read in them some reference to himself or those he loved. It was to these marks that my uncle now directed my attention, struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance.
"Do ye see yon scart upo' the water?" he inquired; "yon ane wast the gray stane? Ay? Weel, it'll no be like a letter, wull it?"
"Certainly it is," I replied. "I have often remarked it. It is like a C."
He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then added below his breath: "Ay, for the Christ-Anna."
"I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself," said I; "for my name is Charles."
"And so ye saw't afore?" he ran on, not heeding my remark. "Weel, weel, but that's unco strange. Maybe, it's been there waitin', as a man wad say, through a' the weary ages. Man, but that's awfu'."
And then, breaking off: "Ye'll no see anither, will ye?" he asked.
"Yes," said I. "I see another very plainly, near the Ross side, where the road comes down—an M."
"An M," he repeated, very low; and then, again after another pause: "An' what wad ye make o' that?" he inquired.
"I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir," I answered, growing somewhat red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I was on the threshold of a decisive explanation.
But we were each following his own train of thought to the exclusion of the other's. My uncle once more paid no attention to my words; only hung his head