richer.  Yet, after all, the change was so slight that none but a lover would have noticed it.  But there was not a smile or a shade of brighter color that James did not see; and he bore it with an equanimity which used often to astonish himself, though it would not have done so if he had dared just once to look down into his heart; he bore it because he knew that Donald was living two lives—­one that Christine saw, and one that she could not even have imagined.

It was, alas, too true that this gay, good-natured young man, who had entered the fashionable world without one bad habit, was fast becoming proficient in all its follies and vices.  That kind of negative goodness which belonged naturally to him, unfortified by strict habits and strong principles, had not been able to repel the seductions and temptations that assail young men, rich, handsome, and well-born.  There was an evil triumph in James’ heart one night when Donald said to him, as they walked home after an evening at David’s,

“Mr. Blackie, I wish you could lend me L20.  I am in a little trouble, and I cannot ask Uncle David for more, as I have already overdrawn my father’s allowance.”

James loaned it with an eager willingness, though he was usually very cautious and careful of every bawbee of his hard-earned money.  He knew it was but the beginning of confidence, and so it proved; in a very little while Donald had fallen into the habit of going to James in every emergency, and of making him the confidant of all his youthful hopes and follies.

James even schooled himself to listen patiently to Donald’s praises of his cousin Christine.  “She is just the wife I shall need when I settle down in three or four years,” Donald would say complacently, “and I think she loves me.  Of course no man is worthy of such a woman, but when I have seen life a little I mean to try and be so.”

“Umph!” answered James scornfully, “do you suppose, Mr. McFarlane, that ye’ll be fit for a pure lassie like Christine Cameron when you have played the prodigal and consorted with foolish women, and wasted your substance in riotous living?”

And Donald said with an honest blush, “By the memory of my mother, no, I do not, James.  And I am ashamed when I think of Christine’s white soul and the stained love I have to offer it.  But women forgive!  Oh, what mothers and wives and sisters there are in this world!”

“Well, don’t try Christine too far, Donald.  She is of an old Covenanting stock; her conscience feels sin afar off.  I do not believe she would marry a bad, worldly man, though it broke her heart to say ‘No.’  I have known her far longer than you have.”

“Tut, man, I love her!  I know her better in an hour than you could do in a lifetime;” and Donald looked rather contemptuously on the plain man who was watching him with eyes that might have warned any one more suspicious or less confident and self-satisfied.

CHAPTER III.