Note: Images of the original pages are available through Early Canadiana Online. See http://www. Canadiana. Org/ECO/ItemRecord/05750?id=1a6d608d0d7d6b5e

WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS

by

L. DOUGALL

Author of "Beggars All, " etc

New YorkLongmans, Green, and Co. 15 East Sixteenth StreetTypography by J. S. Cushing & Co. , Boston. 

1893

TO MY BROTHERJOHN REDPATH DOUGALLTHIS BOOK IS INSCRIBEDWITH REVERENCE AND AFFECTION

PREFACE. 

One episode of this story may need a word of explanation. It is reportedthat while the "Millerite" or Adventist excitement of 1843 was agitatingcertain parts of North America, in one place at least a little band ofwhite-robed people ascended a hill in sure expectation of the SecondAdvent, and patiently returned to be the laughing stock of theirneighbours. This tradition, as I heard it in my childhood, was repeatedas if it embodied nothing but eccentricity and absurdity, yet itnaturally struck a child's mind with peculiar feelings of awe andpathos. Such an event appeared picturesque matter for a story. It wasnot easy to deal with; for in setting it, as was necessary, in closerelation to the gain-getting, marrying and giving in marriage, of thepeople among whom it might occur, it was difficult to avoid eithergiving it a poetic emphasis which it would not appear to have in realityor degrading it by that superficial truth often called realism, whichbelittles men. Any unworthiness in the working out of the incident isdue, not so much to lack of dignity in the subject, or to lack ofmaterial, as to the limitations of the writer's capacity. 

Lest any of my countrymen should feel that this story is wanting insympathy with them, I may point out that it does not happen to deal withCanadians proper, but with immigrants, most of whom are slow to identifythemselves with their adopted Country; hence their point of view is herenecessarily set forth. 

I would take this opportunity to express my obligation to myfellow-worker, Miss M. S. Earp, for her constant and sympatheticcriticism and help in composition. 

L. D. 

EDINBURGH, June, 1893. 

BOOK I. 

"_Necessity knows no Law. _"

WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS

CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

"It is not often that what we call the 'great sorrows of life' cause usthe greatest sorrow. Death, acute disease, sudden and greatlosses--these are sometimes easily borne compared with those intricatedifficulties which, without name and without appearance, work themselvesinto the web of our daily life, and, if not rightly met, corrode andtarnish all its brightness. "

So spoke Robert Trenholme, Principal of the New College and Rector ofthe English church at Chellaston, in the Province of Quebec. He sat inhis comfortable library. The light of a centre lamp glowed with shadedray on books in their shelves, but shone strongly on the faces near it. As Trenholme spoke his words had all the charm lent by modulated voiceand manner, and a face that, though strong, could light itself easilywith a winning smile. He was a tall, rather muscular man; his face hadthat look of battle that indicates the nervous temperament. He wastalking to a member of his congregation who had called to ask advice andsympathy concerning some carking domestic care. The advice had alreadybeen given, and the clergyman proceeded to give the sympathy in the formabove. 

His listener was a sickly-looking man, who held by the hand a little boyof five or six years. The child, pale and sober, regarded withincessant interest the prosperous and energetic man who was talking toits father. 

"Yes, yes, " replied the troubled visitor, "yes, there's some help forthe big troubles, but none for the small--you're right there. "

"No, " said the other, "I did not say there was no help. It is just thosecomplex difficulties for which we feel the help of our fellow-men isinadequate that ought to teach us to find out how adequate is the helpof the Divine Man, our Saviour, to all our needs. "

"Yes, yes, " said the poor man again, "yes, I suppose what you say istrue. "

But he evidently did not suppose so. He sidled to the door, cap in hand. The clergyman said no more. He was one of those sensitive men who oftenknow instinctively whether or not their words find response in the heartof the hearer, and to whom it is always a pain to say anything, even themost trivial, which awakes no feeling common to both. 

Trenholme himself showed the visitors out of his house with a genial, kindly manner, and when the departing footsteps had ceased to crunch thegarden path he still stood on his verandah, looking after the retreatingfigures and feeling somewhat depressed--not as we might suppose St. Paulwould have felt depressed, had he, in like manner, taken the Name forwhich he lived upon his lips in vain--and to render that name futile byreason of our spiritual insignificance is surely the worst form ofprofanity--but he felt depressed in the way that a gentleman might who, having various interests at heart, had failed in a slight attempt topromote one of them. 

It was the evening of one of the balmy days of a late Indian summer. Thestars of the Canadian sky had faded and become invisible in the light ofa moon that hung low and glorious, giving light to the dry, sweet-scented haze of autumn air. Trenholme looked out on a neat gardenplot, and beyond, in the same enclosure, upon lawns of ragged, dry-looking grass, in the centre of which stood an ugly brick house, built apparently for some public purpose. This was the immediateoutlook. Around, the land was undulating; trees were abundant, and weremore apparent in the moonlight than the flat field spaces between them. The graceful lines of leafless elms at the side of the main road wereclearly seen. About half a mile away the lights of a large village werevisible, but bits of walls and gable ends of white houses stood outbrighter in the moonlight than, the yellow lights within the windows. Where the houses stretched themselves up on a low hill, a little whitechurch showed clear against the broken shadow of low-growing pines. 

As Trenholme was surveying the place dreamily in the wonderful light, that light fell also, upon him and his habitation. He was apparentlyintellectual, and had in him something of the idealist. For the rest, hewas a good-sized, good-looking man, between thirty and forty years ofage, and even by the moonlight one might see, from the form of hisclothes, that he was dressed with fastidious care. The walls andverandah, of his house, which were of wood, glistened almost as brightlywith white paint as the knocker and doorplate did with brass lacquer. 

After a few minutes Trenholme's housekeeper, a wiry, sad-eyed woman, came to see why the door was left open. When she saw the master of thehouse she retired in abrupt, angular fashion, but the suggestion of hererrand recalled him from his brief relaxation. 

In his study he again sat down before the table where he had beentalking to his visitors. From the leaves of his blotting-paper he took aletter which he had apparently been interrupted in writing. He took itout in a quick, business-like way, and dipped his pen in the ink asthough, to finish rapidly; but then he sat still until the pen dried, and no further word had been added. Again he dipped his pen, and againlet it dry. If the first sentence of the letter had taken as long tocompose as the second, it was no wonder that a caller had caused aninterruption. 

The letter, as it lay before him, had about a third of its page writtenin a neat, forcible hand. The arms of his young college were printed atthe top. He had written:--

 My dear brother, --I am very much concerned not to have heard from you for so long. I have written to your old address in Montreal, but received no answer. 

Here came the stop. At last he put pen to paper and went on:--

 Even though we have disagreed as to what occupation is best for you to follow, and also as to the degree of reserve that is desirable as to what our father did, you must surely know that there is nothing I desire more than your highest welfare. 

After looking at this sentence for a little while he struck his penthrough the word "highest, " and then, offended with the appearance ofthe obliteration, he copied this much of the letter on a fresh sheet andagain stopped. 

When he continued, it was on the old sheet. He made a rough copy of theletter--writing, crossing out, and rewriting. It seemed that the task towhich he had set himself was almost harder than could appear possible, for, as he became more absorbed in it, there was evidence of discomfortin his attitude, and although the room was not warm, the moisture on hisforehead became visible in the strong light of the lamp above him. Atlength, after preliminary pauses had been followed by a lengthenedperiod of vigorous writing, the letter was copied, and the writer sealedit with an air of obvious relief. 

That done, he wrote another letter, the composition of which, althoughit engaged his care, was apparently so much pleasanter, that perhaps thedoing of it was chosen on the same principle as one hears a farce aftera tragedy, in order to sleep the more easily. 

This second letter was to a lady. When it was written, Trenholme pulledan album from a private drawer, and looked long and with interestedattention at the face of the lady to whom he had written. It was theface of a young, handsome girl, who bore herself proudly. The fashion ofthe dress would have suggested to a calculating mind that the portraithad been taken some years before; but what man who imagines himself alover, in regarding the face of the absent dear one in the well-knownpicture, adds in thought the marks of time? If he had been impartial hewould have asked the portrait if the face from which it was taken hadgrown more proud and cold as the years went by, or more sad andgentle--for, surely, in this work-a-day world of ours, fate would not belikely to have gifts in store that would wholly satisfy those eager, ambitious eyes; but, being a man no wiser than many other men, he lookedat the rather faded phonograph with considerable pleasure, and asked noquestions. 

It grew late as he contemplated the lady's picture, and, moreover, hewas not one, under any excuse, to spend much time in idleness. He putaway his album, and then, having personally locked up his house and saidgood-night to his housekeeper, he went upstairs. 

Yet, in spite of all that Trenholme's pleasure in the letter and thepossession of the photograph might betoken, the missive, addressed to alady named Miss Rexford, was not a love-letter. It ran thus:--

 I cannot even feign anger against "Dame Fortune, " that, by so unexpected a turn of her wheel, she should be even now bringing you to the remote village where for some time I have been forced to make my home, and where it is very probable I shall remain for some years longer. I do, of course, unfeignedly regret the financial misfortune which, as I understand, has made it necessary for Captain Rexford to bring you all out to this young country; yet to me the pleasure of expecting such neighbours must far exceed any other feeling with which I regard your advent. 

 I am exceedingly glad if I have been able to be of service to Captain Rexford in making his business arrangements here, and hope all will prove satisfactory. I have only to add that, although you must be prepared for much that you will find different from English life, much that is rough and ungainly and uncomfortable, you may feel confident that, with a little patience, the worst roughness of colonial life will soon be overcome, and that you will find compensation a thousand times over in the glorious climate and cheerful prospects of this new land. 

 As I have never had the pleasure of meeting Captain and Mrs. Rexford, I trust you will excuse me for addressing this note of welcome to you, whom I trust I may still look upon as a friend. I have not forgotten the winter when I received encouragement and counsel from you, who had so many to admire and occupy you that, looking back now, I feel it strange that you should have found time to bestow in mere kindness. 

Here there followed courteous salutations to the lady's father andmother, brothers and sisters. The letter was signed in friendly styleand addressed to an hotel in Halifax, where apparently it was to awaitthe arrival of the fair stranger from some other shore. 

It is probable that, in the interfacings of human lives, events arehappening every moment which, although bearing according to presentknowledge no possible relation to our own lives, are yet to have aninfluence on our future and make havoc with our expectations. The trainis laid, the fuse is lit, long before we know it. 

That night, as Robert Trenholme sealed his letters, an event took placethat was to test by a strange influence the lives of these threepeople--Robert Trenholme, the lady of whom he thought so pleasantly, andthe young brother to whom he had written so laboriously. And the eventwas that an old settler, who dwelt in a remote part of the country, wentout of his cabin in the delusive moonlight, slipped on a steep place, and fell, thereby receiving an inward hurt that was to bring him death. 

CHAPTER II. 

The Indian summer, that lingers in the Canadian forest after the fall ofthe leaves, had passed away. The earth lay frozen, ready to bear thesnow. The rivers, with edge of thin ice upon their quiet places, rolled, gathering into the surface of their waters the cold that wouldso soon create their crystal prison. 

The bright sun of a late November day was shining upon a small lake thatlay in the lonely region to the west of the Gaspé Peninsula near theMatapediac Valley. There was one farm clearing on a slope of the wildhills that encircled the lake. The place was very lonely. An eagle thatrose from the fir-clad ridge above the clearing might from its eminence, have seen other human habitations, but such sight was denied to thedwellers in the rude log-house on the clearing. The eagle wheeled in theair and flew southward. A girl standing near the log-house watched itwith discontented eyes. 

The blue water of the lake, with ceaseless lapping, cast up glintingreflections of the cold sunlight. Down the hillside a stream ran to jointhe lake, and it was on the more sheltered slope by this stream, wheregrey-limbed maple trees grew, that the cabin stood. Above and around, the steeper slopes bore only fir trees, whose cone-shaped or spikyforms, sometimes burnt and charred, sometimes dead and grey, but for themost part green and glossy, from shore and slope and ridge pointedalways to the blue zenith. 

The log-house, with its rougher sheds, was hard by the stream's ravine. About the other sides of it stretched a few acres of tilled land. Roundthis land the maple wood closed, and under its grey trees there was atawny brown carpet of fallen leaves from which the brighter autumncolours had already faded. Up the hillside in the fir wood there weregaps where the trees had been felled for lumber, and about a quarter ofa mile from the house a rudely built lumber slide descended to the lake. 

It was about an hour before sundown when the eagle had risen and fled, and the sunset light found the girl who had watched it still standing inthe same place. All that time a man had been talking to her; but sheherself had not been talking, she had given him little reply. The twowere not close to the house; large, square-built piles of logs, sawnand split for winter fuel, separated them from it. The man leanedagainst the wood now; the girl stood upright, leaning on nothing. 

Her face, which was healthy, was at the same time pale. Her hair wasvery red, and she had much of it. She was a large, strong young woman. She looked larger and stronger than the man with whom she wasconversing. He was a thin, haggard fellow, not at first noticeable inthe landscape, for his clothes and beard were faded and worn intocolours of earth and wood, so that Nature seemed to have dealt with himas she deals with her most defenceless creatures, causing them to growso like their surroundings that even their enemies do not easily observethem. This man, however, was not lacking in a certain wiry physicalstrength, nor in power of thought or of will. And these latter powers, if the girl possessed them, were as yet only latent in her, for she hadthe heavy and undeveloped appearance of backward youth. 

The man was speaking earnestly. At last he said:--

"Come now, Sissy, be a good lassie and say that ye're content to stay. Ye've always been a good lassie and done what I told ye before. "

His accent was Scotch, but not the broad Scotch of an entirelyuneducated man. There was sobriety written in the traits of his face, and more--a certain quality of intellectual virtue of the higher stamp. He was not young, but he was not yet old. 

"I haven't, " said the girl sullenly. 

He sighed at her perverseness. "That's not the way I remember it. I'msure, from the time ye were quite a wee one, ye have always tried toplease me. --We all come short sometimes; the thing is, what we aretrying to do. "

He spoke as if her antagonism to what he had been saying, to what he wasyet saying, had had a painful effect upon him which he was endeavouringto hide. 

