah Dorling had so many years lived for, and hoped for? Was it for this that she had sinned and suffered so? If Alice but knew alloh! if she only knew!

Poor Hannah tried long and earnestly to awaken some loving) filial feelings in her daughter's breast

-that daughter hers no longerthe daughter whom she had herself raised to the high eminence from which she now so proudly looked down on her own mother, and whom by raising her thus, she had lost. But it was all in vain. The voice of nature, if there be such a thing, spoke not to Alice, telling her who this woman really was who now so passionately prayed to be loved. She saw in Hannah Dorling her old nurse-no more. Her nurse might naturally take an interest in her, and be proud of her; but the fierce yearnings of old Hannah's heart for loving filial utterance, these Alice could not comprehend. Alice, in fact, began to grow more distant and more haughty in proportion as Hannah grew more and more earnest in her entreaties for a little love.

At last poor Hannah, heartsick and half-crazed at the ruin of the hopes she had so long dwelt upon, gave utterance to a mad, wild speech, wrung from her by sheer desperation. It was a speech that might well offend the Lady Alice, knowing no more than she did; and it was answered by an insult-a cruel in

sult-which Alice repented almost as soon as uttered, but which nevertheless seemed to her at the moment the only answer she could make. It was thus that Hannah Dorling spoke :

'And this is my reward for all I have done and risked for you!'

"What you can possibly have risked for me, I know not,' Alice answered. For what you have done for me, I have no doubt you were well paid.'

Well paid indeed! Oh, Lady Alice, you know not how straight that random shot of yours struck home! With a cry like that of one in mortal agony, Hannah Dorling left the presence of the proud beauty. This death-blow to the hopes on which she had lived so long-this .miserable bankruptcy of love and ambition taking the place of the rich fruition she had pictured, was more than she could bear. Roger Dorling returning home that evening, found his wife stretched on a bed of fever. She was delirious when he saw her; but before her reason had deserted her she had had time to execute a scheme of vengeance which she had conceived on the very instant of quitting Alice's boudoir. Yes; by a not uncommon transition, her fierce impassioned love, rejected by the object of it, had turned to hate as fierce and as impassioned. No sooner had she reached her home than she sat down and wrote a letter to Lord MAlice's future husband. She told him all. She did not attempt to disguise or soften down her own criminality. Her sole idea was to expose the imposture-to warn him against linking his fortunes with this low-born creature who had spurned her love-this sham who had no right to be an heiress. This last revenge accomplished, and the letter sent, the overwrought brain could bear no more. She sunk at once, as we have said, into delirium.

We trust our readers will not be so unreasonable as to expect us to describe the consternation that ensued on the receipt of Hannah's letter. Of course the marriage of Alice with Lord M― was postponed until in

quiries could be made. The earl was furious. He had begun in his own cold, undemonstrative way to love this beautiful girl who was, by union with his nephew and heir, to perpetuate his race; and was he now to be told that she was no child of his? For her own part, Alice was convinced there could be no particle of truth in the old woman's statement. Were she indeed her mother she could never have the heart, after all these years, to drag her daughter down from the position she had always occupied, and, what was still worse, to separate her from the man she loved. And Martha, too, who had heard of these complications! She I would not believe the woman she had always called her mother would thus, by raising her to an eminence she did not covet, interpose an insuperable barrier to her wedding Philip Stride. In fact, to all the characters concerned in our story, that letter of Hannah Dorling's-that tardy confession of the wrong she had so long ago committed-brought cruel misery.

Hannah's delirium was not of long continuance. After the third day she was conscious, but oh so weak- -so very weak! The earl came, accompanied by Alice and her lover, Lord M. He commenced questioning the old woman in the haughty, overbearing style. that was habitual to him. He threatened her, and, if we may venture to use so vulgar a word in describing the speech of an earl, fairly bullied' her to get her to declare the truth.

But Hannah Dorling, lying upon what she knew to be her death-bed, defied the threats of the proud earl. She told him she was too near her end to fear anything that he could do to harm her now. And then the earl tried entreaties. He, the haughty nobleman whose coronet, figuratively speaking, never left his brow, absolutely knelt beside that humble pallet, and implored old Hannah to tell him if her letter spoke the truth.

