Jean's lip quivered again--more visibly this time--the discipline of her self-denying life had been a stern one. The prodigal of her family, the gayest, handsomest, and cleverest of them all, a good workman, and an idle one, had hung upon her, a heavy, painful burden, falling step by step in the ruinous downward course of reckless dissipation, until he ended his days at last, shorn of all the gaiety and cleverness which had thrown a veil at first upon his sin--an imbecile, drivelling drunkard. With mighty anguish, which few comprehended or could sympathize with, she had prayed, entreated, remonstrated, forgiven, and supported him through all his sad career. He left an orphan boy on her hands. With the tenderest mother-anxiety, Jean Miller had brought up this child--with genuine mother-ambition, had, at the cost of long labor, and much self-denying firmness on her own part, sent him to college when he reached proper years, eager to raise him above the fear of that terrible stain and sin which had destroyed the first Andrew--her once gay and clever brother. But of late insidious voices had whispered in her ear that the second Andrew had taken the first step in that descending course. In agony unspeakable, the youth's watchful guardian hastened to Edinburgh to ascertain the truth of this. She found it false; there was yet no appearance of any budding evil, but her heart, falling back upon its sad experience, sank within her, prophetic of evil. She said nothing in return to the ill-advised sympathy of Mrs. Young--her lip quivered--it was more eloquent than words. "You're new to this country, I'm thinking?" she said, addressing Jacky. "Yes," said Jacky, bashfully. "She's frae the north country," said Mrs. Young. "Ye've been lang out o' this pairt yoursel, Jean." "Ay," was the answer, "it's eighteen year past the twenty-first o' June--I mind the day weel." "That would be about the time the gentleman was killed," said Mrs. Young. "Yes," said Jean; "the very morning. I'll ne'er forget it." "Eh, auntie!" exclaimed Bessie. "Whatna gentleman?" Jacky did not speak, but her thin, angular frame thrilled nervously, and she fixed her keen eyes upon Jean. "Deed a gentleman ye've heard o' often enough, Bessie," said her aunt. "Miss Alice's father--ye've heard your mother telling the story about Mr. Aytoun mony a time, nae doubt. Ye see, Jean, my sister was Mrs. Aytoun's right-hand woman. I dinna ken how the puir lady would have won through her trouble ava, when Miss Alice was born, if it hadna been for our Bell--no that he was ower guid a man, if a' tales were true, but nae doubt it was an awfu' dispensation. Ane forgets ill and wrang when the doer o't's taen away--and a violent death like that!" "Weel," said Jean Miller, "a'body's dear to their ain. But he wasna muckle worth the mourning for." "And how was he killed?" asked Jacky, with some trepidation.