Scene One: A cottage not far from St. Abb's Head, a garden before the

door, and a porch, around which summer roses and honeysuckle are entwined. The occupants are three. They are out of doors now, seated on the lawn which stretches down to the shingly beach on which the waves are lisping and rippling.

Captain Lyle (_speaks_). "Well, Ethel dear, and you, Effie, you are both very silent. Are you breaking your hearts because we have had to give up Grayling House for a time, and come to live in this tiny cottage by the sea?"

_Mrs Lyle_, looking up from her sewing, and smiling kindly but somewhat sadly: "No, Arnold, I was thinking about our dear boy."

_Effie_, dropping her book in her lap. "So was I, mother. I was thinking of Leonard and--and poor Douglas. It is now the second summer since they went away. It is wearing through, too. See how the roses fall and scatter their petals when you touch them. Oh! do you think, papa, they will ever, ever come again?"

_Captain Lyle_, smiling. "Yes, love, I do. Here, come and sit by me. That is right. Now you know the country they went away to is a very, very strange one."

_Effie_. "A very, very terrible one."

_Captain Lyle_. "No, I think not, dear, else those who have been there would not always wish to return to it. It is wild and lonely, and silent and cold, Effie, and there are no letter-carriers about, you know, not even a pigeon-post, so Leonard can't very well write. The fact is, they've got frozen in, and it may be even another summer yet before we see them."

_Effie_. "Another summer? Oh, papa!"

_Captain Lyle_. "Yes, dear, because he and honest Douglas are in the regions of thick-ribbed ice, you know; and once it embraces a ship, it is difficult to get clear. But cheer up, lass; I _won't_ have you fretting, there! Now, promise me you--ha! here comes dear old Fitzroy, swinging away on his wooden leg. Good-afternoon, my friend; there is need of you here. My wife and daughter are doing nothing but fretting."

_Captain Fitzroy_. "Oh! come, Effie, come, Mrs Lyle. Look at me; _I_ don't fret. The boys will return as sure as the sun will rise to-morrow."

_Effie_, smiling through her tears. "Thank you, Captain; you always give us hope."

_Captain Fitzroy_. "And I suppose you mourn because you've had to leave bonnie Glen Lyle--eh!"

_Mrs Lyle_. "Oh yes. We dearly love the old house."

_Captain Fitzroy_. "Well, then, let me prophesy. First, the boys will return safe and sound, red and rosy; secondly, you'll get over your difficulties, and return to Glen Lyle; thirdly, we'll live together happy ever afterwards."

Effie laughs now in spite of herself, for the old Captain always looks so cheery and so comical.

_Captain Lyle_. "Hear that, darling! Now, bustle about, Effie, and get us some nice brown tea and brown toast, while we sit here and chat."

_Captain Fitzroy_, looking seaward. The ocean is a sheet of blue, with patches of green here and there, where cloud shadows fall, and sails like sea-birds far away towards the horizon.

"What a heavenly day, to be sure! Why, there is health in every breath one inhales on this delightful coast. Don't you feel cosy now and happy in this sweet little cottage? Nothing to do. Nothing to think about except the absent ones. No care, no worry except that of making war upon the weeds in your little garden. I declare to you, Lyle, my lad, I consider such a life as you now lead in a manner quite idyllic."

_Lyle_, looking thoughtfully for a moment or two on the ground, then up at his friend's cheerful face.

"One of the chief pleasures of my present existence, dear Fitzroy, lies in the fact that I have you for a neighbour. But to tell you the truth, I do feel happier since I let the lauds of Glen Lyle and got rid of an incubus. I feel, and know now, I am retrenching, and that in a few years I shall recover myself."

_Fitzroy_. "And don't you think you ought to have let the house as well?"

_Lyle_. "No, no, no; I could not bear to think of a footstep crossing my father's hall. Old Peter will see to the gardens with the help of a lad, and the ancient cook, who is indeed one of the family, and whom I could not have dismissed, will keep on peat fires enough to defy the damp."

_Fitzroy_. "And how does your little gipsy lass Zella suit as a housekeeper?"

_Lyle_. "Excellently well. There she comes with the tea; judge for yourself."

Zella, tall, handsome, and neatly attired, comes upon the scene to place a little table near the two friends and lay the tea. What a change from the wild waif! We last saw her springing up at the end of the Gothic bridge, and startling the horse of Bland's emissary. She is still a gipsy, but a very civilised one.