Terrible was the struggle in the breast of Hannah Dorling. Years ago she had sinned for the sake of giving her daughter a position she was not born to. What should she

do now, when that daughter had forgotten her, and when that daughter's sole happiness depended upon the false position she had assumed being maintained to the end? And Martha, too, the real heiress, whose love was irrevocably given to a man she could not marry, were she proclaimed in her true character, what should she do? It was too late to reinstate things as they should have been. Better a thousand times let them remain as they were.

The earl was impatient for his answer. Speak, woman,' he cried, 'speak with the truth that befits one so near her end. Which of these two is your child?'

Hannah Dorling paused a moment before replying, then, taking the hands of Alice and Martha in her own, turned to the earl composedly and said

'Which is my child? BоTH, my lord! Both have been nourished at this breast. Embrace me, children, both of you; and if I have wronged either, may Heaven forgive me! It would be a still more cruel wrong if I were now to alter what is done!'

'Your words convince me that your letter spoke the truth,' the earl cried, hurriedly. "This lowbred girl, then '-and he indicated Martha with a haughty gestureshe, after all, is my real daughter. Is it not so, woman? Speak ere it is too late.'

'It is too late already,' Hannah Dorling answered. My lord, I have spoken for the last time on this subject.'

She had, indeed, spoken her last upon the subject. Threaten, entreat, now, as you please, oh potent earl! One more potent even than your lordship has asserted his supremacy. These two young girls-one of whom is, at any rate, your lordship's child

-rush forward to that humble bed to catch in their arms the old woman who falls backwards on her pillow; but Another has been there before them. Death has claimed his own, and it is the corpse of Hannah Dorling that her daughter and your own, my lord-whichever may be yours-which hers, now reverently lay down.

We will not attempt to describe the grief of Roger Dorling at the loss he had sustained. He had had bitter cause to repent the deed his wife had done. But now, when he saw her lying there dead, he could only remember that she was his own dear Hannah-that Hannah whom he had loved when she was young and innocent-whom he loved still better-ay, a thousand times better now that she was gone from him for ever, and now that the taint of criminality was on her.

It was an inopportune moment for the earl to renew his questioning. But his lordship was not accustomed to consider the mere sentimental humours of common folks. So he returned the very next morning to the cottage, and commenced interrogating Roger Dorling about the story of the substituted heiress. He even went so far as to threaten him should he not divulge everything.

'My lord,' said Roger, as he stood by his now desolate hearth, and spoke with a solemnity that might befit a priest at the altar, 'you have once lost a wife yourself. I know not if you ever loved her as I loved mine, now lying dead in yonder room.' (The proud earl winced at this. Conscience had often whispered to him how little worthy he was of the treasure he had had and lost.) 'But,' continued Roger, 'do not suppose that any threats of yours will lead me to breathe a word which would cast a reproach upon my poor girl's memory. If she did wrong, she is gone to her account. May Heaven forgive us all! But do not ask me further in this matter.'

'I see it all,' cried the earl. 'It is a trick to try and cheat my child of her name and inheritance. Hark ye, man, I am not to be thus trifled with. If ever you give utterance to a word of the suspicions you have raised I will show you no mercy. I know there is no truth in what your wife wrote to my nephew. It was either the raving of delirium or a cunningly concocted cheat, The Lady Alice is my daughter. Take care you never throw a doubt on it again.'

answered. Fear not; you will hear no more of me. Be satisfied with the fair noble-hearted lady that has always been your daughter. Let her be all she has been; but oh, my lord, be kind to her! Let not the doubts that have arisen in your mind diminish your fatherly regard for her. Fear not that either I or she who is my daughter-yes, my lord, mark me, I say who is my daughter-will ever interfere with the happiness or prosperity of yours. All is over between us, my lord; we have each a daughter, and when the waves of the ocean roll between us, neither need fear the other.'

'You are about to leave this country?' the earl asked.

'Yes, my lord,' Roger answered. 'I have but little left me to do here. The body of my poor dead wife committed to the earth, and then, as soon afterwards as decently may be, my daughter-you hear, my lord, MY daughter-married to the man she loves, I intend taking her and her husband to Australia. I think, my lord, there is no more that need be said between us, except I may ask one last favour'-Roger's voice grew husky with emotion as he spoke I should like, if I might be allowed, before leaving England for ever-I should like, out of regard to old times, and for the sake of my old love for my-my wife's fosterchild, to say good-bye to Lady Alice.'

