The Inglises, by Margaret Murray Robertson. 

________________________________________________________________________Margaret Robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people, and this is no exception. The women in her stories tend to moan on agood bit, and this book is also no exception to that. Having said that, don't say I didn't warn you. However, like all novels of the secondhalf of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and thingswere different then. For that reason it is worth reading books of thatperiod if you want to know more about how people lived in those days. 

One very big difference was illness. Nowadays, you go to the doctor, and very probably he or she will be able to cure you. In those days youeither died or were confined to your bed for a long time. If you diedbut had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many casesthat stopped, too. The women-folk and the children would be leftwithout support. No wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion, to comfort themselves. It is hard for us to realise what huge progresshas been made in social reforms. Reading this book, and others of thatperiod (this book was published in 1872) will teach a lot about howlucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults. ________________________________________________________________________THE INGLISES, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages, Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner. The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in thelargest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. He preachedalso in another part of the town, called the North Gore. A good many ofthe Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the twovillages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preachedfrom one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them. So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons, Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-housethere. It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a nightto be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought, as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of whichshe and her son David were trying to look. They could see nothing, however, for the night was very dark. Even the village lights were butdimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; withless of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among thetrees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound. 

"I ought to have gone with him, mamma, " said the boy, at last. 

"Perhaps so, dear. But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank'slast night here. "

"It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads arebad. "

"Yes; he must have been detained. We will not wait any longer. We willhave prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired whenhe gets home. "

"How the wind blows! We could not hear the wagon even if he were quitenear. Shall I go to the gate and wait?"

"No, dear, better not. Only be ready with the lantern when he comes. "

They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door andlooked out. 

"It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma, " said he, as he cameback to her side. 

"Yes, " said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long timesilent. She was thinking how the wind would find its way through thelong-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear thebitter cold. David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling soheavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the northside of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himselfsure-footed in the darkness. 

"I wish I had gone with him, " said he, again. 

"Let us go to the children, " said his mother. 

The room in which the children were gathered was bright withfire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormynight out upon which these two had been looking. The mother shivered alittle as she drew near the fire. 

"Sit here, mamma. "

"No, sit here; this is the best place. " The eagerness was like to growto clamour. 

"Hush! children, " said the mother; "it is time for prayers. We will notwait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. No, Letty, youneed not get the books, there has been enough reading for the littleones to-night. We will sing `Jesus, lover of my soul, ' and then Davidwill read the chapter. "

"Oh! yes, mamma, `Jesus, lover;' I like that best, " said little Mary, laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrillvoice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speakthe words plainly. 

"That's for papa, " said she, when they reached the end of the last line, "While the tempest still is high. "

The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly:

"Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end. "

It was very sweet singing, and very earnest. Even their cousin, FrancisOswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined init, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. ThenDavid read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the motherprayed. 

"Not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she reallybelieved in the good of it, " thought Francis Oswald to himself. "Ofcourse we all believe in it in a general way, " he went on thinking, ashe rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rugbefore the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as AuntMary does. She seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she isasking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it, too. She hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxiousto have, " he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lightedroom, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all thedifference. `A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the thingswhich he possesses, ' she told me the other day, and I suppose shebelieves _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we allbelieve the things that are in the Bible. Fancy Aunt Ellen and mysister Louisa being contented in a room like this!"

It was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might notlike it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itselfbeautiful. It was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood abed. Before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend veryfar over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot. The furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style orin material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece bypiece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners hadpermitted. The whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifullyfurnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had beenpassed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment. 

"I have had jolly times here, better than I shall have at home, unlessthey let me read again--which I don't believe they will, though I am somuch better. I am very glad I came. I like Uncle and Aunt Inglis. There is no `make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a badlot, take them all together. "

He sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting histhoughts run upon many things. David had gone to the window, and wasgazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother Jem sat with hisface bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. Not a wordwas spoken for a long time. Violet laid the sleeping little Mary in hercot, and when her mother came in, she said:

"Don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at theGore? It is so stormy. "

"No, dear; he said he would be home. Something must have detained himlonger than usual. What are you thinking about so earnestly Francis?"

"Since you went up-stairs? Oh! about lots of things. About the chapterDavid was reading, for one thing. "

The chapter David had read was the tenth of Numbers--one not very likelyto interest young readers, except the last few verses. It was the waywith the Inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight onthrough the Bible, not passing over any chapter because it might notseem very interesting or instructive. At other times they might pickand choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship timethey read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderfulbeauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. The lastfew verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quitenew to one of the listeners, at least. It was Moses' invitation toHobab to go with the Lord's people to the promised land. 

"I wonder whether the old chap went, " said Frank, after a pause. "Whatare you laughing at, Jem?"

"He thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a Bible person, Isuppose, " said Violet. 

"About the chapter David was reading, " said Jem, mimicking his cousin'stone and manner. "That is for mamma. You don't expect me to swallowthat. Give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy. "

"I said I was thinking of the chapter, for one thing, " said Frank, notat all angry, though he reddened a little. "I was thinking, besides, whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, `TheSwiss Family, ' is it not?"

"Sold, " cried Jem, triumphantly; "it is the `Pilgrim's Progress. '"

"You have read that before, " said Violet. 

"Lots of times. It will bear it. But what about Hobab, Frank? Muchyou care about the old chap, don't you? Davie, come here and listen toFrank. "

"If you would only give Frank a chance to speak, " said his mother, smiling. 

"Did Hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked Frank. 

"He refused to go, " said Jem. "Don't you remember he said, `I will notgo, but I will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'"

"Yes; but that was before Moses said, `Thou mayest be to us instead ofeyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in thiswilderness. ' You see, he had a chance of some adventures; that mighttempt him. Do you think he went, aunt?"

"I cannot tell; afterwards we hear of Heber the Kenite, who was of thechildren of Hobab; and his wife took the part of the Israelites, whenshe slew Sisera. But whether he went with the people at that time, wedo not hear. Very likely he did. I can understand how the people'sneed of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a betterreason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promisethat Moses gave him, `Come with us and we will do thee good. '"

"That is to say, mamma, he would rather have a chance to help others, than the prospect of a good time for himself. That is not the way withpeople generally, " said Jem, shaking his head gravely. 

"It is not said that it was the way with Hobab, " said his mother; "but Iam inclined to think, with Francis, that perhaps it might have been so. "

"He must have been a brave man and a good man, or Moses would not havewanted him, " said David. 

"And if he went for the sake of a home in the promised land, he musthave been disappointed. He did not get there for forty years, if he gotthere at all, " said Jem. 

"But if he went for the fighting he may have had a good time in thewilderness, for there must have been many alarms, and a battle now andthen, " said Frank. 

"But, mamma, " said Violet, earnestly, "they had the pillar of cloud, andthe pillar of fire, and the Angel of the Covenant going before. Whyshould we suppose they needed the help of Hobab?"

"God helps them that help themselves, Letty, dear, " said Jem. 

"Gently, Jem, " said his mother; "speak reverently, my boy. Yes, Letty, they were miraculously guarded and guided; but we do not see that theywere allowed to fold their hands and do nothing. God fought for them, and they fought for themselves. And as for Hobab, he must have been agood and brave man, as David says, and so the chances are he went withthe people, thinking less of what he could get for himself than of whathe could do for others, as is the way with good and brave men. "

"Like the people we read about in books, " said Jem. 

"Yes; and like some of the people we meet in real life, " said hismother, smiling. "The men who even in the eyes of the world are thebest and bravest, are the men who have forgotten themselves and theirown transitory interests to live or die for the sake of others. "

"Like Moses, when he pleaded that the people might not be destroyed, even though the Lord said He would make him the father of a greatnation, " said David. 

"Like Paul, " said Violet, "who `counted not his life dear to him, ' andwho was willing `to spend and be spent, ' though the more abundantly heloved the people, the less he was loved. "

"Like Leonidas with his three hundred heroes. "

"Like Curtius, who leapt into the gulf. "

"Like William Tell and John Howard. "

"Like a great many missionaries, " said Violet. And a great many morewere mentioned. 

"But, aunt, " said Frank, "you said like a great many people we meet inreal life. I don't believe I know a single man like that--one whoforgets himself, and lives for others. Tell me one. "

"Papa, " said David, softly. His mother smiled. 

"It seems to me that all true Christians ought to be like that--men whodo not live to please themselves--who desire most of all to do God'swork among their fellow-men, " said she, gravely. 

Frank drew a long breath. 

"Then I am afraid I don't know many Christians, Aunt Inglis. "

"My boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and I daresay you have neverthought much about the matter. "

"No, I have not. But now that I do think of it, I cannot call to mindany one--scarcely any one who would answer to that description. Itseems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well. There is Uncle Inglis, to be sure--But then he is a minister, and doinggood is his business, you know. "

"Frank, " said Jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, "do youknow that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like yourfather? His uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up hismind to be a minister. His uncle was very angry, wasn't he, mamma?"

But his mother had no wish that the conversation should be pursued inthat direction, so she said, "Yes, Frank, it is his business to do God'swork in the world, but no more than it is yours and mine, in one sense. "

"Mine!" echoed Frank, with a whistle of astonishment, which Jem echoed. 

"Yours, surely, my dear boy, and yours, Jem; and your responsibility isnot lessened by the fact that you may be conscious that you are refusingthat personal consecration which alone can fit you for God's service, ormake such service acceptable. "

There was nothing answered to this, and Mrs Inglis added, "And beingconsecrated to God's service, we do His work well, when we do well theduty he has appointed us, however humble it may be. "

"But to come back to Hobab, mamma, " said Jem, in a little while. "Afterall, do you really think it was a desire to do God's work in helping thepeople that made him go with them, if he did go? Perhaps he thought ofthe fighting and the possible adventures, as Frank says. "

"We have no means of knowing, except that it does not seem to have beenso much with the thought of his being a protector, that Moses asked him, as of his being a guide. `Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes, ' saidhe. "

"Yes, " said Jem, hesitatingly, "I suppose so; but it must have beensomething to him to think of leading such a host. "

"But he would not have led the host, " said David. "Yet it must havebeen a grand thing to follow such a leader as Moses. "

"Aunt Mary, " said Frank, "if there is something for us all to do in theworld, as you say, I, for one, would much rather think of it as a placeto fight in than to work in. "

"The same here, " said Jem. 

"Well, so it is, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"`In the world's broad field of battle. ' Don't you remember, Davie?"

"Yes, I remember, `Be a hero in the strife, '" said David. "And Paulbids Timothy, `Fight the good fight of faith;' and in another place hesays, `That thou mayest war a good warfare;' which is better authoritythan your poet, Violet. "

"Yes, and when he was an old man--Paul, I mean--he said, `I have foughtthe good fight; I have finished the course; I have kept the faith. '"

"And is there not something about armour?" asked Frank, who was not verysure of his Bible knowledge. 

"Yes. `Put ye on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to standin the evil day, and having done all to stand. ' That is Paul, too. "

"Yes, " said Jem, slowly. "That was to be put on against the wiles ofthe devil. `Ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but againstprincipalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of thisworld; against spiritual wickedness in high places. '"

Frank uttered an exclamation. 

"They needed armour, I think. "

"Not more than we do now, my boy. We have the same enemies, " said hisaunt. 

It was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on accordingto the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and thenas it was needed for counsel or restraint. 

"It sounds awful, don't it?" said Jem, who was always amused when hiscousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them hadbeen familiar with all their lives. "And that isn't all. What is thatabout `the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?'What with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to getfighting enough. "

His mother put her hand on his arm. 

"But, mamma, this thought of life's being a battle-field, makes oneafraid, " said Violet. 

"It need not, dear, one who takes `the whole armour. '"

"But what is the armour?" said Frank. "I don't understand. "

Violet opened the Bible and read that part of the sixth chapter ofEphesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it pieceby piece. David, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now, telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by theancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. For David had beenreading Latin and Greek with his father for a good while, and the restlistened with interest. They wandered away from the subject sometimes, or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancientwarriors, they were in danger of forgetting "the whole armour, " and theweapons which are "not carnal but spiritual, " and the warfare they wereto wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them backagain. 

"`And having done all to stand, '" said Frank, in a pause that came in alittle while. "That does not seem much to do. "

"It is a great deal, " said his aunt. "The army that encamps on thebattle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. To stand isvictory. "

"Yes, I see, " said Frank. 

"It means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they whowould be `good soldiers of Jesus Christ' have more to do than that. Hisbanner must be carried to wave over all the nations. The world must besubdued to Him. And when it is said, `Be strong, ' it means be strongfor conquest as well as for defence. "

And then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, MrsInglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on tospeak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under Him whowas promised as a "Leader and Commander to the people"--and in such acause--that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves ofsin set free, and His throne set up who is to "reign in righteousness. "Though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory!how high the reward at last! Yes, and before the last. One had not towait till the last. How wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet tobelieve, that not one in all the numberless host, who were "enduringhardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ, " but was known to Him, andbeloved by Him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guidedand strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. "Safe throughlife, victorious in death, through Him that loved them, and gave Himselffor them, " added the mother, and then she paused, partly because thesewonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it noteasy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as fewwords as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going sosoon to leave them. 

"Francis, " said she, softly, "would it not be something grand to be oneof such an army, fighting under such a leader?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary, if one only knew the way. "

"One can always offer one's self as His soldier. "

"Yes, if one is fit. "

"But one can never make one's self fit. _He_ undertakes all that. Offer yourself to be His. Give yourself to Him. He will appoint youyour place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure, valiant to fight, and He will ensure the victory, and give you thetriumph at the end. Think of all this, Francis, dear boy! It is agrand thing to be a soldier of the Lord. "

"Yes, Aunt Mary, " said Frank, gravely. Then they were all silent for along time. Indeed, there was not a word spoken till Mr Inglis' voicewas heard at the door. Jem ran out to hold old Don till David broughtthe lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horsecomfortable after his long pull over the hills. Mrs Inglis went to theother room to attend to her husband, and Violet followed her, and Frankwas left alone to think over the words that he had heard. He did thinkof them seriously, then and afterwards. --He never quite forgot them, though he did not act upon them and offer himself for a "good soldier ofJesus Christ" for a long time after that. 

In a little while Mr Inglis came in and sat down beside him, but afterthe first minute or two he was quite silent, busy with his own thoughtsit seemed, and Frank said nothing either, but wondered what his uncle'sthoughts might be. The discomfort of cold and wind and of the longdrive through sleet and rain, had nothing to do with them, the boy saidto himself, as, with his hand screening his weak eyes from the light andheat of the fire, he watched his changing face. It was a very good faceto watch. It was thin and pale, and the hair had worn away a littlefrom the temples, making the prominent forehead almost too high andbroad for the cheeks beneath. Its expression was usually grave andthoughtful, but to-night there was a brightness on it which fixed theboy's gaze; and the eyes, too often sunken and heavy after a day oflabour, shone to-night with a light at once so peaceful and sotriumphant, that Frank could not but wonder. In a little while Violetcame in, and she saw it too. 

"Has anything happened, papa?" asked she, softly. 

He turned his eyes to her, but did not speak. He had heard her voicebut not her question, and she did not repeat it, but came and sat downon a low stool at his feet. 

"Are you very tired, papa?" she asked at last. 

"Not more so than usual. Indeed, I have hardly thought of it to-night, or of the cold and the sleet and the long drive, that have moved mylittle girl's compassion. But it is pleasant to be safe home again, andto find all well. "

"But what kept you so long, papa?" said Jem, coming in with the lanternin his hand. "Was it Don's fault? Didn't he do his duty, poor oldDon?"

"No. I was sent for to see Timothy Bent. That was what detained me solong. "

"Poor old Tim!" said Violet, softly. 

"`Poor old Tim' no longer, Violet, my child. It is well with TimothyBent now, beyond all fear. "

"Has he gone, papa?"

"Yes, he is safe home at last. The long struggle is over, and he hasgotten the victory. "

The boys looked at one another, thinking of the words that had beenspoken to them a little while ago. 

"It is Timothy Bent, mamma, " said Violet, as her mother came in. "He isdead. "

"Is he gone?" said her mother, sitting down. "Did he suffer much? Wereyou with him at the last?"

"Yes, he suffered, " said Mr Inglis, a momentary look of pain passingover his face. "But that is all past now forever. "

"Did he know you?"

"Yes, he knew me. He spoke of the time when I took him up at thecorner, and brought him home to you. He said that was the beginning. "

There was a pause. 

"The beginning of what?" whispered Frank to Violet. 

"The beginning of a new life to poor Tim, " said Violet. 

"The beginning of the glory revealed to him to-day, " said Mr Inglis. "It is wonderful! I cannot tell you how wonderful it seemed to meto-night to see him as he looked on the face of death. We speak aboutneeding faith in walking through dark places, but we need it more tohelp us to bear the light that shines on the death-bed of a saved andsanctified sinner. How glorious! How wonderful! For a moment itseemed to me beyond belief. Now with us in that poor room, sick andsuffering, and sometimes afraid, even; then, in the twinkling of an eye, in the very presence of his Lord--and like him--with joy unspeakable andfull of glory! Does it not seem almost past belief? `Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!'"

There was silence for a good while after that, and then David first, andafterwards the others, answered the mother's look by rising and sayingsoftly, "Good-night, " and then they went away. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

"Papa does not feel it to-night, " said Jem, as they went up-stairs; "buthe'll be tired enough to-morrow, when he has time to think about it. And so poor old Tim has gone!"

"`Poor old Tim, no longer, ' as your father said, " said Frank, gravely. "It does seem almost beyond belief, doesn't it?"

"What?" asked Jem. 

But Frank did not answer him directly. 

"I wonder what battles old Tim had to fight, " said he. "Your fathersaid he had gotten the victory. "

"Oh! just the battles that other people have to fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil, and a hard time he has had, too, poor oldchap, " said Jem. 

"Jem, " said David, "I think old Tim Bent was the very happiest old manwe knew. "

"Well, perhaps he was, after a fashion; but I am sure he had trouble, ofone kind or another--sickness, poverty, and his people not very kind tohim--tired of him, at any rate. However, that don't matter to him now. "

"He has gotten the victory, " repeated Frank. The words seemed to have acharm for him. "It is wonderful, isn't it?"

All this was said as the boys were undressing to go to bed. There weretwo beds in the room they occupied, the brothers had one, and Frank hadthe other. After the lamp was blown out, David reminded the others thatthey must be up early in the morning, and that the sooner they wereasleep, the readier they would be to rise when the right time came; sothere was nothing said for a good while. Then Frank spoke:

"What was all that you said about your father's being a banker and arich man? Are you asleep already, Jem?"

Jem had been very near it. 

"Who? Papa? Oh! yes, he might have been; but you see he chose `thebetter part. ' I sometimes wonder whether he's ever sorry. "

"Jem, " said David, "it's not right--to speak in that way, I mean. Andas for papa's being sorry--not to-night, at any rate, " added David, witha sound that was like a sob in his voice. 

"And why not to-night? Ah! I understand. It was through him that oldTim got the victory;" and both the boys were surprised to see himsuddenly sit up in bed in the dark; and after a long silence herepeated, as if to himself, "I should think not to-night, indeed!" andthen he lay down again. 

"Papa has never been sorry--never for a single moment, " said David. "Hehas helped a great many besides old Tim to win the victory. Andbesides, I dare say, he has had as much real enjoyment in his life as ifhe had been a rich man like your father. He is not sorry, at any rate, nor mamma. "

"Oh! that is all very well to say, " interposed Jem; "I dare say he isnot sorry that he is a minister, but I say it is a shame that ministersshould always be poor men--as they always are!"

"Oh! well. People can't have everything, " said David. 

"You've got to be very contented, all at once, " said Jem, laughing. "You have said as much about it as ever I have, and more, too. Don'tyou remember when the Hunters went away to M--, to school, and you andViolet couldn't go? You wanted to go, didn't you?"

"Nonsense, Jem. I never thought of such a thing seriously. Why, itwould have taken more than the whole of papa's salary to send us both!"

"But that is just what I said. Why should not papa be able to send you, as well as Ned Hunter's father to send him?"

"It comes to the same thing, " said David, loftily. "I know more Latinand Greek, too, than Ned Hunter, though he has been at M--; and as forViolet--people can't have everything. "

"And you have grown humble as well as contented, it seems, " said Jem;"just as if you didn't care! You'll care when mamma has to send Debbyaway, and keep Violet at home from school, because she can't get papa anew great coat, and pay Debby's wages, too. You may say what you like, but I wish I were rich; and I mean to be, one of these days. "

"But it is all nonsense about Debby, Jem. However, mamma would not wishus to discuss it now, and we had better go to sleep. "

But, though there was nothing more said, none of them went to sleep verysoon, and they all had a great many serious thoughts as they lay insilence in the dark. The brothers had often had serious thoughtsbefore; but to Francis they came almost for the first time--or rather, for the first time he found it difficult to put them away. He had beenbrought up very differently from David and Jem. He was the son of arich man, and the claims of business had left their father little timeto devote to the instruction of his children. The claims of society hadleft as little to his mother--she was dead now--and, except at church onSundays, he had rarely heard a word to remind him that there wasanything in the world of more importance than the getting of wealth andthe pursuit of pleasure, till he came to visit the Inglises. 

He had been ill before that, and threatened with serious trouble in hiseyes, and the doctor had said that he must have change of air, and thathe must not be allowed to look at a book for a long time. Mr Inglishad been at his father's house about that time, and had asked him to letthe boy go home with him, to make the acquaintance of his young people, and he had been very glad to let him go. Mr Inglis was not Frank'suncle, though he called him so; he was only his father's cousin, andthere had never been any intimacy between the families, so Francis hadbeen a stranger to them all before he came to Gourlay. But he soon madefriends with them all. The simple, natural way of life in theminister's house suited him well, and his visit had been lengthened outto four months, instead of four weeks, as was at first intended; andnow, as he lay thinking, he was saying to himself that he was very sorryto go. 

This last night he seemed to see more clearly than ever he had seenbefore what made the difference between their manner of life here in hisuncle's house, and the life they lived at home. It was a differencealtogether in favour of their life here, though here they were poor, andat home they were rich. The difference went deeper than outwardcircumstances, and must reach beyond them--beyond all the chances andchanges time might bring. 

And then he thought about all his aunt had said about "the good fight"and "the whole armour, " the great Leader, and the sure victory at last. But strangely enough, and foolishly enough it seemed to him, his verylast thought was about Debby's going away; and before he hadsatisfactorily computed the number of weeks' wages it would take to makethe sum which would probably be enough to purchase an overcoat, he fellasleep, and carried on the computation in his dreams. 

The next morning was not a very pleasant one to travel in. It wascloudy and cold, and the ground was covered with snow. Mr Inglis hadintended to take Frank on the first stage of his journey--that was tothe railway station in D--, a town eleven miles away. But, as Jem hadforetold, the weariness which he had scarcely felt when he first camehome, was all the worse now because of that, and he had taken coldbesides; so David and Jem were to take his place in conveying theircousin on the journey. 

The good-byes were all said, and the boys set off. They did not mindthe cold, or the snow, or the threatening rain, but were well pleasedwith the prospect of a few more hours together. The roads were bad, andtheir progress was slow; but that mattered little, as they had the daybefore them, and plenty to say to one another to pass the time. Theydiscussed trees and fruits, and things in general, after the fashion ofboys, and then the last stories of hunters and trappers they had read;and in some way which it would not be easy to trace, they came round toHobab and the battles he might have fought, and then to "the wholearmour" and the warfare in which it was intended to aid them who woreit. 

"I wish I understood it all better, " said Frank. "I suppose the Biblemeans something when it speaks about the warfare, and the armour, andall that; but then one would not think so, just to see the way peoplelive, and good people too. "

"One can't tell by just seeing the outside of people's lives, " saidDavid. 

"The outside of people's lives!" repeated Frank. "Why, what else can wesee?"

"I mean you are thinking of something quite different from mamma's ideaof battles, and warfare, and all that. She was not speaking aboutanything that all the world, or people generally, would admire, or evensee. "

"But you spoke of your father, David, and I can understand how he in acertain way may be said to be fighting the battles of the Lord. Hepreaches against sin, and bad people oppose him, and he stands up forhis Master; and when he does good to people, wins them over to God'sside, he may be said to make a conquest--to gain a victory, as he didwhen he rescued poor Tim. I can understand why he should be called asoldier, and how his way of doing things may be called fighting; andthat may be the way with ministers generally, I suppose; but as forother people, they ought to be the same, as the Bible says so; but Idon't see that they are, for all that. Do you, Jem?"

"It depends on what you mean by fighting, " said Jem. 

"But whatever it is, it is something that can be seen, " said Frankimpatiently, "and what I mean is that I don't see it. "

"But then the people you know most about mayn't be among the fightingmen, even if you were a good judge of fighting, " said Jem. "Your eyesmayn't be the best, you know. "

"Well, lend me your eyes, then, and don't mind the people I know. Takethe people _you_ know, your father's right hand men, who ought to beamong the soldiers, if there are any. There is Mr Strong and old Penn, and the man who draws the mill logs. And all the people, women as wellas men, ought to be wearing the armour and using the weapons. There isyour friend, Miss Bethia, Davie; is she a warrior, too?"

"Aunt Bethia certainly is, " said Jem decidedly. "She is not afraid of--well, of principalities and powers, I tell _you_. Don't she fightgreat--eh, Davie?"

"Aunt Bethia is a very good woman, and it depends on what you callfighting, " said David, dubiously. 

"Yes, Miss Bethia is a soldier. And as for old Mr Penn, I've seen himfight very hard to keep awake in meeting, " said Jem, laughing. 

"It is easy enough to make fun of it, but Aunt Mary was in earnest. Don't you know about it, Davie?"

"About these people fighting, do you mean? Well, I once heard papa saythat Mr Strong's life was for many years a constant fight. And hesaid, too, that he was using the right weapons, and that he woulddoubtless win the victory. So you see there is one of them a soldier, "said David. 

"It must be a different kind of warfare from your father's, " said Frank. "I wonder what Mr Strong fights for?"

"But I think he is fighting the very same battle, only in a differentway. "

"Well, " said Frank, "what about it?"

"Oh! I don't know that I can tell much about it. It used to be a verybad neighbourhood where old Strong lives, and the neighbours used tobother him awfully. And that wasn't the worst. He has a very badtemper naturally, and he got into trouble all round when he first livedthere. And one day he heard some of them laughing at him and hisreligion, saying there was no difference between Christians and otherpeople. And they didn't stop there, but scoffed at the name of ourLord, and at the Bible. It all happened down at Hunt's Mills, and theydidn't know that Mr Strong was there; and when he rose up from thecorner where he had been sitting all the time, and came forward amongthem, they were astonished, and thought they were going to have greatfun. But they didn't that time. Mr Hunt told papa all about it. Hejust looked at them and said: `God forgive you for speaking lightly thatblessed name, and God forgive me for giving you the occasion. ' And thenhe just turned and walked away. 

"After that it didn't matter what they said or did to him, he wouldn'ttake his own part. They say that for more than a year he didn't speak aword to a man in the neighbourhood where he lives; he couldn't trusthimself. But he got a chance to do a good turn once in a while, thattold better than words. Once he turned some stray cattle out of JohnJarvis's grain, and built up the fences when there was no one atJarvis's house to do it. That wouldn't have been much--any goodneighbour would have done as much as that, you know. But it hadhappened the day before that the Jarvis's boys had left down the bars ofhis back pasture, and all his young cattle had passed most of the nightin his own wheat. It was not a place that the boys needed to go to, andit looked very much as if they had done it on purpose. They must havefelt mean when they came home and saw old Strong building up theirfence. "

Then Jem took up the word. 

"And once, some of those fellows took off the nut from his wagon, as itwas standing at the store door, and the wheel came off just as he wasgoing down the hill by the bridge; and if it hadn't been that his oldJerry is as steady as a rock the old man would have been pitched intothe river. "

"The village people took that up, and wanted him to prosecute them. Buthe wouldn't, " said David. "It was a regular case of `turning the othercheek. ' Everybody wondered, knowing old Strong's temper. "

"And once they sheared old Jerry's mane and tail, " said Jem. "And theysay old Strong cried like a baby when he saw him. He wouldn't haveanything done about it; but he said he'd be even with them some time. And he was even with one of them. One day when he was in the hayfield, Job Steele came running over to tell him that his little girl had fallenin the barn and broken her arm and hurt her head, and he begged him tolet him have Jerry to ride, for the doctor. Then Mr Strong looked himright in the face, and said he, `No, I can't let you have him. Youdon't know how to treat dumb beasts. I'll go myself for the doctor. 'And sure enough, he unyoked his oxen from the cart, though it wasSaturday and looked like rain, and his hay was all ready to be taken in, and went to the pasture for Jerry, and rode to the village himself, andlet the doctor have his horse, and walked home. "

"And did he know that it was Job Steele who had ill-treated his horse, "asked Frank. 

"He never said so to anybody; and Job never acknowledged it. But otherpeople said so, and Job once told papa that Mr Strong's way of doing`good for evil, ' was the first thing that made him think that there mustbe something in religion; and Mr Steele is a changed character now. "

"And how did it all end with Mr Strong?" asked Frank, much interested. 

"Oh, it isn't ended yet, " said David. "Mr Strong is fighting againsthis bad temper as hard as ever. It has ended as far as his trouble withhis neighbours is concerned. He made them see there is something inreligion more than they thought, as Job Steele said, and there is nomore trouble among them. But the old man must have had some pretty hardbattles with himself, before it came to that. "

"And so old Mr Strong is a soldier, anyway, " said Frank. 

"Yes, and a conqueror, " said Jem. "Don't you remember, `He that rulethhis spirit is greater than he that taketh a city. '"

"Yes, " said David, thoughtfully. "Mr Strong is a soldier, and, Frank, he is fighting the very same battle that papa is fighting--for thehonour of Christ. It is that they are all fighting for in one way orother. It is that that makes it warring a good warfare, you know. "

"No, " said Frank, "I am afraid I don't know much about it. Tell me, Davie. "

"Oh, I don't pretend to know much about it, either, " said David, with alook at Jem. But Jem shrugged his shoulders. 

"You should have asked papa, " said he. 

"Go ahead, Davie, " said Frank. 

"Well, " said David, with some hesitation, "it is supposed that allChristians are like their masters--more or less. He was `holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners;' and that is not an easything for any man or boy to be, and so all have to fight withthemselves, and the world--"

"And with the devil, " said Jem. "The principalities and powers, youknow. "

"I suppose so, but we don't know much about that, only the end of it allis that they may become like Christ--so that they may make Him known tothe world. "

"I've heard papa speak about it, " said Jem. 

"Yes, it is one of papa's favourite themes. I have often heard him, "said David. 

And then they went back to the discussion of old Mr Strong again, andthen of others; and there was scarcely one of their acquaintances butthey discussed in the new character of a soldier. Sometimes they wentquite away from the subject, and sometimes they said very foolishthings. It is not to be supposed that boys like them would judge veryjustly, or discuss very charitably the character of people with theoutside of whose lives they were alone acquainted, and besides, as Davidat last gravely acknowledged they could not understand all that wasimplied in "warring a good warfare, " not being soldiers themselves. 

There was silence for a good while after this, and then they went onagain, saying a good many things that could hardly be called wise; butthe conclusion to which they came was right and true in the main. Itwas against `the world, the flesh, and the devil' that Christians wereto fight, and victory meant to become like Christ, and to win overothers to be like him, too. That was victory here, and afterwards therewould be glory, and the crown of righteousness that Paul spoke about, inHeaven. They were all very grave by the time they got thus far. 

"Nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when onereally thinks about it, " said David. 

"The only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they arenot more in earnest, " said Frank. 

"All may be soldiers of Christ Jesus, " said David, softly. 

"Even boys?" said Frank. 

"Papa says so. Boys like you and me and Jem. Papa was a soldier in thearmy of the Lord, long before he was my age. He told me all about itone day, " said David, with a break in his voice. "And he said thesooner we enlist the better `soldiers' we would be, and the more wewould accomplish for Him. "

"Yes, " said Frank, "if one only knew the way. "

"It is all in the Bible, Frank, " said David. 

"Yes, I suppose so. It is a wonder you have not become a `soldier' longago, David. How glad your mother would be. It is the _only_ thing, shethinks. "

All this last was said while Jem had gone to ask at a farm-house doorwhether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing morewas said when he came back. Indeed, there was not time. The next turnbrought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard thewhistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before Frank took hisplace. Jem and Davie stood for a little while looking after the trainthat bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned ratherdisconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in thedirection of home. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

If any one had suddenly asked David Inglis to tell him what had been thevery happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life, he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on thebanks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as afisherman had come to him. Or the remembrance of certain signaltriumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to hismind. But that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. Ifhe had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that thevery happiest hours of all his life had been passed in their old wagonat his father's side. 

So when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessonsin a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the BassNeighbourhood, to attend old Mr Bent's funeral, you may be sure he waswell pleased. Not that he objected to books as a general thing, or thatany part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to shirk his dailylessons. Quite the contrary. Books and lessons were by no meansignored between him and his father at such times. Almost oftener thananything else, books and lessons came into their discussions. But alesson from a printed page, not very well understood, and learned oncompulsion, is one thing, and seldom a pleasant thing to any oneconcerned. But lessons explained and illustrated by his father as theywent slowly through fields and woods together, were very pleasantmatters to David. Even the Latin Grammar, over whose tedious pages somany boys have yawned and trifled from generation to generation, evendeclensions and conjugations, and rules of Syntax, and other matterswhich, as a general thing, are such hopeless mysteries to boys of nineor ten, were made matters of interest to David when his father took themin hand. 

And when it came to other subjects--subjects to be examined andillustrated by means of the natural objects around them--the rocks andstones, the grass and flowers and trees--the worms that creep, and thebirds that fly--the treasures of the earth beneath, and the wonders ofthe heavens above, there was no thought of lesson or labour then. Itwas pure pleasure to David, and to his father, too. Yes, David was avery happy boy at such times, and knew it--a circumstance which does notalways accompany to a boy, the possession of such opportunities andadvantages. For David firmly believed in his father as one of the bestand wisest of living men. This may have been a mistake on his part, but, if so, his father being, what he was--a good man and true--it was amistake which did him no harm but good, and it was a mistake which hasnever been set right to David. 

So that day was a day to be marked with a white stone. Don got a moreenergetic rubbing down, and an additional measure of oats, on thestrength of the pleasant prospect, for David was groom, and gardener, and errand boy, and whatever else his mother needed him to be when hisyounger brothers were at school, and all the arrangements about hisfather's going away might be safely trusted to him. 

It was a beautiful day. The only traces that remained of the prematurewinter that had threatened them on Sunday night, were the long stretchesof snow that lingered under the shadows of the wayside trees and fences, and lay in patches in the hollows of the broken pastures. The leaflesslandscape, so dreary under falling rain or leaden skies, shone andsparkled under sunshine so warm and bright, that David thought the dayas fine as a day could be, and gave no regrets to the faded glories ofsummer. They set out early, for though the day was fine, the roads werenot, and even with the best of roads, old Don took his frequent journeysin a leisurely and dignified manner, which neither the minister norDavid cared to interfere with unless they were pressed for time. 

They were not to go to the house where old Tim had died, for that was onanother road, and farther away than the red school-house where thefuneral services were to be held, but the school-house was full sevenmiles from home, and they would need nearly two full hours for thejourney. 

David soon found that these hours must be passed in silence. His fatherwas occupied with his own thoughts, and by many signs which his son hadlearned to interpret, it was evident that he was thinking over what hewas going to say to the people that day, and not a word was spoken tillthey came in sight of the school-house. On both sides of the road alongthe fences, many horses and wagons were fastened, and a great manypeople were standing in groups about the door. 

"There will be a great crowd to hear you to-day, papa, " said David, asthey drew near. 

"Yes, " said his father. "God give me a word to speak to some poor soulto-day. "

He went in and the people flocked in after him, and when David, havingtied old Don to his place by the fence, went in also, it was all that hecould do to find standing-room for a while, there were so many there. The plain coffin, without pall or covering, was placed before the deskupon a table, and seated near to it were the few relatives of the dead. Next to them were a number of very old people some of whom could lookback over all old Tim's life, then the friends and neighbours generally, all very grave and attentive as Mr Inglis rose to speak. There weresome there who probably had not heard the Gospel preached for years, some who, except on such an occasion, had not for all that time, heardthe Bible read or a prayer offered. 

"No wonder that papa wishes to have just the right word to say to them, "thought David, as he looked round on them all. 

And he had just the right word for them, and for David, too, and for allthe world. For he set before them "The glorious Gospel of the blessedGod. " He said little of the dead, only that he was a sinner saved bygrace; and then he set forth the glory of that wondrous grace to theliving. "Victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" was his theme--victoryover sin, the world, death. The Gospel of Christ full, free, sufficient, was clearly set before the people that day. 

David listened, as he was rather apt to listen to his father's sermons, not for himself but for others. He heard all that was said, and laid itup in his mind, that he might be able to tell it to his mother at home, as she generally expected him to do; but, at the same time, he wasthinking how all that his father was saying would seem to this or theother man or woman in the congregation who did not often hear his voice. There was less wonder that he should do that to-day because there werea great many strangers there, and for the most part they were listeningattentively. In the little pauses that came now and then, "you mighthave heard a pin fall, " David said afterwards to his mother, and the boyfelt proud that his father should speak so well, and that all the peopleshould be compelled, as it were, to listen so earnestly. This was onlyfor a minute, however. He was ashamed of the thought almostimmediately. For what did it matter whether the people thought well ofhis father or not? And then he tried to make himself believe that hewas only glad for their sakes, that, listening so attentively to truthsso important, they might get good. And then he thought what a grandthing it would be, and how happy it would make his father, if from thisvery day some of these careless people should begin a new life, and ifthe old school-house should be crowded every Sunday to hear his words. But it never came into his mind until the very end, that all that hisfather was saying was just as much for him as for any one there. 