_Captain Lyle_. "I am expecting old Peter every minute."

_Fitzroy_. "Talk of angels, and they appear. Lo! yonder comes your Peter, or your Peter's ghost."

Old Peter opens the gate at the sea-beach as he speaks, and comes slowly up the walk.

_Lyle_. "Come away, Peter. Why, you pant. Sit down and have a cup of tea. How goes all at the dear old house?"

_Peter_, smoothing the head of Ossian the old deerhound, who has arisen from his corner to bid him welcome. "Bravely, sir, bravely and well. But would you believe it, though it's no a month since you left, they will have it that the hoose is haunted? Heard you ever the like?"

_Lyle_. "No, Peter, it is strange."

_Peter_. "And they will have it, sir, that the pike wasna canny, and they say that, dead though he be, his ghost still haunts the auld loch."

_Fitzroy_, laughing. "The ghost of a pike, Peter? Well, well, well; we live to learn."

_Peter_. "And what for no, sir?"

_Fitzroy_. "Did you bury him, Peter?"

_Peter_. "No, sir, no, on land. I put him cannily back into the loch again. He lay on his side for a whole day, then sank to the bottom afore ma ain een. Dead as a door nail."

_Fitzroy_. "I doubt it, Peter."

_Peter_. "Sir?"

_Fitzroy_. "Nothing, Peter, nothing. By the way, Lyle, how came this uncanny fish, that seems so strangely connected with the fortunes of Glen Lyle, into your possession."

_Lyle_. "Peter can tell you better than I. He is old, and remembers."

_Peter_. "When the auld laird lived, nane kenned o' the whereabouts o' that bonnie fish except himsel' and me and the gipsy Faas. They gipsies, sir, were part and parcel o' the estate; they would have died for the auld laird, or for ony o' his folk or kin. Goodness only kens how auld the fish was himsel'. He was, they say, as big as a grilse when first ta'en in the Tweed and brought up to the river that runs through bonnie Glen Lyle. And woe is me, they tell me that was an awfu' day, for bonnie Prince Charlie was in full retreat from England. He stayed and slept a night at Glen Lyle, and next week but one the foremost o' Cumberland's rievers were there. The old Lyles were out. They were wi' Charlie, but not a thing living, my father told me, did they leave about the place, and they would have fired the hoose itself had they not been obleeged to hurry on, for Charlie's men were ahead. But things settled down after that; Cumberland's rievers were quieter coming back. The beasts they were killed or gone, so they left the auld hoose of Glen Lyle alone. The laird was pardoned, and peace and plenty reigned ance mair in the land.

"Time flew on, sirs. The auld laird was fond o' fishing. There were poachers in plenty in those days, and the laird was kind to them. Let them only leave his '45 pike alane, and they might take a' the trouts in the stream. But in later times, when the auld laird got aulder still, cockneys came, and they were no sae particular, and one day an English body hooked and brought the pike on shore. He had the gaff raised to hit him on the head, when all of a sudden the gaff was knocked out of his hand, and he found himsel' just where the pike had come frae, wallowin' in the middle o' the pot. [A large pool in a river is so called in Scotland.]

"That same nicht, lang past, the shortest hour o't, when everybody was fast asleep but mysel', two o' the Faas came to the auld hoose. They had the half-dead fish, with the bonnie gowden band around his tail, in a pot. And together we went to the loch and ploupit him in. The owlets were cryin' and the branches o' the pine trees creakin' in the wind, and if I live to be as auld as Methuselah, I'm no likely to forget that eerie-some nicht. But, heigho! Joe is dead and awa', and the hoose o' Glen Lyle is tottering near its fall. Wae's me that I should hae lived to see the like!"

_Captain Fitzroy_. "Drink that China tea, Peter, and things will look far more cheerful."

Long before the major's departure things do look more cheerful.

Ethel, hope in her heart now, has brought out her harp, and is bending over it while she sings a plaintive old Scotch ballad, while the rest sit listening round. The setting sun is throwing tall rock shadows over the blue sea. The waves seem to form a drowsy accompaniment to the harp's wild notes, and the sea-birds are shrieking their good-night song. Let us leave them, and hie us away to the far north and west.