to-day, when betty was tidying my room, i took the opportunity of referring to nathan's conversation of the previous evening, particularly that portion of it in which he advised me to take up my quarters downstairs. from the insinuating way in which he had introduced the subject, and the allusions he had made to my 'no weel' look, i naturally concluded that his advice might be interpreted as a hint to me that i was not so well as i fondly imagined; and that, for my own good, and for the convenience of my faithful old nurse—not to speak of obviating the necessity of taking a six-foot coffin down a narrow staircase with a sharp turn—i ought to agree to his proposal at once and without demur.

betty now assures me, however, that if i am contented and comfortable in my own little room, she is quite satisfied. i am not for a moment to imagine that she advocates the change for the sake of saving her any trouble in attending on me. 'there's nae trouble where ye are concerned, maister weelum,' she said. 'i look on ye amaist as my very ain bairn, an' i coont it a privilege to get waitin' hand an' foot on ye. it's a nice, easy stair to climb, it's handy for the kitchen, an' mair an' forby, it's no' as if ye'll aye be lyin' here. in a day or twae, or a week at maist, ye'll be up an' aboot again. a' the same, maister weelum, believe me when i say that ever sin' ye cam' to bide here i've thocht it a pity that ye didna use the dinin'-room. i understaun your likin' for this wee room. it was aye your very ain, an' mebbe a' richt to sleep in, though the sooth bedroom is bigger an' airier; but it's juist no'—it's juist no' like a room that ye should ha'e your meat in, ye ken. when you're up an' aboot again ye'll mebbe think it ower.'

'is the dining-room in good order, betty?' i asked.

'it's juist as the mistress left it, maister weelum,' she said, with a catch in her voice. 'i've things covered to keep oot the dust, an' i've lifted an' cleaned, but juist aye replaced again. nathan an' me are never in it, except to lift the winda on guid days to air it, or to pit a fire on noo an' again when the weather's damp. the kitchen an' oor back-room are guid enough for us, and we've juist, as it were, keepit the rest o' the hoose on trust. the picters in your mother's wee drawin'-room are a' juist as they were, the piano-lid has never been lifted since she shut it, an' her auld china and other knick-knacks are as clean an' weel cared for as they were when she handled them hersel'. i've often gane up the stairs, ta'en a bit look in, an' come doon again a prood, prood woman that she considered me worthy to live amang it a', an' to tak' care o't.'

betty and i have a community of interests in the long ago, a joint possession of memories which will ever be our dearest treasure. the links which bind us together were forged away back in the misty past; but time corrodes them not, and they are stronger to-day than ever they were before. to do her will was my sure pleasure, and so i began gracefully to waive, one by one, objections i had entertained, and to acquiesce with her and back up her arguments by referring to the coming wintry months, the comforts of the dining-room, its large, roomy fireplace, and the cheery, heartsome outlook the window commanded of the cross and the dry gill.

'but, betty,' i said, 'we'll have to do something to give it a more modern look. if i remember aright, the ceiling and cornice are very dark, and the wall-paper is a dismal green, patched with a gold fleur-de-lis, and it has been on too long to be healthy.'

'ay, weel, mebbe ye're richt; an' ye mentionin' wall-paper reminds me that the damp frae the gable has discoloured the end wa'. but the whitewashin' and paperin' o' ae room will no' be a big job, an' aince we gi'e the painter the order we'll no' ha'e lang to wait for him. his back-en' slackness is on noo. i saw him paintin' his ain doors and windas; an', as there's little chance o' him gettin' fat on that wark, he'll no' swither aboot gi'in' it up for what is likely to pey better. imphm! mebbe i should ha'e seen to this afore noo. the fact is, maister weelum, except for a few shillin's for paintin' the outside woodwark, i've spent no' a penny on paint or paper for the hoose since nathan an' me were marrit. i should ha' had things in better order for ye; but, believe me, it was juist want o' thocht.'

'nonsense, betty; the whole house is in apple-pie order. there was no call for you to spend money on painting and papering, and i won't allow you to do that now. this is my little affair, betty, and all i ask you to do is to see the painter and arrange for the work to be done as soon as possible.'

'do you mean, maister weelum, that ye're to pey the whole thing?'

'most certainly. so, my dear betty, please say no more on that point, as my mind is made up and unalterable.'