All through the sermon ran the idea of the Christian life being awarfare, and the Christian a soldier, fighting under a Divine Leader;and when, at the close, he spoke of the victory, how certain it was, howcomplete, how satisfying beyond all that heart of man could conceive, David forgot to wonder what all the people might be thinking, so grandand wonderful it seemed. So when a word or two was added about theutter loss and ruin that must overtake all who were not on the side ofthe Divine Leader, in the great army which He led, it touched him, too. It was like a nail fastened in a sure place. It could not be pushedaside, or shaken off, as had happened so many times when fitting wordshad been spoken in his hearing before. They were for him, too, as wellas for the rest--more than for the rest, he said to himself, and theywould not be put away. 

As was the custom in these country places at that time, there was a longpause after the sermon was over. The coffin was opened, and one afteranother went up and looked on the face of the dead, and it seemed toDavid that they would never be done with it, and he rose at last andwent out of doors to wait for his father there. It was but a few stepsto the grave-yard, and the people stood only a minute or two round theopen grave. Then there was a prayer offered, and poor old Tim was leftto his rest. 

"`Poor old Tim, ' no longer, " said David to himself, when they werefairly started on their homeward way again. "Happy Tim, I ought to say. I wonder what he is doing now! He is one of `the spirits of just menmade perfect' by this time. I wonder how it seems to him up there, "said David, looking far up into the blue above him. "It does seem pastbelief. I can't think of him but as a lame old man with a crutch, andthere he is, up among the best of them, singing with a will, as he usedto sing here, only with no drawbacks. It _is_ wonderful. Think of oldTim singing with John, and Paul, and with King David himself. It isqueer to think of it!"

He had a good while to think of it, for his father was silent andpreoccupied still. It had often happened before, that his father beingbusy with his own thoughts, David had to be content with silence, andwith such amusement as he could get from the sights and sounds abouthim, and he had never found that very hard. But he had not been so muchwith him of late because of Frank's visit, and he had so looked forwardto the enjoyment he was to have to-day, that he could not help feeling alittle aggrieved when half their way home had been accomplished withouta word. 

"Papa, " said he, at last, "I wish Frank had been here to-day--to hearyour sermon, I mean. "

"I did not know that Frank had an especial taste for sermons, " said hisfather, smiling. 

"Well, no, I don't think he has; but he would have liked that one--aboutthe Christian warfare, because we have been speaking about it lately. "

And then he went on to tell about the reading on Sunday night, and aboutHobab and all that had been said about the "good warfare" and "the wholearmour, " and how interested Frank had been. He told a little, too, about their conversation on the way to the station, and Mr Inglis couldnot but smile at their making "soldiers" of all the neighbours, and attheir way of illustrating the idea to themselves. By and by Davidadded:

"I wish Frank had heard what you said to-day about victory. It wouldhave come in so well after the talk about the `soldiers' and fighting. He would have liked to hear about the victory. "

"Yes, " said his father, gravely; "it is pleasanter to hear of thevictory than the conflict, but the conflict must come first, Davie, myboy. "

"Yes, papa, I know. "

"And, my boy, the first step to becoming a `soldier' is the enrolling ofthe name. And you know who said `He that is not for me is against me. 'Think what it would be to be found on the other side on the day wheneven Death itself `shall be swallowed up in victory. '"

David made no answer. It was not Mr Inglis's way to speak often inthis manner to his children. He did not make every solemn circumstancein life the occasion for a personal lesson or warning to them, till they"had got used to it, " as children say, and so heard it without heeding. So David could not just listen to his father's words, and let them slipout of his mind again as words of course. He could not put them aside, nor could he say, as some boys might have said at such a time, that hewished to be a soldier of Christ and that he meant to try. For in hisheart he was not sure that he wished to be a soldier of Christ in thesense his father meant, and though he had sometimes said to himself thathe meant to be one, it was sometime in the future--a good while in thefuture, and he would have been mocking himself and his father, too, ifhe had told him that he longed to enrol his name. So he sat beside himwithout a word. 

They had come by this time to the highest point of the road leading toGourlay Centre, at least the highest point where the valley throughwhich the Gourlay river flowed could be seen; and of his own accord oldDon stood still to rest. He always did so at this point, and notaltogether for his own pleasure, for Mr Inglis and David were hardlyever so pressed for time but that they were willing to linger a minuteor two to look down on the valley and the hills beyond. The twovillages could be seen, and the bridge, and a great many fine fieldslying round the scattered farm-houses, and, beyond these, miles andmiles of unbroken forest. David might travel through many lands and seeno fairer landscape, but it did not please him to-night. There was nosunshine on it to-night, and he said to himself that it always neededsunshine. The grey clouds had gathered again, and lay in piled-upmasses veiling the west, and the November wind came sweeping over thehills cold and keen. Mr Inglis shivered, and wrapped his coat closelyabout him, and David touched Don impatiently. The drive had been rathera failure, he thought, and they might as well be getting home. But hehad time for a good many troubled thoughts before they reached thebridge over the Gourlay. 

"To enrol one's name. " He had not done that, and that was the veryfirst step towards becoming a soldier. "He that is not for me isagainst me. " He did not like that at all. He would have liked toexplain that so as to make it mean something else. He would have likedto make himself believe that there was some middle ground. "He that isnot against me is for me. " In one place it said that, and he liked itmuch better. He tried to persuade himself that he was not againstChrist. No, certainly he was not against Him. But was he for Him inthe sense his father meant--in the sense that his father was for Him, and his mother, and a good many others that came into his mind? Had hedeliberately enrolled his name as one of the great army whom Christwould lead to victory?

But then how could he do this? He could not do it, he said to himself. It was God's work to convert the soul, and had not his father saidwithin the hour, "It is God that giveth the victory?" Had he not saidthat salvation was all of grace from beginning to end--that it was agift--"God's gift. " What more could be said?

But David knew in his heart that a great deal more could be said. Heknew great as this gift was--full and free as it was, he had never askedfor it--never really desired it. He desired to be saved from theconsequences of sin, as who does not? but he did not long to be savedfrom sin itself and its power in the heart, as they must be whom Godsaves. He did not feel that he needed this. If he was not "for Christ"in the sense his father and mother were for Him, still the thought cameback--surely he was _not_ against Him; even though it might not bepleasant for him to think of giving up all for Christ--to "take up hiscross and follow Him, " still he was not "against Him. "

Oh! if there only were some other way! If people could enlist in a realarmy, and march away to fight real battles, as men used to do in thetimes when they fought for the Cross and the possession of the holySepulchre! "Or, rather, as they seemed to be fighting for them, " saidDavid, with a sigh, for he knew that pride and envy and the lust forpower, too often reigned in the hearts of them who in those days hadChrist's name and honour on their lips; and that the cause of the Crosswas made the means to the winning of unworthy ends. Still, if one couldonly engage sincerely in some great cause with all their hearts, andlabour and strive for it for Christ's sake, it would be an easier way, he thought. 

Or if he could have lived in the times of persecution, or in the timeswhen Christian men fought at once for civil and religious freedom! Oh!that would have been grand! He would have sought no middle course then. He would have fought, and suffered, and conquered like a hero in suchdays as those. Of course such days could never come back again, but ifthey could!

And then he let his mind wander away in dreams, as to how if such timesever were to come back again, he would be strong and wise, andcourageous for the right--how he would stand by his father, and shieldhis mother, and be a defence and protection to all who were weak orafraid. Bad men should fear him, good men should honour--his nameshould be a watchword to those who were on the Lord's side. 

It would never do to write down all the foolish thoughts that David hadon his way home that afternoon. He knew that they were foolish, andworse than foolish, when he came out of them with a start as old Donmade his accustomed little demonstration of energy and speed as theycame to the little hill by the bridge, not far from home. He knew thatthey were foolish, and he could not help glancing up into his father'sface with a little confusion, as if he had known his thoughts all thetime. 

"Are you tired, papa?--and cold?" asked he. 

"I am a little cold. But here we are at home. It is always good to gethome again. "

"Yes, " said David, springing down. "I am glad to get home. "

He had a feeling of relief which he was not willing to acknowledge evento himself. He could put away troubled thoughts now. Indeed they wentaway of themselves without an effort, the moment Jem hailed him from thehouse. They came again, however, when the children being all in bed, and his father not come down from the study, his mother asked him aboutold Tim's funeral, and the people who were there, and what his fatherhad said to them. He told her about it, and surprised her and himselftoo, by the clearness and accuracy with which he went over the wholeaddress. He grew quite eager about it, and told her how the peoplelistened, and how "you might have heard a pin fall" in the little pausesthat came now and then. And when he had done, he said to her as he hadsaid to his father:

"I wish Frank had been there to hear all that papa said about victory, "and then, remembering how his father had answered him, his troubledthoughts came back again, and his face grew grave. 

"But it was good for you to hear it, Davie, " said his mother. 

"Yes, " said David, uneasily, thinking she was going to say more. Butshe did not, and he did not linger much longer down-stairs. He said hewas tired and sleepy with his long drive in the cold, and he would go tobed. So carrying them with him, he went up-stairs, where Jem wassleeping quite too soundly to be wakened for a talk, and they stayedwith him till he went to sleep, which was not for a long time. Theywere all gone in the morning, however. A night's sleep and a morningbrilliant with sunshine are quite enough to put painful thoughts out ofthe mind of a boy of fourteen--for the time, at least, and David had nomore trouble with his, till Miss Bethia Barnes, coming to visit them oneafternoon, asked him about Mr Bent's funeral and the bearers andmourners, and about his father's text and sermon, and then they cameback to him again. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a gooddeal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about halfway between the two village's. She was generally called Aunt Bethia bythe neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a goodwoman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To dojust exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the firstwish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody elseshould do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she wasnot only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for thatof all with whom she came in contact. 

Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do whatmay be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But peoplecannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia'sadvances in that direction were too often made in a way which first ofall excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. Thiswas almost always the case where the young people of the village wereconcerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed herplain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it wasknown besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of herkindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take thesethings into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite withthem. 

So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoonat the minister's house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. EvenAunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily thechild's pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake ofmaple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady'sattention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him alittle to think that his father and mother being away from home, theirvisitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however. 

"I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry's; but I hadmade my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I'd come. They'll be coming home to-night, I expect?" added she, as she untied herbonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit. 

"Yes, " said David, hesitating. "They are coming home to-night--Ithink. "

He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, butit seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detainthem if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mindthat if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go andvisit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. Thatwould be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at thebook he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia hadquite other thoughts. 

"Well, it can't be helped. They'll be home to-morrow if they don't cometo-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admireto!" said Miss Bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed overDavid's face. 

"Violet is at school, " said he, "and all the rest. "

"Best place for them, " said Miss Bethia. "Where is Debby?"

"She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick. "

"She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try andget along without her this winter. That won't pay. `Penny wise andpound foolish' that would be, " said Miss Bethia. 

David said nothing to this. 

"Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. Ambition ain't strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parishvisiting--that's burning the candle at both ends. That don't _ever_pay. "

"Mamma knows best what to do, " said David, with some offence in hisvoice. 

"She knows better than you, I presume, " said the visitor. "Ah! yes. She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can'talways do what they know is best. We've got to do the best we can in_this_ world--and there's none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, didshe? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought tocalculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn't you better put onthe flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?"

"Mamma said nothing about it, " said David. 

"No, it ain't likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought toknow without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I'll make abeginning. We'll have just as good a visit. "

David laughed. He could not help it. "A good visit, " said he tohimself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble forMiss Bethia. 

"Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure, " said she. "Anddon't you worry. Your mother's clothes will bear to be looked at. Patches ain't a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can't you! We can visit all the same. "

It was Miss Bethia's way to take the reins in her own hand wherever shewas, and David could not have prevented her if he had tried, which hedid not. He could only do as he was bidden. In a much shorter timethan Debby would have taken, David thought, all preliminary arrangementswere made, and Miss Bethia was busy at work. Little Mary stood on astool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with alittle iron of her own. 

"Now this is what I call a kind of pleasant, " said Miss Bethia. "Nowlet's have a good visit before the children come home. "

"Shall I read to you?" said David, a little at a loss as to what mightbe expected from him in the way of entertainment. 

"Well--no. I can read to myself at home, and I would rather talk if youhad just as lief. "

And she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old Mr Bent's death. 

"I'd have given considerable to have gone to the funeral, " said she. "I've known Timothy Bent for over forty years, and I'd have liked to seethe last of him. I thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn'ttake me over when he went, but I thought perhaps your mamma would wantto go. Did she?"

No, David said; he had driven his father over. 

"Your papa preached, did he?" and then followed a great many questionsabout the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about thetext and the sermon. And then she added a hope that he "realised" thevalue of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so manyopportunities to hear his father preach. And when she said this, Davidknew that she was going to give him the "serious talking to" which shealways felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of thefamilies where she visited. 

They always expected it. Davie and Jem used to compare notes aboutthese "talks, " and used to boast to one another about the methods theytook to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. But when Miss Bethia spoke about Mr Bent and the funeral, it broughtback the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, andall the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. So insteadof shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with somethingelse, as he had often done under Miss Bethia's threatening lectures, hesat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in herturn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went onwith her work. 

"Yes, " she went on in a little, "it is a great privilege you have, andthat was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion--but you did not tellme the text. "

David told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. He told itso well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in alittle Miss Bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. Jem came in before he was through. 

"Well! well! I feel just as if I had been to meeting, " said MissBethia. 

"Well done, Davie!" said Jem. "Isn't our Davie a smart boy, AuntBethia? I wish Frank could have heard that. "

"Yes, so I told papa, " said David, gravely. 

"It is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys--" began Miss Bethia. 

"As Davie has, you mean, Miss Bethia, " said Jem. "He goes with papaalmost always--"

"And as you have, too. Take care that you don't neglect them, so thatthey may not rise up in judgment against you some day--"

But Miss Bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands withViolet, who came in with her little brother and sister. Jem laughed atthe blank look in his sister's face. 

"Miss Bethia has commenced your ironing for you, " said he. 

"Yes--I see. You shouldn't have troubled yourself about it, MissBethia. "

"I guess I know pretty well by this time what I should do, and what Ishould let alone, " said Miss Bethia, sharply, not pleased with the lookon Violet's face, or the heartiness of her greeting. "It was yourmother I was thinking of. I expect the heft of Debby's work will fallon her. "

"Debby will be back to-morrow or next day, I hope, " said Violet. "Butit was very kind of you to do it, Miss Bethia, and I will begin in aminute. "

"You had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of theway; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can dothe rest. I expect the children want their supper by this time, " saidMiss Bethia. 

"Yes, I dare say it would be better. "

Violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent MissBethia's tone of command. And besides, she knew it would do no good toresent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and herout-of-door's dress, and Miss Bethia turned her attention to the boysagain. 

"Yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, David, I am glad to see thatyou must have paid good attention to remember it so well. I hope it maydo you good, and all who heard it. "

"Our Davie won't make a bad preacher himself, will he, Miss Bethia?"said Jem. "He has about made up his mind to it now. "

"His making up his mind don't amount to much, one way or the other, "said Miss Bethia. "Boys' minds are soon made up, but they ain't apt tostay made up--not to anything but foolishness. That's my belief, andI've seen a good many boys at one time and another. "

"But that's not the way with our Davie, " said Jem. "You wouldn't findmany boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well ashe does. Now would you, Aunt Bethia?"

"Nonsense, Jem, that's enough, " said Davie. "He's chaffing, AuntBethia. "

"He's entirely welcome, " said Miss Bethia, smiling grimly. "Though Idon't see anything funny in the idea of David's being a minister, or youeither, for that matter. "

"Funny! No. Anything but funny! A very serious matter that would be, "said Jem. "We couldn't afford to have so many ministers in the family, Miss Bethia. I am not going to be a minister. I am going to make a lotof money and be a rich man, and then I'll buy a house for papa, and sendDavie's boys to college. "

They all laughed. 

"You may laugh, but you'll see, " said Jem. "I am not going to be aminister. Hard work and poor pay. I have seen too much of that, MissBethia. "

He was "chaffing" her. Miss Bethia knew it quite well, and though shehad said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she couldnot see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful norpolite on Jem's part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. Andbesides this was a sore subject with Miss Bethia--the poverty ofministers. She had at one time or another spent a great many of hervaluable words on those who were supposed to be influential in theguidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairswere not managed as they ought to be. There was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made andkept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary andsupport, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their ministershould find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts--sometimes the necessaries of life--for his family. 

That was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but MissBethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired ofputting it. 

"The labourer is worthy of his hire. "

"They that serve the temple must live by the temple. " And with a houseto keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that MrInglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were tobe educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should betaken away. 

There was no theme on which Miss Bethia was so eloquent as this, and shewas eloquent on most themes. She never tired of this one, and answeredall excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as ageneral thing, silenced, if they did not convince. Whether she helpedher cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. She tookgreat credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as shehad not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not inthe future be found wanting in this respect. 

But it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard totheir minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad likeJem making disparaging remarks as to a minister's possessions andprospects. "Hard work and poor pay, " said Jem, and she felt very muchlike resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she wasone. Jem needed putting down. 

"Your pa wouldn't say so. He ain't one to wish to serve two masters. He ain't a mammon worshipper, " said Miss Bethia, solemnly. 

"No!" said Jem, opening his eyes very wide. "And I don't intend to beone either. I intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a richman. "

"Don't, Jem, " said Violet, softly. She meant "Don't vex Miss Bethia, "as Jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said:

"Don't do what? Become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? Don't besilly, Letty. "

"Jem's going to be a blacksmith, " said Edward. "You needn't laugh. Heput a shoe on Mr Strong's old Jerry the other day. I saw him do it. "

"Pooh, " said Jem. "That's nothing. Anybody could do that. I am goingto make a steam-engine some day. "

"You're a smart boy, if we are to believe you, " said Miss Bethia. "DidMr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse'sshoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it. "

"One must begin with somebody's horse, you know. And Peter Munro saidhe couldn't have done it better himself, " said Jem, triumphantly. 

"Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that's about all he does know. He ought to know that you might be about better business than hangingabout his shop, learning no good. "

"Horseshoes no good!" said Jem, laughing. 

"Jem, dear!" pleaded Violet. 

"But it's dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully ofhorseshoes, " said Jem. 

"I think there's something more to be expected from your father's sonthan horseshoes, " said Miss Bethia. 

"But horseshoes may do for a beginning, " said David. "And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?"

"And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay betterthan good ones, " said Jem. "And I'm bound to be a rich man. You'llsee, Miss Bethia. "

Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen whenhe became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his fatherwas to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather wascold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the wayof dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, andthere should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to thegrave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour sheliked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of funand laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet calledthem to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her seriouslecture for that time. 

After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was aspleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, MissBethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with theirlessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could bedelaying the return home of their father and mother, there came amessenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than MrSpry's, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home thatnight, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time ofgoing to bed. 

There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, andlittle Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry. 

"I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night, " said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. "Never mind, Polly. Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her thatwe have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, butquite the contrary. "

"I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have sether mind at rest about you all, " said Miss Bethia. 

The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been nouse in saying so. 

"Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will besorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia, " said Violet. 

"She won't miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home. And now hadn't you better put the children to bed before you set down?"

But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of puttingthemselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o'clock, asthey declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said aboutit. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia wouldhave counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sentto bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absenceof mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and byundressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, andmurmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgotthat there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie. 

As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether itcould be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so oftenconsidered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. Shewas not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to doher duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke andcorrection, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, andthese things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boyswere concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister'shands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her "good words"as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite anew sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He hadpleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about hisfather's sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasurethen, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and hisbrother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made oftheir privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged toherself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy. David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words shespoke. 

"Put her to bed, " said she. "She'll take cold. "

"Yes, I will, " said David, but he did not move to do it. "Miss Bethia, "said he in a little, "if wee Polly were to die to-night and go toHeaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she isnow?"

Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise. 

"What on earth put that into your head?" said she, hastily. 

"Look at her, " said David. "It doesn't seem as though she could be anysweeter even in Heaven, does it?"

Violet came and knelt down beside her brother. 

"Is she not a precious darling?" said she, kissing her softly. 

"It isn't much we know about how folks will look in heaven, " said MissBethia, gravely. 

"No, " said David. "Only that we shall be like Him, for we shall see Himas He is. "

"If we ever get there, " said Miss Bethia. 

"Yes, if we ever get there, " said David. "But if our little Polly wereto die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what I would liketo know is, whether she would always be little Polly there, so that whenthe rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without beingtold. "

"She would have a new name given her, " said Violet. 

"Yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. Butshe might have all that and be our little Polly still. I wonder how itwill be. What do you think, Miss Bethia?"

"I haven't thought about it. I don't seem to remember that there isanything said about it in the Bible. And there is no other way ofknowing anything about it--as I see. "

"No. Still one cannot but think of these things. Don't you remember, Violet?

 "Not as child shall we again behold her, But when with rapture wild. In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child. "

"Yes. " Violet remembered the words, and added:

 "But a fair maiden in our Father's mansion. "

"I don't like to think that may be the way. "

"But that ain't in the Bible, " said Miss Bethia. 

"No, " said David. "And I like best the idea of there being littlechildren there. Of course there are children now, because they aregoing there every day. But if they grow up there--afterwards, when theend comes, there will be no little children. "

"How you talk!" said Aunt Bethia. "I don't more than half believe thatit's right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don't sayany thing about it, it is a sign it's something we needn't worry about, for we don't need to know it. "

"No, we don't need to worry about it, " said David. "But one cannot helphaving such thoughts in their minds sometimes. "

There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by herbrother's side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby's lovelyface. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first. 

"I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I rememberhow she looked as well as I remember my mother's face, and she didn'tdie till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were tosee her. It would seem queer to see us together--twins so--wouldn'tit?--she a child and me an old woman, " said Miss Bethia, with somethinglike a sob in her voice. "It will be all in her favour--the difference, I mean. "

"`Whom the gods love die young, '" said David. "But that is a Pagansentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to theman who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time tostrike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to beable to say like Paul, `I have fought the good fight; I have kept thefaith. ' And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than yourlittle sister's, after all. "

"It will owe none of its brightness to me, " said Miss Bethia, withsudden humility. "And I don't suppose I shall begrudge the brightnessof other folks' crowns when I get there, if I ever do. "

In the pause that followed, David went and laid the baby in her cot, andwhen he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. Theyall had something to say about what they should see and do, and thepeople they should meet with when they got there. But it would not bearrepeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talkof other things, and Jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh athis funny sayings, and even Violet smiled sometimes. But David was verygrave and quiet, and Miss Bethia, for a good while, did not seem to heara word, or to notice what was going on. 

But by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, andshe roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about"privileges and responsibilities, " and then went on to tell howdifferent every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew itshe was giving them her own history. There was not much to tell. Thatis, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hardwork, many trials and disappointments--and many blessings as well. 

"And, " said Aunt Bethia, "if I were to undertake, I couldn't always tellyou which was which. For sometimes the things I wished most for, andworked hardest to get, didn't amount to but very little when I got them. And the things I was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turnedright round into blessings, as soon as I came near enough to touch them. And I tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it's worthwhile being afraid of but sin. You can't be too much afraid of that. It is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times asthese. But there's no good talking. Each one must learn for himself;and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teachthem how to live. I don't suppose there's any thing I could say to youthat would make much difference. Talk don't seem to amount to much, anyway. "

"I am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, Miss Bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good, " said Violet, butshe did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond ofMiss Bethia's good advice any more than her brothers; and little Jessiegot them happily out of the difficulty, by asking:

"What did you use to do when you were a little girl, Aunt Bethia?"

"Pretty much what other little girls did. We lived down in NewHampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, ismore than I can tell. I had a hard time after we came up here. Ihelped father and the boys to clear up our farm. I used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. I keptschool twenty-one seasons, off and on. I didn't know much, but a littlewent a great way in those days. I used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week's spinning or weaving, as well. I was strongand smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. After a while, my brothers moved out West, and I had to stay at home with father andmother, and pretty soon mother died. I have been on the old place eversince. It is ten years since father died. I've stayed there alone mostof the time since, and I suppose I shall till my time comes. Andchildren, I've found out that life don't amount to much, except as it isspent as a time of preparation--and for the chance it gives you to dogood to your neighbours; and it ain't a great while since I knew that, only as I heard folks say it. It ain't much I've done of it. "

There was nothing said for a minute or two, and then Ned made them alllaugh by asking, gravely:

"Miss Bethia, are you very rich?"

Miss Bethia laughed, too. 

"Why, yes; I suppose I may say I am rich. I've got all I shall everwant to spend, and more, too. I've got all I want, and that's more thanmost folks who are called rich can say. And I have earned all I've got. But it ain't what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makeslife pleasant to look back upon. "

"It is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however, " said Jem. 

"And people can do good with their money, " said Violet. 

"Yes, that is true; but money don't stand for everything, even to dogood with. Money won't stand instead of a life spent in God's service. Money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. Moneywon't go a great ways in the making of happiness, without somethingelse. "

"Would you like to live your life over again, Miss Bethia?" askedViolet. 

"No--I shouldn't. Not unless I could live it a great deal better. AndI know myself too well by this time to suppose I should do that. Itwouldn't pay, I don't believe. But oh! children, it is a grand thing tobe young, to have your whole life before you to give to the Lord. Youcan't begin too young. Boys, and you, too, Violet--you have greatprivileges and responsibilities. "

This was Miss Bethia's favourite way of putting their duty before them. She had said this about "privilege and responsibility" two or threetimes to-night already, as the boys knew she would. It had come to be aby-word among them. But even Jem did not smile this time, she was somuch in earnest, and Violet and David looked very grave. 

"`Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life. ' That's whatyou've got to do. `Take the whole armour of God, ' and fight Hisbattles. "

The boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said aboutthis of late. 

"Your father said right. It is a grand thing to come to the end of lifeand be able to say, `I have fought the good fight; I have kept thefaith. '"

"Like Mr Great Heart in the Pilgrim's Progress, " said Ned. 

"Yes. Sometimes it's lions, and sometimes it's giants, but it'sfighting all the way through, and God gives the victory. Yes, "continued Miss Bethia, after a pause, "it's fighting all the waythrough, and it don't so much matter how it looks to other folks. Horseshoes or sermons, it don't matter, so that it is done to the Lord. Your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps theLord's cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. There's enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you cando, and the better it will be--And I'm sure it's time these childrenwere in bed now. "

Yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not govery willingly for all that. 

"Obedience is the first duty of a soldier, Ned, boy, " said Jem. 

"If we could only know that we were soldiers, " said David, gravely; andthen he added to himself, "The very first thing is to enrol one's name. "

"I wonder all the girls don't like Aunt Bethia more, " said Jessie, whenViolet came up to take her candle in a little. "I'm sure she's nice--sometimes. "

"Yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant, " saidViolet. "And I'm not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. Good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams. "

Upon the whole, Miss Bethia's visit was a success. Mr and Mrs Ingliscame home next day to find her and little Mary in possession of thehouse. David was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all theothers had gone to school. Violet had proposed to stay at home toentertain their guest, but this Miss Bethia would not hear of. The babyand she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to saynothing of David, upon whom Miss Bethia was evidently beginning to lookwith eyes of favour. They had not got tired of one another when mammacame to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to David or hislittle sister when mamma was at hand. 

Mr Inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to hisstudy and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa andtalk with--or rather listen to, Miss Bethia. This was a great pleasureto her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, therespect was mutual. So they discussed parish matters a little; and allthe wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed agood deal. There was a new book, too, which Miss Bethia had got--a veryinteresting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quitesure till she had discussed it with the minister. There were newthoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and shewanted his help in Comparing it with the only standard of truth in theopinion of both. 

So the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of hervisit, though in a different way. There were no signs of Debby'sreturn, but Mrs Inglis had, in the course of her married life, been toooften left to her own resources to make this a matter of muchconsequence for a few days. The house was as orderly, and the mealswere as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were leftundone because of Debby's absence and Miss Bethia's presence in thehouse, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that MissBethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knewjust when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth ahelping hand. Her visits, as a general thing, were not without somedrawbacks, and if Mrs Inglis had had her choice, she would havepreferred that this one should have taken place when Debby's presence inthe kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. But thiswas a visit altogether pleasant. There was not even the little jarringand uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in thechildren, and her efforts in their behalf. Not that she neglected themor their affairs. David, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that hereye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation wasmore silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she didmore than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined toresent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. She did notoverlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about hisbooks, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going tocollege, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his backpraised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, ofcourse, pleased his mother, and made David himself laugh heartily whenhe heard of it. 

Still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to bealone again, when it came to an end, and little Jessie expressed whatthe others only thought when she said:

"It's nice to have Miss Bethia come once in a while, and it's nice tohave her go away, too. "

Debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible asusual in her absence. They hoped to have her again, by and by, so noeffort was made to supply her place. If she could not come back, Violetwould possibly have to stay at home after the Christmas holidays to helpin the house, and in the meantime, David did what "a sensible, well-behaved boy" might be expected to do, to supply her place. Andthat was a great deal. David was a manly boy, and he was none the lessmanly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are notgenerally supposed to like to do. What those things were, need not betold, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him. 

Indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, David himselfhad some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to himto do about this time, and did not care that his morning's occupationsshould be alluded to often, before Jem and Ned. But he had no doubt asto the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when sheneeded both even more than he knew. It is a manly thing in a boy to behis mother's "right hand, " and David was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together. 

For they were happy days to them all. In spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bearthan these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

Winter came early this year. Even before November was out, thesleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and duringDecember more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any timewithin the memory of "the oldest inhabitant. " And after the snow camethe wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainousdrifts in the hollows through which the North Gore road passed, beforeit crossed Hardscrabble hill. It piled it up on Hardscrabble, too, andon all the hills, so that even if Mr Inglis had been quite well, hecould hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way ofvisiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do. 

For usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work, the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and backsettlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and justenough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. But thisyear, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in someplaces, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and whatwith the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roadswere narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. MrInglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, butthe cold he had taken on the stormy night when old Mr Bent died, hadnever quite left him. He did not call himself ill, though his nightswere restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine, he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and wasstill falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it upin the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stayat home and rest. 

It was rest he needed. He was not ill--only tired, so tired that he didnot care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that heloved so well, and, for the most part, David read to him. These werehappy days to David. Generally in the quiet afternoons, when thechildren were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma's room, andmamma listened to the reading, too, with little Mary playing out and inof the room beside them. But on the long evenings they usually satup-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now andthen. Sometimes there was no reading, and David went on with hislessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes, thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people whenthe Sabbath came round again. 

Sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day'scares and labours, had gone to rest, David sat with his father far intothe night. A prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time, seems worse to bear than positive illness, Mr Inglis dreaded his bed, and David was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. Sometimes heread to him, but oftener they talked, and David heard a great manythings about his father's life, that he never would have heard but forthis time. His father told him about his early home, and his brothersand sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows--how dearly they hadloved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. He told him abouthis mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how theyhad loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now, and nothing that his father told him filled David's heart with suchwonder and pleasure, as did this. And when he added, one night, that tohim--her first-born son--his mother must always trust, as her strengthand "right hand, " he could only find voice to say "Of course, papa, " forthe joyful throbbing of his heart. David used to tell Violet and Jemsome things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this henever told. He mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happytears upon his face, and told himself that his mother's strength and"right hand, " he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that thetime might be drawing near which was to give significance to hisfather's words. 

And so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. Mr Inglispreached on Sunday as usual, every Sunday at the village, and everyalternate Sunday at the Mills and at North Gore. He was quite able todo it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid daysstill, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, andeverything went on as usual in the house. In the village there began tobe whispers that it was time for the annual "Donation Visit" to theminister's family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much ofthe prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their headstogether to consult as to how this visit might be made successful inevery respect--a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for thepleasure and profit it was to bring. But before this--before the oldyear had come to an end, something else had happened--something that wasconsidered a great event in the Inglis family. They had had severalletters from Frank Oswald since his going home, but one day there came aparcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good manythings which were to be accepted by the young Inglises as Christmasgifts. These were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing, but they need not be specified. That which gave more satisfaction toeach than all the other things put together, was marked, "With Frank'slove to Aunt Mary. " And if he had searched through all the city for agift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half sowell. For added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure ofgiving. The present was what she had been wishing for two or threewinters past--a fur coat for her husband. It was not a very handsomecoat. That is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimesrich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort. It was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to thecold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttonedit round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight. 

"We need not be afraid of Hardscrabble winds any more, papa, " saidDavid. 

"I should think not. `Blow winds and crack your cheeks, '" said Jem, laughing. 

Little Mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in hisunaccustomed garb, but Ned laughed at her, and made her look at Violet, who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she lovedit; and Jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she becamea rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers. 

It is possible that some young people, and even some people not young, may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so muchinterest and delight in so small a matter. It can only be said of them, that there are some things happening every day in the world, that suchpeople don't know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. That a goodwoman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for thegarment much desired--absolutely necessary for the health and comfort ofher husband, need not surprise any one. It has happened to other thanministers' wives many a time, I suppose. I know it has happened to someof _them_. It happened once, certainly, in the experience of MrsInglis, and her delight in Frank's present was as real, though not sofreely expressed, as was that of her children. It came with less ofdrawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. Itcame from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from onewhom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he saidthat the pleasure of his son Frank--whose present he wished it to beconsidered--was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be inreceiving it. Then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, andhopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of eachother in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and, altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in thecircumstances. 

But few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. Even while MrsInglis was rejoicing over her husband's future comfort, and the removalof her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself, as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, "If it had onlycome a little sooner!" But she did not spoil the enjoyment of the restby uttering her thoughts. Indeed, she was displeased with herself, calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought withearnestness to put them out of her mind. 

There was something else in the letter sent by Mr Oswald, which, forthe present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discusswith the children. This was the offer made to them for David, of thesituation as junior clerk in the bank of which Mr Oswald was managingdirector. There was no immediate necessity of deciding about thematter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father andmother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights, before they said anything about it to David. He was already nearlyfitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other, means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter atonce, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a longtime yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many studentsare able to do, by teaching in the public schools. So it seemed likelythat this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him forthe next few years. However, there were many things to be consideredwith regard to it. It might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of hisstudies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anythingto be said about his leaving home just now. So they were silent, andthe old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went onas usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near. 

Donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for wehave the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, andonly mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what isgraciously bestowed. That they often fail to be so, arises lessfrequently from the lack of "graciousness" on the part of either pastoror people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are oftenundertaken is a mistaken one--the design to thus supplement someacknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister's salary. Itoften happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor andhis family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded ofthe mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfullyconferred and gratefully received. 

The parish of Gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard tothese matters. They were not a rich people. The salary of theirminister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it wasscant enough considering the requirements of the minister's family. Itwas not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form orother, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister'shouse in the course of the year. So that the donation visit was notmade for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people thatthe salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-willon the part of all. 

If it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will inthe form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been moreagreeable to Mr Inglis. Still, he knew that more could be done on anoccasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of thepeople who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate wayof annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidencein their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligationin receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was everpermitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the peoplewere concerned. In short, the minister and his wife had come toconsider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances inlife out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they aremade the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they hadbeen making the best of them for a good many years now, they werejustified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment fromthis one. 

As for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment inconnection with it. To them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of thepreparations, was great fun. Some overturning was absolutely necessaryfor the entertainment of about a third more people than the house couldconveniently hold. So there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. For all the house mustbe thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not sodelightful to the mother as to the children. The prospect of the crowdwas delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way ofpresents. Besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, andIndian meal, there was a possibility of something particular andpersonal to every one of them--chickens, or mittens, or even a book. Once Jem had got a jack-knife, and David a year of "The Youth'sCompanion. " Last year Violet had got a new dress from Mrs Smith, andJem a pair of boots. Very good boots they had been--they were not badyet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to Jem. However nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by Master Smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not atall nice; and Jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on aslight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sortof thing on Master Smith's part. There was no danger, he thought, ofgetting any more boots from Mrs Smith, and all the people were not likeher and her son. 

Out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in Jem's mind someserious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. David and Violet had had them before, but they were not so ready tospeak of these things as Jem was; or rather as Jem would have been ifhis conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of MasterSmith. 

"There would be no good in troubling mamma with it, " said Jem, and sothere had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature tospoil the prospect of the visit to them. Great fun was anticipated asusual. Debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back toassist in the general confusion. 

"There shall be no talk of `allowances' this time, " said Debby; andcellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put throughsuch a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatesthouse-keeper in Gourlay could have the least chance or excuse forhinting that any "allowances" were needed. Debby's honour as ahouse-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of Mrs Inglis. 

"It seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot, " saidDebby; "and I wish to goodness sister Serepta would get well, or dosomething else. I mean, I wish she would go and stay to Uncle Jason's, or have Aunt Myra come and stay with her. I'm thankful your ma's gotalong so far, without any of those shiftless Simmses or Martins in tohelp her. But she's looking a kind of used up, ain't she? And it beatsall how your pa's cold hangs on, don't it?"

"Oh! papa is much better, " said David, eagerly, "and mamma is quitewell. She is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, andrests. She knows it will be all right. "

"That's so, " said Debby, "and she can't do better. "

And, indeed, she could not. Her affairs were in good hands. Debby was"as smart as a trap, " and capable of anything in the way ofhouse-keeping duties. And though not blessed with the mildest temper--people "as smart as traps" seldom are--she had the faculty of adaptingherself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family inwhich she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. She wasquite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervousinvalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on theoccasion. 

"It's to be hoped it will amount to something this time, " said she. "All this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that's a fact. Itwould suit better all round, if they'd pay your pa at first, and havedone with it. I don't believe in presents myself--not till folks' debtsare paid at any rate, " said Debby, looking at the subject from theminister's family's point of view. "But I ain't going to begin on that. Miss Bethia--she's been letting in the light on some folks' mind, butas this visit has got to be, I only hope we'll get enough to pay us forour trouble; and I wish it were well over. "

The eventful evening came at last. It would be quite impossible to givehere a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and givenand received that night. It was a very successful visit, whetherconsidered socially, or with reference to the results in the way ofdonations. Afterwards--a good while afterwards--they all used to thinkand speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. It was not without itslittle drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even atthe time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. Jem had a littleencounter with Mrs Smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment, but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. She did not seemto resent his conduct about the boots. On the contrary, she placed himunder still further obligations to her by presenting him with the"makings" of a jacket, which Jem accepted shamefacedly, but stillgratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he hadconfided to David, to decline all further favours from her with thanks. 

David enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyedit, and so did Violet, and for another reason besides. For the veryfirst time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-upyoung lady, and a little girl no longer. This was delightful to Violet, who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had alwaysbeen one of the children like all the rest. It was old Mrs Kerr, fromthe Gore Corner, who spoke to her about it first. 

"A great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, andwith the children and all, " said that nice old lady. "It's a fine thingto have a grown-up daughter in the house. Only the chances are you'lljust go and leave her, as mine have done. "

Violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at thethought of going away to leave her mother one day, as Mrs Kerr'sdaughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been muchhelp to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping--not halfso much as Davie had been since Debby went away. For Letty was veryfond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination hadencouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she wasinclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think ofher what was not true. 

"Never mind. It will come in good time. And there's small blame to youfor liking the books best, since you're your father's child, as well asyour mother's, " said Mrs Kerr, kindly. "And, indeed, they say folk canmake hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there's nofear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and yougrowing so womanly and big withal. "

It was a very successful visit in every way. There never had been somany people present on such an occasion before; there never had been somany nice things brought and eaten. The coffee was good, and so was thetea, and the singing. The young people had a good time together, and sohad the old people. The donations were of greater value than usual, andwhen he presented the money part of it to Mr Inglis, Mr Spry made aspeech, which would have been very good "if he had known when he haddone, and stopped, " Debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad asit was. And the minister certainly made a good speech when he receivedit. 

He did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, butthey were just the right words, and "touched the spot, " Debby said toMiss Bethia, who agreed. And then he went on to say what proved tothese two, and to them all, that there was something for which he caredmore than he cared for what they had to give. And they all rememberedafterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playfulwords that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of thecongregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he didspeak to them were such as some of them will never forget while theylive. 

It was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, andthey awoke to a comfortless house next day. The boys helped to take outthe boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back totheir places the furniture that had been removed, and then the childrenwent to school. Violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange thehouse, but Debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was notcomplimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in suchmatters, so Letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. It was anuncomfortable day. Mr Inglis had taken more cold, at least his coughwas worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and David was glad whenthe time came that he could stay there too. However, there came orderout of the confusion at last. It was a good job well over, Debbydeclared, and all agreed with her. 

"I hate to go as bad as you hate to have me, " said she, in answer toLetty's lamentations over her departure. "I don't know but your motherhad better have one of those shiftless Simmses than nobody at all. There's considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobodyknows better than me; and I hadn't the responsibility of mother'smeetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. If I were you, I'dtake right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, andexamination, and such, for your ma's got more than she ought to do. Imust try and doctor Serepta up, so as to get back again, or there'll besomething to pay. Well, good-bye! I'll be down next week, if I can fixit so, to see how you're getting along. "

Letty stood looking after her disconsolately. To stay at home fromschool, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination, were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of thedistasteful housework. Still, if her mother needed her, she ought to doit, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. But shedid not need to do it. It was of more importance that she should get onwith her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by andby, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, andso for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before. 

David helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great manythings which at first he had not liked to do at all. He did not get onwith his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had lesstime than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interesthimself in what he was doing. David sometimes grumbled a little to Jemabout it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before NedHunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he saidsomething of the kind to his mother. But that was a very small matter, in her opinion. 

"For after all, Davie, my boy, the Greek, and Latin, and mathematics youare so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline--as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in theworld. And I am not sure but that the discipline of little cares anduncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer thepurpose quite as well. At any rate, the wish to get on with yourstudies for the sake of excelling Ned Hunter, is not very creditable. "

"No, mamma. But still I think it is worth something to be able to keepup with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools, and I here at home all the time. Don't you think so, mamma?"

"Well!--perhaps so. But the advantages are not all on Ned's side. Yourfather's help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worthmore to you than any school could have been. "

"That's true, mamma, " said Davie, heartily. "And it is not like havinglessons--tasks, I mean--to study with papa. It is pure pleasure. Andthat is more than Ned can say, I am afraid, " added he, laughing. 

"And, besides, I don't think these things would have troubled you muchunder any circumstances; and, as I said before, the self-denial you havehad to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studieswould be. "

"Self-denial, mamma! Why, I think we have had a very happy winter, sofar!"

"Indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wisheddifferent. And, Davie, you must not think you have been losing time. Aboy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father andmother. And self-denial is a better thing to learn even than Greek. Ifyou live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, Ihave no doubt. "

David laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother's words. 

"I am glad that you think so--I mean that I have been a comfort. But asfor the self-denial, I don't believe any of the boys have had a bettertime than I have had this winter. If papa were only well! But he isbetter now, mamma?"

"Yes; I hope so. If it were May instead of January, I should not beafraid. "

"Have you been afraid, mamma? Are you afraid?" asked David, startled. 

"No--not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, I am becoming less soevery day. "

And there seemed less cause. Wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur anddriven by David, the minister went here and there among his people, justas usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not moretired at such times than he had often been before. He preached onSunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations aswell, and David might well say these were happy days. 

Yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of thesorrowful days that came after them. Not but that the sorrowful dayswere happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days whichneither David nor his mother would be willing ever to forget. 

Young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes thinkand say, that at least all such should be left out of books. I shouldsay so, too, if they could also be kept out of one's life, but sorrowfuldays will not be kept away by trying to forget them. And besides, lifeitself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such havecome, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. It doesnot need any words of mine to prove that God does not send them in angerto his people, but in love. We have His own word for that, repeatedagain and again. And if we did but know it, there are many days towhich we look forward--which we hail with joyful welcome, of which wehave more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sentus by God. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

February came in with wind and rain--a sudden thaw, levelling the greatdrifts, and sending down through all the hollows swift rushes ofsnow-water to cover the ice on the river--to break it up in some places, to fill the channel full till all the meadows above the millpond werequite overflowed. It did not last long. It cleared the third night, and so sudden and sharp was the coming of the cold, that not a murmur ofwater was to be heard where it had rushed in torrents the day before, and the millpond, and the meadows above, lay in the sunshine like asheet of molten silver. 

In this sudden change, Mr Inglis took cold. It had been like that allwinter. His illness had been very severe, but just as he seemed readyto throw it off and be himself again, he always seemed to take morecold, and went back again. It was very trying--very discouraging. Thiswas what David and Jem were saying to one another one afternoon, as theytook their way down to the mill-dam where many of their companions hadgone before them. It quite spoiled David's pleasure to think about it, and even Jem looked grave as they went on together. 

However, there are few troubles that a pair of skates, and a mile, moreor less, of shining ice, have not power to banish, for a time, at least, from the minds of boys of twelve and fourteen; and so when they camehome, and their mother met them at the door, telling Jem that he was togo and ask Dr Gore to come up again, it gave them both a new shock ofpain, and David asked, "Is papa worse, mamma?" with such a sinking ofthe heart, as he had never felt before. 

"Not seriously worse, I hope, " said his mother. "Still the doctor mayas well come up. It will be safest. "

Just a little fresh cold, the doctor said, and Mr Inglis must take careof himself for a few days. The remedies which he prescribed had thedesired effect. In a day or two he was as well as usual; but on Sunday, when he was nearly through with the morning service, his voice failed soutterly that his last words were lost to all. 

Of course there was no possibility of his going to the Gore in theafternoon. He could only rest at home, hoping and believing that hewould be well in a little while. Indeed, the thought of thedisappointment to the congregation who would assemble in the afternoon, was more in his thoughts than any future danger to himself. There needbe no disappointment--at least, the people need not be made to wait; andDavid and Jem were sent to tell them that their father was not able tocome, and that they were to read a sermon, and Mr Spry was to conductthe service as he had sometimes done before. 

They took with them a sermon chosen by their father; but Mr Spry wasnot there, nor Mr Fiske, nor any one who thought himself capable ofreading it as it ought to be read. 

"Suppose you give them Miss Bethia's sermon, Davie, " said Jem, laughing. 

"Don't, Jem, " said David, huskily. Something rising in his throat wouldhardly let him say it, for the remembrance of old Tim, and that fairday, and of his father's face, and voice, and words, came back upon himwith a rush, and the tears must have come if he had spoken another word. 

"Is there no one here that can read? Papa will be disappointed, " saidhe, in a little. 

No. There seemed to be no one. One old gentleman had not brought hisglasses; another could not read distinctly, because of the loss of hisfront teeth; no one there was in the habit of reading aloud. 

"Suppose you read it, David? You will do it first-rate, " said old MrWood. "We'll manage the rest. "

David looked grave. "Go ahead, Davie, " said Jem. 

"What would papa say?" said David. 

"He would be pleased, of course. Why not?" said Jem, promptly. 

So when the singing and prayers were over, some one spoke to him again, and he rose and opened the book with a feeling that he was dreaming, andthat he would wake up by and by, and laugh at it all. It was like adream all through. He read very well, or the people thought he did; heread slowly and earnestly, without looking up, and happily forgot thatJem was there, or he might have found it difficult to keep fromwondering how he was taking it, and from looking up to see. 

But Jem had the same dreamy feeling on him, too. It seemed so strangeto be there without his father, and to be listening to Davie's voice;and nothing was farther from his mind than that there was anythingamusing in it all. For sitting there, with his head leaning on hishands, a very terrible thought came to Jem. What if he were never tohear his father's voice in this place again? What if he were never tobe well?--what if he were going to die!

He was angry with himself in a minute. It was a very foolish thought, he said; wrong even, it seemed to him. Nothing was going to happen tohis father. He was not very ill. He would be all right again in a dayor two. Jem was indignant with himself because of his thoughts; androused himself, and by and by began to take notice how attentively allthe people were listening, and thought how he would tell them all aboutit at home, and how pleased his father and mother would be. He did nottry to listen, himself, but mused on from one thing to another, till hequite forgot his painful thoughts, and in a little the book was closedand David sat down. 

They hurried away as quickly as they could, but not before they had torepeat over and over again to the many who crowded round them toinquire, that their father was not ill, at least not worse than he hadbeen, only he had taken cold and was hoarse and not able to speak--thatwas all. 

But the thought that perhaps it might not be all, lay heavy on theirhearts all the way home, and made their drive a silent one. It nevercame into Jem's mind to banter Davie about the new dignity of his officeas reader, as at first he had intended to do, or, indeed, to sayanything at all, till they were nearly home. As for David, he was goingover and over the very same things that had filled his mind when hedrove his father from old Tim's funeral--"A good soldier of JesusChrist, " and all that was implied in the name, and his father's wordsabout "the enrolling of one's name;" and he said to himself that hewould give a great deal to be sure that his name was enrolled, forgetting that the whole world could not be enough to buy what God hadpromised to him freely--a name and a place among His people. 

"I hope we shall find papa better, " said Jem, as old Don took his usualenergetic start on the hill near the bridge. 

"Oh! he is sure to be better, " said David. But he did not feel at allsure of it, and he could not force himself to do anything for old Don'scomfort till he should see what was going on in the house. The glimpsehe got when he went in was re-assuring. Violet was laying the table fortea, and singing softly to herself as she went through the house. Hisfather and mother were in the sitting-room with the rest of thechildren, and they were both smiling at one of little Polly's wisespeeches as he went in. 

"Well, Davie, you are home again safely, " said his mother. 

"All right, mamma. I will tell you all about it in a minute, " saidDavid. "All right, " he repeated, as he went out again to Jem, lifting aload from his heart, and from his own, too, with the word. 

But was it really "all right?" Their father's face said it plainly, they thought, when they went in, and their mother's face said it, too, with a difference. A weight was lifted from Jem's heart, and hisspirits rose to such a happy pitch that, Sunday as it was, and in hisfather's presence, he could hardly keep himself within quiet bounds, ashe told them about the afternoon, and how David had read so well, andwhat all the people had said. David's heart was lightened, too, but hewatched the look on his mother's face, and noticed that she hardly spokea word--not even to check Jem, when the laughter of the children andLetty grew too frequent, and a little noisy, as they sat together beforethe lamp was lighted. 

"It is all right, I hope, " said he, a little doubtfully. "It would beall right for papa, whichever way it were to end--and for mamma, too, --in one sense--and for all of us, " added he, with a vague idea of thepropriety of submission to God's will under any circumstances. "Butpapa is not worse--I think he is not worse, and it will be all right byand by when summer comes again. " But he still watched his mother'sface, and waited anxiously for her word to confirm his hope. 

It _was_ all right, because nothing which is God's will can be otherwiseto those who put their trust in Him. But it was not all right in thesense that David was determined to hope. Though he found them sittingso calmly there when he came home that night, and though the eveningpassed so peacefully away, with the children singing and reading asusual, and the father and mother taking interest in it all, they hadexperienced a great shock while the boys were away. 

Gradually, but very plainly, the doctor had for the first time spoken ofdanger. Absolute rest for the next three months could alone avert it. The evidence of disease was not very decided, but the utter prostrationof the whole system, was, in a sense, worse than positive disease. Tobe attacked with serious illness now, or even to be over-fatigued mightbe fatal to him. 

It was not Dr Gore who spoke in this way, but a friend of his who wasvisiting him, and whom he had brought to see his patient. He was afriend of the minister, too, and deeply interested in his case, and sospoke plainly. Though Dr Gore regretted the abruptness of his friend'scommunication, and would fain have softened it for their sakes, he couldnot dissent from it. But both spoke of ultimate recovery provided threemonths of rest--absolute rest, as far as public duty was concerned, weresecured. Or it would be better still, if, for the three trying monthsthat were before him, he could go away to a milder climate, or even ifhe could get any decided change, provided he could have rest with it. 

The husband and wife listened in silence, at the first moment notwithout a feeling of dismay. To go away for a change was utterlyimpossible, they put that thought from them at once. To stay at home inperfect rest, seemed almost impossible, too. They looked at one anotherin silence. What could be said?

"We will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love, " said MrInglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. "At least wewill not speak of it to one another. We must not distrust His lovingcare of us, dear, even now. "

They did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it toHim who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. He did not liftthe cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. He did not by a suddenlight from Heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out ofthe darkness, but in it He made them to feel His presence. "Fear not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God!" and lo! "thedarkness was light about them!"

So when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what bothheart and lip could also say, "It is all right. " And the mother's saidit, too, with a difference. 

Of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children. Indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each otherfor a good many days. Mr Inglis rested, and in a few days calledhimself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absoluteprohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. Itwas not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that neednot be told, and when the first Sabbath of enforced silence came round, it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betakehimself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away. 

That night he first spoke to David of the danger that threatened him. They were sitting together in the twilight. The mother and the restwere down-stairs at the usual Sunday reading and singing, which thefather had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound oftheir voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on thesetwo. David had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he satvery quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. But he had not. 

"Davie, " said he, at last, "what do you think is the very hardest dutythat a soldier may be called to do?"

David was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, andpartly because he had been thinking of all that his father had beensuffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite surewhether he could find a voice to say anything. For at morning worship, the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed andstartled by the sight of his sudden tears. All day long David hadthought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled fullof love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even ifit had come into his mind to try. But when his father asked him thatquestion, he answered, after a little pause:

"Not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. I think perhaps the veryhardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle isgoing on. "

"Ay, lad! you are right there, " said his father, with a sigh. "Thoughwhy you should look on it in that way, I do not quite see. "

"I was thinking of you, papa, " said David, very softly; and in a littlehe added: "This has been a very sad day to you, papa. "

"And I have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerfulobedience, I am afraid. Yes, this has been a sad, silent day, Davie, lad. But the worst is over. I trust the worst is over now. "

David answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the armof the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said:

"My boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of Jesus Christ, willingand obedient. And whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting, our Commander cannot make a mistake. It ought to content us to knowthat, Davie, lad. "

"Yes, papa, " said David. 

"Yes, " added his father, in a little. "It is a wonderful thing tobelong to the great army of the Lord. There is nothing else worth athought in comparison with that. It is to fight for Right againstWrong, for Christ and the souls of men, against the Devil--with theworld for a battle ground, with weapons `mighty through God to thepulling down of strongholds'--under a Leader Divine, invincible, andwith victory sure. What is there beyond this? What is there besides?"

He was silent, but David said nothing, and in a little while he went onagain:

"But we are poor creatures, Davie, for all that. We grow weary with ourmarching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and aredismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside ourbroken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believingourselves forgotten. And all the time, our Leader, looking on, haspatience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe throughall, and gives us the victory at the end. `Thanks be to God who givethus the victory!'" said Mr Inglis, and in a minute he repeated the wordsagain. 

Then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except forthe light of the new moon, and David, kneeling at the head of the sofa, never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgottenhim. But by and by he spoke again:

"When I was young, just beginning the conflict, I remember saying tomyself, if God will give me twenty years in which to fight His battles, I will be content. The twenty years are almost over now. Ah! howlittle I have gained for Him from the enemy! Yet I may have to lay downmy armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, Davie, my son. "

"Papa! I am not worthy--" said David, with a sob. 

"Worthy? No. It is a gift He will give you--as the crown and the palmof the worthiest will be His free gift at last. Not worthy, lad, butwilling, I trust. "

"Papa--I cannot tell. I am afraid--"

He drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father'sshoulder. 

"Of what are you afraid, Davie? There is nothing you need fear, exceptdelay. You cannot come to Him too soon. David, when you were the childof an hour only, I gave you up to God to be His always. I asked Him tomake you a special messenger of His to sinful men. His minister. Thatmay be if He wills. I cannot tell. But I do know that He will that youshould be one of His `good soldiers. '"

There was a long silence, for it tired him to speak, and David saidnothing. By and by his father said:

"How can I leave your mother to your care, unless I know you safe amongthose whom God guides? But you must give yourself to Him. Your motherwill need you, my boy, but you may fight well the battles of the Lord, even while working with your hands for daily bread. And for the rest, the way will open before you. I am not afraid. "

"Papa, " said David, raising himself up to look into his father's face, "why are you saying all this to me to-night?"

"I am saying it to you because you are your mother's first-born son, andmust be her staff and stay always. And to-night is a good time to sayit. "

"But, papa, " said the boy with difficulty, "it is not because you thinkyou are going to die? Does mamma know?"

"I do not know, my son. Death has seemed very near to me to-day. Andit has been often in your mother's thoughts of late, I do not doubt. Myboy! it is a solemn thing to feel that death may be drawing near. But Iam not afraid. I think I have no cause to be afraid. "

He raised himself up and looked into the boy's face with a smile, as herepeated:

"David--I have no cause to fear--since Jesus died. "

"No, papa, " said David, faintly. "But mamma--and--all of us. "

"Yes, it will be sad to leave you, and it will be sad for you to beleft. But I am not afraid. `Leave thy fatherless children; I willpreserve them alive, and let thy widow trust in me. ' He has said it, and He will bring it to pass. The promise is more to me, to-night, thanuntold wealth could be. And Davie, I leave them to your care. You musttake my place with them, and comfort your mother, and care for yourbrothers and sisters. And David you must be a better soldier than Ihave ever been. "

David threw himself forward with a cry. 

"Oh papa! how can I? how can I? I am afraid, and I do not even knowthat my name is enrolled, and that is the very first--"

"My boy! But you may know. Have you ever given yourself to our greatleader? Have you asked him to enrol your name? Ask Him now. Do not Ilove you? His love is greater far than mine!"

There had been moments during that day when the Lord had seemed very faraway from His servant, but he felt Him to be very near Him now, as hepoured out his heart in prayer for his son. He did not use many words, and they were faintly and feebly uttered, but who shall doubt but theyreached the ear of the Lord waiting to hear and answer. But theybrought no comfort to David that night. Indeed he hardly heard them. There was only room in his heart for one thought. "Death may be drawingnear!" his father had said, and beyond that he could not look. It wastoo terrible to believe. He would not believe it. He would not have itso. 

By and by when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, heslipped unseen out of the room, and then out of the house, and seekingsome place where he might be alone, he went up into the loft above oldDon's crib, and lay down upon the hay, and wept and sobbed his heart outthere. He prayed, too, asking again for the blessing which his fatherhad asked for him; and for his father's life. He prayed earnestly, withstrong crying and tears; but in his heart he knew that he cared more forhis father's life and health than for the better blessing, and though hewept all his tears out, he arose uncomforted. The house was still anddark when he went in. His mother had thought that he had gone to bed, and Jem that he was sitting in the study as he often did, and he wasfast asleep when David lay down beside him, and no one knew the pain anddread that was in his heart that night. 

But when he rose in the morning, and went down-stairs, and heard thecheerful noise of the children, and saw his mother going about her workas she always did, all that had happened last night seemed to him like adream. By and by his father came among them, no graver than in otherdays, and quite as well as he had been for a long time, and everythingwent on as usual all day, and for a good many days. Nobody seemedafraid. His mother was watchful, and perhaps a little more silent thanusual, but that was all. As for his father, the worst must have beenpast that night, as he had said, for there was no cloud over him now. He was cheerful always--even merry, sometimes, when he amused himselfwith little Polly and the rest. He was very gentle with them all, moreso than usual, perhaps, and David noticed that he had Violet and Jemalone with him in the study now and then. Once when this happened withJem, David did not see him again all day, and afterwards--a long timeafterwards--Jem told him that he had spent that afternoon in thehay-loft above old Don's crib. 

At such times he used to wonder whether their father spoke to them as hehad spoken to him that night, when he told him how "Death might bedrawing near. " But they never spoke to one another about it. And, indeed, it was not difficult during those cheerful quiet days, to putsuch thoughts out of their minds. The people came and went, lookinggrave sometimes, but not as though they had any particular cause forfear. The minister went out almost every fine day with David or hismother, or with Jem if it was Saturday, for the children were growingalmost jealous of one another, as to opportunities for doing things forpapa, and Jem must have his turn, too. 

How kind all the people were! Surely there never was anything like itbefore, the children thought. Some among them whom they had not muchliked, and some whom they had hardly known, came out in a wonderful waywith kind words and kinder deeds, and if kindness and thoughtfulness, and love that was almost reverence, would have made him well, he wouldsoon have been in his old place among them again. His place on Sundaywas supplied as often as possible from abroad, and when it could not be, the people managed as well as they could, and that was better thanusual, for all hearts were softened and touched by the sorrow that hadcome on them as a people, and nothing was allowed to trouble or annoythe minister that could be prevented by them. They would have liked himto go away as the doctor had advised, and the means would have beenprovided to accomplish it, but the minister would not hear of being sentaway. He felt, he said, that he would have a better chance for recoveryat home. Not that there was any chance in that, according to histhought. It was all ordered, and it would all be well, whichever way itwas to end, and he was best and happiest at home. 

And so the time passed on, and then, and afterwards, no one ever thoughtor spoke of these days but as happy days. And yet, in the secret heartof every one of them, of the mother and the children, and of the kindpeople that came and went, there was a half-conscious waiting forsomething that was drawing near. It was a hope, sometimes, andsometimes it was a dread. The neighbours put it into words, and thehopeful spoke of returning health and strength, and of the lessons offaith and love they should learn by and by, through the experience ofthe minister in the sick room; and those who were not hopeful, spoke ofother lessons they might have to learn through other means. But in thehouse they only waited, speaking no word of what the end might be. 

At last there came a day, when no words were needed, to tell whatmessenger of the King was on his way. The hushed voices of thechildren, the silence in the house, told it too plainly. The labouredbreathing of the sick man, the feverish hand, the wandering eye, werevisible tokens that death was drawing near. The change came suddenly. They were not prepared for it, they said. But there are some things forwhich we cannot make ourselves ready, till we feel ourselves shudderingunder the blow. 

Ah! well. He was ready, and the rest mattered little. Even the mothersaid that to herself and to him, with the sobbing of their children inher ears. She did not sob nor cry out in her pain, but kept her facecalm and smiling for him till the very last. And because, with hislaboured breathing, and the pain which held him fast, he could not sayto her that which was in his heart, she said it all to him--how they hadloved one another, and how God had cared for them always, and how happythey had been, and how, even in the parting that was before them, God'stime was best, and she was not afraid. 

And she was _not_ afraid! Looking into those triumphant eyes, glad withthe brightness of something that she could not see, how could she beafraid? "For neither life nor death, nor principalities nor powers, northings present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any othercreature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is inChrist Jesus our Lord, " she murmured, comforting him with her words. Hewas dying! He was leaving her and their children alone, with God'spromise between them and poverty, and nothing else. Nothing else! Isnot that enough? Think of it! God's promise!

"I am not afraid!" She said the words over and over again. "Why shouldI be afraid? There are things far worse than poverty to bear. `Ourbread shall be given us, and our water sure. ' I might be afraid for ourchildren without you, had they the temptations of wealth to strugglewith. Their father's memory will be better to them than lands or gold. Put it all out of your thoughts, dear love. I am not afraid. "

Afterwards the doubt might come--the care, the anxiety, the painfulreckoning of ways and means, to her who knew that the roof that coveredthem and the daily bread of her children, depended on the dear life nowebbing so fast away. But now, seeing--not Heaven's light, indeed, butthe reflection of its glory on his face, she no more feared life than hefeared death, now drawing so near. The children came in, at times, andlooked with sad, appealing eyes from one face to the other to findcomfort, and seeing her so sweet and calm and strong, went out towhisper to one another that mamma was not afraid. All through theselast days of suffering the dying father never heard the voice ofweeping, or saw a token of fear or pain. Just once, at the very first, seeing the sign of the coming change on his father's face, David's heartfailed him, and he leaned, for a moment, faint and sick upon hismother's shoulder. But it never happened again till the end was near. Seeing his mother, he grew calm and strong, trying to stand firm in thistime or trouble that she might have him to lean on when the time ofweakness should come. The others came and went, but David never lefthis mother's side. And she watched and waited, and took needful restthat she might keep calm and strong to the very end; and the dying eyesnever rested on her face but they read there, "God is good, and I am notafraid. "

And so the time wore on till the last night came. They did not know itwas the last night; and the mother lay down within call, for an hour ortwo, and David watched alone. Will he ever forget those hours, so awfulyet so sweet?

"It is `the last evening, ' Davie, lad!" said his father, in gasps, between his hard-drawn breaths. "Strong, but not invincible! Saysomething to me, dear. "

"`He, also, Himself likewise took part of the same, that through deathHe might destroy him that hath the power of death--. '" David paused. 

"Go on, dear, " said his father. 

"`And deliver them who through fear of death were all their life-timesubject to bondage. '"

"I am not--afraid! Tell me more. "

"`I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept thefaith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day, and notto me only, but to all them also that love His appearing. '"

"His gift, dear boy, His gift! Say something more. "

"`In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that lovedus--'" went on David, but he had no power to add another word, and hisfather murmured on:

"Loved us! Wonderful!--wonderful! And gave--Himself--for us. "

And then he seemed to slumber for awhile, and when he awoke David wasnot sure that he knew him, for his mind seemed wandering, and he spokeas if he were addressing many people, lifting his hand now and then asif to give emphasis to his words. But his utterance was laboured anddifficult, and David only caught a word here and there. "A goodfight"--"the whole armour"--"more than conquerors. " Once he said, suddenly:

"Are you one of them, Davie? And are you to stand in my place and takeup the weapons that I must lay down?"

David felt that he knew Him then, and he answered:

"Papa, with God's help, I will. "

And then there came over his father's face a smile, oh! so radiant andso sweet, and he said:

"Kiss me, Davie!" And then he murmured a word or two--"Thanks!" and"Victory!" and these were the very last words that David heard hisfather utter; for, when he raised himself up again, his mother wasbeside him, and the look on her face, made bright to meet the dyingeyes, was more than he could bear. 

"Lie down a little, Davie. You are quite worn out, " said she, softly, soothing him with hand and voice. 

But he could not go away. He sat down on the floor, and laid his faceon the pillow of little Mary's deserted cot, and by and by his mothercame and covered him with a shawl, and he must have fallen asleep, forwhen he looked up again there were others in the room, and his mother'shand was laid on his father's closed eyes. 

Of the awe and stillness that filled the house for the next three daysof waiting, few words need be spoken. 

"I must have three days for my husband, and then all my life shall befor my children, " said their mother. "Davie, you and Letty must helpone another and comfort the little ones. "

So for the most part she was left alone, and David and Letty did whatthey could to comfort the rest, through that sorrowful time. Theneighbours were very kind. They would have taken the little ones awayfor awhile, but they did not want to go, and David and Violet said toone another it was right that even the little ones should have thesedays to remember afterwards. 

How long the days of waiting seemed! Sudden bursts of crying from thelittle ones broke now and then the stillness too heavy to be borne, andeven Violet sometimes gave way to bitter weeping. But they thought oftheir mother, and comforted one another as well as they could; and Davidstood between her closed door and all that could disturb her in hersorrow, with a patient quiet at which they all wondered. Just once itfailed him. Some one came, with a trailing mass of black garments, which it was thought necessary for her to see, and Violet said so to herbrother, very gently, and with many tears. But David threw up his handswith a cry. 

"What does it matter, Letty? What can mamma care for all that now? Sheshall not be troubled. "

And she was not. Even Miss Bethia could not bring herself to put asidethe words of the boy who lay sobbing in the dark, outside his mother'sdoor. 

"He's right, " said she. "It don't matter the least in the world. Theredon't anything seem to matter much. She sha'n't be worried. Let itgo, " said Miss Bethia, with a break in her sharp voice. "It'll fit, Idare say, well enough--and if it don't, you can fix it afterwards. Letit go now. "

But David came down, humble and sorry, in a little while. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Bethia, " said he. "I don't suppose mamma wouldhave cared, and you might have gone in. Only--" His voice failed him. 

"Don't worry a mite about it, " said Miss Bethia, with unwontedgentleness. "It don't matter--and it is to you your mother must looknow. "

But this was more than David could bear. Shaking himself free from herdetaining hand, he rushed away out of sight--out of the house--to thehay-loft, the only place where he could hope to be alone. And he wasnot alone there; for the first thing he heard when the sound of his ownsobbing would let him hear anything, was the voice of some one crying byhis side. 

"Is it you, Jem?" asked he, softly. 

"Yes, Davie. "

And though they lay there a long time in the darkness, they did notspeak another word till they went into the house again. 

But there is no use dwelling on all these sorrowful days. The last onecame, and they all went to the church together, and then to the grave. Standing on the withered grass, from which the spring sunshine wasbeginning to melt the winter snow, they listened to the saddest soundthat can fall on children's ears, the fall of the clods on theirfather's coffin-lid, and then they went back to the empty house to beginlife all over again without their father's care. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

Mr Oswald, Frank's father, came home with them. He had been written towhen Mr Inglis died, and had reached Gourlay the day before thefuneral, but he had not stayed at their house, and they had hardly seenhim till now. They were not likely to see much of him yet, for he was aman with much business and many cares, and almost the first words hesaid when he came into the house, were, that he must leave for home thatnight, or at the latest the next morning. 

"And that means whatever you want to say to me, must be said at once, and the sooner the better, " said Miss Bethia, as she took Mrs Inglis'sheavy crape bonnet and laid it carefully in one of the deep drawers ofthe bureau in her room. "I haven't the least doubt but I know what heought to say, and what she ought to say, better than they knowthemselves. But that's nothing. It ain't the right one that's put inthe right spot, not more than once in ten times--at least it don't looklike it, " added she, with an uncomfortable feeling that if any one wereto know her thoughts he might accuse her of casting some reflections onthe Providential arrangement of affairs. "They don't realise that Icould help them any, and it will suit better if I leave them. So I'llsee if I can't help Debby about getting tea. "

There was not much said for a time, however. Mrs Inglis evidently madea great effort to say something, and asked about Frank and the familygenerally, and then said something about his journey, and then about thesudden breaking-up of the winter roads. Mr Oswald felt it to be cruelto make her speak at all, and turned to the children. 

"Which is Davie?" asked he, in a little. 

David rose and came forward. 

"I thought you had been older. Frank seemed to speak as if you werealmost a man, " said he, holding out his hand. 

"I am past fourteen, " said David. 

"And are you ready for the university, as Frank thought, or is that amistake of his, too?"

"Yes, " said David. "I am almost ready. "

"Oh! he was ready long ago, " said Jem, coming to the rescue. "Franksaid he was reading the same books that his brother read in the secondyear. "

"Indeed!" said Mr Oswald, smiling at his eagerness. "And you are Jem?You are neither of you such giants as I gathered from Frank, but perhapsthe mistake was mine. But when one hears of horse-shoeing and Homer--you know one thinks of young men. "

"And this is Violet, only we call her Letty; and this is Ned, and I amJessie, and this is wee Polly, " said Jessie, a sturdy little maiden ofeight, looking with her honest grey eyes straight into Mr Oswald'sface. He acknowledged her introduction by shaking hands with each asshe named them. 

"I find I have made another mistake, " said he. "I thought Letty was alittle girl who always stood at the head of her class, and who could runraces with her brothers, and gather nuts, and be as nice as a boy. Thatwas Frank's idea. "

"And so she can, " said Ned. 

"And so she is, " said Jem. 

"That was so long ago, " said Violet, in confusion. 

It seemed ages ago to all the children. 

"And Violet has grown a great deal since then, " said Jem. "And areFrank's eyes better?"

"They are no worse. We hope they are better, but he cannot use themwith pleasure, poor fellow. "

And so they went on talking together, till they were called to tea. Miss Bethia was quite right. He did not in the least know how to beginto say what he knew must be said before he went away. 

After tea, the younger children went to bed, and Miss Bethia betookherself to the kitchen and Debby, thinking, to herself, it would be wellfor all concerned if it should fall to her to straighten out thingsafter all; for Mr Oswald had been walking up and down the room insilence for the last half-hour, "looking as black as thunder, " MissBethia said, in confidence, to Debby, and no one else had spoken a word. It was a very painful half-hour to Mr Oswald. He had only begun hiswalk when it seemed to him impossible that he could sit and look at thepale, patient face and drooping figure of the widow a single momentmore. For he was in a great strait. He was in almost the saddestposition that a man not guilty of positive wrong can occupy. He was apoor man, supposed to be rich. For years, his income had scarcelysufficed for the expenses of his family; for the last year it had notsufficed. It was necessary for the success of his business, or, hesupposed, it was necessary that he should be considered a rich man; andhe had harassed himself and strained every nerve to keep up appearances, and now he was saying to himself that this new claim upon him could notpossibly be met. He was not a hard man, though he had sometimes beencalled so. At this moment, his heart was very tender over the widow andher children; and it was the thought that, in strict justice, he had noright to do for them as he wished to do, that gave him so much pain. Waiting would not make it better, however, and in a little while he cameand sat down by Mrs Inglis, and said:

"It seems cruel that I should expect you to speak about--anythingto-night. But, indeed, it is quite necessary that I should return hometo-morrow, and I might be able to advise you, if you would tell me yourplans. "

But, as yet, Mrs Inglis had no plans. 

"It came so suddenly, " said she, speaking with difficulty; "and--you arevery kind. "

"Will you tell me just how your affairs stand? Unless there is some oneelse who can do it better, I will gladly help you in your arrangementsfor the future. "

There was no one else, and it was not at all difficult to tell him thestate of their affairs. They were not at all involved. There were nodebts. The rent of the house was paid till the next autumn; there weresome arrears of salary, and Mrs Inglis had a claim on a minister'swidow's fund in connection with the branch of the church to which herhusband had belonged, but the sum mentioned as the possible annualamount she would receive was so small, that, in Mr Oswald's mind, itcounted for nothing. And that was all! Mr Oswald was amazed. 

"Was there not something done at one time--about insuring your husband'slife?" asked he, gently. 

"Yes; a good many years ago. He could not manage it then--nor since. Our income has never been large. " And she named the sum. 

Mr Oswald rose suddenly, and began his walk about the room again. Itwas incredible! A scholar and a gentleman like his cousin to restcontented all these years with such a pittance! He knew that he hadbeen earnest and full of zeal in the cause to which he had devoted hislife--more than content. Valuing money for the sake of what it coulddo, he had yet envied no man who had more than fell to his lot. He musthave known that his children must be left penniless! How could he haveborne it?

"And how should I leave mine, if I were to die to-night?" said MrOswald to himself, with a groan. "I who have lived a life sodifferent. "

He came and sat down again. But what could he say? Mrs Inglis spokefirst. 

"I have made no plans as yet. There has been no time. But I am notafraid. The way will open before us. "

"Yes, you must have good courage. And you will tell me in what way Ican be of use to you. "

"You are very kind, " said Mrs Inglis, speaking quickly. "You may besure I shall gladly avail myself of your advice. I am not afraid. Myboys are strong and willing to work. We love one another, and there areworse things than poverty. "

"And, for the present, you will remain here at any rate. In a few weeksI shall see you again; and, in the meantime, you must permit me tosupply anything you may require. "

"You are very kind. You may be quite sure we shall apply to you if itbe necessary. Just now it is not; and when we have had time to considerour plans, we shall write to you--if you cannot come. "

Mrs Inglis paused; and, perhaps, becoming conscious that she had spokenwith unnecessary decision, she added, gently:

"You are very kind. I believe you are a true friend, and that you willdo what you can to enable us to help ourselves. That will be the best--the only way to aid us effectually. With my two brave boys and God'sblessing, I don't think I need fear. "

She spoke, looking, with a smile, at her sons, who were leaning over herchair. Somehow her smile moved Mr Oswald more than her tears couldhave done, and he said nothing for a minute or two. There was nothingclearer than that she did not intend to lay the burden of her cares onhim or anyone. But what could a delicate woman, unused to battle withthe world, do to keep the wolf from the door, let her courage be ever sohigh?

"Will you promise me one thing?" said he, rising to prepare to go. "Will you promise me to let me know how I can help you--when your plansare made--either by advice or by money? I have a right. Your husbandwas my relative as well as my friend. "

"I promise faithfully you shall be the first person to whom I shallapply in any strait, " said Mrs Inglis, rising also, and offering herhand. 

"And what did your husband think of my proposal to take his son into myoffice?"

"He thought well of it, as he wrote to you. But nothing has been saidabout it yet. Can you give us a little time still? and I will write. Believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness. "

"If you will only give me an opportunity to be kind. Certainly, I canwait. A month hence will be time enough to decide. "

And then, when he had bidden them all good-bye, he went away. 

"What did he mean by a situation, mamma?" asked Jem. "Is it for Davie?Did papa know?"

