“Honour and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part; there all the honour lies.”
                                                                   POPE.

Evie’s interest in newspapers dated from these days. It had not occurred to her before that they were likely to contain anything worthy of her perusal; and as Aunt Janet did not, in any case, think them suitable reading for the young person, they were not put in her way. Now, however, Evie followed the newspaper into the library, and sat patiently waiting until the laird had absorbed its contents and laid it aside, when she pounced upon it, and, retiring into a corner, read every word it contained of however distant reference to the war.

She was so engaged one day when a visitor for the laird was announced as Mr. Melville. Evie had no difficulty in identifying him as Archie’s father, although she had never seen him before. And, as she looked at him, she was puzzled by his vague resemblance to another, a resemblance which as he became absorbed in earnest talk grew always less vague and more definite.

“You will forgive my intruding on you at this hour,” Mr. Melville said. “I came to Gailside on family business this morning, and I find that death has removed both of those who could have best helped me to the information I want—the old minister, and the lady who occupied Gail Cottage, Miss Mercer.”

“Yes,” said the laird; “they have both been called away, and they are a real loss to Gailside.”

Mr. Melville sat silent a moment and then looked up.

“I will tell you the whole story, if I may,” he said, “and you will understand what I want. You remember my younger brother, Walter?”

“I remember him well,” said the laird; “he was the one of you I knew best. A fine, frank, generous lad, who wouldn’t have told a lie to save his life. And,” he added, after a pause, “a born soldier.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Melville; “if there was a chance of a fight anywhere, he couldn’t keep out of it—not even when it wasn’t one of our own. Poor Walter! We hadn’t one of our own, big or little, on hand in ’35 and ’36, and so when the Spanish Government received permission to enlist British soldiers, of course that was enough for Walter. He offered himself, and, as you know, he was killed fighting under the Spanish flag against the Carlists.”

“Another gallant Melville, leaving an untarnished name,” said the laird, with an unwonted light in his eye, as he thought of the brilliant short career of his early friend, Captain Walter Melville, of the Royal Tricolours.

“Yes, untarnished,” said Mr. Melville, with decision; “but you know that my father would have nothing to do with my brother for the last two years of his life, and that he cut him out of his will.”

“On account of his marriage,” said the laird. “Yes, I know. What became of the young wife?”

“She died some three years after my brother,” said Mr. Melville. “I never saw her, and I blame myself—I blame myself very much now. It is true there was my father’s prohibition, but I ought to have stood by my brother. Yes, and I ought to have stood by his widow, and his helpless child.”

“Child?” said the laird. “I never heard of that.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Melville; “that is where my most bitter regret comes in. When the mother died, the little child was left alone, and he wandered away no one knew where. My brother’s child disappeared somewhere amongst the waifs and strays of the world over fourteen years ago, and has never been heard of since.”

“Was there ever anything against the mother?” asked the laird.

“Nothing,” responded Mr. Melville, emphatically—“nothing but our abominable pride, and the fact that she was not of our class. But she was a good wife, and a good mother. I learned all about her after her death from the clergyman of Barrackhampton, where she lived, and where my brother left her when he went out to Spain, after the birth of their boy.”

“He disappeared?” asked the laird.

“Yes,” said Mr. Melville; “the poor little chap was left alone when they took his mother away to bury her, and he ran out into the street and was never seen again. I did not get there till the next day. I did what I could: I advertised, and offered a reward; but it was never claimed.”

“There would be no means by which the child could be identified, I suppose?” said the laird.

“Yes,” said Mr. Melville; “the woman, who had acted as servant to poor Walter’s wife, told me that on the child’s arm there was a mark by which he might be known. Do you remember Walter had upon his arm a W. and M. that one of his brother officers had tattooed for him? Well, perhaps you never saw it, but it was there. And it seems, partly in earnest, partly in joke, Walter did the same thing on the child’s arm—he had been christened Walter too. It had vexed the mother at the time to have the child hurt, and the little arm marked; but the woman who told me said, ‘Perhaps it will be that way the child will be found.’ ”

Mr. Melville paused. Evie had come out of her corner, and stood now at the opposite side of the table, looking across at her father and Mr. Melville. Her lips were parted, but no words came from them yet.

Mr. Melville took a newspaper from his pocket, opened it out, and spread it on the table before him.

“And now,” he said, “three days ago—after all these years—turning over some old newspapers to find a reference I wanted, my eyes fell on this.”

He handed the paper across to the laird, who looked at it a moment, noting the date of fourteen years before, and then mechanically read aloud—

“Found near the village of Gailside, a boy, apparently about four years old. Brown hair and eyes, and clear skin; has an English accent; on his left arm the letter M. or W. tattooed. Supposed to have been left behind by some tramps or gipsies, but has appearance of being the child of gentlefolks. Apply to Miss Mercer, Gail Cottage, or the Rev. Peter McKinley, The Manse, Gailside.”

Evie took two steps forward, and held out her hands.

“It’s Jim!” she cried. “It’s Jim! My friend Jim!”

Mr. Melville turned and caught her hands, crying with an excitement that equalled her own, “You know! Tell me about him! Walter’s bairn—my nephew—where is he?”

Evie could not speak for a moment: a sob had got into her throat; but she choked it down, and spoke incoherently, trying to tell what she knew, and, at the same time, understand this strange new idea.