The girl looked over his head at the smoke that was proceeding from thelog-house chimney. She saw it curl and wreathe itself against the coldblue east. It was white wood smoke, and as she watched it began to turnyellow in the light from the sunset. She did not turn to see whence theyellow ray came. 

"Now that father's dead, I won't stay here, Mr. Bates. " She said "Iwon't" just as a sullen, naughty girl would speak. "'Twas hateful enoughto stay while he lived, but now you and Miss Bates are nothing to me. "

"Nothing to ye, Sissy?" The words seemed to come out of him in painedsurprise. 

"I know you've brought me up, and taught me, and been far kinder to methan father ever was; but I'm not to stay here all my life because of_that_. "

"Bairn, I have just been telling ye there is nothing else ye can do justnow. I have no ready money. Your father had nothing to leave ye but hisshare of this place; and, so far, we've just got along year by year, andthat's all. I'll work it as well as I can, and, if ye like, ye'rewelcome to live free and lay by your share year by year till ye havesomething to take with ye and are old enough to go away. But if ye gooff now ye'll have to live as a servant, and ye couldn't thole that, andI couldn't for ye. Ye have no one to protect ye now but me. I've nofriends to send ye to. What do ye know of the world? It's unkind--ay, and it's wicked too. "

"How's it so wicked? You're not wicked, nor father, nor me, nor themen--how's people outside so much wickeder?"

Bates's mouth--it was a rather broad, powerful mouth--began to grow hardat her continued contention, perhaps also at the thought of the evils ofwhich he dreamed. "It's a very _evil_ world, " he said, just as he wouldhave said that two and two made four to a child who had dared toquestion that fact. "Ye're too young to understand it now: ye must takemy word for it. "

She made no sort of answer; she gave no sign of yielding; but, becauseshe had made no answer, he, self-willed and opinionated man that he was, felt assured that she had no answer to give, and went on to talk as ifthat one point were settled. 

"Ye can be happy here if ye will only think so. If we seem hard on ye inthe house about the meals and that, I'll try to be better tempered. Yehaven't read all the books we have yet, but I'll get more the firstchance if ye like. Come, Sissy, think how lonesome I'd be without ye!"

He moved his shoulders nervously while he spoke, as if the effort tocoax was a greater strain than the effort to teach or command. Hismanner might have been that of a father who wheedled a child to doright, or a lover who sued on his own behalf; the better love, for thatmatter, is much the same in all relations of life. 

This last plea evidently moved her just a little. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bates, " she said. 

"What are ye sorry for, Sissy?"

"That I'm to leave you. "

"But ye're not going. Can't ye get that out of your head? How will yego?"

"In the boat, when they take father. "

At that the first flash of anger came from him. "Ye won't go, if I haveto hold ye by main force. I can't go to bury your father. I have to stayhere and earn bread and butter for you and me, or we'll come short ofit. If ye think I'm going to let ye go with a man I know little about--"

His voice broke off in indignation, and as for the girl, whether fromsudden anger at being thus spoken to, or from the conviction ofdisappointment which had been slowly forcing itself upon her, she beganto cry. His anger vanished, leaving an evident discomfort behind. Hestood before her with a weary look of effort on his face, as if he werecasting all things in heaven and earth about in his mind to find whichof them would be most likely to afford her comfort, or at least, to putan end to tears which, perhaps for a reason unknown to himself, gavehim excessive annoyance. 

"Come, Sissy"--feebly--"give over. "

But the girl went on crying, not loudly or passionately, but with nosign of discontinuance, as she stood there, large and miserable, beforehim. He settled his shoulders obstinately against the wood pile, thinking to wait till she should speak or make some further sign. Nothing but strength of will kept him in his place, for he would gladlyhave fled from her. He had now less guidance than before to what waspassing in her mind, for her face was more hidden from his sight as thelight of the sinking sun focussed more exclusively in the fields ofwestern sky behind her. 

Then the sun went down behind the rugged hills of the lake's othershore; and, as it sank below their sharp outlines, their sides, whichhad been clear and green, became dim and purple; the blue went out ofthe waters of the lake, they became the hue of steel touched withiridescence of gold; and above the hills, vapour that had before beenalmost invisible in the sky, now hung in upright layers of purple mist, blossoming into primrose yellow on the lower edges. A few moments moreand grey bloom, such as one sees on purple fruit, was on these vasthangings of cloud that grouped themselves more largely, and gold flamesburned on their fringes. Behind them there were great empty reaches oflambent blue, and on the sharp edge of the shadowed hills there was aline of fire. 

It produced in Bates unthinking irritation that Nature should quietly goon outspreading her evening magnificence in face of his discomfort. Inordinal light or darkness one accepts the annoyances of life as comingall in the day's work; but Nature has her sublime moments in which, ifthe sensitive mind may not yield itself to her delight, it is forcedinto extreme antagonism, either to her or to that which withholds fromjoining in her ecstasy. Bates was a man sensitive to many forces, theresponse to which within him was not openly acknowledged to himself. Hewas familiar with the magnificence of sunsets in this region, but hismind was not dulled to the marvel of the coloured glory in which thedaylight so often culminated. 

He looked off at the western sky, at first chiefly conscious of theunhappy girl who stood in front of him and irritated by that interveningshape; but, as his vision wandered along the vast reaches of illimitableclouds and the glorious gulfs of sky, his mind yielded itself the ratherto the beauty and light. More dusky grew the purple of the upper mistswhose upright layers, like league-long wings of softest feather heldedge downward to the earth, ever changed in form without apparentmovement. More sparkling glowed the gold upon their edges. The skybeneath the cloud was now like emerald. The soft darkness of purpleslate was on the hills. The lake took on a darker shade, and daylightbegan to fade from the upper blue. 

It was only perhaps a moment--one of those moments for which time has nomeasurement--that the soul of this man had gone out of him, as it were, into the vastness of the sunset; and when he recalled it his situationtook on for him a somewhat different aspect. He experienced something ofthat temporary relief from personal responsibility that moments ofreligious sentiment often give to minds that are unaccustomed toreligion. He had been free for the time to disport himself in somethinginfinitely larger and wider than his little world, and he took up hisduty at the point at which he had left it with something of this senseof freedom lingering with him. 

He was a good man--that is, a man whose face would have made it clear toany true observer that he habitually did the right in contradistinctionto the wrong. He was, moreover, religious, and would not have beenlikely to fall into any delusion of mere sentiment in the region ofreligious emotion. But that which deludes a man commonly comes through asafe channel. As a matter of fact, the excitement which the delight ofthe eye had produced in him was a perfectly wholesome feeling, but thelargeness of heart it gave him at that moment was unfortunate. 

The girl stood just as before, ungainly and without power of expressionbecause undeveloped, but excitation of thought made what she mightbecome apparent to him in that which she was. He became more generoustowards her, more loving. 

"Don't greet, that's a good lassie, " he said soothingly. "There's truthin what ye have said--that it's dull for ye here because ye have nothingto look ahead to. Well, I'll tell ye what I didn't mean to tell ye whileye are so young--when ye're older, if ye're a good lassie and go onlearning your lessons as ye have been doing, I will ask ye to marry me, and then (we hope of course to get more beforehand wi' money as yearsgo) ye will have more interest and--"

"Marry!" interrupted the girl, not strongly, but speaking in faintwonder, as if echoing a word she did not quite understand. 

"Yes, " he went on with great kindliness, "I talked it over with yourfather before he went, and he was pleased. I told him that, in a year ortwo, if he liked it, I would marry ye--it's only if ye _like_, ofcourse; and ye'd better not think about it now, for ye're too young. "

"Marry me!" This time the exclamation came from her with a force thatwas appalling to him. The coarse handkerchief which she had been holdingto her eyes was withdrawn, and with lips and eyes open she exclaimedagain: "Marry me! _You_!"

It was remarkable how this man, who so far was using, and through longyears had always used, only the tone of mentor, now suddenly began totry to justify himself with almost childlike timidity. 

"Your father and I didn't know of any one else hereabouts that wouldsuit, and of course we knew ye would naturally be disappointed if yedidn't marry. " He went on muttering various things about the convenienceof such an arrangement. 

She listened to nothing more than his first sentence, and began to moveaway from him slowly a few steps backwards; then, perceiving that shehad come to the brink of the level ground, she turned and suddenlystretched out her arm with almost frantic longing toward the cold, greylake and the dark hills behind, where the fires of the west stillstruggled with the encroaching November night. 

As she turned there was light enough for him to see how bright theburning colour of her hair was--bright as the burning copper glow on thelower feathers of those great shadowy wings of cloud--the wings of nightthat were enfolding the dying day. Some idea, gathered indefinitely fromboth the fierceness of her gesture and his transient observation of thecolour of her hair, suggested to him that he had trodden on the sacredground of a passionate heart. 

Poor man! He would have been only too glad just then to have effaced hisfoot-prints if he had had the least idea how to do it. The small shawlshe wore fell from her unnoticed as she went quickly into the house. Hepicked it up, and folded it awkwardly, but with meditative care. It wasa square of orange-coloured merino, such as pedlars who deal with thesquaws always carry, an ordinary thing for a settler's child to possess. As he held it, Bates felt compunction that it was not something finerand to his idea prettier, for he did not like the colour. He decidedthat he would purchase something better for her as soon as possible. Hefollowed her into the house. 

CHAPTER III. 

Night, black and cold, settled over the house that had that day for thefirst time been visited by death. Besides the dead man, there were nowthree people to sleep in it: an old woman, whose failing brain hadlittle of intelligence left, except such as showed itself in theeveryday habits of a long and orderly life; the young girl, whose mindslow by nature in reaching maturity and retarded by the monotony of herlife, had not yet gained the power of realising its own deeperthoughts, still less of explaining them to another; and this man, Bates, who, being by natural constitution peculiarly susceptible to the strainof the sight of illness and death which he had just undergone, was notin the best condition to resist the morbid influences of unhappycompanionship. 

The girl shed tears as she moved about sullenly. She would not speak toBates, and he did not in the least understand that, sullen as she was, her speechlessness did not result from that, but from inability toreduce to any form the chaotic emotions within her, or to find anyexpression which might represent her distress. He could not realise thatthe childish mind that had power to converse for trivial things had, asyet, no word for the not-trivial; that the blind womanly emotion onwhich he had trodden had as yet no counterpart in womanly thought, whichmight have formed excuses for his conduct, or at least have comprehendedits simplicity. He only felt uneasily that her former cause ofcontention with him, her determination, sudden as her father's death, toleave the only home she possessed, was now enforced by her antagonism tothe suggestion he had made of a future marriage, and he felt increasingannoyance that it should be so. Naturally enough, a deep undercurrent ofvexation was settling in his mind towards her for feeling thatantagonism, but he was vexed also with himself for having suggested thefresh source of contest just now to complicate the issue between them asto whether she should remain where she was, at any rate for the present. Remain she must; he was clear upon that point. The form of his religioustheories, long held in comparative isolation from mankind, convincedhim, whether truly or not, that humanity was a very bad thing; sheshould not leave his protection, and he was considerate enough to desirethat, when the time came for launching the boat which was to take herfather's body to burial, he should not need to detain her by force. 

The girl set an ill-cooked supper before Bates and the hired man, andwould not herself eat. As Bates sat at his supper he felt drearily thathis position was hard; and, being a man whose training disposed him tovaguely look for the cause of trial in sin, wondered what he had donethat it had thus befallen him. His memory reverted to the time when, onan emigrant ship, he had made friends with the man Cameron who that dayhad died, and they had agreed to choose their place and cast in theirlot together. It had been part of the agreement that the aunt whoaccompanied Bates should do the woman's work of the new home until shewas too old, and that Cameron's child should do it when she was oldenough. 

The girl was a little fat thing then, wearing a red hood. Bates, uneasyin his mind both as to his offer of marriage and her resentment, askedhimself if he was to blame that he had begun by being kind to her then, that he had played with her upon the ship's deck, that on their landjourney he had often carried her in his arms, or that, in the years ofthe hard isolated life which since then they had all lived, he hadtaught and trained the girl with far more care than her father hadbestowed on her. Or was he to blame that he had so often been strict andsevere with her? Or was he unjust in feeling now that he had a righteousclaim to respect and consideration from her to an almost greater extentthan the dead father whose hard, silent life had showed forth little ofthe proper attributes of fatherhood? Or did the sin for which he was nowbeing punished lie in the fact that, in spite of her constant wilfulnessand frequent stupidity, he still felt such affection for his pupil asmade him unwilling, as he phrased it, to seek a wife elsewhere and thusthrust her from her place in the household. Bates had a certain latentcontempt for women; wives he thought were easily found and notaltogether desirable; and with that inconsistency common to men, helooked upon his proposal to the girl now as the result of a much moreunselfish impulse than he had done an hour ago, before she exclaimed atit so scornfully. He did not know how to answer himself. In all honestyhe could not accuse himself of not having done his duty by the girl orof any desire to shirk it in the future; and that being the case, hegrew every minute more inclined to believe that the fact that his dutywas now being made so disagreeable to him was owing, not to any fault ofhis, but to the naughtiness of her disposition. 

The hired man slept in an outer shed. When he had gone, and Bates wentup to his own bed in the loft of the log-house, the last sound that heheard was the girl sobbing where she lay beside the old woman in theroom below. The sound was not cheering. 

The next day was sunless and colder. Twice that morning Sissy Cameronstopped Bates at his work to urge her determination to leave the place, and twice he again set his reasons for refusal before her with whatpatience he could command. He told her, what she knew without telling, that the winter was close upon them, that the winter's work at thelumber was necessary for their livelihood, that it was not in his powerto find her an escort for a journey at this season or to seek anotherhome for her. Then, when she came to him again a third time, his angerbroke out, and he treated her with neither patience nor good sense. 

