Though she did not care to go to the sports to-day, she felt, oh! so sick at heart. Like a wounded hare that creeps into quiet ambush, and lies down on the dry clover to die, she had stolen away from all this noisy happiness; but her heart's joy was draining away. In her wistful eyes there was something almost cruel in this bustling merriment, in this flaunting gayety, in this sweet summer day itself. The old charcoal-burner had stepped up to where the girl knelt with far-away eyes. "Mercy," he said, "I've wanted a word with you this many a day." "With me, father?" The girl rose to her feet. There was a look of uneasiness in her face. "You've lost your spirits--what's come of them?" "Me, father?" The assumed surprise was in danger of breaking down. "Not well, Mercy--is that it?" He took her head between his hard old hands, and stroked her hair as tenderly as a mother might have done. "Oh, yes, father; quite well, quite." Then there was a little forced laugh. The lucent eyes were full of a dewy wistfulness. "Any trouble, Mercy?" "What trouble, father?" "Nay, any trouble--trouble's common, isn't it?" The old man's voice shook slightly, and his hand trembled on the girl's head. "What have I to trouble me!" said Mercy, in a low voice nigh to breaking. "Well, you know best," said the charcoal-burner. Then he put his hand under the girl's chin and lifted her face until her unwilling eyes looked into his. The scrutiny appeared to console him, and a smile played over his battered features. "Maybe I was wrong," he thought. "Folk are allus clattering." Mercy made another forced little laugh, and instantly the Laird Fisher's face saddened. "They do say 'at you're not the same heartsome little lass," he said. "Do they? Oh, but I am quite happy! You always say people are busybodies, don't you, father?" The break-down was imminent. "Why, Mercy, you're crying." "Me--crying!" The girl tossed her head with, a pathetic gesture of gay protestation. "Oh, no; I was laughing--that was it." "There are tears in your eyes, anyways." "Tears? Nonsense, father! Tears? Didn't I tell you that your sight was failing you--- ey, didn't I, now?" It was of no use to struggle longer. The fair head fell on the heaving breast, and Mercy sobbed. The old man looked at her through a blinding mist in his hazy eyes. "Tell me, my little lassie, tell me," he said. "Oh, it's nothing," said Mercy. She had brushed away the tears and was smiling. The Laird Fisher shook his head. "It's nothing, father--only--" "Only--what?" "Only--oh, it's nothing!" "Mercy, my lass," said the Laird Fisher, and the tears stood now in his own dim eyes, "Mercy, remember if owt goes wrong with a girl, and her mother is under the grass, her father is the first she should come to and tell all." The old man had seated himself on a stout block cut from a trunk, and was opening the basket, when there was a light, springy step on the road. "So you fire to-night, Matthew?"