But Mrs Inglis could enter into no particulars that night. She hadkept up to the end of her strength. 

"I am very tired. I will tell you all about it another day. We musthave patience, and do nothing rashly. The way will open before us. Iam not afraid. "

All the sadness of the next few weeks need not be told. They who havesuffered the same loss, and lived through the first sorrowful days ofbereavement, will know how it was with the mother and her children, andthey who have not could never be made to understand. Anxieties as tothe future could not but press on the heart of the mother, but theycould scarcely be said to deepen her sadness. She was not reallyafraid. She knew they would not be forsaken--that their father's Godwould have them in His keeping. But the thought of parting from them--of sending any of them away--was very hard to bear. 

If she could have seen it possible to stay in Gourlay, she would havehad fewer misgivings; but there was nothing in Gourlay she could do tohelp to keep her children together. There was no room in so small aplace for any but the public schools, long established, and, at present, prosperous; and teaching seemed the only thing in which she could engagewith even moderate hopes of success. 

If "a multitude of counsellors" could have helped her, she would havebeen helped. Every one had something to say, which proved that theearnest desire of all was that she should stay in Gourlay; but no onewas so happy as to suggest a way in which she could do so withoutinvolving some measure of dependence on the kindness of friends; andthough this might do for a little while, it could not do long, and theywould have to go at last. Still she was in no haste to go, or veryeager to make plans for the future. 

"The way will open before us! I am not afraid!" was the end of many ananxious discussion during these days; and thought of sending David awayfrom her, gave her more real pain through them all than did theconsideration of what might befall them in the future; for David wasgoing away to be junior clerk in the bank of Singleton, at a salarywhich seemed very large to him. It was more than a third of what hisfather's salary had been when it was at the best. There would not bemuch left for his mother and the rest by the time he had clothed andkept himself; but it was a beginning, and David was glad to begin, Jemwould fain have done something, too, but his mother justly felt that thenext six months at school would be of greater value to him than all hewould be likely to earn, and he was to stay at home for the present. 

But the mother did not have to send David away alone. The way, forwhich she had so patiently and confidently waited, opened to them soonerthan she had dared to hope. It did not open very brightly. Anopportunity to let their house to one of the new railway people made herthink first of the possibility of getting away at once; and variouscircumstances, which need not be told, induced her to look to the townof Singleton as their future place of residence. David was to be therefor a year, at least, and they could all be together, and his salarywould do something toward keeping the house, and, in a place likeSingleton, there might be more chance for getting for herself and Violetsuch employment as might suit them than they could have in Gourlay. 

It was not without some doubts and fears that this arrangement wasdecided upon; but there seemed nothing better to do, and delay wouldmake departure none the easier. But the doubts and fears came only nowand then--the faith in God was abiding; and if she was sorrowful inthose days, it was with a sorrow which rose from no distrust of Him whohad been her confidence all her life-long. She knew that help wouldcome when it was needed, and that He would be her confidence to the end. 

Towards the end of April, they had a visit from a gentleman, whoannounced himself as Mr Caldwell, senior clerk in the bank where Davidwas to be junior. He had come to transact business at the quarries, several miles beyond Gourlay, and had called at the request of MrOswald, and also because he wished to make the acquaintance of theInglis family, especially of David, whom he expected soon to have underhis immediate care. He had known Mr Inglis when he was a boy, havingbeen then in the employment of his uncle. The children had heard of himoften, and their mother had seen him more than once in the earlier yearsof her married life, and they were not long in becoming friendly. Hewas a small, dark man, slow of speech, and with some amusingpeculiarities of manner, but, evidently, kindly-disposed toward themall. 

His first intention had been to go on to the quarries that night, but hechanged his mind before he had been long in the house, and accepted MrsInglis's invitation to stay to tea; and soon, to her own surprise, themother found herself telling their plans to a very attentive listener. He looked grave, when he heard of their determination to leave Gourlay, and go and live in Singleton. 

It was a warm, bright afternoon, and they were sitting on the gallery infront of the house. The snow was nearly all gone; a soft green was justbeginning to make itself visible over the fields and along theroadsides, and buds, purple and green and brown, were showing themselveson the door-yard trees. The boys were amusing themselves by putting inorder the walks and flower-borders in the garden, where there werealready many budding things, and the whole scene was a very pleasant oneto look on. 

"Singleton is very different from this place, " said he. "You will neverlike to live there. "

But there are many things that people must endure when they cannot likethem; and there seemed to be no better way, as he acknowledged, when hehad heard all. He entered with kindly interest into all their plans, and it was arranged that, when David went to Singleton, he should godirectly to his house, and, between them, no doubt, a suitable house forthe family would be found. And Mrs Inglis thanked God for the newfriend He had raised up for them, and took courage. 

The next day, Mr Caldwell went to the quarries, and David and Jem wentwith him, or rather, it should be said, Mr Caldwell went with the boys, for they had old Don and the wagon, and made a very pleasant day of it, going one way and coming home the other, for the sake of showing thestranger as much of the beautiful country as possible in so short atime. They all enjoyed the drive and the view of the country, and MrCaldwell enjoyed something besides. He was a quiet man, saying verylittle, and what he did say came out so deliberately that any one elsewould have said it in half the time. But he was a good listener, andhad the faculty of making other people talk, and the boys had a greatdeal to say to him and to one another. Unconsciously they yielded tothe influence of the sweet spring air and the sunshine, and the newsights that were around them, and the sadness that had lain so heavilyon them since their father's death lightened, they grew eager andcommunicative, and, in boyish fashion, did the honours of the country totheir new friend with interest and delight. Not that they grewthoughtless or seemed to forget. Their father's name was often on theirlips, --on Jem's, at least, --David did not seem to find it so easy toutter. They had both been at the quarries before with their father, andJem had a great deal to say about what he had heard then, and at othertimes, about the stones and rocks, the formations and strata; and healways ended with "That was what papa said, eh, Davie?" as though thatwas final, and there could be no dissent; and David said, "Yes, Jem, "or, perhaps, only nodded his head gravely. He never enlarged or wentinto particulars as Jem did; and when once they were fairly on their wayhome, Jem had it all to do, for they came home by the North Gore road, over which David had gone so many, many times; and even Jem grew graveas he pointed out this farm and that, as belonging to "one of ourpeople;" and the grave-yard on the hill, and the red school-house "wherepapa used to preach. " And when they came to the top of the hill thatlooks down on the river, and the meadows, and the two villages, theywere both silent, for old Don stood still of his own accord, and David, muttering something about "a buckle and a strap, " sprang out to put themright, and was a long time about it, Mr Caldwell thought. 

"We will let the poor old fellow rest a minute, " said Jem, softly; andDavid stood with his face turned away, and his arm thrown over old Don'sneck. 

There was not much said after that, but they all agreed that they hadhad a very pleasant day; and Mr Caldwell said to Mrs Inglis, in hisslow way, that he had enjoyed the drive, and the sight of the finecountry, and the quarries, but he had enjoyed the company of her twoboys a great deal more than all. And you may be sure it was a pleasureto her to hear him say it. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

The breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy orpleasant thing under any circumstances. It involves confusion andfatigue, and a certain amount of pain, even when there is an immediateprospect of a better one. And when there is no such prospect, it isvery sad, indeed. The happy remembrances that come with the gatheringtogether, and looking over of the numberless things, useless andprecious, that will, in the course of years, accumulate in a house, change to regrets and forebodings, and the future seems all the moregloomy because of the brightness of the past. 

There were few things in Mrs Inglis's house of great value; buteverything was precious to her, because of some association it had withher husband and their past life; and how sad all this was to her, couldnever be told. 

The children were excited at the prospect of change. Singleton was alarge place to them, which none of them, except David and Violet, hadever seen. So they amused one another, fancying what they would see anddo, and what sort of a life they should live there, and made a holidayof the overturning that was taking place. But there was to the motherno pleasing uncertainty with regard to the kind of life they were tolive in the new home to which they were going. There might be care, andlabour, and loneliness, and, it was possible, things harder to bear;and, knowing all this, no wonder the thought of the safe and happy daysthey were leaving behind them was sometimes more than she could bear. 

But, happily, there was not much time for the indulgence of regretfulthoughts. There were too many things to be decided and done for that. There were not many valuable things in the house, but there were a greatmany things of one kind and another. What was to be taken? What to beleft? Where were they all to be bestowed? These questions, and theperplexities arising out of them, were never for a long time togethersuffered to be out of the mother's thoughts; and busy tongues suggestingplans, and busy hands helping or hindering to carry them out, filledevery pause. 

The very worst day of all, was the day when, having trusted Jem to drivethe little ones a few miles down the river to pay a farewell visit, MrsInglis, with David and Violet, went into the study to take down herhusband's books. And yet that day had such an ending, as to teach thewidow still another lesson of grateful trust. 

It was a long time before they came to the books. Papers, magazines, pamphlets--all such things as will, in the course of years, find a placeon the shelves or in the drawers of one who interests himself in allthat is going on in the world--had accumulated in the study; and allthese had to be moved and assorted, for keeping, or destroying, orgiving away. Sermons and manuscripts, hitherto never touched but by thehand that had written them, had to be disturbed; old letters--some fromthe living and some from the dead--were taken from the secret placeswhere they had lain for years, and over every one of these Mrs Inglislingered with love and pain unspeakable. 

"Never mind, Davie! Take no notice, Violet, love!" she said, once ortwice, when a sudden cry or a gush of tears startled them; and so veryfew words were spoken all day. The two children sat near her, folding, arranging and putting aside the papers as she bade them, when they hadpassed through her hands. 

"Wouldn't it have been better to put them together and pack them upwithout trying to arrange them, mamma?" said David, at last, as hismother paused to press her hands on her aching temples. 

"Perhaps it would have been better. But it must have been done sometime; and it is nearly over now. "

"And the books? Must we wait for another day? We have not many daysnow, mamma!"

"Not many! Still, I think, we must wait. I have done all I am able todo to-day. Yes, I know you and Violet could do it; but I would like tohelp, and we will wait till to-morrow. "

"And, besides, mamma, " said Letty, from the window, "here is Miss Bethiacoming up the street. And, mamma, dear, shouldn't you go and lie downnow, and I could tell her that you have a headache, and that you oughtnot to be disturbed?"

But Mrs Inglis could hardly have accomplished that, even if she hadtried at once, for almost before Violet had done speaking, Miss Bethiawas upon them. Her greetings were brief and abrupt, as usual; and thenshe said:

"Well! There! I _was_ in hopes to see this place once more beforeeverything was pulled to pieces!" and she surveyed the disordered roomwith discontented eyes. "Been looking them over to see what you canleave behind or burn up, haven't you? And you can't make up your mindto part with one of them. I know pretty well how _that_ is. The booksain't disturbed yet, thank goodness! Are you going to take ParsonGrantly's offer, and let him have some of them?"

Mrs Inglis shook her head. 

"Perhaps I ought, " said she. "And yet I cannot make up my mind to doit. "

"No! of course, not! Not to him, anyhow! Do you suppose he'd ever readthem? No! He only wants them to set up on his shelf to look at. Ifthey've got to go, let them go to some one that'll get the good of them, for goodness sake! Well! There! I believe I'm getting profane aboutit!" said Miss Bethia catching the look of astonishment on David's face. "But what I want to say is, What in all the world should you want to goand break it up for? There ain't many libraries like that in this partof the world. "

And, indeed, there was not. The only point at which Mr Inglis hadpainfully felt his poverty, was his library. He was a lover of books, and had the desire, which is like a fire in the bones of the earneststudent, to get possession of the best books of the time as they camefrom the press. All his economy in other things had reference to this. Any overplus at the year's end, any unexpected addition to their means, sooner or later found its way into the booksellers' hands. But neitheroverplus nor unexpected addition were of frequent occurrence in thefamily history of the Inglises; and from among the best of thebooksellers' treasures only the very best found their way to theminister's study except as transitory visitors. Still, in the course ofyears, a good many of these had been gathered, and he had, besides, inherited a valuable library, as far as it went, both in theology and ingeneral literature; and once or twice, in the course of his life, it hadbeen his happy fortune to have to thank some good rich man for a gift ofbooks better than gold. So Miss Bethia was right in saying that therewere in the country few libraries like the one on which she stood gazingwith regretful admiration. 

"_I_ can't make it seem right to do it, " continued she gravely. "Justthink of the book he thought so much of lying round on common folks'shelves and tables? Why! he used to touch the very outsides of them asif they felt good to his hands. "

"I remember. I have seen him, " said David. 

"And so have I, " said Violet. 

"If you were going to sell them all together, so as not to break it up, it would be different, " said Miss Bethia. 

"But I could not do that, even if I wished. Mr Grantly only wants asmall number of them, a list of which he left when he was here. "

"The best-looking ones on the outside, I suppose. He could tellsomething about them, it's likely, by looking at the names on thetitle-page, " said Miss Bethia, scornfully. 

"But, Miss Bethia, why should you think he would not care for the booksfor themselves, and read them, too?" asked Violet, smiling. "MrGrantly is a great scholar, they say. "

"Oh, well, child, I dare say! There are books enough. He needn't wantyour pa's. But, Mrs Inglis, " said Miss Bethia, impressively, "I wonderyou haven't thought of keeping them for David. It won't be a greatwhile before he'll want just such a library. They won't eat anything. "

"It will be a long time, I am afraid, " said David's mother. "And I amnot sure that it would not be best to dispose of them, --some of them, atleast, --for we are very poor, and I scarcely know whether we shall havea place to put them. They may have to be packed up in boxes, and ofthat I cannot bear to think. "

"No. It ain't pleasant, " said Miss Bethia, meditatively. "It ain'tpleasant to think about. " Then rising, she added, speaking rapidly andeagerly, "Sell them to _me_, Mrs Inglis. I'll take good care of them, and keep them together. "

Mrs Inglis looked at her in astonishment. The children laughed, andDavid said:

"Do you want them to read, Miss Bethia? Or is it only for the outside, or the names on the first page, like Mr Grantly?"

"Never you mind. I want to keep them together; and I expect I shallread some in them. Mrs Inglis, I'll give you five hundred dollars downfor that book-case, just as it stands. I know it's worth more thanthat, a great deal; but the chances are not in favour of your gettingmore here. Come, what do you say?"

If Miss Bethia had proposed to buy the church, or the grave-yard, or thevillage common, or all of them together, it would not have surprised herlisteners more. 

"Miss Bethia, " said Mrs Inglis, gently, "I thank you. You are thinkingof the good the money would do to my children. "

"No, Mrs Inglis, I ain't--not that alone. And that wasn't my _first_thought either. I want the books for a reason I have. "

"But what could you do with them, Miss Bethia?" asked Violet. 

"Do with them? I could have the book-case put up in my square room, orI could send them to the new theological school I've heard tell they'restarting, if I wanted to. There's a good many things I could do withthem, I guess, if it comes to that. "

"But, Aunt Bethia, five hundred dollars is a large sum, " said David. 

"It ain't all they're worth. If your ma thinks so, she can take less, "said Miss Bethia, prudently. "O, I've got it--if that's what you mean--and enough more where that came from! Some, at any rate. "

David looked at her, smiling and puzzled. 

"I've got it--and I want the books, " said Miss Bethia. "What do yousay, Mrs Inglis?"

"Miss Bethia, I cannot thank you enough for your kind thoughts toward meand my children. But it would not be right to take your money, even ifI could bear to part with my husband's books. It would be a gift fromyou to us. "

"No, it wouldn't. It would cost me something to part with my money, Idon't deny; but not more--not so much as it would cost you to part withyour books. And we would be about even there. And I would takefirst-rate care of them--and be glad to. "

Mrs Inglis sat thinking in silence for a minute or two. 

"Miss Bethia, you are very kind. Will you let me leave the books awhilein your care? It is quite possible we may have no place in which tokeep them safely. Children, if Miss Bethia is willing, shall we leavepapa's precious books a little while with her?"

"I shouldn't feel willing to get the good of your books for nothing. "

Mrs Inglis smiled. 

"You would take care of them. "

Miss Bethia hesitated, meditating deeply. 

"There would be a risk. What if my house were to take fire and burndown? What should I have to show for your books, then?"

"But the risk would not be greater with you than with me, nor so great. Still, of course, I would not wish to urge you. "

"I should like to have them, first-rate, if I could have them just inthe way I want to--risk or no risk. "

Violet and David laughed; even Mrs Inglis smiled. That was so exactlywhat was generally asserted with regard to Miss Bethia. She must havethings in just the way she wanted them, or she would not have them atall. 

"We could fix it as easy as not, all round, if you would only take myway, " said she, with a little vexation. 

They all sat thinking in silence for a little. 

"See here! I've just thought of a plan, " said she, suddenly. "Let metake the books to take care of, and you needn't take the five hundreddollars unless you want to. Let it be in Mr Slight's hands, and whileI have the books you will have the interest. I don't suppose you knowit, but he had that much of me when he built his new tannery, eightyears ago, and he has paid me regular ten per cent, ever since. Itlooks like usury, don't it? But he says it's worth that to him; and I'msure, if it is, he's welcome to it. Now, if you'll take that while Ihave the books, I'll call it even--risk or no risk; and you can give itup and have the books when you want them. I call that fair. Don'tyou?"

Did ever so extraordinary a proposal come from so unexpected a quarter?The mother and children looked at one another in astonishment. 

"Miss Bethia, " said Mrs Inglis, gravely, "that is a large sum ofmoney. "

"Well--that's according as folks look at it. But don't let us worry anymore about it. There is no better way to fix it that I know of thanthat. "

Mrs Inglis did not know how to answer her. 

"Mrs Inglis, " said Miss Bethia, solemnly, "I never thought you was adifficult woman to get along with before. "

"But, Miss Bethia, " said Violet, "mamma knows that you wish to do thisfor our sakes and not at all for your own. "

"No she doesn't, neither! And what about it, any way? It's my own, every cent. "

"Miss Bethia, " said David, "are you very rich?"

Miss Bethia gave a laugh, which sounded like a sob. 

"Yes; I'm rich, if it comes to that! I've got more than ever I'llspend, and nobody has got any claim on me--no blood relation exceptcousin Ira Barnes's folks--and they're all better off than I be, or theythink so. Bless you! I can let your ma have it as well as not, even ifI wasn't going to have the books, which I am, I hope. "

"Miss Bethia, I don't know what to say to you, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"Well, don't say anything, then. It seems to me you owe it to yourhusband's memory to keep the books together. For my part, I don't seehow you can think of refusing my offer, as you can't take them withyou. "

"To care for the books--yes--"

"See here, David!" said Miss Bethia, "what do you say about it? You area boy of sense. Tell your ma there's no good being so contrary--Imean--I don't know what I mean, exactly, " added she. "I shall have tothink it over a spell. "

David turned his eyes toward his mother in wonder--in utter perplexity, but said nothing. 

"There! I'll have to tell it after all; and I hope it won't just spoilmy pleasure in it; but I shouldn't wonder. The money ain't mine--hasn'tbeen for quite a spell. I set it apart to pay David's expenses atcollege; so it's his, or yours till he's of age, if you're a mind toclaim it. Your husband knew all about it. "

"My husband!" repeated Mrs Inglis. 

"Yes; and now I shouldn't wonder if I had spoiled it to you, too. Itold him I was going to give it for that. As like as not he didn'tbelieve me, " said Miss Bethia, with a sob. "I've had my feelingsconsiderably hurt, one way and another, this afternoon. There wouldn'tany of you have been so surprised if any one else had wanted to do you akindness--if you will have that it's a kindness. I know some folks havegot to think I'm stingy and mean, because--"

"Aunt Bethia, " said David, taking her hand in both his, "that is notwhat we think here. "

"No, indeed! We have never thought that, " said Violet, kissing her. 

Then David kissed her, too, reddening a little, as boys will who onlykiss their mothers when they go to bed, or their very little sisters. 

"Miss Bethia, " said Mrs Inglis, "my husband always looked upon you as atrue friend. I do not doubt but that your kindness in this mattercomforted him at the last. "

"Well, then, it's settled--no more need be said. If I were to dieto-night, it would be found in my will all straight. And you wouldn'trefuse to take it if I were dead, would you? Why should you now? unlessyou grudge me the pleasure of seeing it. Oh! I've got enough more tokeep me--if that's what you mean--if I should live for forty years, which ain't likely. "

So what could Mrs Inglis do but press her hand, murmuring thanks in thename of her children and her husband. 

Miss Bethia's spirits rose. 

"And you'll have to be a good boy, David, and adorn the doctrine of yourSaviour, so as to fill your father's place. "

"Miss Bethia, I can never do that. I am not good at all. "

"Well, I don't suppose you are. But grace abounds, and you can have itfor the asking. "

"But, Miss Bethia, if you mean this because--you expect me to be aminister, like papa, I am not sure, and you may be disappointed--andthen--"

"There ain't much one _can_ be sure of in this world, " said Miss Bethia, with a sigh. "But I can wait. You are young--there's time enough. Ifthe Lord wants you for His service, He'll have you, and no mistake. There's the money, at any rate. Your mother will want you for the nextfive years, and you'll see your way clearer by that time, I expect. "

"And do you mean that the money is to be mine--for the university--whether I am to be a minister or not? I want to understand, MissBethia. "

"Well, it was with the view of your being a minister, like your father, that I first thought of it, I don't deny, " said Miss Bethia, gravely. "But it's yours any way, as soon as your mother thinks best to let youhave it. If the Lord don't want you for his minister, I'm very sure _I_don't. If He wants you, He'll have you; and that's as good a way toleave it as any. "

There was nothing more to be said, and Miss Bethia had her way afterall. And a very good way it was. 

"And we'll just tell the neighbours that I am to take care of the bookstill you know where you are to put them--folks take notice of everythingso. That'll be enough to say. And, David, you must make out a list ofthem, --two, indeed, --one to leave with me and one to take, and I'll seeto all the rest. "

And so it was settled. The book-case and the books were never moved. They stand in the study still, and are likely to do so for a good whileto come. 

This is as good a place as any to tell of Miss Bethia's good fortune. She was disposed, at first, to think her fortune anything but good; forit took out of her hands the house that had been her home for the lastthirty years of her life--where she had watched by the death-bed offather, mother, sister. It destroyed the little twenty-acre farm, which, in old times, she had sowed and planted and reaped with her ownhands, bringing to nothing the improvements which had been the chiefinterest of her life in later years; for, in spite of her determinedresistance, the great Railway Company had its way, as great companiesusually do, and laid their plans, and carried them out, for making theGourlay Station there. 

So the hills were levelled, and the hollows filled up; the fences andfarming implements, and the house itself, carried out of the way, andall the ancient landmarks utterly removed. 

"Just as if there wasn't enough waste land in the country, but they musttake the home of a solitary old woman to put their depots, and theirengines, and their great wood-piles on, " said Miss Bethia, making amartyr of herself. 

But, of course, she was well paid for it all, and, to her neighbours, was an object of envy rather than of pity; for it could not easily beunderstood by people generally, how the breaking-up of her house seemedto Miss Bethia like the breaking-up of all things, and that she feltlike a person lost, and friendless, and helpless for a little while. But there, was a bright side to the matter, she was, by and by, willingto acknowledge. She knew too well the value of money--had worked toohard for all she had, not to feel some come complacency in the handsomesum lodged in the bank in her name by the obnoxious company. 

It is a great thing to have money, most people think, and Miss Bethiamight have had a home in any house in Gourlay that summer if she chose. But she knew that would not suit anybody concerned long; so, when it wassuggested to her that she should purchase the house which the departureof Mrs Inglis and her children left vacant, she considered the matterfirst, and then accomplished it. It was too large for her, of course, but she let part of it to Debby Stone, who brought her invalid sisterthere, and earned the living of both by working as a tailoress. MissBethia did something at that, too, and lived as sparingly as she hadalways done, and showed such shrewdness in investing her money, and suchfirmness in exacting all that was her due, that some people, who wouldhave liked to have a voice in the management of her affairs, called herhard, and a screw, and wondered that an old woman like her should careso much for what she took so little good of. 

But Miss Bethia took a great deal of good out of her money, or out ofthe use she made of it, and meant to make of it; and a great many peoplein Gourlay, and out of it, knew that she was neither hard nor a screw. 

And the book-case still stood up-stairs, and Miss Bethia took excellentcare of the books, keeping the curtains drawn and the room dark, exceptwhen she had visitors. Then the light was let in, and she grew eloquentover the books and the minister, and the good he had done her in pastdays; but no one ever heard from her lips how the books came to be leftin her care, or what was to become of them at last. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

May has come again, and the Inglises had been living a whole year inSingleton; or, rather, they had been living in a queer little house justout of Singleton. The house itself was well enough, and the place hadbeen a pretty place once; but Miss Bethia's enemies--the great RailwayCompany--had been at work on it, and about it, and they had changed apretty field of meadow-land, a garden and an orchard, into adesolate-looking place, indeed. There was no depot or engine-house inthe immediate neighbourhood, but the railway itself came so close to it, and rose so high above it, that the engine-driver might almost havelooked down the cottage chimney as he passed. 

Just beyond the town of Singleton, the highway was crossed by therailway, and, in one of the acute angles which the intersection made, the little house stood. On the side of the house, most distant from thecrossing, were two bridges (one on the railway and the other on the highroad), both so high and so strong as to seem quite out of place over thetiny stream that, for the greater part of the year, ran beneath them. It was a large stream at some seasons, however, and so was the SingleRiver into which it fell; and the water from the Single sometimes setback under the bridges and over the low land till the house seemed tostand on an island. The Single River could not be seen from the house, although it was so near, because the railway hid it, and all else inthat direction, except the summit of a distant mountain, behind which, at midsummer-time, the sun went down. From the other side, the road wasseen, and a broken field, over which a new street or two had been laidout, and a few dull-looking houses built; and to the right of thesestreets lay the town. 

It was not a pretty place, but it had its advantages. It was a farbetter home to which to bring country-bred children than any which couldhave been found within their means in the town. They could not hesitatebetween it and the others which they went to see; and, as Mr Oswald hadsomething to do with the Railway Company, into whose hands it hadfallen, it was easily secured. There were no neighbours very near, andthere was a bit of garden-ground--the three-cornered piece between thehouse and the crossing, and a strip of grass, and a hedge of willows andalders on the other side, on the edge of the little stream between thetwo bridges, and there was no comparison between the house and any ofthe high and narrow brick tenements with doors opening right upon thedusty street. 

And so the mother and the children came to make a new home there, andthey succeeded. It was a happy home. Not in quite the same way thattheir home in Gourlay had been happy. No place could ever be quite likethat again; but when the first year came to an end, and the motherlooked back over all the way by which they had been led, she felt thatshe had much cause for gratitude and some cause for joy. The childrenhad, in the main, been good and happy; they had had all the necessariesand some of the comforts of life; they had had no severe illness amongthem, and they had been able to keep out of debt. 

To some young people, all this may not seem very much in the way ofhappiness, but, to Mrs Inglis, it seemed much, and to the children too. Mrs Inglis had not opened a school. The house was too small for that, and it was not situated in a part of the town where there were likely tobe many pupils. She had taught three or four little girls along withher own children, but the number had not increased. 

During the first six months of their stay in Singleton, Violet had beenhouse-keeper. The change had not been altogether pleasant for her, butshe had submitted to it cheerfully, and it had done her good. She hadbecome helpful and womanly in a way that would have delighted old MrsKerr's heart to see. To her mother and her brothers she was "one of thechildren" still, but strangers were beginning to look upon her as agrown-up young lady, a good many years older than David or Jem. 

To Jem, for whom his mother had feared most, the change had beenaltogether advantageous. He had come to Singleton with the avowedintention of going regularly to school, as his mother wished, for sixmonths, and then he was going to seek his fortune. But six monthspassed, and the year came to an end, and Jem was still a pupil in theschool of Mr Anstruther--a man among a thousand, Jem thought. He was agreat mathematician, at any rate, and had a kind heart, and tookinterest and pleasure in the progress of one who, like himself, went tohis work with a will, as Jem certainly did in these days. 

Jem's wish to please his mother brought him this reward, that he came totake great pleasure in his work, and all the more that he knew he waslaying a good foundation for success in the profession which he hadchosen, and in which he meant to excel. For Jem was going to be anengineer, and work with his hands and his head too; and though he had nomore chances of shoeing horses now, he had, through a friend of his, many a good chance of handling iron, both hot and cold, in the greatengine-house at the other side of the town. So Jem had made greatadvance toward manliness since they had come to Singleton. 

Greater than David had made, some of the Gourlay people thought, who sawboth the lads about this time. Even his mother thought so for a while. At least she thought that Jem had changed more than Davie, and more forthe better. To be sure, there had been more need, for Davie had alwaysbeen a sensible, well-behaved lad, and even the most charitable andkindly-disposed among the neighbours could not always say that of Jem. Davie was sensible and well-behaved still, but there was none of thechildren about whom the mother had at first so many anxious thoughts asabout David. 

To none of them had the father's death changed everything so much as tohim. Not that he had loved his father more than the others, but for thelast year or two he had been more with him. Both his work and hisrecreation had been enjoyed with him, and all the good seemed gone fromeverything to him since his father died. His new work in Singleton waswell done, and cheerfully, and the knowledge that he was for the timethe chief bread-winner of the family, would have made him do any workcheerfully. But it was not congenial or satisfying work. For a time hehad no well defined duty, but did what was to be done at the bidding ofany one in the office, and often he was left irritable and exhaustedafter a day, over which he could look back with no pleasure because ofanything that he had accomplished. 

He could not fall back for recreation on his books, as his mothersuggested. He tried it oftener than she knew, but the very sight of thefamiliar pages, over which he used to ponder with such interest, broughtback the "study, " and the old happy days, and his father's face andvoice, and made him sick with longing for them all. There was nocomfort to be got from his books at this time. Nor from anything else. The interest in which the little ones took in their new home and theirnew companions, Jem's enthusiasm over his new master and his schoolwork, Violet's triumphs in her little house-keeping successes, filledhim with wonder which was not always free from anger and contempt. Evenhis mother's gentle cheerfulness was all read wrong by Davie. He saidto himself that his father had been more to him than to the otherchildren, and that he missed him more than they, but he could not saythis of his mother; and daily seeing her patient sweetness, her constantcare to turn the bright side of their changed life to her children, itseemed to him almost like indifference--like a willingness to forget. He hated himself for the thought, and shrunk from his mother's eye, lestshe should see it and hate him too. 

But all this did not last very long. It must have come to an end soon, in one way or other, for youth grows impatient of sorrow, and lays itdown at last, and thanks to his mother's watchful care, it ended wellfor David. 

He had no hay-loft to which he could betake himself in these days whenhe wished to be alone; but when he felt irritable and impatient, andcould not help showing it among his brothers and sisters, he used to goout through the strip of grass and the willows into the dry bed of theshrunken stream that flowed beneath the two bridges, and sitting down onthe large stones of which the abutment of the railroad bridge was made, have it out with himself by the bank of the river alone. And here hismother found him sitting one night, dull and moody, throwing sticks andstones into the water at his feet. She came upon him before he wasaware. 

"Mamma! you here? How did you come? On the track?"

"No; I followed you round by the willows and below the bridge. Howquiet it is here!"

The high embankment of the railway on one side, and the river on theother, shut in the spot where David sat, and made it solitary enough tosuit him in his moodiest moments, and his mother saw that he did notlook half glad at her coming. But she took no notice. The great stonesthat made the edge of the abutment were arranged like steps of stairs, and she sat down a step or two above him. 

"Did the sun set clear? Or were there clouds enough about to make apicture to-night?" asked she, after a little. 

"Yes, it was clear, I think. At least not very cloudy. I hardlynoticed, " said Davie, confusedly. 

"I wish we could see the sun set from the house. "

"Yes, it is very pretty sometimes. When the days were at the longest, the sun set behind the highest part of the mountain just in a line withthat tall elm on the other side of the river. It sets far to the leftnow. "

"Yes, the summer is wearing on, " said his mother. And so they went ontalking of different things for a little while, and then there wassilence. 

"Mamma, " said David, by and by, "are you not afraid of taking cold? Itis almost dark. "

"No. I have my thick shawl. " And moving down a step, she so arrangedit that it fell over David too. 

"Ah! never mind me. I am not so delicate as all that, mamma, " saidDavid, laughing, but he did not throw the shawl off, but rather drew alittle nearer, and leaned on her lap. 

"See the evening star, mamma. I always think--"

David stopped suddenly. 

"Of papa, " said his mother, softly. 

"Yes, and of the many, many times we have seen it together. We alwaysused to look for it coming home. Sometimes he saw it first, andsometimes I did; and oh! mamma, there don't seem to be any good inanything now, " said he, with a breaking voice. 

Instead of speaking, his mother passed her hand gently over his hair. 

"Will it ever seem the same, mamma?"

"Never the same, Davie! never the same! We shall never see his face, nor hear his voice, nor clasp his hand again. We shall never wait forhis coming home in all the years that are before us. It will never, never be the same. "

"Mamma! how can you bear it?"

"It was God's will, and it is well with him, and I shall see him again, "said his mother, brokenly. But when she spoke in a minute her voice wasclear and firm as ever. 

"It will never be the same to any of us again. But you are wrong in onething. All the good has not gone out of life because of our loss. "

"It seems so to me, mamma. "

"But it is not so. We have our work in the world just as before, andyou have your preparation for it. "

"But I cannot make myself care for anything as I used to do. "

"There must be something wrong then, Davie, my boy. "

"Everything is wrong, I think, mamma. "

"If _one_ thing is wrong, nothing can be right, David, " said his mother, stooping down and kissing him softly. "What did your father wish firstfor his son?"

"That I should be a good soldier of Jesus Christ. I know that, mamma. "

"And you have been forgetting this? That hast not changed, Davie. "

"No, mamma--but--I am so good for nothing. You don't know--"

"Yes, I know. But then it is not one's worth that is to be considered, dear. The more worthless and helpless we are, the more we need to bemade His who is worthy. And Davie, what do we owe to `Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us?'"

"Ourselves, mamma, our life, our love--"

"And have you given Him these?"

"I don't know, mamma. "

"And are you content not to know?"

"I am not content--but how am I to know, mamma, " said David, rising andkneeling down on the broad stone beside her. "May I tell you something?It was that night--at the very last--papa asked me if I was ready toput on the armour he was laying down; and I said yes; and, mamma, Imeant it. I wished to do so, oh, so much!--but everything has been somiserable since then--"

"And don't you wish it still, my son?"

"Mamma, I know there is nothing else that, is any good, but I cannotmake myself care for it as I did then. "

"David, " said his mother, "do you love Jesus?"

"Yes, mamma, indeed I love Him. I know Him to be worthy of my love. "

"And you desire to be His servant to honour Him, and do His will?"

"Yes, mamma, if I only knew the way. "

"David, it was His will that papa should be taken from us; but you areangry at our loss. "

"Angry! oh, mamma!"

"You are not submissive under His will. You fail to have confidence inHis love, or His wisdom, or in His care for you. You think that intaking him He has made a mistake or been unkind. "

"I know I am all wrong, mamma. "

"David, my boy, perhaps it is this which is standing between you and afull consecration to His service. "

And then she spoke to him of his father, and of his work, and howblessed he had been in it, and of the rest and reward to which he hadgone. 

"A little sooner than we would have chosen for our own sakes, Davie, butnot too soon for him, or for his Master. "

A great deal more she said to him of the life that lay before him, andhow he might help her and his brothers and sisters. Then she spoke ofhis work for Christ, and of his preparation for it, and how hopeful--nay, how sure she was, that happy and useful days were before him--allthe more happy and useful because of the sorrow he had been passingthrough. "As one whom his mother comforteth, " came into David's mind ashe listened. 

"And it is I who ought to be comforting you, mamma. I know I am allwrong--" said he, with tears. 

"We will comfort one another. And indeed, it is my best comfort tocomfort you. And, Davie, my love, we will begin anew. "

There was more said after that--of the work that lay ready at his hand, of how he was to take out his books again, lest he should fall back onhis studies, and do discredit to his father's teaching, and of how hewas to help his brothers and sisters, especially Violet and Jem. 

"Only, mamma, I think they have been getting on very well without me allthis time, " said Davie, ruefully. 

"Not so well as they will with you, however, " said his mother. "Everything will go better now. "

Everything did go better after that with David. His troubles were notover. His books gave him pain rather than pleasure, for a while, and itneeded a struggle for him to interest himself in the plans and pursuitsof Jem, and even of Violet. But he did not grow moody over hisfailures, and by and by there came to be some good in life to him again, and his mother's heart was set at rest about him, for she began to hopethat it was well with David in the best sense now. 

During the first summer they saw very little of the Oswalds. They livedquite at the other end of the town, in a house very different from the"bridge house, " as their cottage was called, and for the greater part ofthe summer, the young people of the family had been away from home. Butin the autumn it was so arranged that Violet at least, was to see agreat deal of some of them. Mr Oswald had six children, four daughtersand two sons. His eldest daughter Ame had been mistress of the housesince her return from school, at the time of her mother's death. Thishad happened several years ago. She was twenty-four years of age, veryclever and fond of society. She was engaged to be married, but she didnot intend to leave home immediately, from which indeed she could noteasily have been spared. They had much company always, and she had agreat deal to do in entertaining them, and led a very busy and, as shethought, a very useful life in her father's house. 

The next in age was Philip, but he was not at home. He was in his lastyear at M-- University, and was to be home in the Spring. Selina camenext. She was one year younger than Violet, and would fain haveconsidered herself a grown-up young lady, and her education finished, ifher father and sister had agreed. Then came Frank, who was not verystrong, and whose eyes were still weak, and then Charlotte and Sarah, girls of ten and twelve. It was to teach these two that Violet was togo to Mr Oswald's house. 

Mrs Inglis felt that the proposal had been made by Mr Oswald quite asmuch with the thought of helping them as of benefiting his children, whohad before this time gone to a day-school in the neighbourhood. But shedid not refuse to let Violet go on that account. She believed her to befitted for the work. She knew her to be gentle and affectionate, yetfirm and conscientious, that she would be faithful in the performance ofher duties towards the little girls, and that they would be the gainersin the end by the arrangement. And so it proved. 