It was in the afternoon, and a chill north breeze ruffled the leadensurface of the lake and seemed to curdle the water with its breath;patches of soft ice already mottled it. The sky was white, and leaflessmaple and evergreen seemed almost alike colourless in the dull, coldair. Bates had turned from his work to stand for a few moments on thehard trodden level in front of the house and survey the weather. He hadreason to survey it with anxiety. He was anxious to send the dead man'sbody to the nearest graveyard for decent burial, and the messenger andcart sent on this errand were to bring back another man to work with himat felling the timber that was to be sold next spring. The only waybetween his house and other houses lay across the lake and through a gapin the hills, a way that was passable now, and passable in calm dayswhen winter had fully come, but impassable at the time of forming iceand of falling and drifting snow. He hoped that the snow and ice wouldhold off until his plan could be carried out, but he held his face tothe keen cold breeze and looked at the mottled surface of the lake withirritable anxiety. It was not his way to confide his anxiety to any one;he was bearing it alone when the girl, who had been sauntering aimlesslyabout, came to him. 

"If I don't go with the boat to-morrow, " she said, "I'll walk across assoon as the ice'll bear. "

With that he turned upon her. "And if I was a worse man than I am I'dlet ye. It would be a comfort to me to be rid of ye. Where would ye go, or what would ye do? Ye ought to be only too thankful to have acomfortable home where ye're kept from harm. It's a cruel and bad world, I tell ye; it's going to destruction as fast as it can, and ye'd gowith it. "

The girl shook with passion. "I'd do nothing of the sort, " she choked. 

All the anger and dignity of her being were aroused, but it did notfollow that she had any power to give them adequate utterance. Sheturned from him, and, as she stood, the attitude of her whole figurespoke such incredulity, scorn, and anger, that the flow of hot-temperedarguments with which he was still ready to seek to persuade her reason, died on his lips. He lost all self-control in increasing ill-temper. 

"Ye may prance and ye may dance"--he jerked the phrase between histeeth, using words wholly inapplicable to her attitude because he couldnot analyse its offensiveness sufficiently to find words that applied toit. "Yes, prance and dance as much as ye like, but ye'll not go in theboat to-morrow if ye'd six fathers to bury instead of one, and ye'll notset foot out of this clearing, where I can look after ye. I said to thedead I'd take care of ye, and I'll do it--ungrateful lass though yeare. "

He hurled the last words at her as he turned and went into a shed atthe side of the house in which he had before been working. 

The girl stood quite still as long as he was within sight. She seemedconscious of his presence though she was not looking towards him, for assoon as he had stepped within the low opening of the shed, she movedaway, walking in a wavering track across the tilled land, walking as ifmovement was the end of her purpose, not as if she had destination. 

The frozen furrows of the ploughed land crumbled beneath her heavytread. The north wind grew stronger. When she reached the edge of themaple wood and looked up with swollen, tear-blurred eyes, she saw thegrey branches moved by the wind, and the red squirrels leaped frombranch to branch and tree to tree as if blown by the same air. Shewandered up one side of the clearing and down the other, sometimeswading knee-deep in loud rustling maple leaves gathered in dry hollowswithin the wood, sometimes stumbling over frozen furrows as she crossedcorners of the ploughed land, walking all the time in helpless, hopelessanger. 

When, however, she came back behind the house to that part of theclearing bounded by the narrow and not very deep ravine which runningwater had cut into the side of the hill, she seemed to gather somereviving sensations from the variety which the bed of the brookpresented to her view. Here, on some dozen feet of steeply sloping rockand earth, which on either side formed the trough of the brook, vegetable life was evidently more delicate and luxuriant than elsewhere, in the season when it had sway. Even now, when the reign of the frostheld all such life in abeyance, this grave of the dead summer lackedneither fretted tomb nor wreathing garland; for above, the bittersweethung out heavy festoons of coral berries over the pall of its fadedleaves, and beneath, on frond of fern and stalk of aster, and on roughsurface of lichen-covered rock, the frost had turned the spray of waterto white crystals, and the stream, with imprisoned far-off murmur, madeits little leaps within fairy palaces of icicles, and spread itself inpools whose leafy contents gave colours of mottled marble to the icethat had grown upon them. It was on the nearer bank of this stream, where, a little below, it curved closer to the house, that her father, falling with a frost-loosened rock, had received his fatal injury. Outof the pure idleness of despondency it occurred to the girl that, fromthe point at which she had now arrived, she might obtain a new view ofthe small landslip which had caused the calamity. 

She cast her arms round a lithe young birch whose silver trunk bent fromthe top of the bank, and thus bridging the tangle of shrub and vine shehung over the short precipice to examine the spot with sad curiosity. 

She herself could hardly have told what thoughts passed through her mindas, childlike, she thus lapsed from hard anger into temporary amusement. But greater activity of mind did come with the cessation of movement andthe examination of objects which stimulated such fancy as she possessed. She looked at the beauty in the ravine beneath her, and at the rudedestruction that falling earth and rock had wrought in it a few yardsfurther down. She began to wonder whether, if the roots of the tree onwhich she was at full length stretched should give way in the samemanner, and such a fall prove fatal to her also, Mr. Bates would besorry. It gave her a sensation of pleasure to know that such a mishapwould annoy and distress him very much; and, at the very moment of thissensation, she drew back and tested the firmness of the ground about itsroots before resigning herself unreservedly to the tree again. When shehad resumed her former position with a feeling of perfect safety, shecontinued for a few minutes to dilate in fancy upon the suffering thatwould be caused by the death her whim had suggested. She was not a cruelgirl, not on the whole ill-natured, yet such is human nature that thisidea was actually the first that had given her satisfaction for manyhours. How sorry Mr. Bates would be, when he found her dead, that he haddared to speak so angrily to her! It was, in a way, luxurious tocontemplate the pathos of such an artistic death for herself, and itsfine effect, by way of revenge, upon the guardian who had made himselfintolerable to her. 

From her post of observation she now saw, what had not before beenobserved by any one, that where rock and earth had fallen treacherouslyunder her father's tread, another portion of the bank was loosened readyto fall. Where this loosening--the work no doubt of the frost--had takenplace, there was but a narrow passage between the ravine and the house, and she was startled to be the first to discover what was so essentialfor all in the house to know. For many days the myriad leaves of theforest had lain everywhere in the dry atmosphere peculiar to a Canadianautumn, till it seemed now that all weight and moisture had left them. They were curled and puckered into half balloons, ready for the wind totoss and drift into every available gap. So strewn was this passage withsuch dry leaves, which even now the wind was drifting upon it morethickly, that the danger might easily have remained unseen. Then, asfancy is fickle, her mind darted from the pleasurable idea of her owndeath to consider how it would be if she did not make known herdiscovery and allowed her enemy to walk into the snare. This idea wasnot quite as attractive as the former, for it is sweeter to think ofoneself as innocently dead and mourned, than as guilty and performingthe office of mourner for another; and it was of herself only, whetheras pictured in Bates's sufferings or as left liberated by his death, that the girl was thinking. Still it afforded relaxation to imagine whatshe might do if she were thus left mistress of the situation; and shedevised a scheme of action for these circumstances that, in its cleveradaptation to what would be required, would have greatly amazed the manwho looked upon her as an unthinking child. 

The difference between a strong and a weak mind is not that the strongmind does not indulge itself in wild fancies, but that it never gives tosuch fancy the power of capricious sway over the centres of purpose. This young woman was strong in mind as in body. No flickering intentionof actually performing that which she had imagined had place within her. She played with the idea of death as she might have played with a toy, while resting herself from the angry question into which her whole beinghad for two days concentrated itself, as to how she could thwart thewill of the man who had assumed authority over her, and gain the freedomthat she felt was necessary to life itself. 

She had not lain many minutes upon the out-growing birch before she hadagain forgotten her gust of revengeful fancy, and yielded herself to herformer serious mood with a reaction of greater earnestness. The winterbeauty of the brook, the grey, silent trees above, and the waste of drycurled leaves all round--these faded from her observation because theeye of her mind was again turned inwards to confront the circumstancesof her difficulty. 

As she leaned thus in childlike attitude and womanly size, her armstwined round the tree and her cheek resting on its smooth surface, thatclumsiness which in all young animals seems inseparable from the periodwhen recent physical growth is not yet entirely permeated by thecharacter-life which gives it individual expression, was not apparentand any intelligent eye seeing her would have seen large beauty in herfigure, which, like a Venus in the years when art was young, had nocramped proportions. Her rough, grey dress hung heavily about her; themoccasins that encased her feet were half hidden in the loose pile ofdry leaves which had drifted high against the root of the tree. Therewas, however, no visible eye there to observe her youthful comeliness orher youthful distress. If some angel was near, regarding her, she didnot know it, and if she had, she would not have been much interested;there was nothing in her mood to respond to angelic pity orappreciation. As it was, the strong tree was impotent to return herembrace; its cold bark had no response for the caress of her cheek; thenorth wind that howled, the trees that swayed, the dead leaves thatrustling fled, and the stream that murmured under its ice, gave butdrear companionship. Had she yielded her mind to their influence, thedesires of her heart might have been numbed to a transient despair morenearly akin to a virtuous resignation to circumstance than the revoltthat was now rampant within her. She did not yield; she was not nowobserving them; they only effected upon her inattentive senses animpression of misery which fed the strength of revolt. 

A minute or two more and the recumbent position had become unendurableas too passive to correspond with the inward energy. She clambered back, and, standing upon level ground, turned, facing the width of the bareclearing and the rough buildings on it, and looked toward the downwardslope and the wild lake, whose cold breath of water was agitated by thewind. The sky was full of cloud. 

She stood up with folded arms, strength and energy in the stillness ofher attitude. She heard the sound of carpenter's tools coming from theshed into which Bates had retired. No other hint of humanity was in theworld to which she listened, which she surveyed. As she folded her armsshe folded her bright coloured old shawl about her, and seemed to gatherwithin its folds all warmth of colour, all warmth of feeling, that wasin that wild, desolate place. 

A flake of snow fell on the shawl; she did not notice it. Another restedupon her cheek; then she started. She did not move much, but her facelifted itself slightly; her tear-swollen eyes were wide open; her lipswere parted, as if her breath could hardly pass to and fro quicklyenough to keep pace with agitated thought. The snow had begun to come. She knew well that it would go on falling, not to-day perhaps, norto-morrow, but as certainly as time would bring the following days, socertainly the snow would fall, covering the frozen surface of the earthand water with foot above foot of powdery whiteness. Far as she now wasfrom the gay, active throng of fellow-creatures which she conceived asexisting in the outer world, and with whom she longed to be, the snowwould make that distance not only great, but impassable to her, unaided. 

It was true that she had threatened Bates with flight by foot across thefrozen lake; but she knew in truth that such departure was as dependenton the submission of his will to hers as was her going in the morenatural way by boat the next day, for the track of her snow-shoes andthe slowness of her journey upon them would always keep her within hispower. 

The girl contemplated the falling flakes and her own immediate future atthe same moment. The one notion clear to her mind was, that she must getaway from that place before the cold had time to enchain the lake, orthese flakes to turn the earth into a frozen sea. Her one hope was inthe boat that would be launched to carry her dead father. She must go. _She must go!_

Youth would not be strong if it did not seek for happiness with all itsstrength, if it did not spurn pain with violence. All the notions thatwent to make up this girl's idea of pain were gathered from her presentlife of monotony and loneliness. All the notions that went to make upher idea of happiness were culled from what she had heard and dreamed oflife beyond her wilderness. Added to this there was the fact that theman who had presumed to stand between her and the accomplishment of thefirst strong volition of her life had become intolerable to her--whethermore by his severity or by his kindliness she could not tell. She foldedher shawl-draped arms more strongly across her breast, and hugged toherself all the dreams and desires, hopes and dislikes, that had grownwithin her as she had grown in mind and stature in that isolated place. 

How could she accomplish her will?

The flakes fell upon the copper gloss of her uncombed hair, on face andhands that reddened to the cold, and gathered in the folds of the shawl. She stood as still as a waxen figure, if waxen figure could ever be trueto the power of will which her pose betrayed. When the ground was whitewith small dry flakes she moved again. Her reverie, for lack ofmaterial, seemed to have come to nothing fresh. She determined to preferher request again to Bates. 

She walked round the house and came to the shed door. In this shed largekettles and other vessels for potash-making were set up, but in front ofthese Bates and his man were at work making a rude pinewood coffin. Theservant was the elder of the two. He had a giant-like, sinewy frame anda grotesquely small head; his cheeks were round and red like apples, andhis long whiskers evidently received some attention from his vanity; itseemed an odd freak for vanity to take, for all the rest of him wasrough and dirty. He wriggled when the girl darkened the doorway, but didnot look straight at her. 

"There's more of the bank going to slip where father fell--it's loose, "she said. 

They both heard. The servant answered her, commenting on theinformation. These were the only words that were said for some time. Thegirl stood and pressed herself against the side of the door. Bates didnot look at her. At last she addressed him again. Her voice was low andgentle, perhaps from fear, perhaps from desire to persuade, perhapsmerely from repression of feeling. 

"Mr. Bates, " she said, "you'll let me go in the boat with that?"--shemade a gesture toward the unfinished coffin. 

His anger had cooled since he had last seen her, not lessening buthardening, as molten metal loses malleability as it cools. Much had beenneeded to fan his rage to flame, but now the will fused by it had takenthe mould of a hard decision that nothing but the blowing of anotherfire would melt. 

"Ye'll not go unless you go _in_ a coffin instead of along-side of it. "

The coarse humour of his refusal was analogous to the laugh of a chiddenchild; it expressed not amusement, but an attempt to conceal nervousdiscomposure. The other man laughed; his mind was low enough to beamused. 

"It's no place for me here, " she urged, "and I ought by rights to go tothe burying of my father. "

"There's no place for ye neither where he'll be buried; and as to yebeing at the funeral, it's only because I'm a long sight better thanother men about the country that I don't shovel him in where he fell. I'm getting out the boat, and sending Saul here and the ox-cart twodays' journey, to have him put decently in a churchyard. I don'tb'lieve, if I'd died, you and your father would have done as much byme. "

As he lauded his own righteousness his voice was less hard for themoment, and, like a child, she caught some hope. 

