John Anderson, My Jo. 66 H! Whistle and I'll come to thee, my lad, sings Meg Carnegie, but, stopping "It's John," she says to herself. "Who'd have thought he'd been out here this evening, and he so busy!" The whistling continues. Meg's song and gardening have stopped... down goes the watering can, and pushing back her broad-brimmed hat, which. had been tilted over her nose, she runs up the path, round the little arbour, and into the arms of John, who crushes the pretty white dress (and its wearer) most unmercifully. "Well, what do you want?" she says. You, of course," says the young man; "and, to judge from your singing, you seemed as much in need of me. She slips her hand through his arm, and with a soft, caressing movement lays her head down for a moment beside it. There is a happy, contented smile on her face-for those two are lovers. and even then Meg had been quite amazed, she said, at his " presumption " in loving her the way they did in novels. Your e'en were like a spell, lassie, that ilka day bewitched me, sair. I couldna' help mysel', lassie," said he and then-well-she gave him her hand, and a kiss besides, and promised she would ever be true. And this had happened" within a mileo' Edinburgh town," too; for Meg is an orphan and "bides" with her aunt, Miss Graham, in a pretty country house-cottage" they call it, except "when putting on airs." Her mother had been left a young officer's widow, Since ever John can remember, he has fairly worshipped his "Marguerite," as he calls her; but it was just a year ago he asked her to marry him, with one child, and when just starting for England from India took fever and died, being laid beside the husband whom she had mourned so bitterly. The little daughter was sent home to "Aunt Anne," her mother's only sister, and a home it has been in every sense of the word. Meg is pretty-lovely, some of her friends call her, but "bonnie," as Sandy, the old gardener, says, suits her best of all. Sweet, true blue eyes which are grey in some lights, a winsome smile, soft, waving hair, a graceful figure, make an attractive tout ensemble. She dresses neatly on a very tiny sum of her own-so small that it requires much calculation to make it spin out. Now and again she has wished her John were richer, and then sagely concluded, he would not have been the same John then. And for her sake he, on his side, plods steadily on in the legal profession, and thinks how proud he will be when able to furnish a comfortable house for his pretty bride, and to get her all sorts of well-cut gowns and furbelows. "Such news, John," she says; "just fancy-my cousin Sally, whose home is in Canada, has written to Aunt Anne, asking her to let me go and pay her a short visit. Twould be awfully nice. I need polishing up. Then, most important of all, she, Sally, is to stand all expenses. She has heaps of money, you know, and I have not," rattles on Meg. "Well, what say you?" for John is looking none too pleased to lose his treasure for a few weeks, even. How dreary," he says. But his treasure laughs, and says he should be glad to get rid of her for a short time. "Think of it, John; I'll come back quite accomplished, speak B sings Meg. "No! no! nothing so romantic as a duel in prospect, my Jo. Take that frown off your forehead," stroking it softly, " and look pleased once more. There goes the tea-bell! Oh, I hope Betsy has made some scones! Hurry up,' as Sally says." John laughs, and the frown vanishes as he greets Miss Graham, with whom he is a great favourite, and the three sit down at a cosy tea table, and drink very good tea out of unfashionably large blue, willow-pattern cups, and eat hot scones and crisp short-bread, and discuss the all-important Canadian visit question. Meg's heart seems set on going. Wealthy cousins are not so plentiful!" she cries, helping herself liberally to the short-bread. "I may never get such another chance; besides, it's a real kindness to relieve MISS GRAHAM'S TEA TABLE. those rich people of some of their money." Well, finally an acceptance is written, and in a few days Meg bids a tearful goodbye to Auntie, Sandy, Betsy-not forgetting the old black cat. John accompanies her to Greenock, and waves his adieu till the steamer is a mere speck, and the slight figure in the grey homespun suit, who is waving in return, is no longer visible. CHAPTER II. QUEBEC, Sept. 25th, 1891. MY OWN DEAREST JOHN: lars (four almost make a £1-note, she We drove, after dinner, all through the curious, steep streets, down Mountain Hill-such a hill-a regular But slide it must be in winter. We stopped the "waggon" as they called it-(it was a shabby-looking cab, I thought), and went down a great number of wooden steps, to what I was told was Champlain street. Quite a poor class of people live there. Some of the small shops, or stores, as they call them here, have such beautiful Indian work for sale in the windows. You will know ere this that we have arrived safe and sound. We had a most dreadfully stormy passage, though the captain laughed loudly at me when I asked him if we were in great danger, and said something about "only a capful of wind." there was a great deal more than would fill a hundred big theatre hats. A capful, indeed! I think captains are rather untruthful and very unfeeling, at times though generally most kind and jolly. One day I felt the steamer grate against the bottom of the Atlantic, or a sunken rock or something, and I tried to get one of the sailors to bring the captain to me at once. He said, "Captain asleep, miss." Never mind," I commanded, "bring him;" and the poor man then said, "Miss, do you want me to be put in irons ?" Quebec is such a quaint old town. We arrived about three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Sally was waiting on the wharf for me, looking cool and quite the thing" in a buff linen cos tume. It was so funny to hear all the men who were standing about, helping with the ropes and all that, gabbling in French, and such strange French, not boarding-school kind at all. Sally's husband is a duck—an ideal husband. She does anything she likes, and her purse is so full of dol This morning before lunch we drove out on a nice wide road, called the St. Louis road, returning by a pretty shady one called St. Foye. My dear John, the leaves, if you only could see them, all tinged with the most exquisite tints. The touch of the first frost turns them. It's impossible to describe how lovely the maples look. Oh, John, we must take a trip out here for our honeymoon. I have such lots more to say, but I fear I must stop. Sally is calling me. She wishes to go down to lower town, where all the gentlemen's offices and warehouses are, to see Dick, and then we are to cross the River St. Lawrence which is so different from our Scotch rivers or burns, rather, in com P.S.