The first intention was that Violet should return home every night, butas the season advanced and the weather broke, the distance was found tobe too great, and besides, Violet's slumbering ambition was awakened bythe proposal that she should share in the German and French lessonswhich Selina received from Professor Olendorf, and so she stayed in thehouse with her pupils, only going home on Friday night to spend theSunday there. 

She had very little share in the gay doings for which Miss Oswald wasambitious that her father's house should be distinguished. For MissOswald had strong opinions as to the propriety of young girls likeViolet and Selina keeping themselves to their lessons and theirpractising, and leading a quiet life, and so had her father. Even if hehad not, it is likely that Miss Oswald's opinion would have decided thematter. As it was, Selina became content to stay at home in Violet'scompany when her sister went out, and Violet was more than content. Sheenjoyed her work both of teaching and learning, and the winter passedhappily and profitably away. 

Of course she was missed at home, but not painfully so. There were nopupils for her mother to teach in the winter. Ned went to school, andthere was only Jessie to teach, and a good many of the lessons shereceived was in the way of household work, and she soon began to takepride and pleasure in it as Violet had done before. 

And so the winter passed quietly and happily to them all. There wasneed for constant carefulness, for rigid economy even, but want nevercame near them. How to make the most of their small means, was asubject at this time much in Mrs Inglis's thoughts. How to obtain thenecessary amount of the simplest and most wholesome food, at thesmallest cost, was a problem solved over and over again, with greater orless satisfaction, according to the circumstances at the moment. Therewas a certain amount of care and anxiety involved, but there waspleasure too, and all the more that they knew the exact amount of theirmeans, and what they had "to come and go" upon. 

They had some pleasant surprises in the shape of kind gifts ofremembrance from Gourlay friends, gladly given and gladly received, lessbecause of present necessities than because of old friendship. Want!no, it never came near them--never even threatened to come near them. When the winter was over, they could look back to what Jem called "atight spot" or two in the matter of boots and firewood, but on nothingvery serious after all. 

The boots and the firewood were the worst things. No one can tell tillshe has really tried, how much beyond the natural turn of existencealmost any garment may be made to last and wear to preserve anappearance of respectability by a judicious and persevering use ofneedle and thread. But boots, especially boys' boots, are unmanageablein a woman's hands, and, indeed, in any hands beyond a certain stage ofdilapidation; and every one knows, that whatever else may be old, andpatched, and shabby, good boots are absolutely indispensable to thekeeping up of an appearance of respectability, and, indeed, one may say, with some difference, to the keeping of a lad's self-respect. The bootswere matters of serious consideration. 

As to the firewood, there is a great difference as to the comfort to begot out of the same quantity of firewood, depending on the manner inwhich it is used, but even with the utmost care and economy, it willconsume away, and in a country where during seven months of the yearfires are needed, a great deal must consume away. Even more than theconsideration given to the boots, the wood had to be considered, and itwas all the more a matter of difficulty, as economy in that directionwas a new necessity. Boots had always been a serious matter to theInglises, but wood had been plentiful at Gourlay. However, there wereboots enough, and wood enough, and to spare, and things that were vexingto endure, were only amusing to look back upon, and when Spring came, none of the Inglises looked back on the winter with regret, or forwardto the summer with dread, and so their first year in Singleton camehappily to an end. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

It was Saturday afternoon and a holiday with the schoolboys, of course. It was a holiday to them all, for Mrs Inglis and Violet were out ofdoors too, sitting on the gallery in the sunshine, and Davie was cominghome. He was at the moment crossing the bridge at a great pace, and soeager to be among them, that instead of going soberly round by the gate, as he was accustomed to do, he took Jem's fashion and swung himselffirst over the side of the bridge, and then over the fence into thegarden. They might well look surprised, and all the more so that it washigh water, and he had to scramble along the unsteady fence and throughthe willows before he could get to the grass dry shod. 

"Well done, Davie! you are growing young again, " said Jem. 

David sat down on the steps at his mother's feet laughing andbreathless. 

"Is it a half holiday?" asked his mother. 

"Yes; Frank came to the bank and begged Mr Caldwell to let me go out inthe boat with him and his brother this afternoon. "

"And he was willing to let you go, I suppose?"

"Yes; he was not quite sure about the boat, and he said I must comefirst and ask you, mamma. "

"A long walk and a short sail. It won't pay, Davie, " said Jem. "Youwould not have cared, would you, mamma?"

"But I must have come at any rate to change my clothes. We shall verylikely get wet. "

"How very prudent!" said Jem. 

"Very proper, " said his mother. 

"Well, be quick, or you'll keep them waiting. It is well to be you, "said Jem. "I wish the high and mighty Phil Oswald would ask me to sailwith him. "

"Perhaps he may; he is bringing the boat here. Mamma, I have some goodnews. "

The children gathered round to listen. 

"That is why you came jumping over the fence, instead of coming round bythe gate, " said Ned. 

"Violet knows it!" said Jessie; "look at her face. "

"No, I don't know it. I might, perhaps, guess it. "

It was no very wonderful news. Only that Mr Caldwell had remindedDavid that he had that day been a year in the office, and that next yearhis salary was to be raised. Not much. It did not seem a great sumeven to Ned and Jessie. But it was worth a great deal more than themere money value, because it implied that David was getting tounderstand his work, and that his employer knew it, and had confidencein him. The mother said something like this to him and to them all, andshe was very much pleased. 

"Our Davie will be a rich man some day!" said Jem. "I thought I was tobe the rich man of the family, but it don't look like it now. "

"It will be a while first, " said David. 

"You will be a banker, " said Ned. 

"I am afraid I ought to be gardener this afternoon, " said David, lookinground on the garden. 

"No use. The water is rising. We shall be flooded yet, " said Jem. 

"There is no time lost yet, " said his mother. 

"It is better that we should be a little late, than that the watershould cover the earth after the seeds are sown. "

The broad, shallow channel at the end of the garden was full, and thewillows that fringed the bit of green grass were far out into the water. The water almost touched the bridge across the road, and filled thehollow along the embankment. 

"And, besides, you are going to sail, " said Jem. 

"I think it would be quite as pleasant to stay here. "

They were all sitting on the little gallery before the house. It musthave been a charming place once, when the river could be seen from it, and the pretty view beyond. At present, nothing could be seen on thatside but the high embankment, and the few rods of garden-ground. On theother side were the willows, already green and beautiful, and someearly-budding shrubs and the grass. Then there was the water, flowingdown between the two bridges, and, over all, the blue sky and the sweetspring air. It was a charming place still, or it seemed so to David andthem all. 

The garden-beds had already been made, and a great many green thingswere springing here and there, and, on a rugged old apple-tree and onsome plum and cherry trees, the buds were beginning to show themselves. The children were eager to be at work, but, for the present, that wasnot to be thought of. However, there was much to be said about thegarden, and about the seeds which were to be sown, and Jessie was eagerabout a plan for covering the high embankment with squash-vines andscarlet-runners. Fred wanted to keep bees, and ducks if they could havethem, but bees certainly; and amid the happy clamour which their voicesmade there came a shout, and, from under the railway bridge from theriver, a boat was seen advancing. 

"Here we are at last!" called out Frank Oswald; "and it looks very muchas if here we must stay. We cannot get any further, Phil. "

The Inglis children were soon as near the boat as the willows and thewater would permit. There seemed to be no way of getting the boat tothe bank, for the willows were far out into the water, and through themit could not be forced. 

"You'll have to land on the other side and go round by the bridge, " saidJem. 

They were not using oars. That would have been impossible in a channelso narrow. They were pushing the boat through the water by means of along pole, but it was not very easily managed, because of theshallowness of the water and the bushes that grew on the margin. 

"Jem is right; we must go to the other side, " said Frank. 

"Not I, " said his brother, as he planted his pole firmly on the bank, measuring the distance with his eye. Then throwing himself forward witha sudden spring, he was over the willows and over the water beyond, landing safely on the nicely-prepared onion-bed. 

"Well done!" cried Jem. 

"Not at all well done, " said Frank, who had only saved himself frombeing overturned into the water by grasping a branch near him. 

Philip only laughed, as he shook hands with Mrs Inglis and Violet. 

"Take my place in the boat and have a row on the river, " said he, as hesat down on the steps near them. "I have had enough of it for awhile. "

Jem was nothing loth, but he looked at his mother for permission. 

"Is it quite safe, do you think?" asked she hesitating. 

"Oh! quite safe. Frank understands all about it; and so does Jem, Idare say. "

"Mamma!" entreated Ned. 

"And mamma!" entreated Jessie. 

On the Gourlay river the boys had paddled about at their own pleasure, and their mother was not inclined to be unreasonably anxious about them. She knew it would be a great delight to them all to be permitted to go. 

"But there is not room for all; and Mr Oswald will not care to betroubled with so many children. "

"Let them go with the boys--there is no danger, and I will wait here, "said Philip. "Only you must promise to come back within a reasonabletime, Jem. "

"All right!" said Jem. "I promise. Come along Violet. There is roomfor you, and Polly too. "

But Mr Philip thought there was not room for all, and Mrs Inglis wouldnot trust little Mary with them, so they went without them. 

This was Mr Philip's first visit to the bridge house. Mrs Inglis hadseen him at church, and David had seen him a good many times at thebank. He had been at home a week or two, and Violet had, of course, seen him every day. David had acknowledged that he did not like himvery much, and Jem called him "a swell, " and spoke contemptuously of hisfine clothes and fine manners. Violet had taken his part, and said hewas just like other people. He was very kind to his little sisters, shesaid. There had been a good deal said about him in one way or another, and Mrs Inglis regarded him with curiosity and interest. He was agood-looking lad, with a pleasant face and manner. "Just like otherpeople, " did not quite do him justice. Mrs Inglis could not helpthinking Jem's idea of "a swell" did not suit him certainly. He was not"fine, " on the present occasion, either in dress or manners. David hadsaid very little about about him, but he had not approved of him, and, seeing the young man now so frank and friendly, she could not but wonderwhy. 

They did not go into the house, and by and by they all crossed thegarden and went up on the railway track to watch the boat; and, being alittle behind the others, leading little Mary between them, his motherasked David what was the reason of his dislike. 

"Dislike! mamma, " said David, in surprise. "I don't dislike him. Idon't know him very well. He has had very little to say to me. Whyshould you think that I dislike him?"

"Perhaps dislike is too strong a word. But I fancied that you did notquite approve of him, David. "

"Approve of him! Well--he is not one of us--of our kind of people, Imean. He does not look at things as we do. I don't dislike him, mamma, but I don't care about him. "

"Which means he doesn't care about you?" said his mother, smiling. 

David laughed. 

"He certainly does not. He is much too great a man to have anything tosay to me. But I don't think that is the reason that I don't `approve'of him, as you say. He is not in earnest about anything. He isextravagant--he spends a great deal of money foolishly. But I ought notto speak of that. Mr Caldwell told me, and he seemed quite as wellpleased that we should have little to say to one another. He said Frankwas the better companion for Jem and me. "

"I dare say that is true, " said his mother. 

But all this did not prevent the young people from having a verypleasant afternoon together. The boat came back after "a reasonabletime, " and then the others went for a sail, and David acknowledged thatMr Philip was in earnest about his rowing, at any rate, and permittedhimself to admire his activity and skill. When the boat was brought inamong the willows again, it was almost dark. 

"Suppose we leave it here?" said Frank. "It will be quite safe, and wecan send for it on Monday. "

"It would not be a bad place to leave it here altogether, " said hisbrother. 

Jem was delighted with the idea, and said so; but David gave his mothera doubtful look. 

"Come in to tea, " said she, "and you can decide about it afterwards. "

The Oswalds had not dined, but they did not refuse the invitation, as, for a single minute, Violet hoped they might. The simple arrangementsof her mother's table were not at all like those which Miss Oswaldconsidered necessary in her father's house, but they were faultless intheir way, and Violet was ashamed of her shame almost as soon as she wasconscious of it. 

"Aunt Mary, " said Frank, after they were seated at the table, "won't youask me to spend the afternoon here to-morrow? I like your Sundays. "

Mrs Inglis did not answer for a moment, but Jem answered for her. 

"All right, Frank! Come straight from church. Your father will letyou, won't he?"

"If Aunt Mary were to ask me, he would. I am not sure, otherwise, " saidFrank. "What do you say, Aunt Mary?"

Philip looked at him in astonishment. 

"Never mind, Phil, " said Frank. "Aunt Mary and I understand. "

"We are old friends, " said Mrs Inglis, smiling. 

"I think he is very bold, " said his brother. "What if I were to insiston being invited in that persistent way?"

"That would be quite different, " said Frank. "You are a stranger. Iwas often here last winter. I am one of the children when I am here. Aunt Mary does not make a stranger of me. "

"But, Frank, " said Jessie, "David is away now on Sunday afternoon, andViolet and Jem. And, perhaps, mamma will let us all go, and go herself, if there are any more children. "

"Where?" asked Frank. 

"At Sunday-school--down on Muddy Lane. Mr Caldwell's Sunday-school. "

"Old Caldwell!" said Frank. "That's the way, is it? How do you likeit, Davie?"

"Sunday-school is not a new thing to us, you know, " said David. 

"But it is a new thing for you to be a teacher, " said Jem. "Oh! helikes it. Davie's a great man on Sunday, down in Muddy Lane. "

"Nonsense, Jem!"

"I went once, " said Jessie, "and it is very nice. Letty sings, and thechildren sing too. And one of the girls broke Letty's parasol--" AndMrs Inglis's attention being occupied for the moment, Jessie gave otherparticulars of the school, quite unmindful of her sister's attempts tostop her. 

Ned had something to tell, too, and entered into minute particularsabout a wager between two of the boys, as to whether Mr Caldwell wore awig or not, and the means they took to ascertain the truth about it. 

"They must be rather stupid not to know that, " said Frank. 

"Do you like it?" asked Philip of Violet. 

"Yes, indeed! I like it very much. But I don't like Ned's tellingtales out of school, nor Jessie, either. "

"But mine are not bad tales. I like it too, " said Jessie. 

"But I should think it would be very unpleasant. And what is the goodof it? Muddy Lane of all places!" said Philip, making an astonishedface. 

"That shows that you don't know Aunt Mary and her children, " said Frank, laughing. "You would never ask what is the good, if you did. "

"I know, of course, there must be good to the children, but I shouldthink it would be decidedly unpleasant for you. Muddy Lane cannot be anice place at any time, and now that the warm weather is coming--"

"You don't suppose Violet is one of the people who is afraid of a littledust, or bad odours, and all that, do you?" asked Frank. 

"She rather likes it--self-denial and all that, " said Jem. "And as forDavie--"

"Nonsense, Jem! Self-denial indeed! There is very little of that, "said David. "You know better than that, if Frank does not. "

"And old Caldwell, of all people in the world, " said Philip, laughing;"I did not suppose he could speak to any one younger than fifty--exceptDavie. What can he have to say to children, I wonder?"

"Oh, he has enough to say. You ought to hear him, " said Jem. 

"Thank you. I'll come and hear him--to-morrow, perhaps. "

"Mr Caldwell did not like the new hymn-book at first, " said Jessie. "But the children like them, and Letty teaches them to sing, and it isvery nice. I hope we can go to-morrow. "

"I hope so, " said Mr Philip. 

"But you don't care about such things, do you?" asked Jessie. 

"I ought to care, ought I not?"

"Yes; but you ought not just to make believe care. "

Mr Philip laughed a little. 

"There is no make believe about it. I shall like to go to-morrow verymuch. "

They were all away from the table by this time, and Frank sat down withDavid on the window seat. He put his arm round his shoulder, boyishfashion, and laid his head down upon it. 

"Is it military duty you are doing, Davie, down in Muddy Lane?" said he, softly. 

All the talk that had been going on had put David out a good deal, andhe did not answer for a minute. It seemed to him that a great deal hadbeen made of a little matter, and he was not well pleased. 

"Don't you remember about the `armour, '" said Frank. 

"Don't Frank?" said David. It hurt him to think that Frank should makea jest of that. 

"Indeed I am not jesting, Davie. That is one way of fighting the goodfight--is it not? And I want to have a good long talk about it again. "

"With mamma, you mean. "

"Yes, and with you. Don't you remember Hobab and old Tim?"

David did not answer in words, and both the boys sat silent, while theothers grew eager in discussing quite other things. It was growingdark, and Philip decided that it would be better to leave the boat andwalk home. Then something was said about future sails, and then Philiptold them of a friend of his who was going to be one of a party who wereto explore the country far west. He was going to try and persuade hisfather to let him join it. It was an exploring company, but a good manywere to join it for the sake of the hunting and fishing, and theadventures that might fall in their way. They were to be away formonths, perhaps for the whole summer, and a great deal of enjoyment wasanticipated. Jem listened intently. 

"That would just suit me, mamma, " said he, with a sigh. 

"I dare say it would be pleasant for a while, " said she, smiling. 

"It would hardly suit you to lose a summer out of your life, Jem, " saidDavid, sharply. 

Jem whistled. 

"You are there! are you, David? No, that wouldn't suit me, exactly. "

"Lose a year out of his life! What can you mean?" said Mr Philip, inastonishment. 

"What would come out of such a summer, except just the pleasure of it?"said David. 

"Well! there would be a great deal of pleasure. What else would youhave?"

David made no answer. 

"Davie means that there is something besides one's pleasure to beconsidered in this world, " said Frank. 

"David means that Jem can find pleasure and profit without going so farfor them, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"David is a young prig, " said Mr Philip to himself, and as they weregoing home he said it to his brother in decided terms. 

"That's your idea of it, is it?" said Frank. "You know just about asmuch of Davie and Aunt Mary, and that sort of people, as I know aboutthe Emperor of China. I know there _is_ such a person, and that is allI do know. "

Philip laughed. 

"It is never too late to learn, and if they have no objection, I mean toknow them better. "

"They are not your kind of people, " said Frank, decidedly. 

"You mean they are very good and religious and all. I am not a heathenor a Turk, Frank, my boy. "

"I could never make you understand the difference, " said Frank, gravely. 

"Never make you understand!" said Philip, mimicking his voice andmanner. "I think I can understand them pretty well without your help. Don't trouble yourself. They are just like other people. It is truethat Mrs Inglis looks just as much of a lady in her plain gown and inthat shabby room as she could in any of the fine drawing-rooms, and thatis more than could be said of some of the ladies I know. She is a goodwoman, too, I am sure. As for Davie, he is a young prig--though he isgood, too, I dare say. Violet is a little modest flower. They are verynice, all of them, but they are not beyond my powers of comprehension, Ifancy, Frank, lad. "

"All right, if you think so, " said Frank. 

Philip was amused and a little vexed at his brother's persistency. 

"Do you know them, Frank, --`understand' them, as you call it?"

"I know they are very different from us, and from all the people we knowmost about, and I think I know what makes the difference, though I don'tquite understand it. You would know what I mean if you had seen MrInglis and knew the kind of life he lived. "

"I have seen, and I know what his character was. He was an unworldlysort of man, I believe. "

"He did not live for his own pleasure, " said Frank, gravely. "He wasn'this own. He lived to serve his Master. I can't tell you. You shouldspeak to Davie or Violet about him, or to Aunt Mary. "

"Well, so I will, some day, " said Philip. 

Frank made no reply. 

In the meantime Mr Philip was being just as freely discussed by theyoung people they had left. Jem was delighted with their new friend. He was a fine fellow, not at all "swell, " as he had supposed. Jem grewenthusiastic over his friendliness, his boat, his rowing, and hoped hemight come often. So did the little ones. 

"David does not like him, " said Violet. 

"I liked him this afternoon well enough, " said David. 

"Yes, he was nice this afternoon; but he is not always nice with hissisters. He is good to the little ones, " said Violet. 

"I dare say his sisters are not very good to him. I can easily believeit, " said Jem. 

"He is not like the people we have been taught to admire, " said David. 

"He always thinks of himself first, " said Violet. "And he is not reallyin earnest about anything. "

"Mamma, listen to Davie and Letty speaking evil of their neighbours, "said Jem. 

"Not speaking evil, I hope, " said Mrs Inglis, "but still not speakingwith charity, I am afraid. "

"I was not speaking evil of him, mamma, " said Violet. "I only meantthat he does not care for anything very much, except to amuse himself. I think he is rather foolish, but I would not speak evil of him. "

"See that you don't, then, " said Jem. 

"He made himself very agreeable this afternoon, that is all we needsay, " said Mrs Inglis. "We are not likely to see very much of him infuture. "

Nothing more was said at that time. They saw a good deal of bothbrothers during the next few weeks. But they saw nothing for a goodwhile that inclined either Violet or Davie to change their opinion ofthe elder one. 

The next day Frank came home with them from church. He was the only oneof the family at church that day, for it had rained in the morning, andthey were not very regular churchgoers at the best of times. 

"Papa said I might go home with you, if Aunt Mary asked me, " said Frank, as he joined them at the door. 

"Come on, then, " said Jem. "Mamma doesn't approve of Sunday visiting, as a general thing, but you are one of ourselves by this time. Mamma, ask Frank to come. "

Mrs Inglis smiled. 

"Come and read with the children, Frank, " said she. 

Frank was only too happy to go. He did not go to the Sunday-school withthe others, but chose to stay at home with Mrs Inglis and little Mary. But the first person the others saw when they came to Muddy Lane was MrPhilip, waiting for them at the corner, as though it were the mostnatural and proper thing in the world for him to be there. 

"I came to hear what your friend Mr Caldwell has to say to-day, Jem, "said he. 

"All right!" said Jem. "He will have something appropriate to say aboutSabbath-breaking, I dare say. "

"I am sure I don't know why, " said Philip, laughing. 

"He'll tell you why, " said Jem. 

David did not say it was all right, nor think it. Indeed, it proved tohis mind to be all wrong, for Mr Caldwell did not make his appearanceat all. 

"To think of his failing to-day, of all days, " said David. 

They waited for him a long time, till the children became restless andimpatient. 

"We ought to begin, Davie, " said Violet. 

"Yes. I wouldn't mind if we were by ourselves. "

"Why should you mind now? Go ahead, Davie. If he laughs, I'll knockhim down, " said Jem. 

It was very foolish in Violet to laugh, and very wrong, too, she knew;but she could not help it. Jem's idea of the way to keep order was soabsurd. David did not laugh. He looked anxious, and at a loss, and alittle indignant at his sister's amusement. 

"I beg your pardon, Davie. Let us just go on us usual, " she entreated. "Why should you mind?"

And so they did go on. They sung a hymn very well; at least, they sungwith a great deal of spirit. There were some clear, sweet voices amongthe children, and they all seemed to enjoy singing so much it could notbe otherwise than agreeable to those who were listening, and Violet didher best. Then David, very reverently, but not very firmly, took MrCaldwell's duty upon himself, and offered a few words of prayer; andthen the children repeated together the Lord's Prayer, and after thateverything went well enough. David and Violet took their usual places, with their classes round them, and Jem suggested to Mr Philip that heshould take Mr Caldwell's rough-looking boys in hand "and give them atalk. "

"Hear them repeat their verses, and tell them a story. You can do it aswell as Mr C. Shall I tell them that you are the new minister?"

"Thank you. I will introduce myself. I ought to be able to saysomething to these young rascals. I hope they won't find me out. "

He seemed to get on very well. Jem would have liked to get rid of thethree little fellows for whom he was responsible, so as to hear what hewas saying. The boys liked it, evidently; at least they listened withgreat interest; and one would have thought that Mr Philip was quiteaccustomed to the work, he did it so easily. The boys laughed more thanonce, and grew eager and a little noisy; but their teacher was perfectlygrave and proper, and did not give Jem the shadow of an excuse forwishing to "knock him down. " He congratulated him when it was all over. 

"Yes; I flatter myself it was the right man in the right place thistime, " said Mr Philip. "You didn't think I could do as well as oldCaldwell, did you. "

Jem shrugged his shoulders. 

"Yes, you could do it, once in a way, after a fashion, at any rate. "

But though Jem spoke so coldly to Philip himself, he was enthusiastic inhis praises of him when they were giving their mother the history of theafternoon after Frank had gone home. 

"He can do anything, I think, " said he. "He was not at a loss for amoment. I believe, if he had been put to it, he could have done thewhole business as well as Davie did, and he did it very well. "

David said nothing, but Violet repeated her opinion as to their newfriend's want of earnestness. 

"If it had been the most foolish thing in the world, he would have doneit just as well, and just as willingly, if he had thought it wasexpected of him to do it. "

"Are you not a little severe on him?" said her mother. 

"No, mamma; I don't mean to be severe. He would think it a greatcompliment paid to him, though you don't think it nice. He does notlook seriously at life. He amuses himself with everything. Justcompare him with our Davie. "

David had gone out before she said this. 

"Nonsense! Letty. Our Davie is a boy still, and Mr Philip is a man. He has completed the course at the university, you know quite well. "

"Our Davie is far more manly than he, for all that. And so are you, Jem. Davie is worth two of him. "

"A great deal more than two of him to us, Letty, " said her mother, laughing. "Still, I am inclined to think with Jem, that you are alittle hard on him. "

"Yes, she does not like him, " said Jem. "And it is odd, too, for helikes her, and you, mamma, and all of us. "

"Oh! yes; I dare say he does. We amuse him for the moment. I know himbetter than you do, Jem. I have seen him every day for a fortnight, youknow. I like him very well, but I don't think he is reliable. He isnot in earnest, " repeated Violet, solemnly. "And Sunday-school teachingis not a proper thing to amuse one's self with. It would spoil all thepleasure of it to have him come there always. However, there is nodanger. He will find something else to amuse him. "

Violet was right, as far as Philip's coming to Muddy Lane was concerned. He did not make his appearance there again for a very long time afterthat Sunday. But, having nothing better to do, he seemed quite inclinedto cultivate the acquaintance of the young Inglises, and came to thebridge house a good deal. Once or twice he brought his little sistersand Violet down in the boat to tea, and several times he came thereafter having been down the river fishing. Once or twice David, cominghome earlier than the others, found him sitting quietly with his motherand little Mary, to all appearance perfectly satisfied with theentertainment he was receiving; and his entertainers seemed satisfiedtoo. David began to consider these frequent visits as an infliction tobe borne patiently, and Violet adhered to her first opinion; but, withJem and the children, he was a great favourite. Even the mother wasinclined to make excuses for his faults, and was very kind to him whenhe came. The mother knew more about him than the rest did, for he toldher a great deal about himself and his past life during the quietafternoons he passed with her and little Mary. And having seen more, and suffered more, she was inclined to have more patience with hisweaknesses than they. 

It had been understood all along, that, as soon as Philip's course atthe university was over, he was to take his place in his father'soffice, and to give all his time and thoughts to his father's business. He had never been quite pleased with the idea, and had all along hopedthat something might happen to render unnecessary a step so distastefulto him. Nothing had happened, and he was inclined to fancy that he wasmaking a sacrifice to his father's business and his father's desire forwealth, and to claim sympathy because of this. 

"And would you be a great help to your father?" asked Mrs Inglis, oneday, when he had got thus far. 

"I don't know. I am sure I don't think so, hating business as I do. But he must think so, or he would not be so bent on my coming to theoffice and tying myself down. It will come to that, I dare say, " saidhe, with a sigh. 

Mrs Inglis smiled. 

"Is it not possible that he may wish it for your sake rather than hisown? And how do you know that you hate business? You have never givenit a fair trial, have you?"

"No, I have not tried it steadily, " said he, answering her last questionfirst. "But then one can tell what one does not like without trying itvery long. I dare say my father thinks it would be a good thing for meto fix myself at the bank. But a man must judge for himself before hesubmits to be tied down for life. "

"But is it not possible that it is the tying down which is distasteful?And every man must submit to be tied down to something. What would youlike to do better. "

"Oh! almost anything. I should like the profession of the law better. "And then he added, after a little, "I should like it better for onething. I need not enter an office till the autumn. "

"I am afraid it is the tying down that is the trouble, after all, " saidshe. 

"No, I assure you--not altogether--though, I acknowledge, it would be afine thing to let business slide--to have nothing at all to do. "

"I do not agree with you. I think it would be the very worst thing thatcould happen to you to have nothing to do, " said Mrs Inglis, gravely. 

"To me, especially, do you mean? Well, I don't quite mean that; but Ithink Mr Caldwell was right when he told my father that, if he hadmeant me for business, he should have put me to it long ago. "

"Do you mean that you regret having been sent to the university?"

"I mean that I should have been fit for my work by this time, and, probably, content with it. A university is not needed there. "

"You must not be angry with me if I say you are talking foolishly, " saidMrs Inglis, "and, indeed, ungratefully, when you say that. Do you meanthat your education will be a disadvantage to you?"

"No; except by making business distasteful to me. I mean, it has givenme other interests and other tastes--something beyond the desire to makemoney. "

"Doubtless, that was your father's intention--to make you an intelligentman as well as a banker--not a mere money-maker. And his wish ought todecide you to give the business of his office a fair trial, since you donot seem to have a preference for any other. "

"I have a very decided preference for a trip across the country. Don'tlook grave, Aunt Mary. These are my holidays. By and by will be timeto settle down to work. "

"I thought you were no longer a schoolboy?"

"No, I am not; but I should like to go--to the Red River, perhaps. Itwould be a fine trip for Davie in his vacation, too, and its cost wouldbe little--comparatively. "

"Davie does not expect a vacation--or only a week or two. "

"Davie is quite a steady old gentleman, " said Philip. 

Mrs Inglis smiled. 

"I don't suppose you mean that quite as a compliment to my boy. I amvery glad it is true, nevertheless. "

"You don't suppose I would venture to say anything not complimentary toyour boy to you, do you? Or that I would wish to say it to any one?But he _does_ take life so seriously. He is so dreadfully in earnest. One would think that Davie was years and years older than I am. "

"Yes, in some things. "

"But, Aunt Mary, such precocious sobriety and wisdom are unnatural andunwholesome. Davie is too wise and grave for his years. "

"He is not too wise to do very foolish things sometimes; and he is themerriest among the children at home, though we don't hear his voicequite so often as Jem's. And you must remember that Davie's experiencehas been very different from yours. "

"Yes, Aunt Mary, I know. Frank has told me how happy you all were, andhow Davie was always so much with his father. It must have been veryterrible for you all. "

"And, Philip, Davie has tried to take his father's place among us. Davie is our bread-winner, in a measure. We have had many cares andanxieties together. No wonder that he seems to you to be grave andolder than his years. "

"Aunt Mary, what an idle, good-for-nothing fellow you must think me, "said Philip, putting down little Mary, who had been sitting on his knee, and standing before his aunt. 

"Not good-for-nothing, certainly. Perhaps, a little idle andthoughtless. There is time for improvement and--room. Let us hope youwill know your own mind soon, which you certainly do not now. "

"Let us hope so, " said Philip, with a sigh. "Here comes Davie! Now, observe him! He will not look in the least glad to see me. "

"Where are all the rest?" said Davie, coming in. 

"Davie, do you know, I have been persuading your mother to let you gowith me to the Red River, " said Philip. "Wouldn't you like it?"

"It is very good of you. Yes, I dare say I would like it. What doesmamma say?"

"She thinks you are too useful a man to be spared so long. What wouldMr Caldwell do without you?"

"When are you coming to help him?" said David. 

"After I come home in the autumn. I cannot bring myself to Davie'sstandard of steadiness all at once, Aunt Mary. I must have a littletime. "

"There is none to lose, " said Mrs Inglis gravely. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

About this time it was announced to the world in general, that MissOswald's marriage was to take place immediately. Her friends thoughtshe had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and herbrothers and sisters so long. Miss Oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. Perhapsthe knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different stylefrom that of her father's, helped her considerateness a little, and madeher more willing to continue at home. However that might be, when herfather set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested thather Aunt Livy would be a very suitable person to see her father's wishesin this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. With these, of course, noone at the bridge house had anything to do, except Violet. But for theglimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a littledazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of whichshe found herself. For Miss Oswald's arrangements were on the grandestscale. Everything that she considered "proper" on the occasion, sheexacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. Therewere fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and theproper number of fine brides-maids, of whom Violet was one. 

Even the wise and sensible Letty was not above a feeling of girlishdelight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company;but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supplythe place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged Miss Oswald'splans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated withthe honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, andso was everybody concerned. So Miss Oswald went away. Mrs Mavor andMiss Livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in itwere beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again. 

But trouble came first. Scarlet fever had broken out in theneighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, andfirst little Polly took it, and then Jessie and Ned, and Violet camehome to help her mother to nurse them. They were not very ill--that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor supposethem to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in takingcare of them. The weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stoodtoo low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon ableto be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong. 

In the meantime both Charlotte and Sarah Oswald had taken the disease, and Mr Oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that Violetmight be permitted to come to them. Their sister Selina had gone awayafter the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never hadthe disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. Thechildren did not take to their aunt. It had been possible to get onwhen they were very ill, but when they began to be better they werepeevish and fretful, and Aunt Livy could not please them, and nothingwould do but Violet must come to them again. It did not seem possiblethat she could leave home, but David was to be spared as much aspossible to help with the little ones, and so she went. 

But between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness withthe little Oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. Frank helped herfor a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the oldtrouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. Mr Philip had commenced an irregularsort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still athis disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. "Philip could be very nice when he liked, " they agreed, and he veryoften "liked" about this time. 

He went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as everamong the little people there. They were not getting well very fast. Charlotte and Sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amusethemselves with their dolls and their games, when Violet, going home oneday, found Jessie and Ned languid and fretful, and poor wee Polly lyinglimp and white in her cot. Her mother looked worn and anxious, Davidcame home with a headache, and Jem was the only one among them whosehealth and spirits were in a satisfactory condition. 

"I cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back, " saidViolet. "But I shall come home to-morrow. They don't need me half asmuch as you do, and I must come. You are sick yourself, mamma. "

"No, I am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. Don't cometill the children are well. It is your proper place there, and even youcannot help us here while the weather is so warm. "

It was very hot and close, and Violet fancied that from the low fieldsbeyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came. 

"No wonder they don't get strong, " said she. 

Mr Oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls tothe country, or to the seaside. The doctor had suggested this as thebest thing that could be done for them. Violet thought of their largehouse, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, andlooked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid inthe close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling verylike envy or discontent rising in her heart. 

"Mamma, " said she, "it is a dreadful thing to be poor;" and then shetold of the plan for sending the Oswalds away for change of air, and howthey were already well and strong in comparison to their own poordarlings, and then she said, again, "It is a dreadful thing to be sopoor. "

"We are not so poor as we might be?" said her mother, gravely. "Thinkhow it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. God has beenvery good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur becausewe have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for. "

"I know it, mamma. But look at these pale cheeks. Poor wee Polly! sheis only a shadow of our baby. If we could only send her to Gourlay fora little while. "

"Do you think her looking so poorly? I think it is the heat that iskeeping them all so languid. Don't look so miserable. If it isnecessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them insome way. But we are quite in the country here, and when we have hadrain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then theywill all be better. "

"Have you made any plan about going to the country?" asked Violet, eagerly. 

"No, my dear. I trust it will not be necessary. It could not be easilymanaged, " said Mrs Inglis, with a sigh. 

"If we were only not quite so poor, " said Violet. 

"I say, Letty, don't you think mamma has trouble enough without yourbother?" said Jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. Violetlooked at him in astonishment. 

"If we were only not quite so poor!" repeated Jem, in the doleful toneshe had used. "You have said that three times within half an hour. Youhad better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can doby coming home. "

"That will do, Jem! Don't spoil your sermon by making it too long, "said David, laughing. 

"Sermon! No, I leave that to you, Davie. But what is the use of beingso dismal? And it isn't a bit like Letty. "

"But, Jem, it is true. The children look so ill, and if they could onlyget a change of air--"

"And don't you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tellher? What is the good of telling her? She has been looking all day foryou to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that youhave come you are as dismal as--I don't know what. You have been havingtoo easy times lately, and can't bear hardness, " said Jem, severely. 

"Have I?" said Violet, with an uncertain little laugh. 

"Softly, Jem, lad!" said his mother, who had come in again. "I thinkshe has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her muchgood to tell her so. "

"I dare say Jem is right, mamma, and I am cross. "

"Not cross, Letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, I think, "said Jem. 

"Well, I won't be dismal any more to-night, if I can help it. Davie, take Polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while I make thetea. Jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. We will all havetea to-night, because I am a visitor. "

"All right!" said Jem. "Anything to please all round; and the hot teawill cool us nicely, won't it?"

"It will refresh us at any rate. "

And so the little cloud passed away, and Violet's cheerfulness lastedthrough the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade Jemgood-bye at Mr Oswald's gate. It did not last much longer, however. It was nearly dark, and Mr Oswald and his sister and Frank were sittingon the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among thechestnut trees. 

"I thought you were not coming home to-night, " said Miss Livy, in anaggrieved tone. 

"I was detained, " said Violet. "How are the children?"

"They are in bed at last. You should not have told them that you wouldbe home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. However, they are in bed now. Pray don't go and disturb them again. Philip had to go to them at last. He is up-stairs now. They aredreadfully spoiled. "

Violet dropped down in the nearest chair. 

"How are the children at home?" asked Mr Oswald, kindly. 

"They are--not better. "

"I hope they are not spoiled, " said Frank, laughing. "Did they cry whenyou came away, Violet?"

"They were rather fretful. They are not strong. "

"You are not very well yourself, to-night, " said Mr Oswald. "Thechange will do you as much good as any of them. "

"I am quite well, " said Violet. 

"We have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for achange of air, " went on Mr Oswald. "Will you go with them? Betseywill go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, andthe change will do you good. "

"Thank you. You are very kind. But the children need me at home. Icould not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away forpleasure. "

"It would not be quite all pleasure, I fancy, " said Mr Philip. "Theyare asleep at last. It cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amusedall day, as they are just now. "

"They are quite spoiled, " said Aunt Livy. 

"Oh! no. Not quite. They are good little things in general, aschildren go. You can't judge now, aunt, " said Philip. "Miss Inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?"

"So Jem told me. I am tired. I think I shall say good-night and goup-stairs. "

"It should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them, " said Aunt Livy. 

"There is no haste, " said Mr Oswald. "Perhaps the children at home maybe better able to spare you in a day or two, Miss Violet. "

"Thank you. It would be very pleasant, but--"

"Why not send all together?" said Philip. "Ned and Jessie and weePolly, with Charlotte and Sarah? I dare say they would all be better ofa change, poor little souls!"

