On leaving Gatty and his mother, she went to her own house. Flucker--who after looking upon her for years as an inconvenient appendage, except at dinnertime, had fallen in love with her in a manner that was half pathetic, half laughable, all things considered--saw by her face she had received a blow, and raising himself in the bed, inquired anxiously, “What ailed her?” At these kind words, Christie Johnstone laid her cheek upon the pillow beside Flucker's and said: “Oh, my laamb, be kind to your puir sister fra' this hoor, for she has naething i' the warld noo but yoursel'.” Flucker began to sob at this. Christie could not cry; her heart was like a lump of lead in her bosom; but she put her arm round his neck, and at the sight of his sympathy she panted heavily, but could not shed a tear--she was sore stricken. Presently Jean came in, and, as the poor girl's head ached as well as her heart, they forced her to go and sit in the air. She took her creepie and sat, and looked on the sea; but, whether she looked seaward or landward, all seemed unreal; not things, but hard pictures of things, some moving, some still. Life seemed ended--she had lost her love. An hour she sat in this miserable trance; she was diverted into a better, because a somewhat less dangerous form of grief, by one of those trifling circumstances that often penetrate to the human heart when inaccessible to greater things. Willy the fiddler and his brother came through the town, playing as they went, according to custom; their music floated past Christie's ears like some drowsy chime, until, all of a sudden, they struck up the old English air, “Speed the Plow.” Now it was to this tune Charles Gatty had danced with her their first dance the night they made acquaintance. Christie listened, lifted up her hands, and crying: “Oh, what will I do? what will I do?” burst into a passion of grief. She put her apron over her head, and rocked herself, and sobbed bitterly. She was in this situation when Lord Ipsden, who was prowling about, examining the proportions of the boats, discovered her. “Some one in distress--that was all in his way.” “Madam!” said he. She lifted up her head. “It is Christie Johnstone. I'm so glad; that is, I'm sorry you are crying, but I'm glad I shall have the pleasure of relieving you;” and his lordship began to feel for a check-book. “And div ye really think siller's a cure for every grief!” said Christie, bitterly. “I don't know,” said his lordship; “it has cured them all as yet.” “It will na cure me, then!” and she covered her head with her apron again. “I am very sorry,” said he; “tell me” _(whispering),_ “what is it? poor little Christie!” “Dinna speak to me; I think shame; ask Jean. Oh, Richard, I'll no be lang in this warld!!!”