"Yes, it's good of you, and in the end you'll be good and let me go too, Mr. Bates. "

"Oh yes. " There was no assent in his voice. "And I'll go too, to seethat ye're not murdered when Saul gets drunk at the first house; andwe'll take my aunt too, as we can't leave her behind; and we'll take thecow that has to be milked, and the pigs and hens that have to be fed;and when we get there, we'll settle down without any house to live in, and feed on air. "

His sarcasm came from him like the sweat of anger; he did not seem totake any voluntary interest in the play of his words. His manner wascool, but it was noticeable that he had stopped his work and was merelycutting a piece of wood with his jack-knife. As she looked at himsteadily he whittled the more savagely. 

The other man laughed again, and wriggled as he laughed. 

"No, " she replied, "you can't come, I know; but I can take care ofmyself. "

"It's a thieving, drunken lot of fellows Saul will fall in with. Ye mayprefer their society to mine, but I'll not risk it. "

"I can go to the minister. "

"And his wife would make a kitchen-girl of ye, and ye'd run off from herin a week. If ye'd not stay here, where ye have it all your own way, it's not long that ye'd put up wi' my lady's fault-finding; andministers and their wives isn't much better than other folks--I've toldye before what I think of that sort of truck. "

There was a glitter in her eyes that would have startled him, but he didnot see it. He was looking only at the wood he was cutting, but he neverobserved that he was cutting it. After a minute he uttered hisconclusion. 

"Ye'll stay wi' me. "

"_Stay_ with you, " she cried, her breath catching at her words--"for howlong?"

"I don't know. " Complete indifference was in his tone. "Till ye're old, I suppose; for I'm not likely to find a better place for ye. "

All the force of her nature was in the words she cast at him. 

"_I'll not stay_. "

"No?" he sneered in heavy, even irony. "Will ye cry on the neighbours tofetch ye away?"

She did not need to turn her head to see the wild loneliness of hill andlake. It was present to her mind as she leaned on the rough woodenlintel, looking into the shed. 

"Or, " continued he, "will ye go a-visiting. There's the Indians campingother side o' the mountain here "--he jerked his head backward to denotethe direction--"and one that came down to the tree-cutting two weeks agosaid there were a couple of wolves on the other hill. I dare say eitherIndians or wolves would be quite glad of the _pleasure_ o' yourcompany. "

She raised herself up and seemed suddenly to fill the doorway, so thatboth men looked up because much of their light was withdrawn. 

"You'd not have dared to speak to me like this while father was alive. "

As a matter of fact the accusation was not true. The father's presenceor absence would have made no difference to Bates had he been wrought upto the same pitch of anger; but neither he nor the girl was in acondition to know this. He only replied:

"That's the reason I waited till he was dead. "

"If he hadn't been hurt so sudden he wouldn't have left me _here. "_

"But he _was_ hurt sudden, and he _did_ leave ye here. "

She made as if to answer, but did not. Both men were looking at her now. The snow was white on her hair. Her tears had so long been dry that theswollen look was passing from her face. It had been until now at best aheavy face, but feeling that is strong enough works like a master'sswift chisel to make the features the vehicle of the soul. Both men wererelieved when she suddenly took her eyes from them and her shadow fromtheir work and went away. 

Saul stretched his head and looked after her. There was no pity in hislittle apple face and beady eyes, only a sort of cunning curiosity, andthe rest was dulness and weakness. 

Bates did not look after her. He shut his knife and fell to joining thecoffin. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The girl lifted the latch of the house-door, and went in. She was in theliving-room. The old woman sat in a chair that was built of wood againstthe log wall. She was looking discontentedly before her at an ironstove, which had grown nearly cold for lack of attention. Some chairs, atable, a bed, and a ladder which led to the room above, made the chiefpart of the furniture. A large mongrel dog, which looked as if he hadsome blood of the grey southern sheep dog in him rose from before thestove and greeted the in-comer silently. 

The dog had blue eyes, and he held up his face wistfully, as if he knewsomething was the matter. The old woman complained of cold. It was plainthat she did not remember anything concerning death or tears. 

There was one other door in the side of the room which led to the onlyinner chamber. The girl went into this chamber, and the heed she gave tothe dog's sympathy was to hold the door and let him follow her. Then shebolted it. There were two narrow beds built against the wall; in one ofthese the corpse of a grey-haired man was lying. The dog had seen deathbefore, and he evidently understood what it was. He did not move quicklyor sniff about; he laid his head on the edge of the winding-sheet andmoaned a little. 

The girl did not moan. She knelt down some way from the bed, with adesire to pray. She did not pray; she whispered her anger, herunhappiness, her desires, to the air of the cold, still room, repeatingthe same phrases again and again with clenched hands and the convulsivegestures of half-controlled passion. 

The reason she did not pray was that she believed that she could onlypray when she was "good, " and after falling on her knees she becameaware that goodness, as she understood it, was not in her just then, nordid she even desire it. The giving vent to her misery in half-audiblewhispers followed involuntarily on her intention to pray. She knew notwhy she thus poured out her heart; she hardly realised what she said orwished to say; yet, because some expression of her helpless need wasnecessary, and because, through fear and a rugged sense of her own evil, she sedulously averted her mind from the thought of God, her action had, more than anything else, the semblance of an invocation to the dead manto arise and save her, and take vengeance on her enemy. 

Daylight was in the room. The girl had knelt at first upright; then, asher passion seemed to avail nothing, but only to weary her, she sankback, sitting on her feet, buried her locked hands deeply in her lap, and with head bowed over them, continued to stab the air with short, almost inaudible, complaints. The dead man lay still. The dog, afterstanding long in subdued silence, came and with his tongue softly lappedsome of the snow-water from her hair. 

After that, she got up and went with him back into the kitchen, and litthe fire, and cooked food, and the day waned. 

There is never in Nature that purpose to thwart which man in hispeevishness is apt to attribute to her. Just because he desired so muchthat the winter should hold off a few days longer, Bates, on seeing thesnow falling from the white opaque sky, took for granted that thedownfall would continue and the ice upon the lake increase. Instead ofthat, the snow stopped falling at twilight without apparent cause, andnight set in more mildly. 

Darkness fell upon the place, as darkness can only fall upon solitudes, with a lonesome dreariness that seemed to touch and press. Night is notalways dark, but with this night came darkness. There was no star norglimmer of light; the pine-clad hills ceased to have form; the water inthe lake was lost to all sense but that of hearing; and upon nearerobjects the thinly sprinkled snow bestowed no distinctness of outline, but only a weird show of whitish shapes. The water gave forth fitfulsobs. At intervals there were sounds round the house, as of stealthyfeet, or of quick pattering feet, or of trailing garments--this was thewind busy among the drifting leaves. 

The two men, who had finished the coffin by the light of a lantern, carried it into the house and set it up against the wall while they atetheir evening meal. Then they took it to a table in the next room to putthe dead man in it. The girl and the dog went with them. They hadcushioned the box with coarse sacking filled with fragrant pinetassels, but the girl took a thickly quilted cloth from her own bed andlined it more carefully. They did not hinder her. 

"We've made it a bit too big, " said Saul; "that'll stop the shaking. "

The corpse, according to American custom, was dressed in its clothes--asuit of light grey homespun, such as is to be bought everywhere fromFrench-Canadian weavers. When they had lifted the body and put it in thebox, they stopped involuntarily to look, before the girl laid ahandkerchief upon the face. There lay a stalwart, grey-haired man--dead. Perhaps he had sinned deeply in his life; perhaps he had lived as noblyas his place and knowledge would permit--they could not tell. Probablythey each estimated what they knew of his life from a differentstandpoint. The face was as ashen as the grey hair about it, as the greyclothes the body wore. They stood and looked at it--those three, whowere bound to each other by no tie except such as the accident of timeand place had wrought. The dog, who understood what death was, exhibitedno excitement, no curiosity; his tail drooped; he moaned quietly againstthe coffin. 

Bates made an impatient exclamation and kicked him. The kick was asubdued one. The wind-swept solitude without and the insistent presenceof death within had its effect upon them all. Saul looked uneasily overhis shoulder at the shadows which the guttering candle cast on the wall. Bates handled the coffin-lid with that shrinking from noise which ispeculiar to such occasions. 

"Ye'd better go in the other room, " said he to Sissy. "It's unfortunatewe haven't a screw left--we'll have to nail it. "

Sissy did not go. They had made holes in the wood for the nails as wellas they could, but they had to be hammered in. It was verydisagreeable--the sound and the jar. With each stroke of Saul's hammerit seemed to the two workmen that the dead man jumped. 

"There, man, " cried Bates angrily; "that'll do. "

Only four nails had been put in their places--one in each side. Withirritation that amounted to anger against Saul, Bates took the hammerfrom him and shoved it on to a high shelf. 

"Ye can get screws at the village, ye know, " he said, still indignantly, as if some fault had appertained to Saul. 

Then, endeavouring to calm an ill-temper which he felt to be whollyunreasonable, he crossed his arms and sat down on a chair by the wall. His sitting in that room at all perhaps betokened something of the samesensation which in Saul produced those glances before and behind, indicating that he did not like to turn his back upon any object of awe. In Bates this motive, if it existed, was probably unconscious orshort-lived; but while he still sat there Saul spoke, with a short, silly laugh which was by way of preface. 

"Don't you think, now, Mr. Bates, it 'ud be better to have a prayer, ora hymn, or something of that sort? We'd go to bed easier. "

To look at the man it would not have been easy to attribute any justnotion of the claims of religion to him. He looked as if all hismotions, except those of physical strength, were vapid and paltry. Still, this was what he said, and Bates replied stiffly:

"I've no objections. "

Then, as if assuming proper position for the ceremony that was to easehis mind, the big lumberman sat down. The girl also sat down. 

Bates, wiry, intelligent Scot that he was, sat, his arms crossed and hisbroad jaw firmly set, regarding them both with contempt in his mind. What did they either of them know about the religion they seemed at thisjuncture to feel after as vaguely as animals feel after something theywant and have not? But as for him, he understood religion; he was quitecapable of being priest of his household, and he felt that its weakdemand for a form of worship at this time was legitimate. In a minute, therefore, he got up, and fetching a large Bible from the living-room hesat down again and turned over its leaves with great precision andreverence. 

He read one of the more trenchant of the Psalms, a long psalm that hadmuch in it about enemies and slaughter. It had a very strong meaning forhim, for he put himself in the place of the writer. The enemiesmentioned were, in the first place, sins--by which he denoted the moreopen forms of evil; and, in the second place, wicked men who mightinterfere with him; and under the head of wicked men he classed all whomhe knew to be wicked, and most other men, whom he supposed to be so. Hewas not a self-righteous man--at least, not more self-righteous thanmost men, for he read with as great fervour the adjurations against sinsinto which he might fall as against those which seemed to him pointedmore especially at other sinners who might persecute him for hisinnocence. He was only a suspicious man made narrower by isolation, andthe highest idea he had of what God required of him was a life ofinnocence. There was better in him than this--much of impulse and actionthat was positively good; but he did not conceive that it was of theworkings of good that seemed so natural that God took account. 

Upon Saul also the psalm had adequate effect, for it sounded to himpious, and that was all he desired. 

The girl, however, could not listen to a word of it. She fidgeted, notwith movement of hands or feet, but with the restlessness of mind andeyes. She gazed at the boards of the ceiling, at the boards of thefloor, at the log walls on which each shadow had a scalloped edgebecause of the form of tree-trunks laid one above another. At length hereyes rested on the lid of the coffin, and, with nervous strain, she madethem follow the grain of the wood up and down, up and down. There was anirregular knothole in the lid, and on this her eyes fixed themselves, and the focus of her sight seemed to eddy round and round its darkenededge till, with an effort, she turned from it. 

The boards used for making the coffin had been by no means perfect. They were merely the best that could be chosen from among the bits ofsawn lumber at hand. There was a tiny hole in one side, at the foot, andthis larger one in the lid above the dead man's breast, where knots hadfallen out with rough handling, leaving oval apertures. The temptationSissy felt to let her eyes labour painfully over every marking in thewood and round these two holes--playing a sort of sad mechanical gametherewith--and her efforts to resist the impulse, made up the onlymemory she had of the time the reading occupied. 

There was a printed prayer upon a piece of paper kept inside the lid ofthe Bible, and when Bates had read the psalm, he read this also. Heknelt while he did so, and the others did the same. Then that wasfinished. 

"I'll move your bed into the kitchen, Sissy, " said Bates. 

He had made the same offer the night before, and she had accepted itthen, but now she replied that she would sooner sleep in that room thannear the stove. He was in no mood to contest such a point with her. Saulwent out to his shed. Bates shut the house door, and went up the ladderto his loft. Both were soon in the sound slumber that is the lot of menwho do much outdoor labour. 

The girl helped the old woman to bed in the kitchen. Then she went backand sat in the chamber of death. 

Outside, the wind hustled the fallen leaves. 

CHAPTER V. 

At dawn Bates came down the ladder again, and went out quietly. The newday was fair, and calm; none of his fears were fulfilled. The dead manmight start upon his journey, and Bates knew that the start must be anearly one. 

He and Saul, taking long-handled oars and poles, went down to thewater's edge, where a big, flat-bottomed boat was lying drawn up on theshore to avoid the autumn storms. The stones of the beach looked black:here and there were bits of bright green moss upon them: both stones andmoss had a coating of thin ice that glistened in the morning light. 

It was by dint of great exertion that they got the clumsy vessel intothe water and fastened her to a small wooden landing. They used morestrength than time in their work. There was none of that care and skillrequired in the handling of the scow that a well-built craft would haveneeded. When she was afloat and tied, they went up the hill again, andharnessed a yoke of oxen to a rough wooden cart. Neither did this takethem long. Bates worked with a nervousness that almost amounted totrembling. He had in his mind the dispute with the girl which he feltsure awaited him. 

In this fear also he was destined to be disappointed. When he went tothe inner room the coffin lay as he had left it, ready for its journey, and on the girl's bed in the corner the thick quilts were heaped asthough the sleeper, had tossed restlessly. But now there was norestlessness; he only saw her night-cap beyond the quills; it seemedthat, having perhaps turned her face to the wall to weep, she had atlast fallen into exhausted and dreamless slumber. 