"I dare say they can do without it, thank you, " said Violet, stiffly. 

"For what? My suggestion? They would like it, I am sure. "

"People cannot get all they like in this world. "

"Violet, " said Frank, solemnly, "I believe you are cross. "

"I am almost afraid I am, " said Violet, laughing uneasily. 

"For the first time in your life. Something dreadful must have happenedat the bridge house to-day!"

"No; nothing happened. "

"The children are not better, that is what is the matter, " said Philip;"though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. Depend on it, it ischange they want, " said Philip, with the air of a doctor. 

"It is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could allgo together, with you to take care of them, " said Mr Oswald. "Verynice for our little girls, I mean. Think of it, and speak to yourmother. "

"Thank you; I will, " said Violet. 

"Much they know about it, " said she to herself, as she went up-stairs inthe dark. "An extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the littledarlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change ascoolly as possible. And I didn't know better than to trouble mamma withjust such foolish talk. We must try and have mamma and Polly go toGourlay for a week or two. June not half over, and how shall we everget through the two not months! Oh, dear! I am so tired!"

Violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good manythings had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. When sheopened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must besleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorousbreakfast-table, Aunt Livy seemed to be presiding at a large children'sparty. Everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little Mary heldout her arms to be taken. 

"My precious wee Polly! Have you got a pair of wings?" said she, clasping and kissing her little sister. 

"We are to stay all day, if we are good. You are to tell mamma how webehave, " said Jessie. "We came in a carriage, with Mr Philip and Jem. "

Violet looked a little anxiously from Aunt Livy to Mr Oswald, and sawnothing to make her doubt the children's welcome. Mr Oswald smiled;Miss Livy nodded. 

"They seem very well-behaved children, " said she. "Not at all spoiled. "

"We haven't been here long, " said Jessie, gravely. "But we are going tobe good, Letty. We promised mamma. "

And they were very good, considering all things. Still, it was afatiguing day to Violet. She followed them out and she followed themin; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempersfailed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, andtold them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books andsomething nice to eat. It would have been a better day, as far as thevisitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. But the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to theirunaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that theygrew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and timeto go home; and so was Violet. 

The next day they came they were stronger and better, but they neededconstant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on thethird morning, Violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on thewindow. Not that she would have minded ten times the trouble forherself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as wellnot to try Miss Livy's forbearance too far. Miss Livy had had verylittle to do with children since she was a child herself, and thatlittle led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinionthat the children of the present day are not so well brought up aschildren used to be. This opinion did not make her more patient withthem, but rather less so; and so Violet was not sorry for the rain thatkept her little sisters at home. 

At breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, Charlotte andSarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, Violet, at Mr Oswald's request, went home tospeak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehandhow the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned. 

However, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaitedher; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of Miss Bethia Barnes. And was not Violet glad to seeher? So glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, andthen laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did. 

"It is good to see you, Aunt Bethia, " said she. 

"You are the only one of the family who looks better for Singleton, "said Miss Bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder. 

Miss Bethia had considered Violet a little girl when she left Singleton;but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a verypretty young woman, too, Miss Bethia acknowledged. If Violet had notbeen so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, shemust, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel orwarning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was astate of things that she could not believe in. However, she reservedher advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her ownconclusions from the brightening of the mother's face at the coming ofher eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little Mary clungto her, and the others claimed her attention. 

"You must stay at home to-night, Letty, " said Jem. 

"May I, mamma? I am to be sent for later; but may I not send a messagethat Miss Bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?"

"But I can spare you all the better that Miss Bethia is here, " said hermother, smiling. 

"Yes, I know mamma; but I want to stay so much. "

"You would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? Now, wouldyou? Aunt Bethia, " said Jem. 

"Politeness ain't the only thing to think of, " said Miss Bethia. 

"Violet is not quite at our disposal just now, " said Mrs Inglis; "and Iam afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. They havehad the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, andthey hardly know this aunt yet, and Violet has charge of them. They arefond of Violet. "

"Oh, yes! they are all fond of Violet up there; but so are we, " saidJem. "Let her stay, mamma. "

"And how do you like earning your living?" asked Miss Bethia. 

Violet laughed. 

"Oh, I like it. When did you come, Miss Bethia? You are not lookingvery well. "

"I haven't been well--had a sharp turn of rheumatism. I had somebusiness, and I came yesterday. "

"And how are all the Gourlay people? And you live in our house now. How strange it must seem! And what a shame that your old place isspoiled!"

"I thought so at the time, but it might have been worse. "

And then Violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened withmany exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and MissBethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till Nedcalled out that young Mr Oswald was driving Davie over the bridge, andthat now Violet would have to go. 

"Mamma, " said Violet, "I have not told you why I came yet. Mr Oswaldsent me, and I cannot tell it all at once. Let me stay till after tea, and Jem can take me home. "

"All right, " said Jem. "I have no objections, if nobody else has none. "

There was a little pleasant confusion after Mr Philip and David camein, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and thenMr Philip was introduced to the visitor. There was no mistaking thelook she bent upon him. It was searching and critical, admiring, butnot altogether approving. 

"You have never been out Gourlay way?" said she. 

"No, I never have, as yet. "

"He did not know what nice people the Gourlay people are, or he wouldhave been, " said Jem. 

"I expect so, " said Miss Bethia. "It ain't too late to go yet. "

"Thank you, Miss Barnes. I shall be happy to accept your kindinvitation, " said Philip. 

In the meantime, Violet had been telling her mother of Mr Oswald'sproposal. It was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed witha single word of refusal, as Violet would have liked, and time must betaken to consider it. 

"Violet is not going with you, Mr Philip, " said Jessie. "She is goingto stay and take tea with Miss Bethia. "

"I am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way fornothing, Mr Philip, " said Mrs Inglis. "We want Violet a little whileto-night. Miss Barnes does not know how soon she may go, and Violetthinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps. "

"Of course, she can be spared. And it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. Shall I come back again?"

"Pray, do not. Jem will go with me. I shall like the walk. "

"All right!" said Jem. "I consider myself responsible for her. Shewill be up there at the proper time. "

"All right!" said Philip cheerfully. "Aunt Mary, you might ask me tohave tea too. "

"You haven't had your dinner yet, " said Jessie. 

"And you could not keep your horse standing so long, " said Ned. 

"And, besides, I am not to be invited, " said Philip, laughing. 

They all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge andalong the street. Then Violet said:

"Now, mamma, you are to sit down and I am to get tea. I can do allquite well. "

And, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy forthe next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in herword now and then, sometimes claiming help from Jem or Davie in somehousehold matter to which she put her hand. At last, with an air ofpride and pleasure that Miss Bethia thought pretty to see, she calledthem to tea. 

"You have got to be quite a house-keeper, " said Miss Bethia, as they satdown to the table. 

"Hasn't she?" said Jem and Davie in a breath. 

"I mean to be, at any rate, " said Violet, nodding and laughing gaily. "I like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn't pay quite so well. "

"I guess it will, in the long run, " said Miss Barnes. 

"I am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. Sarah andCharlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and Betsey can take careof them in the country quite as well as I--better, indeed. Mamma needsme at home. Don't you think so, Davie? I can find enough to do athome; can't I?"

"But, as you say, it wouldn't pay so well. "

"In one way, perhaps, it wouldn't, but in another way it would. Butmamma doesn't say anything, " added Violet, disconsolately. 

"We must sleep upon it, mamma thinks, " said Jem. 

"We need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two, " said MrsInglis. 

"I am afraid we must, mamma. The sooner the better, Mr Oswald says;and that is why I came to-day. "

"I wish you would come and keep house for me. I am getting tired ofit, " said Miss Bethia. 

"I should like it well--with mamma and the children. "

"Of course, that is understood, " said Miss Bethia. "And you could takethese others with you, couldn't you? And what their father would payfor them would help your house-keeping. "

"Miss Bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about thestirring up of a Johnny cake, " Jem said. Violet looked eagerly from herto her mother. There was a little stir and murmur of excitement wentround the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. But shesaid nothing, and Miss Bethia went on, not at all as if she were sayinganything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any pieceof news. 

"I've thought of it considerable. Serepta Stone has concluded to goaway to a water-cure place in the States. If Debby should conclude togo to another place, I shouldn't care about staying in that big housealone. I can let it next fall, I expect. But this summer, Mrs Inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. It won't cost youa cent, and it won't be a cent's loss to me. And I don't see why thatwon't suit pretty well all round. "

A chorus of "ohs, " and "ahs, " and "dear mammas, " went round the table. 

"It wouldn't cost more than living here, " said David. 

"Not so much, " said Miss Bethia. 

"And I am sure Mr Oswald would be delighted to have Charlotte and Sarahgo, mamma, " said Violet. 

"He would pay you the same as he'd pay to them at the other place, andhe might be sure he would get the worth of his money, " said Miss Bethia. 

"And I would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma, " said Violet. 

"You and Debby Stone, " said Miss Bethia, who seemed to consider that itwas as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between theothers. 

"Davie, you'll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to Gourlay withme, " said Ned. 

"Bless the child! there's fishing rods enough, " said Miss Bethia. 

"It's mamma's turn to speak now, " said Jessie. And "yes, mamma!" and"oh! dear mamma!" were repeated again, eagerly. 

There would be no use in telling all that Mrs Inglis said, or all thatMiss Bethia and the rest said. It was not quite decided that night thatthey were to pass a part of the summer in Gourlay, but it looked so muchlike it that Violet held a little private jubilation with little Polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, withmany kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and asbrown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. Beforeshe was done with it, Jem called out. 

"It is time to be going, Letty, if I am to be responsible for you at thebig house. "

"Perhaps if you wait, Mr Philip will come for you. He said he would, "said Jessie. 

"And, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won't put him to thetrouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful, " said Violet. "Come, Jem, I am ready. "

"He seems a pretty likely young man, don't he?--young Mr Oswald, Imean, " said Miss Bethia. 

The question was not addressed to any one in particular. Jem looked atLetty, and Letty looked at Davie, and they all laughed merrily. "Likely, " in Miss Bethia's vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fellso far short of Mr Philip's idea of himself and his merits, and indeedof their idea of him that they could not help it. 

"He seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured, " said MissBethia. 

"Oh, yes! he is very good-natured, " said Violet. 

Everybody had something to say in his praise. The little ones werequite enthusiastic. Jem said he was "smart" as well as good-natured, and David, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added Mr Caldwell's opinion, that Mr Philip had all his father'stalent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnestabout it, and would settle down to it. Several instances of hiskindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and Mrs Inglis spoke warmly in his praise. 

"Only, mamma, " said Violet, with some hesitation, "all these things areagreeable to himself. He does such things because he likes to do them. "

"And ain't that to be put to his credit, " said Miss Bethia. "It is wellwhen one does right things and likes to do them, ain't it?"

"Yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, andnot just because they are pleasant. If very different things wereagreeable to him, he would do them all the same. "

"Stuff, Letty! with your buts and your ifs. Mr Phil, is just likeother people. It is only you and Davie that have such high-flownnotions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that. "

"Our ideas of `duty and all that' are just like other people's, Jem, Ithink, " said David. "They are just like Miss Bethia's, at any rate, andmamma's. "

"And like Jem's own ideas, though not like Mr Philip's" said Violet. 

"Violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what ispleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant, " saidDavie. 

"He would not wait to choose, " said Violet, gravely. "He would just dowhat was pleasant without at all thinking about the other. "

"Mamma, do you call that charitable?" said Jem. 

"I think Violet means--and Davie--that his actions are, as a generalthing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle, " saidMrs Inglis; "and you know, Jem, the same reliance cannot be placed onsuch a person as on--"

"On a steady old rock, like Mr Caldwell or our Davie, " said Jem. "Yes, I know; still I like Phil. "

"So we all like him, " said Violet. "But, as mamma says, we do not relyon him. He likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and helikes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and allthat. But he likes to go to other places, and to talk with otherpeople, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. He is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for themoment. He has no stability. One cannot help liking him, but onecannot respect him. "

Everybody looked surprised. Jem whistled. 

"Why don't you tell him so? It might do him good. "

"It wouldn't change his nature, " said Violet, loftily. And then shebade them all good-night, and she and Jem went away, and Miss Bethiaimproved the occasion. 

"I expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts tomuch that is good. I hope, David, you will not let this frivolous youngman lead you away from the right path. "

Mrs Inglis had gone out of the room, and David prepared himself forwhat he knew would come sooner or later, Miss Bethia's never-failinggood advice. 

"You are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, carelessyouth like that. His company might easily become a snare to you, and toJem too. "

"Oh! he has very little to say to me, Miss Bethia. He is older than Jemor I. He likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn't think ill of him fromwhat was said to-night. "

"I suppose the trouble is in his bringing up, " said Miss Bethia. "Fromall I hear, I should fear that his father hasn't a realising sense ofthe importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can beexpected of his son?"

David did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did notlike the next better. 

"There is a great responsibility resting on you, David, with regard tothe people among whom your lot is cast. It is to be hoped they'll beled to think more, and not less, of the Master you serve from your walkand conversation. "

David made no answer. 

"David, " said Miss Bethia, "have you been living a Christian life sinceyou came here? Such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? Have you been keeping your armourbright, David?"

"I have been trying, Miss Bethia, " said David. 

"Well, it is something to have been trying. It is something not to beled away. But have you been content with that? You have a battle tofight--a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you arefaithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer groundthan his feet have found yet. "

David shook his head. 

"You don't know me, Miss Bethia, nor him, or you would not say that. "

"Your father would have made it his business to do him good. "

"But I am not like my father, very far from that. "

"Well, your father was nothing by himself. You are bound to do the samework, and you can have the same help. And it will pay in the long run. Oh, yes! it will pay!"

"I have been telling David that he may do that pleasant-spoken youthmuch good, if he is faithful to him and to himself, " added she, as MrsInglis came into the room. 

"And I have been telling Miss Bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn't say that, mamma, " said David. 

"She must know you by this time, I think, Davie, " said his mother, smiling. 

"I used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along prettymuch so. I don't know as I see any change for the worse in him. He hashad great privileges, and he has great responsibility. "

"Yes, " said his mother, gravely; "and I quite agree with you, MissBethia, he may do Mr Philip good by a diligent and faithful performanceof his daily duties, if in no other way. He has done so already. "

"Oh, mamma!" said David, "Miss Bethia will think you are growing vain. "

"No, I sha'n't. But he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. Oh! I guess he'll get along pretty well--David, I mean, not young MrOswald. "

Jem came home while they were still talking. 

"Mamma, " said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, "we sawPhilip going into Dick's saloon as we were going up the street andViolet said he'd be just as pleased and just as popular there as in ourown home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. Thatis all she knows! Violet is hard on Phil. "

"She cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such aplace, " said his mother. 

"But he sees no harm in it, and I don't suppose there is much. "

"I should think it great harm for one of my boys, " said his mother, gravely. 

"All right, mamma!" said Jem. "But, then, as Miss Barnes says, ourbringing up has been different. "

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia's pleasant plan for thesummer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. MissBethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, andin a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. Thelittle Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were tofollow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regardto his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that theothers were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements fortheir departure, and made light of his mother's anxiety and doubts as tothe comfort of those who were to be left behind. 

But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted housealone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They werequite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engagedto care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children tocare for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwontedsilence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits. 

"It's queer, too, " said Jem, who had been promising himself greatenjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for theschool examinations that were coming on. "I used to think the childrenbothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, I think. "

David nodded assent. 

"They will be in Gourlay long ago, " said he. "I wonder how it will seemto mamma to go back again. "

Jem looked grave. 

"It won't be all pleasure to her, I am afraid. "

"No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would ratherhave gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone withher. "

"Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fretor be unhappy. "

"She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thingfor her to go there now. "

"Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, beforethe summer is over. "

Jem's examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he didnot have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes tohis mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; forJem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction. 

When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the greatengine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of thecountry where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuablemachinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretfulthoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights ofboating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. Indeed, by the time his mother's consent reached him, his preparationswere far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the soleobject of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which hadbeen offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, toJem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sightsfar from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was leftalone. 

He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he musthave done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay. But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, Davidhad to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easilyhave changed to discontent or envy of his brother's happier fortune. 

Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughedat himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms andblackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there--doing this and that at the bidding of his master. A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thoughtabout him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on thequiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and madeplans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while theylasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in thehouse grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The longsummer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books thathad been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow onthem. 

There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald'sto stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. MrPhilip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangementsfor the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had notbeen repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, atthe last moment, joined an exploring party who were going--not, indeed, to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten theinvitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home tothe deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vagueimpatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happento break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen. Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David'sknowledge at that time. 

Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent businessjourneys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that hemight see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way layin the same direction; and it was while they were going towards hometogether that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant thathad occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, andthe circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believethat it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. MrCaldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he saymuch about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had beencoming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throwlight upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed. 

The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, werethese: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies ofthe town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sumof money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The restof the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of hisprivate safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for thewhole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and anentry in the society's books corresponded to the sum named in thisreceipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part ofit, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society werekept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard tothem were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matterof less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make MrOswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it. 

The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had takenplace, when the quarterly making up of the society's accounts had beentaken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about thecircumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person whopaid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silvercoins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared. 

All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came toDavid's knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matterwas not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwellhad asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one. 

When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of theloss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind thatthe reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, andwished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on, he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald's manner toward him. He hadnever said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not hisway with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He saidless than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchfulof him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that hismanner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directionsas to his work for the day. 

Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and havingno one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he mightotherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it. 

"Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?" said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office. 

Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment. 

"No, I have not. Have _you_ anything to tell me about it? The soonerthe better, " said Mr Oswald. 

"I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me, " said David. 

"You may go, " said Mr Oswald. 

And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and hismanner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became morecertain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even toViolet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp andshort in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had neversaid much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell. 

But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. Theweather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office wasdone languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother'sreturn. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfullygave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit. 

He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy hisaccustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him asense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not rightbetween him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. Heseemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtookhim on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in thegarden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came atnight to the house about some business, which, he said, had beenforgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard himknock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with hishead on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to himstupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence. 

Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had beenat her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, andwhere he went, and how he passed his time; and though David wassurprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because hethought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into hismind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few daysat the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. Hewas, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the lettersin the morning, for Mr Oswald's manner was much kinder, and he spoke tohim just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did notcome down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might. 

That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive tillafter the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he wenthome. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money;and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whetherthe accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea ofsuspicion in his friend's hesitating words and anxious looks, he did notknow, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if someone had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell's voice, saying:

"Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falselyaccused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What wouldyour mother say?"

His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?

"David, " said his friend solemnly, "it is at a time like this that ourtrust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, ifyou are innocent. "

"If!" said David, with a gasp. 

"Ay! `if!' Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you havenot said that the charge is a false one yet. "

"I did not think I should need to say so to you!"

"But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden askyou the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him thatsent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him. "

"To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he beensuspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothingsaid about it in the office?"

"That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna' let your eyes flashon me, " said Mr Caldwell, severely. "Don't you think it has caused himmuch unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?"

"But why should he suspect _me_?"

"There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I havenothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer. "

"I will answer him myself, " said David, rising, as though he were goingat once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood lookingout. 

"David, " said Mr Caldwell, "put away your books, and come home withme. "

"No, I cannot do that, " said David, shortly. 

He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spokenfor a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:

"David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is tosee that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concernto your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has beenindulging in an angry and unchristian spirit. " And then he went away. 

He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in thegathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the houseseemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before hereached the gate. 

"David, " said he kindly, opening the door, "come away home with me. "

But David only answered as he had done before. 

"No, I cannot do that. "

He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:

"No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not. "

"It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. You need not be alone, however. You don't need me to tell you where youare to take all this trouble to. You may honour _Him_ by bearing itwell, " said his friend. 

"Bear it well!" No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first. 

When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows tokeep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he hadkept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in aflood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitteras they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to MrOswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he wouldnever enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made himeager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wisercounsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betakehimself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite anothermind. 

As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer toMr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though hehad not been there for a fortnight. 

"For who knows, " said he to himself, "what that foolish lad may go andsay in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, orit may end badly for all concerned. "

He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a fewwords concerning the business which had called him away during the lastfew weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision asto the impossibility of the lad's having any knowledge of the lostmoney. 

"It seems impossible, certainly, " said Mr Oswald; "and yet how can itsdisappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the tableor from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must haveseen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on thatday, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except youngInglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was timeto go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. Youhad sent David out, you said. He came in before I left--" And he wentover the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the moneythat vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it wouldhave been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss ofconfidence in those whom he employed. 

"For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be notguilty. "

Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room. 

"David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?" and Frank came hurriedlyforward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from thelight. 

"My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have beenin bed long ago. "

"But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa. You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?"

"No, I know David Inglis better, " said Mr Caldwell, quietly. 

"And, papa, you don't think ill of Davie? You would not if you knewhim. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?"cried the boy in great distress. "Papa, how could you do it?"

Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing hecould say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thingto say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David. But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frankit was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in hisdiscomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away. 

"But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I wouldnot believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. Iwould sooner believe it of--of Mr Caldwell, " said Frank, excitedly. 

"Be quiet, Frank, " said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a littleand patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, saidgood-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a verypleasant frame of mind, that is certain. 

True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank nextmorning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and hewould have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshinewhich had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made himdizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa inhis father's office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David's voice saying--

"Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir. "

Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend. 

"He does not mean it, Davie!" he cried. "Papa knows you never couldhave done such a thing. Don't be angry, old fellow. "

And then he put out his hand to clasp David's, and missed it partlybecause of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears thatrushed to them. David regarded him in dismay. 

"Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?" said David, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. Theywere bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David'sshoulder, but his tears were not for himself. 

"You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank, " said his father, surprisedand perplexed at his sudden break-down; "you must go home immediately. "

"Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money, " cried theboy. "He _could_ not do it, papa. "

"Indeed, I did not, sir, " said David. "I know nothing about the matterexcept what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir. "

"I do not know what to believe, " said Mr Oswald. "It seems unlikelythat you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But Ihave been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?"

"It was not I, " said David, quietly, and while he said it he wasconscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswaldin the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angrydenial, he felt now, would have availed little. 

"Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps hewill think of something you have forgotten--something that may help youto find out where the money has gone, " said Frank, earnestly. 

But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexedwith the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lostmoney, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of itsloss, or until the guilty person should betray himself. 

"You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here, " said he. 

"I want to hear you tell Davie that you don't believe he is a thief. "

A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken. Mr Oswald winced too. 

"Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of itsdisappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in asense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will befound out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it. "

"But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?" said David, in some excitement. 

"It was not a pleasant thing to tell. "

"No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance thatthe guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declaredat once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think youhave been just to me. "

"That will do. The less said the better, " said Mr Oswald. "Frank, youmust go home. "

"You will not go away, Davie?" said Frank. 

"Not if I may stay. Where could I go?" said David. 

"You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasantbusiness may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until itdoes. "

"If you had only spoken to David about it sooner, " said Frank, again. 

But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank, however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his motherreturned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and noentreaties of Frank could move him. 

"I don't wonder that you will not come, " said Frank. "I don't blame youfor refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?"

"She will know that _you_ are all right, Frank, " said David, trying tolook cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did notsucceed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to staywith him for a while, and thinking of his friend's troubles did him somegood, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he couldnot make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald's house, and he did not seeFrank again for a good while after that. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble hadfallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimesthought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation mustleave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it lesslikely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust himagain; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely thatMr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridgehouse and Singleton, and where could they go?

Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was veryfoolish on David's part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. Heknew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that outof it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growingproud of his good name, of being his mother's right hand, and of havingthe confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted tohappen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, andthat he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to seehow right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very greatmatter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger andimpatience and distrust. 

Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caringfor him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could notbe committed to His care--trusted altogether to Him! Yes, heacknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times everyday he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain thatseemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to beso or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his troublewell. 

He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched himclosely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered alittle. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patientunder a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that heresented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse theinvitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his fatherthat he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shakeDavid's resolution, but he did not succeed. 

David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angryand desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would nothave been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet hecould not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should bemade clear where the lost money had gone--so clear that even Mr Oswaldwould not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, andget the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoilher happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had daredto speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could nottell her till afterwards. 

His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble. She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, andan inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there wassomething more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessedafter Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to goto Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, tosee how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their mannerof life in Gourlay. 

And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead ofMrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her thanhe would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could havetalked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was inhis heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said tohimself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they weredoing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask himquestions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sadstory of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister'sastonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet's firstfeeling--astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation. 

"And haven't you the least idea what may have become of the money, Davie? Don't you have any suspicion of any one?" asked she, after shehad said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. "Have theynot been trying to discover something?"

"They have been trying, I suppose. "

"And what do _you_ think, Davie? There must be some clue, surely. "

But David was silent. 

"You do suspect some one?" said Violet, eagerly. 

"No, " said he, slowly; "I have no sufficient reason for suspecting anyone. "

"Tell _me_, Davie. "

"No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. Itcame into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and Ihave nothing to tell. "

"When did it happen?" asked Violet, after a little. 

David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told thedate of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it couldnot have been very long after his mother went away, though he had notheard of the loss till after Jem had gone. 

Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, andsaid nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over thechair in which David was sitting, and asked:

"David, when did Philip Oswald go away?"

David turned round and looked at her uneasily. 

"A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No, Violet--don't say it, " said he, eagerly, as he met her look. "He couldnot do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And, besides, he _could_ not do such a thing. "

"David, " said Violet, gravely, "was it Philip that you were thinkingabout?"

"Don't, Violet! It came into my mind--I couldn't help that, but it iswrong to speak of it. It could not have been he. "

"I don't know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish andfrivolous--and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do sucha thing as--take money--unless--"

"Violet! Don't speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing. "

"I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motivefor such an act. The sum was so small--and then--"

"Dear Violet!" said David, in great distress, "don't speak of it anymore. "

"Well, I will not--but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great dealbetter than I am, Davie, " said his sister, softly. 

David laughed an uncertain laugh. 

"That is all you know about it, " said he. 

When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the littlegirls, the first word that Frank said to her was:

"Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?"

But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie's trouble to him. She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled byFrank's pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one buthim. 

"Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing tothem?"

For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again. 

"Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I wasnot strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some peoplewho were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, Icouldn't let him. "

"You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us, " said Violet. 

"Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone. "

"Come with me to-morrow, " said Violet, earnestly. "Mamma will be veryglad to see you. "

But Frank shook his head sadly. 

"I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face--after--"

"You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don't suppose thatanything they say can really hurt our Davie?"

"No; not in the end. But--there's no use in talking. "

"I am not afraid!" said Violet. "And mamma will not fret about it; I amsure of that?"

There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked:

"Where is your brother now?"

"He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying thetrip very much when I left him. "

"And when will he be home?"

"I don't know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?"

Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet'sface. 

"Why are you asking?" he repeated. 

But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes. 

"Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again. She will do you more good than the doctor. "

"Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil--about the missingmoney, I mean. Tell me!"

"Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would beshocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blamePhilip?"

But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she wasafraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie's trouble. She didnot give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished verymuch for Frank's sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and shehastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let himgo. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not veryill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enterinto any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promisedto speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he bepermitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank whileshe stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip. 

It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made noserious objections to his son's going to Gourlay. Frank himselfobjected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to makehis refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own homedecided him to go. 

"Violet, " said David, when the time came to say good-bye, "you must nottell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, anddo no good. "

But Violet would not promise. 

"I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes toknow it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you neednot be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all beright in the end. "

And the "end" of David's trouble, as far as the missing money wasconcerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade eachother good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, inthe midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem tohim a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, andlaughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keepingthe knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother. 

"Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it, " said he tohimself; "and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter whichis sure to come right in the end. "

And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and theloneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that wasgiven him to do, but the days were long and dull and the eveningslonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they shouldall come home. 

There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket matchor a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at theearliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen ofit. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was atthe moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him toremain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that helost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much foranything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a littleunhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it. 

For when he had read his mother's letter only the other day, he hadtaken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledgedhow foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald's doubts andsuspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, andthat he could wait God's time for the clearing of his name, withoutbeing unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiouslywhether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He wastired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the emptyhouse and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying tohimself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a handwas laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said--

"Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I wentaway?"

David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of themany thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter aword. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him. 

"Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the lightof the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?"

He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart wasbeating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk withViolet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now ashe looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it wasthat he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble. 

"When did you come, Philip?" said he. "I should scarcely have knownyou, if you hadn't spoken. "

Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. Hewas brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed toDavid to have grown taller in these two months. 

"I have improved, haven't I? I can't say as much for you. What is thetrouble, Davie?"

Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughingbrown face close to David's. But David drew himself away. He hatedhimself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as helooked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should thesummer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was verymiserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless andafraid. So he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned awaysaying nothing. 

"Is it as bad as that? Can't I help you? Frank seemed to think Imight, though I could not make out from his letter what was the troubleor how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have yougot into a scrape at last?"

"A scrape!" repeated David. "No you cannot help me, I am afraid. Ishould be sorry to trouble you. "

"Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted tocome, because of Frank's letter. He seemed to think I could put youthrough. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is oldCaldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?"

David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward tothe time of Philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or otherlight might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer tohim, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself bybreaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must havedone one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need toanswer. 

"So you have come home!" said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. "Youhave not been in haste. "

"I beg your pardon. I _have_ been in haste. I did not intend to comehome for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way aboutit. "

"And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless. "

"You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see hima minute, and then I'll go home with you, Davie, " said Philip, turningtowards his father's door. "David has important business with me, "added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle. 

David shook his head. 

"Your father will tell you all about it, " said he, hoarsely. 

Philip whistled and came back again. 

"That is the way, is it?"

"Or I will tell you, " said Mr Caldwell, gravely. "Young man, what didyour brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a whileago?"

Philip looked at him in surprise. 

"What is that to you, sir? He said--I don't very well know what hesaid. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred andblotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was introuble, and that I was expected home to bring him through. "

Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother'sletter and held it out to David. "Perhaps you can make it out, " saidhe. 

Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in someplaces they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philipcould not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet's, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lostmoney, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and theletter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seemmysterious to Philip. 

"Can you make it out?" Philip asked. 

"I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it outfrom this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell. "

"All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If Ican help you out of the scrape, I will. "

"That is to be seen yet, " said Mr Caldwell. 

Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words aspossible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how themoney had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged byhim, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and howMr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis ofhaving taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether MrOswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what mighthave become of the missing money, and one might not have thought fromhis way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in thematter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip's face, and hislast words were--

"And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of thematter. Is that what he says in his letter?"

Philip's face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At firsthe whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceasedspeaking he exclaimed without heeding his question--

"What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!"

"There was no one else, he thought, " said David. 

"No one else!" repeated Philip. "Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell andall the rest of them in the office, and there was _me_. I took themoney. "

"If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiserthing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them, " saidMr Caldwell, severely. "You had best tell your father about it now, "added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room. 

"Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not getthe note I left on your table for you the day I went away?"

"The note!" repeated his father. "I got no note from you. "

"David, my man, " whispered Mr Caldwell, "do you mind the word thatsays, `He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thyjudgment as the noonday?' The Lord doesna forget. "

The story as they gathered it from Philip's explanations andexclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his fatherdirectly from the train that had brought him home from C--. He had notfound him in, but he had written a note to explain that through somechange of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, andthat he must return to C-- without a moment's delay, in order that allarrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. Hewas almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silverthat were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the fullvalue in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it. 

"And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie, " said Philip, not veryrespectfully, when his story was done. 

"And now the matter lies between him and you, " said his father. "Forthe money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it afterall. "

But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with hisnote and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that waslying on the table. There could be no mistake about that. 

"And we are just where we were before, " said Mr Caldwell. "But don'tbe cast down, David. There must be a way out of this. "

"But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubtedDavie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, Iwould have cut the whole concern, " said Philip. 

"There would have been much wisdom in that, " said Mr Caldwell dryly. "There is no fear of David Inglis. "

David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter thatPhilip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had reallybeen discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of MrOswald might still rest on him "I wonder you did not think of me, father, " went on Philip. "Frank did, I dare say, though I could notmake out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have alook. "

He went into his father's room, and the others followed. Philip lookedabout as though he expected everything might be as he left it two monthsago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters andaccount-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald's hat andcane, and that was all. 

"The big book lay just here, " said Philip. "I laid my note on it, sothat it need not be overlooked. "

"There are more big books in the office than one, " said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were stillstanding open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that werenot often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whetherany paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understoodwhat he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great dealmore energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was MrCaldwell who came upon that for which they were looking--Philip's noteto his father--safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked asthough it might not have been opened for years. 

"I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp's account of pastyears on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, DavidInglis, your trial is over for this time, " and he handed the note to MrOswald. 

"Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake, " added he, cautiously, as thenote was opened. 

The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took MrOswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good whilebefore he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip's help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David neverthought of offering to help. 

"It has been a very unfortunate mistake, " said Mr Oswald, at last. 

"All's well that ends well, " said his son lightly. 

"I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David. I might have known that _you_ were not to blame, but there seemed to beno one else. I beg your pardon sincerely, " said Mr Oswald. 

"I am very glad it is all right, sir, " said David, quietly. 

"I should like to know one thing, " said Philip. "How came Frank towrite to me? He must have thought I was the thief--the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?"

"No, " said David, "I never thought you took it. I don't know what Frankthought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one, " added David, after a moment's hesitation. 

"Well! never mind. I'll sift that matter by and by. Come up to thehouse with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have hadabout this business. Come home with me to-night. "

"No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not toblame. "

"Yes, he was to blame, " said Mr Oswald. "It was a very unbusiness-likeway of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned. "

"It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, ifyou wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place andlet him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a fewdays. "

Philip opened his eyes. 

"I am afraid I could not fill David's place in the office, " said he. 

"I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and wewould have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether youtake his place or no. "

"Yes, " assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. "He might as well have aholiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your ownplace in the office after this regularly. "

Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see. 

"I'll give it a trial, " said he. 

"And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?" said David. "I have nopreparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise. "

"By all means. I should like to go with you and see it, " said Philip. "But, I suppose, that would hardly do--just at present. "

David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell. 

"I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from theoffice for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing themall. "

David's eyes sparkled at the thought. 

"Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill, " said Mr Caldwell; "andyou may tell your mother I said so. "

David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment. 

"I don't think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angrythoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am suremamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you neverthought me capable of doing so wrong a thing. "

"We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what wemightna' do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, andpray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man'seyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for hiswell-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lordguide you, " said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away. 

David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes. 

"I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. Iwonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him forawhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn't it good to begoing home!"

David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. Hecame to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to hislittle sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fillDavid's place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell. 

"If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sundaywith you, " said he. "I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. Idid not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonestperson, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both. "

He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. ButDavid was shocked. 

"Violet never thought that of you. She only said that--that--"

"Well! What did she say?" demanded Philip. 

"She said it was quite impossible, " went on David. "She said there wasno motive--I mean--She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thoughtfirst of your own pleasure--but--"

There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train. He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence fortwo minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip'sastonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he couldnot help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too oftenfor his welfare. 

"At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now, " said David. And he was quite right. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always somethinghappens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has beenplanned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David's. He travelledto Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and sawthe lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often inthe old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truthmust be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, whenhe opened the door and went in among them. 

They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up atthe unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry thatgreeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David's; but hismother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face, --though it was wet, --that he was at peace with himself, and troubles fromwithout, do not hurt much, when the heart's peace is undisturbed. Thewords that rose to Violet's lips were kept back, as she looked from hermother's face to David's. But Frank could see nobody's face, and hisown was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult ofvoices around him. 

"Has Philip come home?" asked he, after a little. "Did he get myletter? Is it all right, Davie?"

David laughed. 

"Oh, yes! it's all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid hecouldn't read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner thanhe meant to come, however. "

"And is it all right?" asked Frank, anxiously. 

"All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has takenmy place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sickof it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right canbe. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all. But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet, " addedDavid, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse ofPhilip's astonished face. 

But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David'stroubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and thento Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, whenshe went to say "good-night" and take his lamp, as she used to do, longago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of MrOswald's suspicions, before Philip's return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitterwords, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had notemptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her howangry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. He ended by giving Mr Caldwell's message to her, "that he had borne histrouble not so ill, " and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though shesaid less than she felt with regard to the whole matter. 

"You should have written to me, Davie, " said she. 

"I wished you were there a thousand times, mamma, but I thought it wouldonly make you unhappy to know about my trouble, since you couldn't helpit. And for a long time there was nothing to tell. When I got yourletter, after Violet came, I was sorry I hadn't told you before. "

There was a good deal more said before Mrs Inglis went down-stairs, butnot much more about this matter. Sitting in the dark, with now and thena quiver in her voice, and tears on her cheeks, the mother told her sonhow it had been with her since they parted. The coming back to the oldhome and to her husband's grave had not been altogether sorrowful. Indeed, after the very first, it had been more joyful than sorrowful. "The memory of the just is blessed. "

"They rest from their labours, and their works do follow them. " Howclear this had been made to her during these days! The results of herhusband's teaching and influence and example were visible now, as theyhad not been in former days. That which then had been as the hiddenseed, or the shooting germ, had in some lives sprung up to blossom, orbear fruit an hundred fold. She told David of one and another who hadspoken to her of his father, blessing his memory, because of what he haddone for them and theirs, in the service of his Master, and then shesaid--

"It is the only true and worthy life, Davie--a life of work for theMaster. Is it to be yours, my boy?"

"Yes, mamma. In one way or another, it is to be mine. Whether it is tobe as papa's was, I cannot tell. "

"That may come, dear. It is so blessed to feel that our times are inHis hands. It would be great happiness to know that my son might givehimself to the work of preaching the Gospel as his father did. But thatmust be as God wills. You may be his soldier and servant, whatever maybe your calling; but we gave you to His work as soon as He gave you tous, and I pray God you may yet stand in your father's place. "

"A soldier of Christ--to gird on the armour that my father has laiddown, " said David, softly. "I _do_ wish it, mamma, if only it might be. But it must be a long time first. "

"Who knows? And it does not matter whether the time may be long orsort, if it is God's time. And all your life till it comes may be madea preparation. "

It was not often that Mrs Inglis spoke on this subject to her son. Shehad not done so more than once or twice since his father died. But itwas, as she told him, the cherished wish of her heart, and the burden ofher prayers for him that he should live and die in the work that hadbeen his father's. The fulfillment of her hope did not seem very near, or possible, but David was young and she could wait, and, in themeantime, it was her pleasure and her duty to encourage him. 