'weel, weel, sae be it. "them that will to cupar maun to cupar." what kind o' a paper wad ye think o' puttin' on?'

within my own mind i had decided on a nice warm buff canvas, but i refrained from giving my opinion. 'what do you think would be nice, betty?'

of old i remembered the garish colouring of the paper on her bedroom walls. her taste in this was always a law unto the paper-hanger, and my mother used to shiver when she peeped in, and wondered how betty could sleep peacefully in such a profusion of colour.

betty pondered over my question for a moment. 'mrs black, the clogger's wife, got her parlour done up last spring, an' it looks juist beautifu'. the paper has a kind o' mauve gr'und wi' a gold stripe runnin' up, an' roon the stripe there's a winkle-wankle o' nice big blue roses, an' a wee bit o' forget-me-not tied wi' a pink ribbon keeks oot here and there, juist as if it was hangin' in the air.'

'blue roses are not natural, betty.'

'no, so nathan says; but they're most by-ordinar' bonny, an' they're hangin' roon this gold stripe for a' the world as if they were newly blawn; an'—an' the leaves are a brisk green, an' the buds standin' oot abune the bloom as like as life, an' a' this beautifu' colourin' for a shillin' a piece! it was john boyes the painter that put it on, an' he telt mrs black that there was only anither room like hers, an' it was in the crystal palace at london.'

'a shilling a piece, betty!' i said, in astonishment, just for something to say. 'oh, but i would give more than that!'

'oh, then, ye'll juist get a' the mair gold an' roses for the extra money, maister weelum.'

'i am just wondering, betty,' i said meditatively, 'if a wall-paper with roses—blue or otherwise—is the correct decoration for a dining-room.'

'oh, there's nae rule, maister weelum—at least, no' in thornhill. no, no; as lang as ye pey for the job, ye can put ony kind ye like on.' and she added, 'wad ye no' leave the paper to the womenfolk, maister weelum? if ye do ye'll no' gang far wrang.'

'yes, betty, that's all right; but i don't know that i could eat my meals comfortably in a room among blue roses. how would a nice, warm-coloured imitation of canvas look, without any pattern at all?'

'a warm-coloured imitation o' canvas? imphm! i—i juist canna tak' that in; but if it's what i think it is, wad that no' look awfu' mealie-bag lookin'?'

'i'm sure it won't, betty, and—and—well, i know it is the correct thing. besides'——

'ye will hark on "the correct thing," maister weelum. i've telt ye that whatever ye want, and pey for, is the correct thing in thornhill. i've great faith in mrs black's taste. i aye tak' my cue, as it were, frae her, though i dinna tell her that; an', where colour is concerned, whether in papers or bonnets, i never think she's far wrang. she comes honestly by it. she aince telt me that it was bred in the bane, for her faither was a colourin'-man in a waxcloth factory aboot kirkcaldy.'

mrs black's hereditary claim did not appeal to me, and in a most agreeable and ingratiating way i was advocating my own scheme, when the outer door opened.

'that'll be the doctor, i'm thinkin',' said betty, and she hurried off downstairs to receive him.

as my acquaintance with dr grierson ripens my admiration for him increases, and my regret becomes all the keener that i had no knowledge of him in my boyhood. an early impression of any one, the outcome of youthful intimacy, is ever a sure basis on which to found true friendship, and i somehow imagine that, to a thoughtful, observant boy, such as betty assures me i was, he would have been not only a willing, sympathetic preceptor, but also a great power for good in many ways. i have known him now for only a few months; but during these quiet, uneventful days of convalescence i have had opportunities of studying him well, and have noted with peculiar pleasure his love of nature in all its phases, his reverence for everything uplifting and elevating, and his sympathy, deep and profound, for all in suffering and distress.

yesterday, when i was in the dumps, seeing everything as through a glass darkly, and feeling isolated and bereft of sympathetic, intelligent companionship, those lovable traits of his stood out vividly, and the thought came to me that i should tell him of the lady of my dream, and of our strange meeting in the nithbank wood. betty, i know, ought to be my confidante; but i have the feeling that her experience is too limited and her outlook on life generally too parochial to admit of a well-reasoned, dispassionate view of my case; and, though yesterday and to-day i have had ample opportunities of opening my heart to her, i have felt restrained and dissuaded. some day i shall tell her everything, and i know she will rejoice with me. but the time is not yet.