Bates and Saul carried out the coffin eagerly, quietly. Even to thecallous and shallow mind of Saul it was a relief to escape a contestwith an angry woman. They set the coffin on the cart, and steadied itwith a barrel of potash and sacks of buckwheat, which went to make upthe load. By a winding way, where the slope was easiest, they drove theoxen between the trees, using the goad more and their voices as littleas might be, till they were a distance from the house. Some trees hadbeen felled, and cut off close to the ground, so that a cart might passthrough the wood; this was the only sign of an artificial road. The finepowdered snow of the night before had blown away. 

When they reached the beach again, the eastern sky, which had beengrey, was all dappled with cold pink, and the grey water reflected itsomewhat. There was clearer light on the dark green of the pine-coveredhills, and the fine ice coating on stone and weed at the waterside hadsharper glints of brilliancy. 

Bates observed the change in light and colour; Saul did not; neither wasdisposed to dally for a moment. They were obliged to give forth theirvoices now in hoarse ejaculations, to make the patient beasts understandthat they were to step off the rough log landing-place into the boat. The boat was almost rectangular in shape, but slightly narrower at theends than in the middle, and deeper in the middle than at the ends; itwas of rough wood, unpainted. The men disposed the oxen in the middle ofthe boat; the cart they unloaded, and distributed its contents as theybest might. With long stout poles they then pushed off from the shore. Men and oxen were reflected in the quiet water. 

They were not bound on a long or perilous voyage. The boat was merely toact as a ferry round a precipitous cliff where the shore was impassable, and across the head of the gushing river that formed the lake's outlet, for the only road through the hills lay along the further shore of thisstream. 

The men kept the boat in shallow water, poling and rowing by turns. There was a thin coating of ice, like white silk, forming on the water. As they went, Bates often looked anxiously where the log house stood onthe slope above him, fearing to see the girl come running frantic to thewater's edge, but he did not see her. The door of the house remainedshut, and no smoke rose from its chimney. They had left the childish oldwoman sitting on the edge of her bed; Bates knew that she would be inneed of fire and food, yet he could not wish that the girl should wakeyet. "Let her sleep, " he muttered to himself. "It will do her good. "Yet it was not for her good he wished her to sleep, but for his ownpeace. 

The pink faded from the sky, but the sun did not shine forth brightly. It remained wan and cold, like a moon behind grey vapours. 

"I'll not get back in a week, or on wheels, " said Saul. He spoke morecheerfully than was pleasing to his employer. 

"If it snows ye'll have to hire a sleigh and get back the first minuteyou can. " The reply was stern. 

The elder and bigger man made no further comment. However much he mightdesire to be kept in the gay world by the weather, the stronger will andintellect, for the hour at least, dominated his intention. 

They rowed their boat past the head of the river. In an hour they hadreached that part of the shore from which the inland road might begained. They again loaded the cart. It, like the boat, was of theroughest description; its two wheels were broad and heavy; a long polewas mortised into their axle. The coffin and the potash barrel filledthe cart's breadth; the sacks of buckwheat steadied the barrel beforeand behind. The meek red oxen were once more fastened to it on eitherside of the long pole. The men parted without farewells. 

Saul turned his back on the water. The large, cold morning rang to hisvoice--"Gee. Yo-hoi-ist. Yo-hoi-eest. Gee. " The oxen, answering to hisvoice and his goad, laboured onward over the sandy strip that bound thebeach, up the hill among the maple trees that grew thickly in the valeof the small river. Bates watched till he saw the cattle, the cart, andSaul's stalwart form only indistinctly through the numerous greytree-stems that broke the view in something the way that ripples inwater break a reflection. When the monotonous shouting of Saul'svoice--"Gee, gee, there. Haw, wo, haw. Yo-hoi-eest, " was somewhatmellowed by the widening space, Bates stepped into the boat, and, pushing off, laboured alone to propel her back across the lake. 

It took him longer to get back now that he was single-handed. Thecurrent of the lake towards its outlet tended to push the great clumsyscow against the shore. He worked his craft with one oar near the stern, but very often he was obliged to drop it and push out from shore withhis pole. It was arduous, but all sense of the cold, bleak weather waslost, and the interest and excitement of the task were refreshing. Tomany men, as to many dogs, there is an inexplicable and unreasoningpleasure in dealing with water that no operation upon land can yield. Bates was one of these; he would hardly have chosen his present lot ifit had not been so; but, like many a dry character of his stamp, he didnot give his more agreeable sensations the name of pleasure, andtherefore could afford to look upon pleasure as an element unnecessaryto a sober life. Mid pushings and splashings, from the management of hisscow, from air and sky, hill and water, he was in reality, deriving asgreat pleasure as any millionaire might from the sailing of a choiceyacht; but he was aware only that, as he neared the end of his doublejourney, he felt in better trim in mind and body to face his lugubriousand rebellious ward. 

When, however, he had toiled round the black rock cliff which hid theclearing from the river's head, and was again in full sight of his ownhouse, all remembrance of the girl and his dread of meeting her passedfrom him in his excessive surprise at seeing several men near hisdwelling. His dog was barking and leaping in great excitement. He heardthe voices of other dogs. It took but the first glance to show him thatthe men were not Indians. Full of excited astonishment he pushed hisboat to the shore. 

His dog, having darted with noisy scatter of dry leaves down the hill tomeet him, stood on the shore expectant with mouth open, excitement inhis eyes and tail, saying as clearly as aught can be said withoutwords--"This is a very agreeable event in our lives. Visitors havecome. " The moment Bates put his foot on land the dog bounded barking upthe hill, then turned again to Bates, then again bounded off toward thevisitors. Even a watchdog may be glad to see strangers if the pleasureis only rare enough. 

Bates mounted the slope as a man may mount stairs--two steps at a time. Had he seen the strangers, as the saying is, dropping from the clouds, he could hardly have been more surprised than he was to see civilisedpeople had reached his place otherwise than by the lake, for the ruggedhills afforded nothing but a much longer and more arduous way to anysettlement within reach. When he got up, however, he saw that these mencarried with them implements of camp-life and also surveyinginstruments, by which he judged, and rightly, that his guests wereranging the lonely hills upon some tour of official survey. 

That the travellers _were_ his guests neither he nor they had theslightest doubt. They had set down their traps close to his door, and, in the calm confidence that it would soon be hospitably opened byrightful hands, they had made no attempt to open it for themselves. There were eight men in the party, two of whom, apparently its moreimportant members, sauntered to meet Bates, with pipes in their mouths. These told him what district they were surveying, by what track they hadjust come over the hill, where they had camped the past night, wherethey wanted to get to by nightfall. They remarked on the situation ofhis house and the extent of his land. They said to him, in fact, morethan was immediately necessary, but not more than was pleasant for himto hear or for them to tell. It is a very taciturn man who, meeting astranger in a wilderness, does not treat him with more or less offriendly loquacity. 

Under the right circumstances Bates was a genial man. He liked the lookof these men; he liked the tone of their talk; and had he liked themmuch less, the rarity of the occasion and the fact that he was theirhost would have expanded his spirits. He asked astute questions aboutthe region they had traversed, and, as they talked, he motioned themtowards the house. He had it distinctly in his mind that he was gladthey had come across his place, and that he would give them a hotbreakfast; but he did not say so in words--just as they had not troubledto begin their conversation with him by formal greetings. 

The house door was still shut; there was still no smoke from thechimney, although it was now full three hours since Bates had left theplace. Saying that he would see if the women were up, he went alone intothe house. The living-room was deserted, and, passing through the innerdoor, which was open, he saw his aunt, who, according to custom wasneatly dressed, sitting on the foot of Sissy's empty bed. The old womanwas evidently cold, and frightened at the unusual sounds outside;greatly fretted, she held the girl's night-cap in her hand, and themoment he appeared demanded of him where Sissy was, for she must haveher breakfast. The girl he did not see. 

The dog had followed him. He looked up and wagged his tail; he made nosign of feeling concern that the girl was not there. Bates could havecursed his dumbness; he would fain have asked where she had gone. Thedog probably knew, but as for Bates, he not only did not know, but noconjecture rose in his mind as to her probable whereabouts. 

He took his aunt to her big chair, piled the stove from the well-storedwood-box, and lit it. Then, shutting the door of the room where thedisordered bed lay and throwing the house-door open, he bid the visitorsenter. He went out himself to search the surroundings of the house, butSissy was not to be found. 

The dog did not follow Bates on this search. He sat down before thestove in an upright position, breathed with his mouth open, and bestowedon the visitors such cheerful and animated looks that they talked to andpatted him. Their own dogs had been shut into the empty ox-shed for thesake of peace, and the house-dog was very much master of the situation. 

Of the party, the two surveyors--one older and one younger--were men ofrefinement and education. British they were, or of such Canadian birthand training as makes a good imitation. Five of the others wereevidently of humbler position--axe-men and carriers. The eighth man, whocompleted the party, was a young American, a singularly handsome youngfellow--tall and lithe. He did not stay in the room with the others, butlounged outside by himself, leaning against the front of the house inthe white cold sunlight. 

In the meantime Bates, having searched the sheds and inspected withcareful eyes the naked woods above the clearing, came backdisconsolately by the edge of the ravine, peering into it suspiciouslyto see if the girl could, by some wild freak, be hiding there. When hecame to the narrow strip of ground between the wall of the house and thebroken bank he found himself walking knee-deep in the leaves that thelast night's gale had drifted there, and because the edge of the ravinewas thus entirely concealed, he, remembering Sissy's warning, kickedabout the leaves cautiously to find the crack of which she had spoken, and discovered that the loose portion had already fallen. It suddenlyoccurred to him to wonder if the girl could possibly have fallen withit. Instantly he sprang down the ravine, feeling among the driftedleaves on all sides, but nothing except rock and earth was to be foundunder their light heaps. It took only a few minutes to assure him of theneedlessness of his fear. The low window of the room in which Sissy hadslept looked out immediately upon this drift of leaves, and, as Batespassed it, he glanced through the uncurtained glass, as if the fact thatit was really empty was so hard for him to believe that it needed thisadditional evidence. Then the stacks of fire-wood in front of the housewere all that remained to be searched, and Bates walked round, lookinginto the narrow aisles between them, looking at the same time down thehill, as if it might be possible that she had been on the shore and hehad missed her. 

"What are you looking for?" asked the young American. The question wasnot put rudely. There was a serenity about the youth's expectation of ananswer which, proving that he had no thought of over-stepping goodmanners, made it, at the same time, very difficult to withhold ananswer. 

Bates turned annoyed. He had supposed everybody was within. 

"What have you lost?" repeated the youth. 

"Oh--" said Bates, prolonging the sound indefinitely. He was notdeceitful or quick at invention, and it seemed to him a manifestabsurdity to reply--"a girl. " He approached the house, words hesitatingon his lips. 

"My late partner's daughter, " he observed, keeping wide of the mark, "usually does the cooking. "

"Married?" asked the young man rapidly. 

"She?--No, " said Bates, taken by surprise. 

_"Young_ lady?" asked the other, with more interest. Bates was notaccustomed to consider his ward under his head. 

"She is just a young girl about seventeen, " he replied stiffly. 

"Oh, halibaloo!" cried the youth joyously. "Why, stranger, I haven't seteyes on a young lady these two months. I'd give a five dollar-bill thisminute, if I had it, to set eyes on her right here and now. " He took hispipe from his lips and clapped his hand upon his side with animation ashe spoke. 

Bates regarded him with dull disfavour. He would himself have given morethan the sum mentioned to have compassed the same end, but for differentreasons, and his own reasons were so grave that the youth's frivolityseemed to him doubly frivolous. 

"I hope, " he said coldly, "that she will come in soon. " His eyeswandered involuntarily up the hill as he spoke. 

"Gone out walking, has she?" The youth's eyes followed in the samedirection. "Which way has she gone?"

"I don't know exactly which path she may have taken. " Bates's words grewmore formal the harder he felt himself pressed. 

"Path!" burst out the young man--_"Macadamised road, _ don't you mean?There's about as much of one as the other on this here hill. "

"I meant, " said Bates, "that I didn't know where she was. "

His trouble escaped somewhat with his voice as he said this withirritation. 

The youth looked at him curiously, and with some incipient sympathy. After a minute's reflection he asked, touching his forehead:

"She ain't weak here, is she--like the _old_ lady?"

"Nothing of the sort, " exclaimed Bates, indignantly. The bare idea costhim a pang. Until this moment he had been angry with the girl; he wasstill angry, but a slight modification took place. He felt with heragainst all possible imputations. 

"All right in the headpiece, is she?" reiterated the other more lightly. 

"Very intelligent, " replied Bates. "I have taught her myself. She isremarkably intelligent. " The young man's sensitive spirits, which hadsuffered slight depression from contact with Bates's perturbation, nowrecovered entirely. 

"Oh, Glorianna!" he cried in irrepressible anticipation. "Let this veryintelligent young lady come on! Why"--in an explanatory way--"if I sawas much as a female dress hanging on a clothes-line out to dry, I'm inthat state of mind I'd adore it properly. "

If Bates had been sure that the girl would return safely he wouldperhaps have been as well pleased that she should not return in time tomeet the proposed adoration; as it was, he was far too ill at easeconcerning her not to desire her advent as ardently as did the naďveyouth. The first feeling made his manner severe; the second constrainedhim to say he supposed she would shortly appear. 

His mind was a good deal confounded, but if he supposed anything it wasthat, having wakened to find herself left behind by the boat, she hadwalked away from the house in an access of anger and disappointment, andhe expected her to return soon, because he did not think she had courageor resolution to go very far alone. Underneath this was the uneasy fearthat her courage and resolution might take her farther into danger thanwas at all desirable, but he stifled the fear. 

When he went in he told the company, in a few matter-of-fact words ofhis partner's death, and the object of the excursion from which they hadseen him return. He also mentioned that his aunt's companion, the deadman's child, had, it appeared, gone off into the woods thatmorning--this was by way of apology that she was not there to cook forthem, but he took occasion to ask if they had seen her on the hill. Asthey had come down the least difficult way and had not met her, heconcluded that she had not endeavoured to go far afield, and tried todismiss his anxiety and enjoy his guests in his own way. 