Afterwards, when David looked back on this time, it was of his motherand these quiet talks with her that he always thought. Not that thesetwo had much of these pleasant weeks to themselves or many opportunitiesto indulge in conversation which all could not share. Once they went tothe North Gore together, and oh, how vividly came back to David the manytimes which during the last year of his father's life he had gone therewith him! The memories awakened were sad, but they were sweet, for allthe bitterness had gone out of his grief for his father, and he told hismother many things about those drives, and of all his father had said, and of the thoughts and feelings his words had stirred in his heart. And she had some things to tell as well. 

Once they lingered behind the others on their way home from church, andturned aside into the grave-yard for a little while. The moonlight wasbrightening in the east, and the evening star shone clear in the west, and in the soft uncertain light, the white grave-stones, and the wavingtrees, and the whole place looked strangely beautiful and peaceful tothe boy's eyes. There were not many words spoken. There was no need ofmany words between these two. In the heart of the widow, as she satthere in the spot dearest to her on earth, because of the precious dustit held, was no forgetfulness of past sorrow, but there was that perfectsubmission to God's will, which is the highest and most enduringhappiness. There was trust for the future, such as left no room fordoubt or for discouragement; and so there was peace for the present, which is better than happiness. She did not speak of all this to David, but he knew by many tokens what was passing in her heart, and he sharedboth the sadness and the gladness of the peaceful hour. 

There was a great deal of enjoyment of another kind crowded into thetime of David's stay in Gourlay. There was only one thing to regret, and that was the absence of Jem. There were few familiar faces orplaces that he did not see. Sometimes Frank went with him, andsometimes Violet, and sometimes they all went together, but neitherFrank nor Violet quite filled Jem's place to his brother. Though Davidhad generally been regarded as much wiser and steadier than his brother, when they lived in Gourlay, they had had enough interests and amusementsand tastes in common to make David miss him and regret him at everyturn. And he missed him and wished for him all the more that he himselfwas regarded and treated by the people now as a man of business and aperson of consideration. Of course, he could not object to the respectand deference shown to him in this character, but they were sometimesembarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passinghis much prized holiday. Jem would have made all things right, Davidthought, and it would have been far more agreeable to follow hisleadership in the way of seeking amusement, as he used to do, than tohave to sustain his reputation for gravity and steadiness among hiselders. Still they all enjoyed these weeks thoroughly, though not inthe way they would have done in Jem's company. 

Miss Bethia was paying a visit to a friend in a neighbouring town whenDavid first came to Gourlay, which was upon the whole a circumstance notto be regretted, he thought, as they had a few days to themselves justat first. He was very glad to see her, when she came, however, and shewas as glad to see him. Of course, she manifested her interest in himin the old way, by giving him good advice, and reminding him of hisprivileges, but to his mother she very decidedly signified her approvalof him, and her satisfaction in regard to his walk and conversationgenerally, and spoke of his future profession--of his entering upon hisfather's work, as if it were a settled matter accepted by them all. ButDavid was shy of responding to her expressions of interest on thissubject. It was one thing to speak to his mother of his hopes, andquite another to listen to Miss Bethia's plans and suggestions, especially as she did not confine the discussion to themselves, butclaimed the sympathy and congratulations of friends and neighbours, inview of his future work and usefulness. 

They did not fall out about it, however, and there was one matter ofinterest and discussion which they enjoyed entirely. This was theminister's much valued library. It was to be David's at some futuretime. That was quite settled, and in the meantime it had to be lookedover and dusted and re-arranged, or rather arranged exactly as it hadbeen left, and David handled the books "just as his father used to do, "Miss Bethia said, "just as if he liked the feel of them in his hands, "which he doubtless did. He liked them altogether, and no day of thathappy month passed without at least one hour passed in the quiet of hisfather's study. 

David's coming home was especially good for Frank. He had been moreanxious and unhappy about David's affairs than he had confessed, andabout Philip's possible share in them--more anxious than he was able tobelieve possible, after he had talked it all over with David and Violet. That he had been really afraid that Philip had done any wrong, he wouldnot allow to himself. To the others he never spoke of what his fearshad been. But it was a great relief and satisfaction that it was allpast, and no one worse for it, and as far as Frank was concerned, therewas nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the days as they passed. 

There had been one thing very terrible to him before he came to Gourlayto tell it to Aunt Mary--the fear of blindness. It had been all theworse for him at home, because he never spoke of his fears there--no onecould bear to think of anything so sad, and fears brooded over insilence increase in power. But he could speak of it to Mrs Inglis, andthe mere telling his fears had done something to allay them. MrsInglis's judicious words did more. It was foolish and wrong, she said, to go half way to meet so great a trouble. And since the physicians alldeclared that only time and an improved state of health were needed torestore perfectly his sight, to wait patiently and hopefully was hisduty. 

It was easier for him to do so than it had been at home, and somethingbetter than patient waiting, better even than the hope of fully restoredsight, came to Frank as the summer days went on. He and David enjoyedmuch, after the manner of lads of their age, in the agreeablecircumstances in which they were placed; but their chief enjoyment wasof a kind which lads of their age do not usually prize very much. 

David was boyish in many ways still, but the discipline of the last twoyears had wrought well with him, and Frank saw a great difference in himin one respect, at least. He had always been thoughtful, and he hadalways been earnest in the grave discussions into which they hadsometimes fallen during his first visit, but there was this differencein him now, Frank saw. He spoke now, not doubtfully and wistfully asthey all used to do, about "the whole armour" and the Christian's"weapons" and "warfare, " but with firmness and assurance, as ofsomething with which he had to do; and, though he said little abouthimself at such times, it gradually became clear to Frank that David wasno longer his own--that his name had been enrolled among the names ofthose whose honour and glory it is that they are the soldiers of theLord Jesus. 

It sometimes happens that young persons who have been carelessly broughtup, or whose religious teaching has been merely formal, have lesshesitation in speaking about personal religion than others who have hadtheir consciences, if not their hearts, touched by the earnest andloving appeals of those who watch for their souls as they who must giveaccount. And so, when David, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimeswith intention, made it clear to him how the aim and purpose of his lifewere changed, and how he longed and meant to live in future as theservant and soldier of Christ, Frank listened and questioned withinterest. And when David went further, and ventured on a gentle word ortwo of entreaty or counsel to him personally, he not only listenedpatiently, but responded frankly to all. And it was not always Davidwho was first to turn the conversation to serious subjects. Frank hadnever forgotten the lessons learned during his first visit. He hadoften, in his own mind, compared the life his father was living with thelife Mr Inglis had lived, and he did not think his father's life wasthe wisest or the happiest. "Labour for that which satisfieth not, "told best the story of his father's life to him. He had thought thatoften during the last year, for he knew a little of his sister'sexacting demands, of his brother's careless expenditure, and of theanxieties which troubled his father's days and nights because of them, and because of other things. And now, when in Gourlay he heard of thefruit already gathered and still to gather from the good seed sown inpast years by the minister, he thought it still the more. Even for thislife, the minister had had the best portion. True, he had lived anddied a poor man; but, to Frank, it seemed that more was to be enjoyed insuch poverty than ever his father had enjoyed from his wealth. 

Frank had many unhappy thoughts about his father and the rest, and someabout himself. For himself and for them he desired nothing so much asthat they might all learn the secret of perfect contentment which MrInglis had known, which made Mrs Inglis cheerful and not afraid, thoughthere was little between her and utter poverty--the secret which Davidknew and Violet. And so, when David, in his not very assured way, spoketo him of the true riches, and of how they were to be obtained, he wasmore than willing to listen, and pleased and surprised his friend by hiseagerness to learn. 

It was with no design or expectation of teaching on David's part, but ithappened because they both cared about those things, that whenever theywere alone together--on their way to or from any of their manyvisiting-places, or in the fields or woods, or while sailing on theriver, the conversation almost always turned on graver matters thanyoung lads usually care to discuss. It was often the same when Violetwas with them or the mother, and Frank had reason to remember this time;for out of all these earnest talks and happy influences, there sprang upin his heart a strong desire to be, as they were, a follower of Christ--a wish to give himself to Him and to His service--to be His in life andHis in death. And by and by the desire was granted. He who neverrefuses to receive those who come to Him in sincerity, received him, andhenceforth he and David were more than friends--they were brothers, by abond stronger than that of blood, being joined in heart to Him, of whomit is said, "He is not ashamed to call" His people "brethren. "

Philip did not come to Gourlay, though an invitation was sent him byMrs Inglis, and accepted by him. He was very busy in the office inDavid's absence, he wrote, but he would avail himself of the firstleisure to come to them. He did not come, however, and they could onlysuppose that he was too useful in the office to be spared. They werevery sorry, of course, for his sake and theirs, but the days passedhappily with them. The time to leave came only too soon. Mrs Inglisdecided that it would be better for them all to return to Singletontogether, as the autumn days were becoming short, and it was time to bethinking of winter arrangements in many things. 

The last night came. It was not a night like the last one of Frank'sformer visit; but Frank was reminded of that night all the same. Instead of the rain, and wind, and sleet, that had made that night sodismal without, and the lights and the fire so pleasant within, therewas a cloudless sky, flooded with the light of the harvest moon, and theair was so still that it did not stir the leaves of the trees beneathwhich they lingered. And yet Frank was in some way reminded of thenight when they read about Hobab, and waited so long for Mr Inglis tocome home. David must have been reminded of it, too, for, by and by, they heard him speaking to Miss Bethia of old Tim, and about his goingwith his father when he preached his funeral sermon at the North Gore. 

"And an excellent sermon it was, " said Miss Bethia. "Don't you remembertelling me about it that night when I was helping Letty to do the week'sironing when Debby was away?"

"Yes, " said David, laughing a little, "I remember it quite well. " But, he added, gravely in a minute, "I think that must have been the verylast time my father preached when he was quite well. "

"I am afraid he was not quite well then, " said Miss Bethia, "though thesermon was good enough to have been his last. The night you repeated itto me was the first time I thought you had better be a minister. Youmight tell it over now, if you haven't forgotten it. "

David said to himself that he would be past remembering most things whenhe should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grewout of it. But he did not tell Miss Bethia so. He would not speak ofthe sermon, however--he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory;and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listenpatiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. So, after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wanderedaway in various directions. Sometimes it was guided past week-daysubjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, forthe most part, this was not needed. The feeling that it was the lastnight was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad. 

Miss Bethia was sad, too, and said little. She did not so far forgether duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each andall; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearlybroke down in the middle of it. 

"Aunt Bethia, why don't you come home with us?" said Polly. "Mamma, whydon't you ask Aunt Bethia to come home and stay with us till nextsummer?"

"Where should we put her? There is no room in our house, " said thepractical Jessie, before her mother could answer. 

"That's so, " said Miss Bethia. "Old as I have got to be, there ain'troom for me in anybody's house but my own. I guess Debby and I willhave to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then youmust all come back again. "

"We don't know what may happen before next year, " said Jessie. 

"And it is no good making plans so far ahead, " said Ned. 

"And we shall hope to see Miss Bethia before summer, and then we canmake our plans. Our house is not very large, Aunt Bethia, but therewill always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been tous all. "

"And you have promised to come, Aunt Bethia, " said Violet. 

"If all is well, " said Miss Bethia, gravely. 

"But we are poor creatures, at the best, as I don't need to tell you;and I don't feel as if I could count on much time or strength for mypart. But it ain't best to worry. "

"We have had a good time here this summer, whether we come again ornot, " said Sarah Oswald. "I would like to stay here all winter, ifViolet would stay too. It would be a great deal pleasanter than goingback to Aunt Livy. "

"Only it is not quite the right thing to say so, Sally, " said Frank. 

"It would be pleasant to stay for some things, " said Violet. "But I amglad we are going home now. We shall come again in the summer, if AuntBethia will have us. "

"You are glad you came, mamma?" said David. 

"Very glad. It has been a happy summer to us all. The leaving youalone was the only thing to be regretted; but I don't think you arereally the worse for being left. "

"No, " said David, with a long breath. "But I am very glad we are allgoing home together. I only wish Aunt Bethia was not going to be leftbehind. "

In her heart Miss Bethia knew that it was quite as well for allconcerned that she was to be left behind, still it pleased her to hearDavid's wish. She had had a pleasant summer as well as the rest; butshe was not so strong as she used to be, and needed quiet. 

"Debby and I will tough it out together through the winter, " said she;"and, like as not, those of us who are spared will have to make alltheir plans all over again. It will be all right, whichever way it is. "

Violet and David looked at Miss Bethia and at each other in surprise, not so much at her words, as at her manner of saying them. She lookedas though it needed an effort to speak calmly, and she was very pale;and when she put up her hands to gather her shawl closer about her, theyboth noticed that they were trembling and uncertain. 

"Miss Bethia is growing old, " whispered David. 

"And there is something more the matter with her than she willacknowledge, I am afraid, " said Violet. 

"It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come, children, " said the mother, rising. 

David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm. 

"I've gone alone all my life, " said she, "and now I am most at the endof it. I've taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, butthey don't seem to amount to much to look back upon. "

"And you have a good many more to take, I hope, " said Violet, hardlyknowing how to answer her. 

But Miss Bethia shook her head. 

"It ain't likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forwardto than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right, anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again--I want you toremember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her. "

"No, " said David, wondering a little at her earnestness. 

"And, David, and you too, Violet, don't you get to thinking too muchabout property. It is a good thing to have, I'll allow, but it ain'tthe best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having toomuch, and some by having too little; but it ain't a satisfying portionany way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forgeteverything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if Ishouldn't ever see you again. I don't suppose I need to tell you so;but it's about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, exceptthis--Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright. "

They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but itwas with no thought that they were listening to her last words. Theywould see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, asshe repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violetnever saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, andthen she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him. 

It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children couldhave known that it was their last "Good-bye" to Miss Bethia. But itnever came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw thepleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father's sidein the grave-yard over the hill. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

The next winter passed at the bridge house very much as former wintershad done. Violet was in her old place at Mr Oswald's. It was muchquieter there than it had ever been before, for Selina was spending thewinter with her sister, and Mr Philip had gone to a situation in thecity of M--, his father hoping that the stricter and more constantattention to his duties, that would be required from him there, wouldtell better in his business education than irregular work in the officeat home could be supposed to do. Frank's eyes were better, but he wasnot permitted to use them much yet. It was part of Violet's duty toread to him, and a judicious selection of a course of historical readingmade the winter pleasant and profitable to both. Jem was at school nolonger. There is no royal road to the attainment of knowledge and skillin the profession he had chosen, even when the means and appliances ofwealth are at one's disposal; and, having no money, there was nothingfor Jem but to work with his hands as well as his head, and so he wasadding his quota to the clamour made all day in the great engine-houseat the other side of the town. Indeed, he worked a good deal more withhis hands than his head for a time, and it needed some persuasion on hismother's part, and the exercise of some authority to keep him, during areasonable time, every evening at his books. 

For Jem was a little unsettled by the new circumstances in which hefound himself. His friendly ways and bright good temper made himpopular among his fellow-workmen, and his popularity and his love offun, together, the more exposed him to the power of temptationsinseparable from the place, and but for his mother's kindness andfirmness, judiciously mingled, it might have gone ill with Jem thatwinter. But he settled down after a little, and, with Mr Anstruther'shelp, devoted himself as zealously as ever to those branches of studyabsolutely necessary to advancement in the profession of an engineer. It was rather an anxious winter to Mrs Inglis on Jem's account, but itwas, on the whole, a satisfactory winter to look back on, as far as hewas concerned. 

Affairs were not going on so smoothly in the bank as they used to do. There were changes there. One clerk was removed to another branch ofthe concern, and the services of another were dispensed with altogether. David gained a step or two in consequence, and worked hard in acquiringthe knowledge necessary for a right performance of his higher duties. 

Mr Oswald was away often, and did not seem to be in good health orspirits when he was at home. In spring, he resigned his office ofacting director of the bank, and another was appointed in his place. Mr Caldwell, who had come into the bank with him, left with him--notbecause his services were no longer required there, but because MrOswald needed him, and he chose to give his services to him. 

For there were signs of coming trouble to the Oswalds. It began to bewhispered in the town that the affairs of Mr Oswald were not in aprosperous condition, and that the resignation of his position in thebank had not been voluntary on his part, but demanded of him by thosewho were responsible for the successful carrying on of its affairs. Notthat anything had gone wrong as yet, but he was extensively engaged inother business, and had other interests. He had to do with thequarries, and with lumbering affairs, and he had had something to dowith the building of a railway, and had not prospered in all thesethings; and it could not be doubted that trouble was before him. 

There had been some anxiety lest David's place in the bank might not bepermanent in the midst of so many changes, but no change was made in hiscase, and except that his work was somewhat different, and that moreresponsibility rested on him with regard to some matters, all went on asbefore. He missed Mr Oswald's face in the inner office, and he greatlymissed the comings and goings of Mr Caldwell; but all went on in thebank with the same system and order as it had ever done. 

But troubles were thickening around the Oswalds. Mrs Mavor was ill andSelina was sent for to be with her. Mr Philip lost his situation inM--, and came home. Rumours had reached David, before this time, thathis manner of life had not been satisfactory to his employers or to hisfriends, and Jem had heard more than David about him. Except to theirmother, neither of them had spoken of this, but no one seemed surprisedat his return. 

Before his return, Mr Oswald had been taken very ill, and his inabilityto attend to his business involved it in difficulties, which threatenedto hasten the unhappy crisis, which even Mr Caldwell acknowledged musthave come sooner or later on him. There was trouble in the house, itmay well be supposed. Violet had many cares, for Miss Oswald wasentirely occupied with her brother in his illness, and Frank devotedhimself to his father in a way that was a help and a comfort to themall. 

As for Mr Philip, it was very difficult to believe that it could havecome to this pass with his father. It seemed impossible to him that, after so many years of successful business-life, his father should be indanger of being left penniless; and he insisted to Frank and David, andeven to Mr Caldwell, that there must have been mismanagement--probablydishonesty--on the part of some of those with whom he held businessrelations; and that this unhappy illness had been taken advantage of tobring matters to the painful crisis they had reached. So fully was heconvinced of this, that it was, with difficulty, he could be preventedfrom applying to his father to obtain information with regard to certainaffairs. But the doctor was imperative as to his not being disturbed byallusions to business now, or for some time to come. 

"It might cost his life or his reason, Dr Ward says, " repeated Frank. "And even if he could be spoken to, it would do no good while he isunable to leave his room or even his bed. We must wait patiently. Idon't suppose it will make any real difference in the end. "

Even Frank knew more about his father's affairs than Philip did. 

"If I had only staid in the office, instead of going to M-- last year, "said he. 

"I don't suppose it would have made much difference. You would haveknown something about the books, perhaps, and papa might not have had topay out so much money for you. I don't know, though. It is easy enoughto spend money anywhere. "

Philip walked about impatiently. 

"What I have spent is not a drop in the bucket, " said he. 

But the thought of the money he had spent and the money he owed made himvery miserable. 

"You know best about that, " said Frank. "Here is something that MrCaldwell left to-day. It is addressed to papa, so he opened it, but hefound that it is meant for you. I am very glad papa did not see it. "

Philip glanced at the paper his brother put in his hand. 

"Have you examined it?" asked he, sharply. 

"I looked at the sum total, not at the items. "

"Well! a gentleman must spend something on such things, if he is insociety. "

"If he have it of his own to spend, you mean. I don't see thenecessity. I'll venture to say that some of these items did not makeyou more like a gentleman, but less, " said Frank. 

"That is for me to decide, " said Philip, angrily. 

"I don't know that. However, you'll have to consult Mr Caldwell aboutit--the paying of it, I mean. Though the chances are, he will neitherbe able nor inclined to help you. "

"It is no great affair, anyway. "

"The helping you? or the sum total? It is more than half of DavidInglis's yearly salary, and Aunt Mary has only that to keep house forthem all--at least, she can't have much besides. It depends on how youlook at a sum of money, whether it seems large or small. "

Philip had no answer ready. He walked about the room angry andmiserable. Frank went on:

"If you had not lost your situation, you might have paid it yourself, intime, I suppose. As it is you will have to fail too, or your creditormust make up his mind to wait. Are there more of them?"

Frank asked the question coolly, as though it were a trifling matterthey were discussing, and his manner throughout the whole discussionseemed intended, Philip thought, to exasperate him. 

"And it is not like Frank, the least in the world, " said he to himself, as he uttered an exclamation at his words. 

"However, " repeated Frank, "it is only a drop in the bucket, as yousay. "

Philip stood still and looked at him, vexation and astonishmentstruggling with some other feeling, showing in his face. 

"Frank, " said he, "it isn't like you to hit a fellow when he is down. "

"You need not be so very far down. I would not be down, if I were likeyou and could do anything, " said Frank, with something like a sob in hisvoice. 

"It is precious little I can do, even if I knew what were needed. "

"Talk with Mr Caldwell. "

"Mr Caldwell! The thought of him gives me a chill; and I don't supposehe would talk with me. He hasn't a very high opinion of me, --in the wayof business, or in any way. "

"He'd talk with you fast enough, if you would talk reasonably. Try him. He wants some one to go to Q-- about the timber that has been lyingthere some weeks now. Papa spoke about it too. It would have paidwell, if he had been able to attend to the sale of it himself. But hehas not perfect confidence in Donnelly the agent, and the time ispassing. It must be sold soon, and Mr Caldwell can't be everywhere. Itold him to send Davie Inglis, but he must not take him from the bank hethinks; and, besides he is so young and so boyish-looking. You would doquite as well, I dare say. At any rate, you would be better than noone. "

Philip looked as though he thought he was being "hit" again, but he saidnothing. 

"One thing is certain, " continued Frank, "if you are going to do anygood in our present fix, you can only do it by knuckling down to oldCaldwell. Nobody knows so much about papa's affairs as he does. "

Whether Philip "knuckled down" to Mr Caldwell or not, he never toldFrank, but he did tell him that he was going in a day or two to Q--, tomake arrangements for the sale of timber accumulated there forship-building purposes, or for exportation. He did not know much aboutthe matter and did not speak very hopefully. The sting of it was thathe might have known if he had done as his father had had a right toexpect him to do. However, Mr Caldwell sent him away none the lesswillingly because of his low spirits. 

"You will do better than nobody, " said he, as Frank had said before. "You can have an eye on the books and on all the papers. Don't letDonnelly be too much for you. "

It would not do to enter into all the particulars of Philip's firstbusiness venture. It is enough to say, he was successful incircumstances where failure would not have been surprising; and the veryfirst time he saw his father after he was a little better, he had thesatisfaction of hearing Mr Caldwell telling him of the successfultermination of the sale of the timber. He had the greater satisfactionof prompting that slow-spoken gentleman where his memory or hisinformation failed, and of giving all details to his father, who wasboth relieved and pleased with the turn this affair had taken. 

But success in this his first independent attempt at doing businesscould not avert the troubles that had been long hanging over his father. If Mr Oswald had been in perfect health, it might have been different. With time granted to continue his business relations, or even to settleup his own affairs, he might have been able to give every man his own. But his health came very slowly back, and affairs in the meantimewrought to a crisis. Philip strove hard to obtain time, and pledgedhimself to the full payment of all his father's liabilities within alimited period. Even Mr Caldwell was influenced by his earnestness andhopefulness, and by the good sense and business ability manifested byhim in several transactions with which he had had to do, and joined withhim in representing Mr Oswald's affairs to be in such a condition thatcare and time, and close attention alone were needed to set them right, and to satisfy all just claims at last. But Philip was young andinexperienced, and those of his father's creditors who knew him best, knew nothing in his past life to give them confidence either in hisprinciples or his judgment, and they could not be induced to yield tohim in this matter. 

So it only remained for Mr Oswald to give up all that he possessed, tosatisfy as far as possible all just demands. It was a very bitterexperience for him to pass through, but he was in a state of health tooweak and broken fully to realise all that it involved. For the time itwas worse for his sons than for him. Frank devoted himself all the moreearnestly to his father's care and comfort, and his doing so made thistime of trouble more endurable for both. Philip saw little of hisfather. His place was to act for him wherever he could do so, so as tospare him as much as possible the details of the painful business. 

It was a very miserable time to him. He made up his mind to get away assoon as possible to California or British Columbia, or anywhere else, sothat it was far enough away. But he did not go. He did far better thanthat would have been. He staid at home, not very willingly, still hestaid, and tried to do his duty as he had never tried before, and therewere times when it was not easy to do. 

Mr Caldwell, as one in whom the creditors had perfect confidence, bothas to his conscientiousness and his knowledge of affairs, was appointedby them to settle up Mr Oswald's business, and with their permissionPhilip Oswald was requested to act as his assistant for the time. Itwas not the thing he would have chosen for himself, but if he had goneaway now, it must have been without his father's consent, and if hestaid at home it was absolutely necessary that he should earn money forthe payment of his own debts. There was nothing better offered for hisacceptance, and Mr Caldwell's terms were such as even Philip consideredliberal. 

"Though I know quite well he would much rather have had Davie Inglis, "said he to Frank, when it was quite settled that he was to stay. "Idon't believe he thinks I shall be much good. However, I must take itand make the best of it. "

"You are quite wrong. Davie wouldn't suit him half so well as you inthis business, though of course he has perfect confidence in Davie, andyou have to be tried yet. But he knows you will make it a point ofhonour to do your best in the circumstances. "

"If these people in M-- had not been such fools as to force matters on, there might have been some inducement to do one's best in straighteningout things. And it would have been better for them and for us too. Iwish I were a thousand miles away from it all. "

"No, you don't, unless you could take the rest, of us out of it too. For my part, I think you have a grand opportunity to exercise courageand patience, and to win honour and glory as a true hero. Just you godown and speak to Aunt Mary and Violet about it. "

"I think I see myself doing it!" said Philip, as though it were a thingutterly impossible and not to be considered for a moment. 

However, before many days were over, he found himself at the bridgehouse, enjoying Mrs Inglis's kindly sympathy, and the delighted welcomeof the children, more than he would have imagined possible. He had seenvery little of any of them for a long time, and was ashamed of hisdefection, conscious as he was of the cause. It was not comfortable forhim to talk with Mrs Inglis, or to share in the pursuits and amusementsof her young people, with the consciousness of wrong-doing upon him. Wrong-doing according to _their_ standard of right and wrong, he meant, of course. According to _his_ standard, there were many things he coulddo, and many things he could leave undone, quite innocently, of whichthey would not approve. Several of such questionable incidents hadoccurred in his manner of life about the time of their return fromGourlay last year, and he had kept away from them. He had been too busysince his coming back from M-- to see much of any of his friends, andthis was his first visit to the bridge house for a long time. 

"Why did you not come before?" said little Mary. 

"I have been very busy. Are you glad to see me now?"

"Yes, very glad, and so is mamma and all of us. I want to show yousomething. " And the child went on to make confidences about her ownpersonal affairs, into which Mr Philip entered with sufficientinterest, as his manner was. He had only time for a word or two withthe mother before Jem and David came in. 

"Your father is really improving, I am glad to hear, " said Mrs Ingliswhen the children left them. 

Philip's face clouded. 

"Is he better? It hardly seems to me that he gains at all. He is verymuch discouraged about himself. "

"Frank thinks him better. It is a great relief to him, he says, thatyou are here. "

"I ought never to have gone away, " said Philip, sighing. 

"But your father wished it, did he not? Perhaps it would have beenbetter had you been here. However, you are here now. Frank says hebegun to improve the very day you consented to assist Mr Caldwell inthe settlement of his affairs. "

Philip hung his head. 

"Don't be hard on me, Aunt Mary. "

"Am I hard on you? I am sure I don't know how. That is Frank's idea ofthe matter. "

"Aunt Mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow I have been!I am sure I cannot see why my father should have confidence in me. "

"In whom should he have confidence, if not in you?" said Mrs Inglis, smiling. 

Philip had nothing to answer. A feeling of shame, painful butwholesome, kept him silent. Even according to his own idea of right, hehad been undutiful in his conduct to his father. He had accepted allfrom him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, exceptthe careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could nothave refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. They had been onfriendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been somepassages between them which he did not like to remember. That hisfather should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, exceptindeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at Q--, was not avery likely thing. The very supposition went deeper than any reproachescould have gone and filled him with pain and regret. 

"Frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything, " said he, dolefully. 

"I think he must know about your father, however, he is with him soconstantly, and he says he is better. It will be some time before he isable for business again, I am afraid. In the meantime he has perfectconfidence in Mr Caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him. "

Philip shook his head. 

"Aunt Mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is forthe benefit of others. He has lost everything. "

"He has not lost everything, I think, " said Mrs Inglis, smiling, "whilehe has you and Frank and your sisters. He would not say so. "

Philip rose and came and stood before her. 

"Mrs Inglis, I cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. Itmakes me feel like a deceiver. I have not been a good son to my father. I am not like your Davie. "

Mrs Inglis smiled as though she would have said, "There are not manylike my Davie. " But she looked grave in a minute and said--

"There is one thing in which you differ. Davie is an avowed servant ofthe Lord Jesus Christ. He professes to desire to live no longer tohimself, but to Him. "

"And you think that is everything, Aunt Mary?"

"I think it is the chief thing. "

"Well, I am not like that. I am very far from that. "

"But this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for David, ought it not?"

"I have not thought about it, Aunt Mary. "

"You have not taken time. You have fallen on easy days hitherto. Itwould have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of God, a follower of the Lord Jesus is the chief thing--the only thing, whileeach day brought with it enough to satisfy you. This trouble, which hascome upon you all, may have been needed--to make you think about it. "

Philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaveswhich rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. There is atime to keep silence and a time to speak, and Mrs Inglis could not besure on which of these she had fallen. She longed to say just the rightword to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock, which, in the first gleam of sunshine, disappears. He always listened, grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. He listened witheagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated likeone of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that shecould see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. As she satwatching him in silence, Mrs Inglis thought of Violet's complaintagainst him. "He is not in earnest. He cares only for his ownpleasure. "

"Ah! well! The Master knows how to deal with him, though I do not, " shesaid to herself. Aloud, she said, "You must not suppose that I meanthat religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time ofprosperity. It is the chief thing always--the only thing. But, in atime of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, orin the world, is brought home to us. Philip, dear lad, it is awonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the Lord Jesus. It is aservice which satisfies--which ennobles. All else may fail us, orfetter us, or lead us astray. But, belonging to Christ--being one withHim--nothing can harm us truly. Are you to lose all this, Philip?Letting it pass by you--not _thinking_ about it?"

She had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if hecould have found the words. For first David came in, and then Jem, allblack and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. Hisgreeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which Jemaffected about this time. David's greeting was quiet enough, but agreat deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of Philip hadusually been, his mother was pleased to see. Jem made a pretence ofastonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well havecome to see his mother sooner; but David fell into eager discussion ofsome matter interesting to both, and then Jem went away to beautifyhimself, as he called the washing off the marks of his day's work. Whentea-time came, Philip hesitated about accepting Mrs Inglis's invitationto remain. 

"You may as well, " said Ned; "for I saw Violet up-town and I told heryou were here, so they will be sure not to wait. "

So he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence. 

Something had been said in the early spring about Mrs Inglis and thechildren going to spend the summer in Gourlay again. But there was notthe same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and thematter was not at once decided. While Mrs Inglis hesitated, there cametidings that decided it for her. There came, from Miss Bethia, aletter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. She had beenpoorly, "off and on by spells, " she said, all winter; and now, what shehad long feared, had become evident to all her friends. A terrible andpainful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later provefatal. "Later, " she feared it might be; for, through long months, whichgrew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in thesame disease, praying daily that the end might come. 

"I am not afraid of the end, " she wrote; "but remembering my poormother's sufferings, I _am_ afraid of what must come before the end. Itwould help pass the time to have you and the children here this summer;but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge. I should like to see David, but there will be time enough, for I amafraid the end is a long way off. I am a poor creetur not to feel thatthe Lord knows best what I can bear. It don't seem as though I couldsuffer much more than I used to, seeing my mother's suffering. And I_know_ the Lord is kind and pitiful, though I sometimes forget. "

Mrs Inglis's answer to this letter was to go to Gourlay without loss oftime. At the first sight of Miss Bethia, she did not think her so veryill. She thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. Butshe changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. The Angelof Death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible wasthat he came so slowly. At times she suffered terribly, and hersufferings must increase before the end. 

The coming of the children was not to be thought of, Mrs Inglis couldsee. She would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not bewhile they needed her at home. She promised to return if she wereneeded, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. Allthat care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, MissBethia had. Debby Stone was still with her, and Debby's sister Serepta, whose health had much improved during the year. The neighbours werevery kind and considerate, and Mrs Inglis felt that all that could bedone for her would be done cheerfully and well. 

So she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it waswith their old friend. But first one thing and then another hinderedMrs Inglis from going to see her till September had well begun. Thenthere came a hasty summons for David and his mother, for there weresigns and tokens that the coming of the King's messenger was to be"sooner, " and not "later, " as she had feared. So Violet came homebecause they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, andtheir departure was hastened. 

But the King's messenger had come before them. They saw his presence inthe changed face of their friend. They did not need her whisperedassurance, that she need not have been afraid--that it was well withher, and the end was come. 

"David, " she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went, "you'll care for your mother always, I know; and you must follow theLord, and keep your armour bright. "

She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words overagain, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother nowand then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem andall the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for theminister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words thatDavid heard her speak were these, and he answered:

"I will try, Aunt Bethia;" but he had not voice for more. 

It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he hadwatched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that nightagain, so vividly did it all come back. 

"Mamma, " he whispered, "can you bear it?"

By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still keptas they had left it two years ago. 

"Mamma, " said David, again, "it is like a dream. Nothing in the wholeworld seems worth a thought--standing where we stood just now. "

"Except to keep one's armour bright, my David, " said his mother. "HappyMiss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now. "

They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether sherecognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terriblesuffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came. 

It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of theneighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whisperedarrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house. He seemed to be living over the last days of his father's life, so wellremembered--living them over for his mother, too, with the same sickfeeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble forher, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful inevery word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew thatshe was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that thememory of the other death-bed stirred. 

When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who hadgone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were manywho would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than heand his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave nogreat gap, that could never be filled as his father's had done. She hadbeen very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; andthen--it suddenly came into David's mind about his father's books, andabout the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since theyhad been in Miss Bethia's care. He was ashamed because of it; but hecould not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether theywould take the books away or leave them where they were. He did notlike to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to thinkabout it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind. 

There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away toher long home. 

There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place ofmourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby andher sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folkjoined in doing honour to Miss Bethia's memory, and a few old friendsdropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was nobitter weeping--no painful sense of loss in any heart because she hadgone. 

David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again tothe empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him ofhaving been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one afteranother of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, andheard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they werewaiting to see. 

Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly makingpreparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might beneeded, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got verytired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her. 

"Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night, " said he, when, inanswer to his knock, she had opened the door. 

"It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me beforewe went away. "

"About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them. "

"You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethiaintimated before we left them here. There may be some condition. "

"I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired, mamma? Debby is getting tea ready. "

Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement. 

"Tea is ready now, " said she. "I'd as lief get tea for the whole townonce in a while as not. But it ain't this tea they're waiting for, andif I was them I'd go. "

"What are they waiting for?" asked David. 

"Don't you know? Oh, I suppose it's to show good-will. Folks generallydo at such times. But I'll ring the tea-bell, and that'll scare some ofthem home may be. Some of them'll have to wait till the second table, if they all stay, that's one thing. And I hope they'll think they'veheard enough to pay them before they go. "

They did not hear very much, certainly. Mr Bethune from Singleton wasthere, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. DeaconSpry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberationa paper which had been committed to him. It was not Miss Bethia's will, as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand, signifying that her will, which was in Mr Bethune's keeping, was to beopened just a year from the day of her death. In the meantime DeborahStone was to live in her house and take care of it and what propertythere was about it. Her clothes and bedding were in part for Debby, andthe rest to be divided among certain persons named. Mrs Inglis wasrequested to leave her late husband's library where it was for one year, unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. And that wasall. 

Everybody looked surprised, except Debby, who had known the contents ofthe paper from Miss Bethia. 

"I suppose it'll be Mr Bethune's business to look up Bethia's relationswithin the year. Folks generally _do_ leave their property to theirrelations, even if they don't know much about them. But I ratherexpected she'd do something for the cause among us, " said Deacon Spry, in a slightly aggrieved tone. 

"I thought she'd at least new paint the meeting house, " said Sam Jones. 

"Or put a new fence round the grave-yard. "

"Well! may be she has! We'll see when the year's out. "

"No, folks most always leave their property to their own relations. They seem nearest, come toward the end. "

"I don't suppose she's left a great deal besides the house, anyway. Iwonder just how much Debby Stone knows?"

It was not pleasant to listen to all this. Debby had nothing to tell, not knowing anything; nor Mr Bethune, though he doubtless knew all. Sothere was nothing better to do than just wait till the right time came. 

"I suppose we may count upon the books, mamma, or she would not haveasked you to leave them here?" said David. 

"Yes, I think so. She never called them hers, you know. She will haveexplained it to Mr Bethune, I suppose. I think you may count on thebooks. "

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

Another year passed quietly over the Inglis household. Jem and Davidboth did good service, each in his special calling, and made someprogress in other things besides. David kept the plan of his lifesteadily before him, but this year did not, to all appearance, bring itsfulfillment any nearer. It did not seem impossible to him that theirlife should go on in the same quiet routine, without break or change, for a long time, nor did this seem impossible to his mother. 