-We expect a Frenchman, a real live Monsieur,' next week, to stay for a few days; he may make love to me (through an interpreter), and I suppose he'll eat frogs' legs and other delicacies! I need hardly say I'll refuse him. Farewell! P.P.S. Got back from Point Levis about eight o'clock, and just add a line or two before going to bed. It's now about eleven o'clock; enjoyed the trip across awfully, and oh, John, the citadel looks lovely on its high rock -something like our castle. There is no place like home, of course, but when we were coming back in the dark evening, and all the lights were twinkling and rising higher and higher, I said to Sally," Oh Sally, Quebec is just lovely from here," and she seemed pleased, and replied she so wished I'd stay with her for good, or make my home out here. And I then remarked, "What would John do? He could not practise law in Quebec." And fancy, dearest, what she said; but you must never tell anybody, or think of it again; she said, "Oh, bother John Anderson!" I do not care very much for Sally. Good night. Your own loving, MEG. CHAPTER III. Two months have flown swiftly and very enjoyably. Winter has set in early, and all the Canadian sports are in full swing. They are novel and exhilarating for our Meg, who has become quite an adept at snow-shoeing and toboganning. The Frenchman has come and gone-and come again. A handsome man is M. Duchesney,dark eyes, white teeth, dark pointed beard and moustache, and he is rich, and of a good old family. Meg, noth ing loth, accepts his drives, courteous speeches, and ever-ready assistance at rinks and other places of amusement. Whenever she wanted a helping hand in any difficulty, M. Duchesney was at her side, suave and gracious, ever ready to explain this or that; and as for the French, he made a compact that if he coached her in his language she should do so for him in hers. Many a laugh the one had at the other's expense-and Sally looked on well pleased. Meg often thinks of home, and writes, "I will be back soon now," and John, poor John, reads and re-reads her loving letters, and writes long, long ones in reply-loyal, devoted epistles from the heart and hand of a real good fellow. And old Sandy, who is always asking for news of his "young leddy," has little bits of Meg's rather blotted scrawls to Miss Graham read aloud to him-accounts of all the strange doings (as he calls them) in that new country over the sea. But when he gets home and takes his pipe out, and reads his paper, and sits thinking, often he says to himself, "I dinna like yon Frenchman. Mr. John'll be worth twa dozen o' thae gabbering fools. Na, na, I dinna like yon Frenchman." One night late in November John attends a ball at the house of a friend, and while dancing with a Miss Grey, who is dressed in a blue dress, tells her that blue is his favourite colour. This makes Miss Grey think and wonder if handsome John Anderson really likes her. But it is of Meg's blue muslin that John is thinking; his Meg is far away from him. Later on, John runs across his hostess, and is asked to find her ivoryhandled fan, the one with the jewels, which she had left somewhere. John sees the lost fan lying behind a huge palm, and, while stooping for it, hears his own name (how quick one is to catch that always!) He draws back, and the couple discussing him slowly stroll past. "Yes, Anderson is a finelooking fellow. I always think of Black's 'McLeod of Dare,' when I engaged-to a Frenchman, Duchesney lots of tin-he has none but what he earns-but she said she loved him. Ah! he remembers now her writing of this man, this villain; he grinds his teeth, and closes his hands on an imaginary throat. Then he somehow finds his way into the cloak-room, dons his ulster-fan, hostess, everything, forgotten. Through the cold early morning air he wends his way home to his lodgings. A policeman hears him muttering to himself, and sees the dazed look, and thinks he has taken "a drap ower muckle." He often helped gentlemen home after a spree. But John's one glass of champagne was not "the drap ower muckle. was the few sentences he had heard in the conservatory that had gone to his brain. "Gossip, idle gossip," he keeps repeating. "I won't believe it. Fool that I am to give credit for a moment to such a lie," and he laughs aloud hysterically. Another Bobby shakes his wise head and says: "Drunk as a lord," and for answer words something like these come wafted back to him on the still air: "No, no, I'll trust my own love, for she vowed she'd keep ever true." And "Bob". smiles and thinks: "My, he's real bad; it's the mixtures that plays the Old Sandy soliliquizes over "yon Frenchman." mischief wi' them!" look at him," answers the girl; "he seems so true." "Aw, yaas," drawls the young officer, one of the "79th," then stationed in the Castle. "Let's hope McLeod's fate is not in store for him. Believe he is engaged to a Miss Carnegie. My father knew hers in India. But he'd better look out; Miss Carnegie may not be so simple after all. Friend of mine staying at the Citadel in Quebec says she is engaged to a man Duchesney, a Frenchman, with lots of tin -quantities of that there, you knowroofs of the houses covered with it!" The girl laughs, says something, and they move out of sight. Meg, his loving, faithful little Meg, CHAPTER IV. It "Really, Meg, its too provoking, and such a love of a dress," and Sally gives the soft, foamy billows of chiffon an angry toss. There is to be a ball at the Frontenac. Dick has given his cousin a bewitching toilet to wear at it, or, rather, he has told Sally to "fix Meg up" as she best knows how. The result is a lovely "confection" of satin and gossamer, with a faint line of silver running through. "A cloud with silver lining," quoth Dick, growing poetical when he sees this work of art. "Dear Sally, the dress is simply lovely; too good by far for me. I did |