William Black, born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1841, was educated with a view to being a landscape painter, a training that clearly influenced his literary life.  He became a painter of scenery in words.  At the age of twenty-three he went to London, after some experience in Glasgow journalism, and joined the staff of the “Morning Star,” and, later, the “Daily News,” of which journal he became assistant-editor.  His first novel appeared in 1868, but it was not until the publication of “A Daughter of Heth,” in 1871, that Black secured the attention of the reading public.  “The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton” followed, and in 1873 “A Princess of Thule” attained great popularity.  Retiring from journalism the next year he devoted himself entirely to fiction.  A score of novels followed, the last in 1898, just before his death on December 10 of that year.  No novelist has lavished more tender care on the portrayal of his heroines, or worked up more delicately a scenic background for plaintive sentiment.

I.—­In Strange Surroundings

“Noo, Wattie,” said the Whaup, “ye maun say a sweer before ye get up.  I’m no jokin’, and unless ye be quick ye’ll be in the water.”

Wattie Cassilis, the “best boy” of the Airlie Manse, paragon of scholars, and exemplar to his four brothers, was depending from a small bridge over the burn, his head downward and a short distance from the water, his feet being held close to the parapet by the muscular arms of his eldest brother, Tammas Cassilis, commonly known as the Whaup.

“Wattie,” repeated the Whaup, “say a sweer, or into the burn ye’ll gang as sure as daith!” and he dipped Wattie a few inches, so that the ripples touched his head.  Wattie set up a fearful howl.

“Now, will ye say it?”

“Deevil!” cried Wattie.  “Let me up; I hae said a sweer!”

The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over his apostacy.

“Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie.  Deevil is no bad enough.”

“I’ll droon first!” whimpered Wattie, “and then ye’ll get your paiks, I’m thinking.”

Down went Wattie’s head into the burn again, and this time he was raised with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.

“I’ll say what ye like! D—­n; is that bad enough?”

With another unholy shout of derision Wattie was raised and set on the bridge.

“Noo,” said the Whaup, standing over him, “let me tell you this, my man.  The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any one o’ us, or the next time you say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca’ her, do ye ken what I’ll do?  I’ll take ye back to my faither by the lug, and I’ll tell him ye were sweerin’ like a trooper down by the burn, and every one o’ us will testify against you, and then, I’m thinking, it will be your turn to consider paiks.”

Catherine Cassilis, “the French lassie,” had arrived at the Manse a few weeks before, and she had sore need of a champion.