Hospitality, even in its simplest form, is more often a matter ofamiable pride than of sincere unselfishness, but it is not a form ofpride with which people are apt to quarrel. Bates, when he found himselfconversing with scientific men of gentle manners, was resolved to showhimself above the ordinary farmer of that locality. He went to thebarrel where the summer's eggs had been packed in soft sand, and tookout one apiece for the assembled company. He packed the oven with largepotatoes. He put on an excellent supply of tea to boil. The travellers, who, in fact, had had their ordinary breakfast some hours before, madebut feeble remonstrances against these preparations, remonstrances whichonly caused Bates to make more ample provision. He brought out a largepaper bag labelled, "patent self-raising pancake meal, " and a smallpiece of fat pork. Here he was obliged to stop and confess himself inneed of culinary skill; he looked at the men, not doubting that he couldobtain it from them. 

"The Philadelphian can do it better, " said one. This was corroborated bythe others. "Call Harkness, " they cried, and at the same time theycalled Harkness themselves. 

The young American opened the door and came in in a very leisurely, notto say languid, manner. He took in the situation at a glance withoutasking a question. "But, " said he, "are we not to wait for theintelligent young lady? Female intelligence can make the finer pancake. "

The surveyors manifested some curiosity. "What do you know about a younglady?" they asked. 

"The young lady of the house, " replied Harkness. "Hasn't_he"_--referring to Bates--"told you all about her? The domesticdivinity who has just happened to get mislaid this morning. I saw himlooking over the wood pile to see if she had fallen behind it, but shehadn't. "

"It is only a few days since her father died, " said the senior of theparty gravely. 

"And so, " went on the young man, "she has very properly given these fewdays to inconsolable grief. But now our visit is just timed to comfortand enliven her, _why_ is she not here to be comforted and enlivened?"

No-one answered, and, as the speaker was slowly making his way towardthe frying-pan, no one seemed really apprehensive that he would keepthem waiting. The youth had an oval, almost childish face; his skin wasdark, clear, and softly coloured as any girl's; his hair fell in black, loose curls over his forehead. He was tall, slender without being thin, very supple; but his languid attitudes fell short of grace, and wereonly tolerable because they were comic. When he reached out his hand forthe handle of the frying-pan he held the attention of the whole companyby virtue of his office, and his mind, to Bates's annoyance, was stillrunning on the girl. 

"Is she fond of going out walking alone?" he asked. 

"How could she be fond of walking when there's no place to walk?" Batesspoke roughly. "Besides, she has too much work to do. "

"Ever lost her before?"

"No, " said Bates. It would have been perfectly unbearable to his pridethat these strangers should guess his real uneasiness or its cause, sohe talked as if the fact of the girl's long absence was not in any wayremarkable. 

Having mixed a batter the American sliced pork fat into the hot pan andwas instantly obscured from view by the smoke thereof. In a minute hisface appeared above it like the face of a genius. 

"You will observe, gentlemen, " he cried without bashfulness, "that I nowperform the eminently interesting operation of dropping cakes--one, two, three. May the intelligent young lady return to eat them!"

No one laughed, but his companions smiled patiently at his antics--apatience born of sitting in a very hot, steamy room after weeks in theopen air. 

"You are a cook, " remarked Bates. 

The youth bent his long body towards him at a sudden angle. "Born acook--dentist by profession--by choice a vagabond. "

"Dentist?" said Bates curiously. 

"At your service, sir. "

"He is really a dentist, " said one of the surveyors with sleepyamusement. "He carries his forceps round in his vest pocket. "

"I lost them when I scrambled head first down this gentleman'smacadamised road this morning, but if you want a tooth out I can use thetongs. "

"My teeth are all sound, " said Bates. 

"Thank the Lord for that!" the young man answered with an emphatic pietywhich, for all that appeared, might have been perfectly sincere. 

"And the young lady?" he asked after a minute. 

"What?"

"The young lady's teeth--the teeth of the intelligent young lady--theintelligent teeth of the young lady--are they sound?"

"Yes. "

He sighed deeply. "And to think, " he mourned, "that he should havecasually lost her _just_ this morning!"

He spoke exactly as if the girl were a penknife or a marble that hadrolled from Bates's pocket, and the latter, irritated by an inward fear, grew to hate the jester. 

When the meal, which consisted of fried eggs, pancakes, and potatoes, was eaten, the surveyors spent an hour or two about the clearing, examining the nature of the soil and rock. They had something to say toBates concerning the value of his land which interested him exceedingly. Considering how rare it was for him to see any one, and how fitted hewas to appreciate intercourse with men who were manifestly in a higherrank of life than he, it would not have been surprising if he hadforgotten Sissy for a time, even if they had had nothing to relate ofpersonal interest to himself. As it was, even in the excitement ofhearing what was of importance concerning his own property, he did notwholly forget her; but while his visitors remained his anxiety was inabeyance. 

When they were packing their instruments to depart, the young American, who had not been with them during the morning, came and took Bates asidein a friendly way. 

"See here, " he said, "were you gassing about that young lady? Thereain't no young lady now, is there?"

"I told you"--with some superiority of manner--"she is not a young lady;she is a working girl, an emigrant's----"

"Oh, Glorianna!" he broke out, "girl or lady, what does it matter to me?Do you mean to say you've really lost her?"

The question was appalling to Bates. All the morning he had not dared toface such a possibility and now to have the question hurled at him withsuch imperative force by another was like a terrible blow. But when ablow is thus dealt from the outside, a man like Bates rallies all theopposition of his nature to repel it. 

"Not at all"--his manner was as stiff as ever--"she is lurking somewherenear. "

"Look here--I've been up the hill that way, and that way, and thatway"--he indicated the directions with his hand--"and I've been downround the shore as far as I could get, and I've had our two dogs withme, who'd either of them have mentioned it if there'd been a strangeranywheres near; and she ain't here. An' if she's climbed _over_ thehill, _she's_ a spunky one--somewhat spunkier than _I_ should thinknatural. " He looked at Bates very suspiciously as he spoke. 

"Well?"

"Well, _my_ belief is that there ain't no young lady, and that you'regassing me. "

"Very well, " said Bates, and he turned away. It was offensive to him tobe accused of telling lies--he was not a man to give any other name than"lie" to the trick attributed to him, or to perceive any humour in theidea of it--but it was a thousand times more offensive that this youthshould have presumed to search for Sissy and to tell him that the searchhad been vain. 

Horrible as the information just given was, he did not more than halfbelieve it, and something just said gave him a definite idea ofhope--the strange dogs had not found Sissy, but the house-dog, ifencouraged to seek, would certainly find her. He had felt a sort ofgrudge against the animal all day, because he must know which way shehad gone and could not tell. Now he resolved as soon as the strangerswere gone to set the dog to seek her. Upon this he stayed his mind. 

The surveyors hoped to get a few days' more work done before the winterput an end to their march; they determined when thus stopped to turndown the river valley and take the train for Quebec. The way they nowwished to take lay, not in the direction in which the ox-cart had gone, but over the hills directly across the lake. The scow belonging to thisclearing, on which they had counted, was called into requisition. 

The day was still calm; Bates had no objection to take them across. Atany other time he would have had some one to leave in charge of theplace, but especially as he would be in sight of the house all the time, he made no difficulty of leaving as it was. He could produce four oars, such as they were, and the way across was traversed rapidly. 

"And there ain't really a female belonging to the place, except the oldlady, " said the dentist, addressing the assembled party upon the scow. "It was all a tale, and--my eye;--he took me in completely. "

Probably he did not give entire credence to his own words, and wished toprovoke the others to question Bates further; but they were not now inthe same idle mood that had enthralled them when, in the morning, theyhad listened to him indulgently. Their loins were girded; they wereintent upon what they were doing and what they were going to do. No onebut Bates paid heed to him. 

Bates heard him clearly enough, but, so stubbornly had he set himself torebuff this young man, and so closely was he wrapped in that pride ofreserve that makes a merit of obstinate self-reliance, that it nevereven occurred to him to answer or to accept this last offer of afellow-man's interest in the search he was just about to undertake. 

He had some hope that, if Sissy were skulking round, she would find iteasier to go back to the house when he was absent, and that he shouldfind her as usual on his return; but, as he wrought at his oar inreturning across the leaden water, looking up occasionally to make thelog house his aim, and staring for the most part at the lone hills, under the pine woods of which his late companions had disappeared, hisheart gradually grew more heavy; all the more because the cheerfulnessof their society had buoyed up his spirit in their presence, did it nowsuffer depression. The awful presentiment began to haunt him that hewould not find the girl that night, that he had in grim reality "losther. " If this were the case, what a fool, what a madman, he had been tolet go the only aid within his reach! He stopped his rowing for aminute, and almost thought of turning to call the surveying party backagain. But no, Sissy might be--in all probability was--already in thehouse; in that case what folly to have brought them back, delaying theirwork and incurring their anger! So he reasoned, and went on towardshome; but, in truth, it was not their delay or displeasure that deterredhim so much as his own pride, which loathed the thought of laying barehis cause for fear and distress. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The day was duller now. The sun, in passing into the western sky, hadentered under thicker veils of white. The film of ice on the bay, whichhad melted in the pale sunbeams of noon, would soon form again. The airwas growing bitterly cold. 

When Bates had moored his boat, he went up the hill heavily. The dog, which had been shut in the house to guard it, leaped out when he openedthe door. Sissy was not there. 

Bates went in and found one of her frocks, and, bringing it out, triedto put the animal on the scent of her track. He stooped, and held thegarment under the dog's nose. The dog sniffed it, laid his nosecontentedly on Bates's arm, looked up in his face, and wagged his tailwith most annoying cheerfulness. 

"Where is she?" jerked Bates. "Where is she? Seek her, good dog. "

The dog, all alert, bounded off a little way and returned again with aninconsequent lightness in tail and eye. One of his ears had been torn ina battle with the strange dogs, but he was more elated by the conflictthan depressed by the wound. When he came back, he seemed to Batesalmost to smile as if he said: "It pleases me that you should pay me somuch attention, but as for the girl, I know her to be satisfactorilydisposed of. " Bates did not swear at the animal; he was a Scotchman, andhe would have considered it a sin to swear: he did not strike the dogeither, which he would not have considered a sin at all. He was actuallyafraid to offend the only living creature who could befriend and helphim in his search. Very patiently he bent the dog's nose to the frockand to the ground, begging and commanding him to seek. At length the dogtrotted off by a circuitous route up the clearing, and Bates followed. He hoped the dog was really seeking, but feared he was merely followingsome fancy that by thus running he would be rid of his master'ssolicitude. 

Bates felt it an odd thing that he should be wandering about with agirl's frock in his hands. It was old, but he did not remember that hehad ever touched it before or noticed its material or pattern. He lookedat it fondly now, as he held it ready to renew the dog's memory if hispurpose should falter. 

The dog went on steadily enough until he got to the edge of the woods, where his footsteps made a great noise on the brittle leaves. He kickedabout in them as if he liked the noise they made, but offered to go nofarther. Bates looked at them and knew that the dog was not likely tokeep the scent among them if the girl had gone that way. He stood erect, looking up the drear expanse of the hill, and the desperate nature ofhis situation came upon him. He had been slow--slow to take it in, repelling it with all the obstinacy of an obstinate mind. Now he sawclearly that the girl had fled, and he was powerless to pursue at thedistance she might now have reached, the more so as he could not tellwhich way she had taken. He would have left his live stock, but thehelpless old woman, whose life depended on his care, he dared not leave. He stood and considered, his mind working rapidly under a stress ofemotion such as perhaps it had never known before--certainly not sincethe first strong impulses of his youth had died within his cautiousheart. 

Then he remembered that Sissy had walked about the previous day, andperhaps the dog was only on the scent of yesterday's meanderings. Hetook the animal along the top of the open space, urging him to findanother track, and at last the dog ran down again by the side of thestream. Bates followed to the vicinity of the house, no wiser than hehad been at first. 

The dog stopped under the end window of the house where old Cameronfell, and scratched among the leaves on the fresh fallen earth. Bateswas reminded of the associations of the fatal spot. He thought of hisold friend's deathbed, of the trust that had there been confided to him. Had he been unfaithful to that trust? With the impatience of sharp pain, he called the dog again to the door of the house, and again from thatstarting-point tried to make him seek the missing one. He did this, notbecause he had much hope in the dog now, but because he had no otherhope. 

This time the dog stood by, sobered by his master's soberness, butlooking with teasing expectancy, ready to do whatever was required if hemight only know what that was. To Bates, who was only anxious to act atthe dumb thing's direction, this expectancy was galling. He tore off apart of the dress and fastened it to the dog's collar. He commanded himto carry it to her in such excited tones that the old woman heard, andfumbled her way out of the door to see what was going on. And Batesstood between the dumb animal and the aged wreck of womanhood, and felthorribly alone. 

Clearly the sagacious creature not only did not know where to find thegirl, but knew that she was gone where he could not find her, for hemade no effort to carry his burden a step. Bates took it from him atlast, and the dog, whose feelings had apparently been much perturbed, went down to the water's edge, and, standing looking over the lake, barked there till darkness fell. 

The night came, but the girl did not come. Bates made a great torch ofpine boughs and resin, and this he lit and hoisted on a pole fixed inthe ground, so that if she was seeking to return to her home in thedarkness she might be guided by it. He hoped also that, by some chance, the surveying party might see it and know that it was a signal ofdistress; but he looked for their camp-fire on the opposite hills, and, not seeing it, felt only too sure that they had gone out of sight ofhis. He fed and watched his torch all night. Snow began to fall; as helooked up it seemed that the flame made a globe of light in the thickatmosphere, around which closed a low vault of visible darkness. Fromout of this darkness the flakes were falling thickly. When the day brokehe was still alone. 

CHAPTER VII. 