“He came like that—the tinkers had left him by the way, and Miss Mercer found him. She kept him—he lived at the Cottage. Then he grew bigger, and came up the Gail Water one day—and we were friends, Jim and me—always friends. And Archie came—that first time—and they fought because of Maryanne. And Jim was my friend, and I did not like Archie; but when Jim had beaten him, they were friends. And, after that, whenever Archie came they were friends; and so was I to both of them—but always most to Jim. And now they’re away—away where the fighting is both together. And, oh! is it true? Are they that?—cousins? And—and—will you make it all right now?”

“I will make it all right,” said Mr. Melville. “I will make up for it all to my brother’s son, God helping me.”

They had been getting on too fast for the laird, these two excited people. He stood in the background, assimilating as far as he could this new idea, and considering the pros and cons.

“It is the young lad Miss Mercer brought up?” he suggested gently. “And have you seen the mark on his arm yourself?”

“No,” said Evie; “but everybody knows.”

“We should want absolute proof, you know,” said the laird, cannily. “Who will have seen it?”

“Alison!” cried Evie, “Alison! Can we have the carriage and go to Blairanster?”

“Who is Alison?” asked Mr. Melville.

“She was Miss Mercer’s servant,” Evie answered; “she helped to bring Jim up too.”

“They called him Jim?” Mr. Melville said.

“James Wallace,” said Evie. “And is his name Walter Melville? But I think,” she added, thoughtfully, “I shall always call him Jim.”

“What sort of an upbringing did he have?” asked Mr. Melville. “What did that good lady teach him?”

Evie looked puzzled a moment, and then she answered slowly, “I think she taught him—to be good.”

“God bless her!” said Mr. Melville. “God reward her!”

“Perhaps,” said Evie, simply, “He is doing that now.” Then she went on, “He read so much—Jim did—everything I could bring him, and he understood it. He saw things I could never have seen. He loved books.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Melville; “and then? You said he was in the army.”

“They tried to make him a clerk,” Evie continued, “and Jim tried to be one. Oh”—looking up at Mr. Melville—“he did try hard!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Melville, half impatiently; “but that was all nonsense. A Melville of Stratharbuck, the son of Melville of the Tricolours, you might as well put a thoroughbred to draw a hay-cart.”

“But he did it,” said Evie; “and he would have gone on doing it,” she added proudly, “if Miss Mercer had lived. You don’t know Jim.”

And his uncle did not. He put this phase of Jim’s existence aside.

“Well, he’s in the army now,” he said, with an air of relief.

“Yes,” said Evie; “after Miss Mercer died, he enlisted in Archie’s regiment.”

“Enlisted!” Mr. Melville had, after all, not grasped this idea. “Walter’s lad! Oh, but I’m forgetting, of course, how else could it have been? Never mind, I’ll put it all right now. I’ll buy him his commission. Oh, I’ll make it up to him yet.”

The conversation had passed entirely to Mr. Melville and Evie, leaving the laird neglected in the background. But now he put in his word, and quietly arranged Mr. Melville’s plans for him.

“You will stay with us till to-morrow,” he said, “and in the morning you shall have the carriage to take you up to Blairanster to see Alison of whom Evie has told you. It’s too late in the day to start you off on a twenty-mile drive now; you would not get back till night.”

So it was arranged, and the next morning Mr. Melville, accompanied by Evie, to whom the laird had handed over the conduct of affairs, realizing she knew so much more of them than he did, started off on his way to Blairanster.

“Losh keep me!” said Alison, when Mr. Melville and Evie had between them told her the story, and explained what was wanted. “Losh keep me! The wee dirty laddie oot o’ the ditch tae be a Melville o’ Stratharbuck! Tae think o’ that! Eh!” she cried, with a sudden reminiscence, “the times I’ve ta’en the tawse tae him! Weel, aweel, Melville or no’ Melville, he was a laddie; and ye needna’ tell me that ever there was ane but needit the tawse whiles, and was the better o’ a guid skelpin.”

“Tell about the mark on his arm, Alison,” said Evie.

“Ay,” said Alison, “it was there—an M. or a W., Miss Mercer, she said M., and me, I said W. Hech, sirs! And we were baith right. Walter Melville, did ye say? And me that had him ca’ed Wallace. Aweel, Wallace is a fine name, and hoo were we tae ken it should ha’ been Melville? Eh, and the auld fule body I was, ca’in him a’ the names I could lay my tongue tae when he turned a soldier! My bonnie man! What else wad he be, and him a Melville? Eh, and it must a’ hae been the way we fancied. He must hae rin oot o’ the hoose when the funeral started, and just rin and rin, till he fell in wi’ the tinker bodies, and they wad tak’ his guid claes aff him, and pit him intae thae rags he had on. And then they wandered through the country till they cam’ tae Gailside; and the wee bit laddie hurt his foot; and they just left him there by the dykeside, where her that’s awa’ lighted on him, and pickit him up and carried him hame. And, my certie! but he wanted yon guid wash I gied him! And, noo,” cried Alison, sitting down suddenly, and applying her apron to her eyes, while her contemporary history got slightly mixed, “he’s awa’ fightin’ thae heathen Turks, and, maybe, losin’ his legs and airms. But we’re a’ in the Lord’s hands whatever.”

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