The earl took Roger's hand, and pressed it kindly. 'Come when you like,' he said; and Roger returned the pressure gratefully.

'Can I in any way assist you in your outfit or your passage?' asked the earl.

'No, my lord, no,' said Roger, firmly; we have had money enough of yours already. Farewell.'

Martha, who had been a silent witness of this interview, curtseyed formally to his lordship as he left the cottage. (The earl could not refrain from staring at her with a puzzled air of interest.) As soon as he was gone she threw herself into Roger's arms, crying

'My father! my own dear, true, good father!'

Several years went by, and there was another death-bed. It was in Australia. Roger Dorling lay surrounded by a family that called him grandfather, expecting the summons which was to bid him hence to join the wife he had lost so long ago. He knew that he was dying, but he was tranquil and content; and he handed to Martha, who was his constant nurse, a folded paper, which he instructed her to open immediately after his death, betraying no more emotion as he did so than if he had been giving his farm-bailiff his daily orders.

Martha had not long to wait. Roger Dorling's work in life was done, and calmly, peacefully as a tired child, he fell asleep-into that sleep from which in this world there is no awaking.

The packet he had given Martha contained two documents-the one, a will, by which he bequeathed everything he died possessed of (and it was no trifle, for Roger's affairs of late years had prospered bravely) to Philip Stride and Martha his wife. The other document was-what?

A complete and detailed account of all the story that the reader knows already. It dealt very tenderly with Hannah's transgression; but told Martha plainly that which she had never doubted since that interview with the earl in England, that she was indeed his lordship's child. It begged her forgiveness for the wrong done her, but went on to say that to have revealed the truth on the occasion of that meeting with the earl would have been worse than useless. In conclusion, with many loving words, Roger Dorling's paper expressed his belief that it would be even now-now still more than then the height of folly to attempt to restore Martha to the position that was hers by right of birth.

Philip Stride and his wife, reading this long-kept secret together, were quite of Roger Dorling's opinion. Philip kissed his wife with one halfsad, half-jesting allusion to the liberty he was taking with one so highly born; and then Martha, reading in her husband's face his approval of the act, committed the paper to the flames; not hurriedly,

had his reward. His name would be perpetuated, but no blood of his would flow in the veins of the future Earls of C-——— Ay, and he knew it, though he kept the secret bravely.

The wrong had worked its own revenge on all concerned in it; and that without any melodramatic incident, any miraculous revelation of a secret, or any deux ex machinâ, to come in at the last scene, and bring down the retribution needed. Time and the natural course 'of events had brought about the punishment of the offence by the very success of the means employed-as Time and the natural course of events more often do than shortsighted humanity is always prepared to acknowledge.

W. B.

AL

tury the Couttses were famous people in Montrose; but the world at large knew nothing of them until one of the family, Patrick by name, sought a wider field of enterprise than the quiet country town afforded. In 1694, the year in which his famous countryman, William Paterson, was founding the Bank of England, we find him described as 'a merchant of Montrose,' busy buying serges and worsted stuffs in Leeds, for shipment to Sweden. But next year, or the year after, he removed to Edinburgh, and there, up to the time of his death in 1704, he carried on his business, engaging in mercantile adventures, that were considerable for those days, to New York and Pennsylvania, Amsterdam, France, and the Canary Islands. He left about 2,500l. to be divided between three children, of whom the eldest, John, was only five years old. This John was taken to be educated among his kinsmen at Montrose, where he seems to have stayed till he was twenty years of

age. Then he returned to Edinburgh, to pass some time as apprentice to a merchant of the town, and in 1723 to start, with the little fortune left him by his father, in business on his own account. Therein he prospered, being ranked, in 1730, as first merchant councillor in the town council of Edinburgh. At one time he was in partnership with Thomas Haliburton, Sir Walter Scott's great-grandfather; thenfrom 1740 to 1744-he had a Robert Ramsay for his associate, and from near the latter year, his wife's cousin, Archibald Trotter, was his partner. "Their business,' says one who afterwards was a clerk in the house, was dealing in corn, buying and selling goods on com

*Sir William Forbes, eventually the head of the Scottish banking house, whose Memoirs of a Banking House' were printed some little while ago by the Messrs. Chambers. To them we are indebted for permission to make use of Sir William's narrative, containing, as it does, nearly all that it is known about the life of John Coutts.