When Saul and the oxen were once fairly started, they plodded onsteadily. The track lay some way from the river and above it, throughthe gap in the hills. Little of the hills did Saul see for he was movingunder trees all the way, and when, before noon, he descended into theplain on the other side, he was still for a short time under a canopy ofinterlacing boughs. There was no road; the trees were notched to showthe track. In such forests there is little obstruction of brushwood, andover knoll and hollow, between the trunks, the oxen laboured on. Saulsat on the front ledge of the cart to balance it the better. The coffin, wedged in with the potash barrel, lay pretty still as long as they kepton the soft soil of the forest, but when, about one o'clock, the teamemerged upon a corduroy road, made of logs lying side by side across thepath, the jolting often jerked the barrel out of place, and then Saulwould go to the back of the cart and jerk it and the coffin intoposition again. 

The forest was behind them now. This log road was constructed across alarge tract which sometime since had been cleared by a forest fire, butwas now covered again by thick brush standing eight or ten feet high. One could see little on either side the road except the brown and greytwigs of the saplings that grew by the million, packed close together. The way had been cut among them, yet they were forcing their sharpshoots up again between the seams of the corduroy, and where, here andthere, a log had rotted they came up thickly. The ground was low, andwould have been wet about the bushes had it not been frozen. Above, thesky was white. Saul could see nothing but his straight road before andbehind, the impenetrable thicket and the white sky. It was a lonelything thus to journey. 

While he had been under the forest, with an occasional squirrel orchipmunk to arrest his gaze, and with all things as familiar to sight asthe environments of the house in which he was accustomed to live, Saulhad felt the vigour of the morning, and eaten his cold fat bacon, sitting on the cart, without discontent. But now it wasafternoon--which, we all know, brings a somewhat more depressingair--and the budless thickets stood so close, so still, Saul becameconscious that his load was a corpse. He had hoped, in a dull way, tofall in with a companion on this made road; the chances were against it, and the chances prevailed. Saul ate more bread and bacon. He had to walknow, and often to give the cart a push, so that the way was laborious;but, curiously enough, it was not the labour he objected to, but thesound of his own voice. All the way the silent thicket was listening tohis "Gee-e, gee; haw then";--"yo-hoi-eest"; yet, as he and his oxenprogressed further into the quiet afternoon, he gradually grew more andmore timid at the shouts he must raise. It seemed to him that the deadman was listening, or that unknown shapes or essences might be disturbedby his voice and rush out from the thicket upon him. Such fears hehad--wordless fears, such as men never repeat and soon forget. Rough, dull, hardy woodman as he was, he felt now as a child feels in the dark, afraid of he knew not what. 

The way was very weary. He trudged on beside the cart. Something wentwrong with one of his boots, and he stopped the oxen in order to take itoff. The animals, thus checked, stood absolutely still, hanging downtheir heads in an attitude of rest. The man went behind the cart and saton its edge. He leaned on the end of the coffin as he examined the boot. When that was put right he could not deny himself the luxury of a fewminutes' rest. The oxen, with hanging heads, looked as if they had goneto sleep. The man hung his head also, and might have been dozing fromhis appearance. He was not asleep, however. What mental machinery he hadbegan to work more freely, and he actually did something that might becalled thinking on the one subject that had lain as a dormant matter ofcuriosity in his head all day--namely, how the girl would act when shewoke to find the cart was actually gone and she left behind. He had seenold Cameron die, and heard Bates promise to do his best for hisdaughter; he remembered her tears and pleading on the preceding day; thesituation came to him now, as perceptions come to dull minds, with forcethat had gathered with the lapse of time. He had not the refinement andacuteness of mind necessary to make him understand the disinterestedelement in Bates's tyranny, and while he sympathised cunningly with theselfishness of which, in his mind, he accused Bates, it seemed to himthat the promise to the dead was broken, and he thought upon suchcalamities as might befall in token of the dead man's revenge. 

How awfully silent it was! There was no breath in the chill, still air;there was no sound of life in all the dark, close brushwood; the oxenslept; and Saul, appalled by the silence that had come with his silence, appalled to realise more vividly than ever that he, and he alone, hadbeen the instigator of voice in all that region, was cowed into thinkingthat, if the dead could rise from the grave for purposes of revenge, howmuch more easily could he rise now from so crude a coffin as he himselfhad helped to construct for him!

It was in this absolute silence that he heard a sound. He heard the deadman turn in his coffin! He heard, and did not doubt his hearing; it wasnot a thing that he could easily be deceived about as he sat with hiselbow on the coffin. He sat there not one instant longer; the nextmoment he was twenty feet away, standing half-hidden in the edge of thebrushwood, staring at the cart and the coffin, ready to plunge into theicy swamp and hide farther among the young trees if occasion required. Occasion did not require. The oxen dozed on; the cart, the barrel, andthe coffin stood just as he had left them. 

Perhaps for five minutes the frightened man was still. Gradually hismuscles relaxed, and he ceased to stand with limbs and features alldrawn in horror away from the coffin. He next pulled back his foot fromthe icy marsh; but even then, having regained his equilibrium on theroad, he had not decided what to do, and it took him some time longer toturn over the situation in his mind. He had heard the dead man move; hewas terribly frightened; still, it might have been a mistake, and, anyway, the most disagreeable course, clearly, was to remain there tillnightfall. He had run backward in his first alarm; so, to get to thenearest habitation, it would be necessary to pass the cart on the road, even if he left it there. Had any further manifestation of vitalityappeared on the part of the corpse he would have felt justified inrunning back into the forest, but this was an extreme measure. He didnot wish to go near the cart, but to turn his back upon it seemed almostas fearsome. He stood facing it, as a man faces a fierce dog, knowingthat if he turns and runs the dog will pursue. He supposed that as longas he stared at the coffin and saw nothing he could be sure that thedeceased remained inside, but that if he gave the ghost opportunity toget out on the sly it might afterwards come at him from any point of thecompass. He was an ignorant man, with a vulgar mind; he had somereverence for a corpse, but none whatever for a ghost. His mind hadundergone a change concerning the dead the moment he had heard him move, and he looked upon his charge now as equally despicable and gruesome. 

After some further delay he discovered that the course leastdisagreeable would be to drive the oxen with his voice and walk as farbehind the cart as he now was, keeping the pine box with four nails onits lid well in view. Accordingly, making a great effort to encouragehimself to break the silence, he raised his shout in the accustomedcommand to the oxen, and after it had been repeated once or twice, theystrained at the cart and set themselves to the road again. They did notgo as fast as when the goad was within reach of their flanks; or rather;they went more slowly than then, for "fast" was not a word that couldhave been applied to their progress before. Yet they went on the wholesteadily, and the "Gee" and "Haw" of the gruff voice behind guided themstraight as surely as bit and rein. 

At length it could be seen in the distance that the road turned; andround this turning another human figure came in sight. Perhaps in allhis life Saul never experienced greater pleasure in meeting another manthan he did now, yet his exterior remained gruff and unperturbed. Theonly notice that he appeared to take of his fellow-man was to adjust hispace so that, as the other came nearer the cart in front, Saul caught upwith it in the rear. At last they met close behind it, and then, asnature prompted, they both stopped. 

The last comer upon the desolate scene was a large, hulking boy. He hadbeen plodding heavily with a sack upon his back. As he stopped, he setthis upon the ground and wiped his brow. 

The boy was French; but Saul, as a native of the province, talkedFrench about as well as he did English--that is to say, very badly. Hecould not have written a word of either. --The conversation went on inthe _patois_ of the district. 

"What is in the box?" asked the boy, observing that the carter's eyesrested uneasily upon it. 

"Old Cameron died at our place the day before yesterday, " answered Saul, not with desire to evade, but because it did not seem necessary toanswer more directly. 

"What of?" The boy looked at the box with more interest now. 

"He died of a fall"--briefly. 

The questioner looked at the pinewood box now with considerablesolicitude. "Did his feet swell?" he asked. As Saul did not immediatelyassent, he added--"When the old M. Didier died, his feet swelled. "

"What do you think of the coffin?" Saul said this eyeing it as if hewere critically considering it as a piece of workmanship. 

"M. Didier made a much better one for his little child, " replied theboy. 

"If he did, neither Mr. Bates nor me is handy at this sort of work. Wehaven't been used to it. It's a rough thing. Touch it. You will see it'sbadly made. "

He gained his object. The boy fingered the coffin, and although he didnot praise the handiwork, it seemed to Saul that some horrid spell wasbroken when human hands had again touched the box and no evil hadresulted. 

"Why didn't you bury him at home?" asked the boy. "He was English. "

"Mr. Bates has strict ideas, though he is English. He wanted it doneproper, in a graveyard, by a minister. He has wrote to the minister atSt. Hennon's and sent money for the burying--Mr. Bates, he is alwaysparticular. "

"You are not going to St. Hennon's?" said the boy incredulously. "I'llstay to-night at Turrifs, and go on in the morning. It's four days' walkfor me and the cattle to go and come, but I shall take back a man to cutthe trees. "

"Why not send him by the new railroad?"

"It does not stop at Turrifs. "

"Yes; they stop at the cross-roads now, not more than three miles fromTurrifs, There's a new station, and an Englishman set to keep it. I'vejust brought this sack of flour from there. M. Didier had it come by thecars. "

"When do they pass to St. Hennon's?" asked Saul meditatively, --"Butanyway, the Englishman wouldn't like to take in a coffin. "

"They pass some time in the night; and he must take it in if you writeon it where it's going. It's not his business to say what the cars willtake, if you pay. "

"Well, " said Saul. "Good-day. Yo-hoist! Yo, yo, ho-hoist!"

It did not seem to him necessary to state whether he was, or was not, going to take the advice offered. The straining and creaking of thecart, his shouts to the oxen, would have obliterated any further querythe boy might have made. He had fairly moved off when the boy also tookup his burden and trudged on the other way. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

When the blueberry bushes are dry, all the life in them, sucked intotheir roots against another summer, the tops turn a rich, brownish red;at this time, also, wild bramble thickets have many a crimson stalk thatgives colour to their mass, and the twigs that rise above the whitetrunks of birch trees are not grey, but brown. 

Round the new railway station at the cross-roads near TurrifsSettlement, the low-lying land, for miles and miles, was covered with, blueberry bushes; bramble thickets were here and there; and where theland rose a little, in irregular places, young birch woods stood. If thesnow had sprinkled here, as it had upon the hills the night before, there was no sign of it now. The warm colour of the land seemed to glowagainst the dulness of the afternoon, not with the sparkle andbrightness which colour has in sunshine, but with the glow of a sleepingember among its ashes. Round the west there was metallic blue colouringupon the cloud vault. This colouring was not like a light upon thecloud, it was like a shadow upon it; yet it was not grey, but blue. Where the long straight road from Turrifs and the long straight roadfrom the hills crossed each other, and were crossed by the unprotectedrailway track with its endless rows of tree-trunks serving as telegraphpoles, the new station stood. 

It was merely a small barn, newly built of pinewood, divided into tworooms--one serving as a store-room for goods, the other as waiting-room, ticket office, and living-room of the station-master. Thestation-master, who was, in fact, master, clerk, and porter in one, wasas new to his surroundings as the little fresh-smelling pinewood house. He was a young Englishman, and at the first glance it could be seen hehad not long been living in his present place. He had, indeed, not yetgiven up shaving himself, and his clothes, although rough, warm, andsuited to his occupation, still suggested, not homespun, but an outfitbought of a tailor. 

It was about four o'clock on that November afternoon when the newofficial of the new station looked out at the dark red land and thebright-tinted cloud. It was intensely cold. The ruts of the roads, whichwere not made of logs here, were frozen stiff. The young man stood aminute at his door with his hands in his pockets, sniffed the frost, andturned in with an air of distaste. A letter that had been brought him bythe morning train lay on his table, addressed to "Alec Trenholme, Esq. "It had seen vicissitudes, and been to several addresses in differentcities, before it had been finally readdressed to this new station. Perhaps its owner had not found the path to fortune which he sought inthe New World as easily accessible as he had expected. Whether he hadnow found it or not, he set himself to that which he had found in manlyfashion. 

Coming in from the cold without, and shutting himself in, as hesupposed, for the evening, he wisely determined to alleviate thepeculiar feeling of cold and desolation which the weather was fitted toinduce by having an early tea. He set his pan upon a somewhat rustystove and put generous slices of ham therein to fry. He made tea, andthen set forth his store of bread, his plates and cup, upon the table, with some apparent effort to make the meal look attractive. The fryingham soon smelt delicious, and while it was growing brown, Alec Trenholmeread his letter for the fifth time that day. It was not a letter that heliked, but, since the morning train, only two human beings had passed bythe station, and the young station-master would have read and re-read amore disagreeable epistle than the one which had fallen to his lot. Itwas dated from a place called Chellaston, and was from his brother. Itwas couched in terms of affection, and contained a long, closelyreasoned argument, with the tenor of which it would seem the reader didnot agree, for he smiled at it scornfully!

He had not re-read his letter and dished his ham before sounds on theroad assured him an ox-cart was approaching, and, with an eagerness tosee who it might be which cannot be comprehended by those who have notlived in isolation, he went out to see Saul and his cattle coming at aneven pace down the road from the hills. The cart ran more easily nowthat the road was of the better sort, and the spirits of both man andbeasts were so raised by the sight of a house that they all seemed inbetter form for work than when in the middle of their journey. 

Alec Trenholme waited till the cart drew up between his door and therailway track, and regarded the giant stature of the lumberman, hissmall, round head, red cheeks, and luxuriant whiskers, with thatintense but unreflecting interest which the lonely bestow uponunexpected company. He looked also, with an eye to his own business, atthe contents of the cart, and gave the man a civil "good evening. "

As he spoke, his voice and accent fell upon the air of this wildernessas a rarely pleasant thing to hear. Saul hastily dressed his whiskerswith his horny left-hand before he answered, but even then, he omittedto return the greeting. 

"I want to know, " he said, sidling up, "how much it would cost to sendthat by the cars to St. Hennon's. " He nudged his elbow towards thecoffin as he spoke. 

"That box?" asked the station-master. "How much does it weigh?"