There was this difference in their thoughts, however. While Davie, withthe impatience of youth, grew anxious now and then, as though the sowingtime were passing with no seed being put in, his mother knew that therewas nothing lost to his future work as yet, that the discipline of earlycare and self-denial, the constant and willing giving of himself towork, which in itself was not congenial, was a better preparation thanhe knew. She felt that if the Master had a special work for him to do, He would provide a way for special preparation, and that His time wasbest. David knew this too, and was on the whole content to look forwarda good way yet, for the change that must come, when his wish with regardto this one thing should be granted. He was more than content. Lifewent very quietly and happily with them this year, and it was aprofitable time in many ways. 

Jem's work agreed with him, it seemed, for he was growing tall andstrong. His gay and careless temper brought him into some difficultiesthis year, and being at that age when a young lad making his own way isapt to become tenacious about little things which concern his dignity, and impatient of the open exercise of restraint acknowledged to belawful and right, he needed to be gently and carefully managed. Buthappily this uncomfortable period did not last long with Jem. He grewmanly in character as well as in appearance, and grew more, rather thanless, open to home influence as he grew older. 

David's fair face and quiet manner gave Jem an appearance of advantageover him as far as manliness was concerned, and strangers often took Jemto be the eldest of the brothers. Jem himself, in a laughing way, claimed to be beyond him in a knowledge of the world--on its hard side--and made merry pretence and promise of advising and protecting him incertain supposed circumstances of difficulty or danger. But in hisheart he deferred to his brother, as in all things far wiser and betterthan he. 

As to David's plans and their carrying out, Jem saw neither doubt nordifficulty. In a few years--not very distinctly specified--Jem was tobecome the head and bread-winner of the house, and David was to go hisown way to honour and usefulness. Jem was still to be the rich man ofthe family, though the time and manner of winning his wealth he couldnot make very clear; and David laughed and accepted his freedom fromcare and his brother's gifts very gratefully, and professed to have noscruples as to his future claims upon him. 

When Mr Oswald's household was broken up, Violet returned home. Buthappily an opportunity occurred for her to obtain what she had longsecretly coveted, a chance to improve herself, in some branches ofstudy, under better masters than Singleton could afford. She passed thegreater part of the year as pupil-teacher in a superior school in M--, and returned home in the end of June. The year was of great advantageto her in many ways, though the children at home could not see it. She"was just the same as ever, " they said, which was a high compliment, though not intended as such. 

She had not changed, but she had made advances in several directions hermother was pleased to discover. Her return was a great pleasure to herbrothers, but Jem was critical now and then, and spoke of "airs andgraces, " and "fine manners, " as though she were not quite innocent ofthose on occasion. David was indignant, but Violet laughed at themboth, and proved that whatever change had come to her manners, none hadcome to her temper, "which was a blessing, " Jem acknowledged. 

Mr Oswald's household was broken up about the time of Miss Bethia'sdeath. Selina remained with her sister, and the little girls went withtheir aunt to her former home. Mr Oswald had been induced to take thesea voyage, and the entire rest from business, which his physiciansdeclared absolutely necessary to his entire restoration to health. Frank accompanied him to England, where they both remained during theyear. His health had improved, and there was some expectation that theywould return at the close of the summer. 

His house had been sold, and was now used as a hospital for the poor andsick of the town. The extensive grounds around it had been cut up bythe opening of several new streets in that direction, and one couldscarcely have recognised the place that used to be so beautiful in theeyes of the Inglis children. However, the only Oswald left in Singletontook the sale of the house, in which he had been born and brought up, very philosophically. The opening of the new streets had increased thevalue of the land immensely, and under the careful hands of MrCaldwell, that and all other property belonging to Mr Oswald was beingso disposed of that his creditors had a good prospect of losing nothingby him. 

Philip Oswald still asserted, that but for the faint-heartedness whichillness had brought upon his father, and the untimely pressure of thecreditors because of it, there needed have been no failure. He assertedit indignantly enough some-times, but he did not regret the disposal ofthe house or the spoiling of the beautiful grounds as he might have beensupposed to do. 

The sudden change in the circumstances of the family had not hurtPhilip. The year's discipline of constant employment, and limitedexpenditure, had done him good, and, as he himself declared to Jem andDavid, not before it was time. The boyish follies which had clung tohim as a young man, because of the easy times on which he had fallen, must have grown into something worse than folly before long, and but forthe chance of wholesome hard work which had been provided for him, andhis earnest desire to work out the best possible result for his father'sgood name, he might have gone to ruin in one way or other. But thesethings, with the help of other influences, had kept him from evil, andencouraged him to good, and there were high hopes for Philip still. 

He had not been in Singleton all the year, but here and there andeverywhere, at the bidding of the cautious, but laborious and judicious, Caldwell, who had daily increasing confidence in his business capacity, and did not hesitate to make the utmost use of his youthful strength. When he was in Singleton, his home was in Mr Caldwell's house. He hadgone there for a day or two, till other arrangements could be made. Butno other arrangements were needed. He stayed there more contentedlythan he could at the beginning of the year have supposed possible, andit grew less a matter of self-denial to Mr and Mrs Caldwell to havehim there as time went on. He had a second home in the house of MrsInglis; and this other good had come to him out of his father'stroubles, and the way he had taken to help them, that he made a friendof David Inglis. He had supposed himself friendly enough with himbefore, but he knew nothing about him. That is to say, he knew nothingabout that which made David so different from himself, so different frommost of the young men with whom he had had to do. 

"In one thing he is different, " Mrs Inglis had said, "He is a servantof God. He professes to wish to live no longer to himself. " With thisin his thought, he watched David at home and abroad, at first onlycuriously, but afterwards with other feelings. David was shy of him fora time, and kept the position of "mere lad, " which Philip had at firstgiven him, long after his friendship was sought on other terms. Butthey learned to know each other in a little, and they did each othergood. Mrs Inglis saw clearly how well it was for David to have someone more ready and better fitted to share his pleasures and intereststhan Jem, because of his different tastes and pursuits, could possiblydo. And she saw also that David's influence could not fail to have asalutary effect on his friend, and she encouraged their intercourse, anddid all in her power to make it profitable to them both. Violet and thechildren spent a month in Gourlay; but Mrs Inglis, not liking to leaveDavid and Jem alone, only went for a day or two. They returned early inAugust. Mr Oswald and Frank were expected soon. Mr Philip's spiritsdid not rise as the time of their coming drew near. He dreaded for hisfather the coming back to find no home awaiting him. He consulted withMrs Inglis as to the preparations he should make for him; but, when itwas talked over among them, it was found that he did not know enoughabout his father's future plans to make it possible for him to makearrangements for more than a day or two. He did not even know whetherhe was to remain in Singleton. He did not even know whether he shouldremain in Singleton himself. He could decide nothing till they came. He was altogether too anxious and troubled, Mrs Inglis told him; he hadnot been like himself for some time. 

"Well, it ought to be all the more agreeable to the rest because ofthat, " said he, laughing. 

"It has not been. And you must let me say that I think you aretroubling yourself more than enough with regard to the coming of yourfather. "

"But it is about myself, partly, you know. "

"Well, I think the trouble is uncalled for in either case. It will notbe so bad for your father as you fear. "

"Do you know what is the news in town to-day, Philip?" asked Jem. "Thatyou and old Caldwell are going into the produce business together. Aqueer team you would make!"

"We have drawn very well together for the last year, " said Philip. 

Jem shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace. 

"Singleton might suit Mr Caldwell to do business in, but I wouldn't fixmyself in Singleton if I were you. "

"Nonsense, Jem, " said David. "There is no better place than Singletonfor that business, everybody knows. "

"And, besides, Philip is well-known here, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"I am not sure that it is a better place for me because of that, AuntMary; but it is as good a place as any, I suppose, in which to beginwith a small capital. "

"Pooh! about capital! The only men in the country worth their saltbegan life without a dollar. Which of us has capital? And we are allbound to be rich men before we die, " said Jem. 

"Yes, I dare say. If I were a boy of fifteen, I might say the same, "said Philip, with a sigh. 

"Hear him! You would think him fifty, at least. And if you mean me, "said Jem loftily, "I am nearly seventeen. I only wish I weretwenty-three, with the world before me. "

They all laughed at his energy. 

"There is no hurry, Jem. You will need all the years that are beforeyou. Violet, put away your work, and play, and the children will sing. "

Violet rose and opened the piano, and there was no more said at thattime. While the children were singing, David went out, and, in alittle, called Philip from the window. Philip rose and went out also, and they passed down the garden together. By and by they had enough ofmusic, and Violet shut the piano, and sat down beside the window withher work again. Jem had the grace to wait till the children went out, and then he said:

"Mamma, you said I was to tell you the next time, and here it is. Youmust have noticed yourself--Violet's manner, I mean. Philip noticed it, I could see. She was as stiff and dignified as Mrs Mavor herself. Iwouldn't put on airs with Phil, when he is down as he is to-night, if Iwere you. "

Violet looked from him to her mother in astonishment. 

"Do you know what he means, mamma?"

"You don't need mamma to tell you. "

"Tell me, then, Jem. What did I say or do?"

"You didn't say or do anything. You were stiff and stupid. Mamma musthave seen it. "

"No, Jem, I did not. If you mean that Violet's manner to Mr Philip isnot the same as to you and Davie--why, you know, it can't quite bethat. "

"No, because Violet made up her mind long ago that Philip Oswald was afoolish young man--`not in earnest, ' as she used to say. Letty can'tbear people that are not quite perfect, " said Jem. 

Letty laughed, and so did her mother. 

"Thank you, Jem. That is as much as saying that I consider myself quiteperfect. "

"Oh! you may laugh, " said Jem, loftily; "but if Phil, hasn't provedhimself steady enough by this time, I don't know what you would have!There are not many would have staid it out, under old Caldwell, and havedone as he has done. To say nothing about the business not being a verypleasant one. "

"He has improved very much, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"And, now, when he and Davie are such friends, " went on Jem, who did notknow when he had said enough. "I think if Davie approves of him, thatought to be enough for Violet. "

"Quite enough, I acknowledge, Jem, " said Violet. "I wonder where Daviehas gone;" and she rose and went to the door as if to see. 

She did not find him, if she looked for him, for David and Philip, afterwalking up and down the railway track for some time, went down toDavid's favourite seat on the stones of the abutment of the bridge closeby the water. They were silent for some time after they went there. David sat gazing at the bright clouds that lingered after the sunset, while his friend moved up and down and flung stones into the water. Byand by he sat down by David's side, saying--

"And so I am all at sea again. "

"I don't see why you should be `at sea again, ' as you call it, " saidDavid. "Mr Caldwell's offer was made without any reference to me, andmy refusal can make no real difference. "

"It will make all the difference in the world to me. "

"Philip, promise me one thing. Don't decide till your father comes andFrank. I don't know when I was so glad. See how pleased your fatherwill be. "

"Nonsense, Davie! It is no such great thing as all that--a partnershipwith old Caldwell. "

"Hear what your father will say. I can't say how fine a thing it willbe to be his partner, but your father will think it a high complimentthat he should have wished it. It will be good for you--and for himtoo. I don't know which I congratulate most. "

David was growing enthusiastic. 

"It would do, I think, if you were coming with us. A clerkship now, anda partnership afterwards. There is no hope of making you change yourmind, Davie?"

"Would you wish me to change my mind, Philip?" said David laying his armover his friend's shoulder, in a way that would have satisfied Violet ofhis interest and affection. 

"I don't know. I am not sure. I don't understand it. "

"Yes, you do, Philip--or you will sometime. I mean, you will understandwhy this should be the best thing for me to do. You cannot quiteunderstand all I feel about it, because you never knew my father. "

"Tell me about him, " said Philip. 

"It is not what I could tell you that would make you understand. But--we speak about aspirations and ambitions, Philip; but if I had my choicewhat I should do, or what I should be, I should choose the life, andwork, and character of my father. "

David's voice faltered. 

"Since when has that been your choice?" asked Philip. 

"Always! I mean, always since he died. And, before that, he was myideal of wisdom and goodness, though I did not particularly wish or tryto be like him then?"

"And it was his wish that you should choose his profession, and live hislife, and do his work?"

"He wished it, --yes. And now I wish it, not merely because of his wish, but because--I love my Lord and Master, and because I wish to honour Himas His soldier and servant--"

David did not find it easy to say all this to Philip, and there wassilence for a minute or two. 

"But haven't you been losing time?" said Philip. 

"No. Mamma does not think so. Time should try a decision so important, she thinks. I am young yet, and I have been keeping up my readingpretty well. And, besides, she thinks the care, and the steady work, and our life altogether, --having to manage with just enough, you know, --has been good discipline for me, and a sort of preparation. "

"I see! And when is the other sort of preparation to begin?"

"I don't know. The way will open, mamma always says. When we came herefirst, mamma and Violet meant to keep a school; but, after Violet wentto teach your sisters, we could get on without it, and it was so muchbetter for us to have mamma all to ourselves. She may think of itagain, and Violet is better able to help her now. "

"It is a slave's life. "

"No; I don't think mamma objects to it on that ground. But there is nohaste about it. I always remember what mamma said to me once--`If yourmaster has a special work for you to do, He will provide the means forspecial preparation. '"

"What a wonderful woman your mother is!" said Philip. 

David laughed, such a happy laugh. 

"Is she? She does not think so. "

"I wonder if she would be on my side if I were to tell her all about oldCaldwell's plans, and how much good you could do with us--and a futurepartnership, and all that. Why, Davie, you might, when you are a richman, educate any number of ministers. Wouldn't that do as well as to beone yourself?"

"That will be something for you to do. No; I don't think mamma would beon your side. "

"But you are her bread-winner, as I have heard her say. How can shespare you?"

"And I shall always be so while she needs me. I can wait a long timepatiently, I think. But I cannot give it up now. It would be `lookingback, ' after putting my hand to the plough. "

They were silent for a good while, and then Philip said:

"Tell me about your father. "

David doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had cometo care more for each other's company, he had often spoken to Philip ofhis father. But if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in anew way--a way that made Philip wonder. He told him all that I havetold you, and more, --of his father's life and work--how wise and stronghe was--how loving and beloved. He told him of his love for his Master, of his zeal for His service. He told him of his own lessons with him, of how he used to go with him to the North Gore and other places, and ofwhat he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. He told him ofhis last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful forhimself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave themalone and poor--how sure he was that God would care for them and keepthem safe until they all should meet again. Sometimes he spoke withbreaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time, Philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he wenton, till he came to the very last, and then he said:

"He told me then, at the very last--even after he had spoken aboutmamma, that I was to take up the armour that he was laying down. And, God helping me, so I will, " said David, with a sob, laying down hisface, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. But, in alittle, he raised it again, and said, quietly:

"I couldn't go back after that, Philip. "

"No, " said Philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor didDavid. Philip spoke first:

"And so it must be `Good-bye, ' Davie?"

"Good-bye?" repeated David. "I don't understand?"

"You are to take one way and I another; so we part company. "

David was silent from astonishment. 

"As our fathers did, " said Philip. "They were friends once, as we are, Davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, I fear. "

"It need not be so. "

"It is curious to think of it, " went on Philip. "If my father were todie to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father lefthis when he died. Not that it would matter; but then my father has losthis whole life, too. No, Davie, I fear the end will be that we must godifferent ways. "

"Dear Philip, " said David, standing before him, and speaking with muchearnestness, "there is only one thing that can separate us--your servingone master and I another; and that need not be. Your work may be asmuch for Him as mine. Philip, dear friend--is He your Lord and Master, as He is mine?"

Philip shook his head. 

"I do not know. I fear not, Davie. What am I saying? I know He isnot. I have never done a stroke of work for Him, or for any one at Hisbidding, or for His sake, and that is the whole truth, Davie. "

"But that is not to be the end! His soldier and servant! There isnothing in all the world to be compared with that! Have you offeredyourself to Him? Will you not offer yourself to Him? Oh, Philip! thereis nothing else. "

"Davie, " said Philip, hoarsely, "you don't begin to know what a badfellow I have been. "

"No; nor do you. But He knows, and the worse you are the more you needto come to Him. Have you never asked Him to forgive you and take youfor His own? It is for Him to do it. Ask Him now!"

David threw his arms round the neck of his friend. It was a sudden act, boyish and impulsive--not at all like David. Philip was much moved. 

"Ask Him, Davie, " said he, huskily. 

Kneeling beside him on the stone, David did ask Him, using simple wordsand few--such words as Philip never forgot--words that he uttered in hisown heart many a time afterwards, and not in vain. 

They lingered a good while, but there was not much said between themafter that, and when David went into the house, where his mother andViolet were waiting for him, he told them that Philip had gone home. Byand by he said:

"The story Jem heard was true, mamma. Mr Caldwell wants Philip tobecome his partner in a new business. It seems he has saved something, and he is willing to put his capital against Philip's youth and energyand business talents. It will be very good for Philip and for MrCaldwell too. "

"It shows great confidence on Mr Caldwell's part, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"Yes; but, mamma, you said it as if you were surprised, as if hisconfidence might be misplaced. "

"I am surprised, dear, but the other idea I did not mean to convey. Mysurprise was because of Mr Caldwell's well-known deliberation andcaution. "

"Yes; the offer, even if it go no further, is a feather in Phil's cap, "said Jem. "But Mr Caldwell is a shrewd old gentleman, though he be alittle slow. He knows what he is about. "

"You look as though you expected to be contradicted, Jem, " said Violet, laughing. 

"Is Philip pleased with the prospect? Will the thing go on?" asked MrsInglis. 

"I think so. I hope so. It will be decided when Mr Oswald returns. Philip would have liked me to go with them--into their service, I mean, with the prospect of something better by and by. "

"And what did you say to him?" asked his mother. 

"Of course you refused?" said Violet. 

"I don't know about that, " said Jem. "Davie had better think twicebefore he refuses such an offer. But Davie never did appreciatePhilip. "

David laughed at Jem, and answered his mother. 

"I told him all about it, mamma. He was disappointed, but heunderstood, I think. "

There was no more said that night. Jem would gladly have entered into adiscussion of the subject, but David did not stay to listen, and Violetwould not respond, and what he had to say would not have been the bestthing to say to his mother, so he kept his opinion for the hearing ofPhilip against the time he should see him again. 

When Philip came, which was not for a day or two, the first words hesaid to Mrs Inglis were--

"I think you ought to be a very happy woman, Aunt Mary. "

"I think so too. But what has given you new light on the subject?"asked Mrs Inglis, smiling. 

"And you ought all to be very happy children, " said Philip, liftinglittle Mary, who was not so very little now, to his knee. 

"And so we are, " said Violet. 

"And you ought to be very good, too. "

"And so we are, " said Jem. 

"Well, then, no more need be said on the subject at present, except thatI wish that I were one of you. "

"Tell us about the new partnership, " said Jem. 

"It is not to be spoken of yet. It is a secret. "

"Davie told us, " said Violet. 

"Oh, I don't mean it is to be a secret here! But it is not to bedecided till my father comes home. Though I suppose he will let me doas I like. "

"If you are quite sure that you know what you would like. "

"I am quite sure I know what _I_ would like, but I am not to have_that_, it seems. "

"Is it Davie?" said Violet. "But you don't mean that you would like himto change his mind and his plans, I hope?"

"It would be selfish, wouldn't it, and wrong? No, upon the whole Iwouldn't like Davie to be different, or to do differently. But I shouldlike to be more like him. "

"But you are pretty good now, aren't you, " said Mary. "Davie is veryfond of you and mamma and all of us. I suppose you are not quite sogood as our Davie. "

They all laughed. 

"I will try to be good, indeed I will, Polly, " said Philip. 

"Well that is right, " said Mary. "You should speak to mamma. She wouldhelp you. "

"Yes, I think she would. I mean to speak to her. "

And so they chatted on till David came in. Philip had made good a placeamong them. It was quite clear that they all liked him, as little Pollyhad said. They had always liked him from the very first, but he wasmore worthy of their liking now. 

Mr Oswald and Frank came home in due time. There was nothing in MrOswald's plans for his son to prevent the carrying out of the plan forthe new partnership, as proposed by Mr Caldwell. He was greatlypleased with the compliment to his son, which Mr Caldwell's proposalimplied, and entered into the discussion of preliminaries with great, interest. As for himself he had returned home with no design ofengaging immediately in business, except the business of an InsuranceCompany of which he had been made the agent. He was to wait for a yearor two at least. 

Frank, whose health and eyesight were quite restored, was offered theplace in the new business, which Philip would so gladly have given toDavid. Of course he was as yet not so well qualified to perform theduties of the position as David would have been, but he possessed somequalities likely to insure success that David did not have, and he hadthat which was the source and secret of David's goodness, so firmlybelieved in by little Mary and them all. He was learning to live, notto himself, but to his Master--to do His will and make known His name, and in all things to honour Him in the eyes of the world, and so he hadalso David's secret of peace. But for a time he had little to do, asthe new firm was not publicly announced till later in the year, and inthe meantime he accepted Mrs Inglis's invitation, and made himself oneof the children of the bridge house, to his great pleasure and theirs. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

One morning as Mr Philip sat at breakfast reading the paper, as was hiscustom, he heard Mr Caldwell say--

"This is the twenty-second of September. "

"The days and nights are of equal length, " said Mrs Caldwell. "Dear!dear! how soon the days will be drawing in!"

"This day last year Miss Bethia Barnes died. "

"Well, she was a good body. I trust she went to a better place. "

"And to-day her will is to be read, " went on Mr Caldwell. 

"Is it indeed? Had she much property? She was a decent saving body. And who is to get it? Not that you can know, however, till the will isopened. "

"I know, having been consulted about the making of it; but that isneither here nor there at the present moment. What I mean to say isthis: Being one of the executors of that will, I shall have to be in MrBethune's office this morning, and so, Mr Philip, you will need toattend to the business we were speaking of last night yourself, in caseI should be detained beyond my time. "

"All right!" said Philip, looking up from his paper. 

"And you were consulted about the making of the poor body's will, wereyou?" said Mrs Caldwell, who was by no means so silent a member of thefamily as her husband. "And you were made executor, and all--and younever mentioned it. Not that _that_ is a matter for surprise, however, "added she, reconsidering the subject. "I dare say he will be ready totell us all about it by dinner time, though no mortal power could makehim open his lips this morning. Well, I hope whoever gets the moneywill get the good of it, though why they should have been kept out of ita whole year, I cannot see. I hope that was not by your advice. Butdear! dear! money often does more harm than good, for all so hard as westrive for it. "

"It will do good this time--there is no fear, " said Mr Caldwell, rising. "It has not been striven for, nor expected, and there is nottoo much of it just for comfort, and--it will open the way. "

The last words struck Philip as familiar, and looking up he caught theeye of Mr Caldwell, who nodded and smiled, as though he ought tounderstand the whole matter by this time. 

"There need be no more waiting now, " said he, but whether he meant forhimself or for Mr Philip, or for some one else, he did not say. 

"All right!" said Philip, at a venture; and though he heard no more ofthe matter, and was too busy all day to give it a thought, he was notsurprised, when he went, at night, to the bridge house, to hear thatthere was news awaiting him; but he was a little surprised at the natureof the news. It was Violet who told him. The children were gone out, and David was, for the moment, in his mother's room, and only Frank waswith Violet when Philip came in. For this time she was quite free fromthe "proper" and "dignified" air of which Jem used to accuse her wherePhilip was concerned. She was smiling and eager when, prompted byFrank, she told him there was something he would like to hear. 

"It is about Davie, isn't it?" said Philip. "Davie is Miss Bethia'sheir?"

But it was not Davie. Davie had his father's library and the fivehundred dollars which Miss Bethia had offered for it as well, to do whathe liked with; there were some legacies to relatives, "to remember herby, " Miss Bethia had written, and there was something to Debby Stone. But the house and garden in Gourlay, and all else that had been MissBethia's, she had bequeathed unconditionally to Mrs Inglis. It was nota large property, but it was a good deal more than Miss Bethia couldhave been supposed to possess, considering her way of life. It was notquite independence to Mrs Inglis and her children, but it would be agreat help toward it. 

"And, " said Violet, with a smile and a sigh, "it opens the way toDavie. "

"Yes; that is what Mr Caldwell said this morning. But you don't seemso delighted as he was at the thought. "

"I am very glad for Davie. But it will be a sad breaking-up for therest of us to have him go away. And it will be at once, I suppose, if, at this late day, arrangements can be made for his going this year tothe university. "

"But the sooner the better, I should think, Violet, " said Frank, cheerfully. 

"Yes--the sooner the better for him; but think of mamma and the rest ofus. However, I know it is very foolish to look at that side of thematter, and, indeed, I am very glad. "

"And, besides, if you go to M-- you will see him often, " said Frank. "We shall be rather dismal without you both, I am afraid. "

"Dismal enough!" echoed Mr Philip. 

"And if you all go to Gourlay to live, as Miss Bethia seemed to thinkyou would, what will become of us?"

"What, indeed!" said Philip. "That is the plan, is it? It is cruel ofAunt Mary, and I shall tell her so. "

"We have made no plans as yet. I hope it will be all for the best. Wehave been very happy here. It could not have lasted much longer forDavie. He is very glad, and so is mamma; and, I suppose, we shall allbe glad, when we have time to think about it. "

Philip was not so sure of that, nor Frank either, as far as their goingaway to Gourlay was concerned. But mamma was glad and Davie. There wasno doubt of that, Philip saw, as soon as they appeared. They wererather silent for a time, and Philip saw, what he had never seen beforein all his intercourse with her, the traces of tears on Mrs Inglis'sface. He was not sure that there was not the shine of tears in David'seyes too. His congratulations were given very quietly, and as quietlyreceived. 

"But I am afraid it is the beginning of bad days to us, Aunt Mary, if wehave to say good-bye to you all. "

"It would be bad days for us, too, if that were to happen; but I hopenothing so sad as that is to follow our good fortune. "

"Good-bye!" exclaimed Frank. "That is the last thing we shall think of, Aunt Mary. But, I suppose, we shall lose Davie for awhile. Eh, Davie?"

"I shall be away for awhile, if you call that losing me; but I shall behome soon, and often. "

"It happened just at the right time, didn't it?" said Ned. "Just asDavie is ready to go to college. "

"Davie has been ready for that any time these three years; and what Iwonder is, that mamma did not hear of this at once, " said Jem. 

"This is the right time, I think, " said Mrs Inglis. 

"I am very glad it did not happen this time last year, " said Philip. 

"Why?" said Violet. 

"I will tell you another time, " said Philip. 

"After all, mamma, money is a very good thing to have, " said Ned, afterthere had been more discussion of Miss Bethia's will, and all that wasto be done in consequence of it. 

"A very good thing, in certain circumstances. "

"But, mamma, you have always spoken as if it did not matter whether wehad money or not--much money, I mean. And now see how pleased everybodyis because Miss Bethia gave her's to you. I don't think anything everhappened before that pleased every one of us so well. "

"I cannot say that for myself, " said his mother. 

"And there is not _much_ money of it, " said Frank. 

"And everybody is glad because of Davie, " said Jessie. "I think MissBethia meant it for Davie to go to college and be a minister like papa, and that is why mamma is so glad, and all of us. "

"Nonsense! Miss Bethia meant it for mamma and all of us. She wouldhave said it was for Davie, if she had meant it for him. Do you thinkMiss Bethia meant it for you, Davie? Do you, mamma?" said Ned, as hesaw a smile exchanged between them. 

"She meant it for mamma, of course, " said David. 

"Davie, " said his mother, "read Miss Bethia's letter to Philip and thechildren. "

David looked at his mother, and round on the rest, then back again tohis mother, a little surprise and hesitation showing in his face. 

"Do you think so, mamma?" said he, colouring. 

"They will like to hear it, and I shall like them to hear it. Shall Iread it for you?" said his mother, smiling. 

David rose and went into his mother's room, and came back with theletter in his hand. Giving it to her without a word, he sat down in acorner where the light could not fall on his face. Mrs Inglis openedthe letter and read:

"Dear David Inglis, --It is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letterwhich is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold indeath; and so I feel at this time. But I want you to know all about it, and I must put it in as few words as possible. I will begin at thebeginning. 

"I never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he tookabout the time that Timothy Bent died. I worried about him all winter, for I couldn't make it seem right that his life and usefulness should bebroken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the mostgood. I would have put it right, in my way, if I could have done it. But it was not the Lord's way, and I had to give it up. It never waseasy for me to give up my own way, even to the Lord. But He islong-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by He showed me how I mighthelp make up your father's loss to the church and the world. 

"But I wasn't in any hurry about it, because I didn't know just how itwould be with you, and whether you would keep your armour bright, andstand in the day of trial. So I waited, and went to Singleton, andtalked with Mr Caldwell, and came home feeling pretty well; and all themore when I heard from your mother how she and you felt about yourtaking up your father's work. Still I was not in any hurry, for Ithought you were not losing your time. You seemed to be learning, whatmany a minister gets into trouble for not knowing, how business is done, and how far a little money may be made to go. And I thought, if it werejust a notion of yours to be a minister, because you had thought so muchof your father, and to please your mother, you would find it out prettysoon, and get into other business. But I knew, if the Lord had calledyou to the work, you wouldn't be tired waiting, and you weren't losingtime. 

"Well, I have thought of it, and planned for it considerable, one wayand another; and, lately, I have begun to think that I shall not havemuch more time for planning or doing either. This summer, I have seemedto see my way clear. There are not many women in the world like yourmother, I can tell you, David; and she will know how to go to workbetter than I can tell her. So I have made up my mind to leave what Ihave got to her. The time you have been working to keep the familytogether has not been lost, so far. But, when your mother don't needyou, you will be free to help yourself. I thought first I would leaveyou money enough to take you through college, and all that; but, as faras I have had a chance to judge, those who have had to work hard to getan education, have come out best in the end. Your mother will know whatto do, as one thing follows another in your life, better than I couldput it down on paper. She'll help you all you need, I am not afraid;and if the Lord shouldn't have called you to His work after all, I wouldrather your mother had the property I have worked for than that youshould have it to put into other business. I hope it will come allround right in the end. 

"There is a good deal more I wanted to say to you, but I don't seem toknow just how to put it down on paper as I want to, so I shall not try. When you read this, I shall be where your father is; and I pray the Lordto lead you in the way you should go, and make you a faithful ministerof His word, as he was. Amen. "

There was nothing said for several minutes, after she had ceasedreading; then she only said:

"And so, now, children, you see what it was that our old friend wished. "

"Mr Caldwell must have known it all along, " said Philip. "Well, hetold me there was not much chance of Davie's accepting my offer. Ishould think not!"

"Are you sorry?" asked Violet. 

"I am not sure. I must think about it. "

"I sha'n't seem to care so much about being a rich man now, " said Jem, "since Davie is provided for. "

"There are plenty more of us, Jem, " said Ned. 

"And mamma, too, " went on Jem dolefully. "If Miss Bethia had given itall to Davie, I might have done for mamma. "

They all laughed at Jem's trouble, and they grew eager and a littlenoisy and foolish after that, laughing and making impossible plans, asthough Miss Bethia's money had been countless. David said nothing, andMrs Inglis said little, and the confusion did not last long, for, beneath all their lightness, there was among the children a deeper andgraver feeling than they wished to show, and they grew quiet in a littlewhile. 

There were no plans made that night, however; but, by degrees, it wasmade plain to Mrs Inglis what it was best for them to do. David wentalmost immediately to M--, and was admitted into the university, passingthe examinations for the second year; and Violet went back to her placein Mrs Lancaster's school. Mrs Inglis decided to remain in Singletonfor the winter, partly for Jem's sake, and partly that Ned might stillhave the benefit of school. Frank was also to be with them. Mr Oswaldwas not to be in Singleton constantly, and Miss Oswald was to remain ather own home all winter, and the little girls were to remain with her. 

So Frank took David's place, though he did not quite fill it, and MrPhilip came and went almost as often as when the others were at home. His visits were for the pleasure of all, and for his own profit; andwhen the time came that they were to say "good-bye" for a little while, it was spoken by Mrs Inglis with feelings far different from those shewould have had a year ago; for she knew that the discipline of changedcircumstances, of care, and of hard work that had fallen upon him, hadstrengthened him in many ways; and, better still, she could not but hopethat the influence and teaching to which he had so willingly submittedduring the last year and more, had wrought in him for good, and that nowhe was being taught by Him who teacheth to profit, and guided by Him inthe right way. 

Jem had an opportunity to play at being "head of the house" for once;and it was, by no means, all play, for the care and responsibility ofacting for his mother in all that pertained to making necessaryarrangements, to the disposal of such things as they did not care totake with them, and to the removal of such things as they wished tokeep, fell on him. He did his work well and cheerfully, though with alittle unnecessary energy, and he would gladly have staid to settle themall in Gourlay. But he was needed for his legitimate work; and amidmuch cause for gratitude, Mrs Inglis had this cause for anxiety, thatJem must henceforth be removed from the constant happy influence of homelife, and left to prove the strength and worth of his principles amongstrangers. If he had been more afraid for himself, it is likely hismother would have been less afraid for him. But there was no help forit. It is the mother's "common lot. "

"The young birds cannot always stay in the parent nest, mother, dear, "said Jem; "and I must go as the rest do. But I shall come home for aweek in the summer, if it be a possible thing; and, in the meantime, Iam not going to forget my mother, I hope. "

"Nor your mother's God, I trust, dear Jem, " said Mrs Inglis, as she lethim go. 

Who could tell all the labour and pains bestowed on the arrangement andadornment of the house they had never ceased to love? David came homeearly in May, and did his part. Ten times a day Jessie wished forViolet to help with her willing and skillful hands. They had Debby forall that required strength. She had fallen very easily into her oldplace, and was to stay in it, everybody hoped. 

Sarah and Charlotte Oswald were to form part of their family for thenext year, and Violet's work was to be to teach them and her sisters, and two little orphan girls who had been committed by their guardian toMrs Inglis's care. But Violet's work was not to be begun tillSeptember, and after the house was in perfect order, ready to receiveexpected visitors, there were two months for happy leisure before thattime came. 

Violet and Jem were coming home together, and Sarah and Charlotte wereexpected at the same time. Jem was to stay for ten days only. By dintof some planning on their part, and much kindness on the part of MrCaldwell, Philip and Frank were to have their holiday together, and theywere to accompany the rest to Gourlay. At first it was intended to maketheir coming a surprise, but mindful of certain possible contingenciesin Debby's department, Violet overruled this, and the people at homewere permitted to have the pleasure of expecting and preparing for them, as well as the pleasure of receiving them, and wonderful things wereaccomplished to that end. 

The last night had come. The children had gone away to the woods to getsome sprigs from a beautiful vine, without which Jessie did not considerher floral decorations perfect, and Mrs Inglis and David were awaitingthem alone. They were in the garden, which was a very pretty place, andnever prettier than on that evening, David thought. Ned's gardening wasa great improvement on his of the old days, he willingly acknowledged. Indeed, since their coming back to Gourlay, Ned had given himself to thearranging and keeping of the garden, in a way that proved the possessionof true artistic taste, and also of that which is as rare, and asnecessary to success in gardening and in other things--greatperseverance. His success was wonderful, and all the more so that forthe last few years the flower-garden, at least, had been allowed to takeits own way as to growing and blossoming, and bade fair when they cameto be a thicket of balsam, peonies, hollyhocks, and other hardy villagefavourites. But Ned saw great possibilities of beauty in it, comparedwith the three-cornered morsel that had been the source of so muchenjoyment in Singleton, and having taken Philip into his confidence, there came from time to time seeds, roots, plants and cuttings to hisheart's content. 

He had determined to have the whole in perfect order by the time of thecoming of Violet and the rest, and by dint of constant labour on hispart, and the little help he got from David or any one else who could becoaxed into his service for the time, he had succeeded wonderfully, considering all things. It was perfect in neatness, and it was rich inflowers that had never opened under a Gourlay sun till now. It was tobe a surprise to Violet and Jem, and looking at it with their eyes, David exclaimed again and again in admiration of its order and beauty. 

"But they won't see it to-night, unless they come soon, " said he. "However, it will look all the better with the morning sun upon it. Does it seem like home to you, mamma?--the old home?"

"Yes--with a difference, " said his mother. 

"Ah, yes! But you are glad to be here, mamma? You would rather haveyour home in Gourlay than anywhere else?"

"Yes, I am glad our home is here. God has been very good to us, Davie. "

"Mamma, it is wonderful! If our choice had been given us, we could nothave desired anything different. "

His mother smiled. 

"God's way is best, and this will seem more like home than any otherplace could seem to those who must go away. I cannot expect to keep mychildren always. "

"Any place would be home to us where you were, mamma. But I am glad youare here--and you don't grudge us to our work in the world?"

"No, truly. That would be worse than ungrateful. May God give you allHis work to do, and a will and strength to do it!"

"And you will have the children a long time yet; and Violet--" Davidhesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarrassment. "Onlymamma, " added he, "I am afraid Philip wants Violet. "

Mrs Inglis started. 

"Has he told you so, Davie?" said she, anxiously. 

"No--not quite--not exactly. But I think--I know you wouldn't begrieved, mamma? Philip is just what you would like him to be now. Philip is a true Christian gentleman. I expect great things fromPhilip. And mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised. "

"Not altogether surprised, perhaps. But--we will not speak of it, Davie, until--"

"Until Philip does. Well, I don't think that will be very long. But, mamma, I cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this. "

"Unhappy? No, not unhappy! But--I could never make you understand. Wewill not speak about it. "

They went on in silence along the walk till they came to the gardengate, and there they lingered for a while. 

"Mamma, " said David, "do you remember one night, a very stormy night, when you and I watched for papa's coming home? I don't know why Ishould always think of that night more than of many others, unless itwas almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. I thinkyou were afraid even then, mamma?"

"I remember. Yes, I was afraid. " David stood silent beside her. Thevoices of the children on their homeward way came through the stillness. In a minute they could see them, moving in and out among the longshadows, which the last gleam of sunshine made, their hands and lapsfilled with flowers and trailing green--a very pretty picture. Themother stood watching them in silence till they drew near. Then theface she turned to David was bright with both smiles and tears. 

"David, " she said, "when I remember your father's life and death, andhow gently we have been dealt with since then, how wisely guided, howstrongly guarded, and how the way has opened before us, my heart fillsfull and my lips would fain sing praises. I do not think there can comeinto my life anything to make me afraid any more. "

David's answer was in words not his own: "Thou wilt keep him in perfectpeace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee. "

THE END.