"We might weigh it if I'd some notion first about how much I'd need topay. "

"What's in it?"

Saul smoothed his whiskers again. "Well, " he said--then, after a slightpause--"it's a dead man. "

"Oh!" said Trenholme. Some habit of politeness, unnecessary here, kepthis exclamation from expressing the interest he instantly felt. In acountry where there are few men to die, even death assumes the form ofan almost agreeable change as a matter of lively concern. Then, after apause which both men felt to be suitable, "I suppose there is a specialrate for--that sort of thing, you know. I really haven't been here verylong. I will look it up. I suppose you have a certificate of death, haven't you?"

Again Saul dressed his whiskers. His attention to them was hisrecognition of the fact that Trenholme impressed him as a superior. 

"I don't know about a certificate. You've heard of the Bates and Cameronclearin', I s'pose; it's old Cameron that's dead"--again he nudged hiselbow coffinward--"and Mr. Bates he wrote a letter to the minister atSt. Hennon's. "

He took the letter from his pocket as he spoke, and Trenholme perceivedthat it was addressed in a legible hand and sealed. 

"I fancy it's all right, " said he doubtfully. He really had not any ideawhat the railway might require before he took the thing in charge. 

Saul did not make answer. He was not quite sure it was all right, butthe sort of wrongness he feared was not to be confided to the man intowhose care he desired to shove the objectionable burden. 

"What did he die of?" asked the young man. 

"He fell down, and he seemed for some days as if he'd get over it; thenhe was took sudden. We put his feet into a hot pot of water and made himdrink lye. "

"Lye?"

"Ash water--but we gave it him weak. "

"Oh. "

"But--he died. "

"Well, that was sad. Does he leave a wife and family?"

"No, " said Saul briefly. "But how much must I pay to have the cars takeit the rest of the way?"

Trenholme stepped into his room and lit his lamp that he might betterexamine his list of rates. Saul came inside to warm himself at thestove. The lamp in that little room was the one spot of yellow light inthe whole world that lay in sight, yet outside it was not yet dark, onlydull and bitterly cold. 

Trenholme stood near the lamp, reading fine print upon a large card. Therailway was only just opened and its tariff incomplete as yet. He foundno particular provision made for the carriage of coffins. It took himsome minutes to consider under what class of freight to reckon this, buthe decided not to weigh it. Saul looked at the room, the ham and tea, and at Trenholme, with quiet curiosity in his beady eyes. Outside, theoxen hung their heads and dozed again. 

"You see, " said Saul, "I'll get there myself with the potash to-morrownight; then I can arrange with the minister. "

He had so much difficulty in producing the requisite number of coins forthe carriage that it was evident the potash could not be sent by traintoo; but Trenholme was familiar now with the mode of life that couldgive time of man and beast so easily, and find such difficulty inproducing a little money of far less value. He did remark that, as thecart was to complete the journey, the coffin might as well travel thesecond day as it had done the first; but, Saul showed reluctance to hearthis expostulation, and certainly it was not the station-master'sbusiness to insist. The whole discussion did not take long. Saul wasevidently in a haste not usual to such as he, and Trenholme felt anatural desire to sit down to his tea, the cooking of which filled theplace with grateful perfume. Saul's haste showed itself more in nervousdemeanour than in capacity to get through the interview quickly. Evenwhen the money was paid, he loitered awkwardly. Trenholme went into hisstore-room, and threw open its double doors to the outside air. 

"Help me in with it, will you?"

It was the pleasant authority of his tone that roused the other toalacrity. They shouldered the coffin between them. The store-room wasfairly large and contained little. Trenholme placed the coffinreverently by itself in an empty corner. He brought a pot of black paintand a brush, and printed on it the necessary address. Then he thought amoment, and added in another place the inscription--"Box containingcoffin--to be handled with care. "

It is to be remarked how dependent we are for the simplest actions onthe teaching we have had. Never having received the smallest instructionas to how to deal with such a charge, it cost him effort of thought andsome courage to put on this inscription. Saul watched, divided betweencurious interest and his desire to be away. 

"You've got another coffin inside this case, of course?" said thestation-master, struck with a sudden doubt. 

To him, polished wood and silver plating seemed such a natural accessoryof death that he had, without thought, always associated the one ideawith the other. 

"No, that's all there is. We made it too large by mistake, but we put abed quilt in for stuffing. "

"But, my man, it isn't very well put together; the lid isn't tight. "

"No--neither it is. " Saul had already sidled to the door. 

Trenholme felt it with his thumb and fingers. 

"It's perfectly loose, " he cried. "It's only got a few nails in the lid. You ought to have put in screws, you know. "

"Yes, but we hadn't got any; we had used the last screws we had for thehinge of a door. I'm going to buy some to put in at St. Hennon's. Good-day. "

As they spoke, Saul had been going to his cart, and Trenholme following, with authoritative displeasure in his mien. 

"It's exceedingly careless--upon my word. Come back and nail it upfirmer, " cried he. 

But Saul drove off. 

The young station-master went back to the store-room. He looked at thebox for a moment, with annoyance still in his mind. The air that he hadwould have sat well upon a man with servants under him, but was somewhatfutile in the keeper of a desolate railway-station. He had not been ableto command the man, and he certainly could not command the coffin tonail itself more firmly together. After all, his tea waited. Somewhatsullenly he barred the double door on the inside, and went back to hisown room and his evening meal. 

The room was filled with the steam of the boiling tea as he poured itout, and the smoke of the ham gravy. With the strength of youth andhealth he thrust aside the annoyance of his official position from hispresent mind, and set himself to his supper with considerablesatisfaction. 

He had not, however, eaten a single morsel before he heard a sound inthe next room which caused him to sit erect and almost rigid, forgettinghis food. He had been so pre-occupied a minute before with thecarelessness of those who constructed the coffin that he had left theinner door between the two rooms ajar. It was through this that thesound came, and it seemed to his quickened sense to proceed from thecorner in which the pinewood box reposed, but he hastily went over allthe contents of the room to think if any of them could be falling orshifting among themselves. The sound still continued; it seemed as ifsomething was being gently worked to and fro, as in a soft socket. Hisimagination was not very quick to represent impossible dangers, nor hadhe in him more cowardice than dwells in most brave men. He did not allowhimself to conclude that he heard the coffin-lid being opened from theinside. He took his lamp and went to see what was wrong. 

The sound ceased as he moved. When the light of the lamp was in the nextroom all was perfectly silent. For almost half a minute he stood still, shading his eyes from the lamp, while, with every disagreeable sensationcrowding upon him, he observed distinctly that, although the nails werestill holding it loosely in place, the lid of the coffin was raised halfan inch, more than that indeed, at the top. 

"Now, look here, you know--this won't do, " said Trenholme, in loudauthoritative tones; so transported was he by the disagreeableness ofhis situation that, for the moment, he supposed himself speaking to theman with whom he had just spoken. Then, realising that that man, although gone, was yet probably within call, he set down the lamphastily and ran out. 

It seemed to him remarkable that Saul and the oxen could have gone sofar along the road, although of course they were still plainly insight. He shouted, but received no answer. He raised his voice andshouted again and again, with force and authority. He ran, as heshouted, about twenty paces. In return he only heard Saul's own commandsto his oxen. Whether the man was making so much noise himself that hecould not hear, or whether he heard and would not attend, Trenholmecould not tell, but he felt at the moment too angry to run after himfarther. It was not his place to wait upon this carter and run hiserrands! Upon this impulse he turned again. 

However, as he walked back, the chill frost striking his bare head, hefelt more diffidence and perplexity about his next action than was atall usual to him. He knew that he had no inclination to investigate thecontents of the box. All the curiosity stirred within him still failedto create the least desire to pry further; but, on the other hand, hecould not think it right to leave the matter as it was. A strong feelingof duty commanding him to open the coffin and see that all was right, and a stout aversion to performing this duty, were the main elements ofhis consciousness during the minutes in which he retraced his steps tothe house. 

He had set down the lamp on a package just within the baggage-room door, so that his own room, by which he entered, was pretty dark, save for thefire showing through the damper of the stove. Trenholme stopped in itjust one moment to listen; then, unwilling to encourage hesitation inhimself, went through the next door. His hand was outstretched to takethe lamp, his purpose was clearly defined--to go to the far corner andexamine the coffin-lid. Hand and thought arrested, he stopped on thethreshold, for the lid was thrown off the coffin, and beside it stood afigure. 

The lamp, which did not throw very much light across the comparativelylarge empty room, was so placed that what light there was came directlyin Trenholme's eyes. Afterwards he remembered this, and wondered whetherall that he thought he saw had, in fact, been clearly seen; but at themoment he thought nothing of the inadequacy of light or of the glare inhis eyes; he only knew that there, in the far corner beside the emptycoffin, stood a white figure--very tall to his vision, very lank, withwhite drapery that clothed it round the head like a cowl and spread uponthe floor around its feet. But all that was not what arrested hisattention and chilled his strong courage, it was the eyes of the figure, which were clearly to be seen--large, frightened, fierce eyes, that methis own with a courage and terror in them which seemed to quell his owncourage and impart terror to him. Above them he saw the form of a pallidbrow clearly moulded. He did not remember the rest of the face--perhapsthe white clothes wrapped it around. While the eyes struck him with awe, he had a curious idea that the thing had been interrupted in arrangingits own winding sheet, and was waiting until he retired again to finishits toilet. This was merely a grotesque side-current of thought. He washeld and awed by the surprise of the face, for those eyes seemed to himto belong to no earthly part of the old man who, he had been told, laythere dead. Drawn by death or exhaustion as the face around them looked, the eyes themselves appeared unearthly in their large brightness. 

He never knew whether his next action was urged more by fear, or by thestrong sense of justice that had first prompted him to call back thecarter as the proper person to deal with the contents of the coffin. Whatever the motive, it acted quickly. He drew back; closed the door;locked it on the side of his own room; and set out again to bring backthe man. This time he should hear and should return. Trenholme did notspare his voice, and the wide lonely land resounded to his shout. Andthis time he was not too proud to run, but went at full speed andshouted too. 

Saul undoubtedly saw and heard him, for he faced about and looked. Perhaps something in the very way in which Trenholme ran suggested whyhe ran. Instead of responding to the command to return, he himselfbegan to run away and madly to goad his oxen. There are those whosuppose oxen yoked to a cart cannot run, but on occasion they can plungeinto a wild heavy gallop that man is powerless to curb. The greatstrength latent in these animals was apparent now, for, after their longday's draught, they seemed to become imbued with their driver's panic, and changed from walking to dashing madly down the road. It was a longstraight incline of three miles from the station to the settlementcalled Turrifs. Saul, unable to keep up with the cattle, flung himselfupon the cart, and, with great rattling, was borne swiftly away from hispursuer. Young Trenholme stopped when he had run a mile. So far he hadgone, determined that, if the man would not stop for his commands, heshould be collared and dragged back by main force to face the thingwhich he had brought, but by degrees even the angry young man perceivedthe futility of chasing mad cattle. He drew up panting, and, turning, walked back once more. He did not walk slowly; he was in no frame toloiter and his run had brought such a flush of heat upon him that itwould have been madness to linger in the bitter cold. At the same time, while his legs moved rapidly, his mind certainly hesitated--in fact, italmost halted, unable to foresee in the least what its next opinion ordecision would be. He was not a man to pause in order to make up hismind. He had a strong feeling of responsibility towards his littlestation and its inexplicable tenant, therefore he hurried back againsthis will. His only consolation in this backward walk was the key of thedoor he had locked, which in haste he had taken out and still held inhis hand. Without attempting to decide whether the thing he had seen wasof common clay or of some lighter substance, he still did not lend hismind with sufficient readiness to ghostly theory to imagine that hisunwelcome guest could pass through locked doors. 

Nor did the ghost, if ghost it was, pass through unopened doors. Theflaw in Trenholme's comfortable theory was that he had forgotten thatthe large double door, which opened from the baggage room to the railwaytrack, was barred on the inside. When he got back to his place he foundthis door ajar, and neither in his own room, nor in the baggage room, nor in the coffin, was there sign of human presence, living or dead. 

All the world about lay in the clear white twilight. The blueberryflats, the bramble-holts, were red. The clouded sky was white, exceptfor that metallic blue tinge in the west, through which, in some thinplaces, a pale glow of yellower light was now visible, the last rays ofthe day that had set. It was this world on which the young Englishmanlooked as, amazed and somewhat affrighted, he walked round the building, searching on all sides for the creature that could hardly yet, had itrun away in such a level land, be wholly out of sight. 

He went indoors again to make sure that nothing was there, and this timehe made a discovery--his tea was gone from his cup. He gave a shudder ofdisgust, and, leaving his food untouched, put on coat and cap, and wentout shutting his door behind him. His spirits sank. It seemed to himthat, had it been midnight instead of this blank, even daylight, had hisunearthly-looking visitant acted in more unearthly fashion, thecircumstances would have had less weird force to impress his mind. 

We can, after all, only form conjectures regarding inexplicableincidents from the successive impressions that have been made upon us. This man was not at all given to love of romance or superstition, yetthe easy explanation that some man, for purpose of trick or crime, hadhidden in the box, did not seem to him to fit the circumstances. Hecould not make himself believe that the eyes he had seen belonged to aliving man; on the other hand, he found it impossible to conceive of atea-drinking ghost. 

About a quarter of a mile away there was a long grove of birch trees, the projecting spur of a second growth of forest that covered thedistant rising ground. Towards this Trenholme strode, for it was theonly covert near in which a human being could travel unseen. It was moreby the impulse of energy, however, than by reasonable hope that he camethere, for by the time he had reached the edge of the trees, it wasbeginning to grow dark, even in the open plain. 

No one who has not seen birch trees in their undisturbed native hauntscan know how purely white, unmarred by stain or tear, their trunks canbe. Trenholme looked in among them. They grew thickly. White--white--itseemed in the gathering gloom that each was whiter than the other; andTrenholme, remembering that his only knowledge of the figure he soughtwas that it was wrapped in white, recognised the uselessness, theabsurdity even, of hoping to find it here, of all places. 

Then he went back to the road and started for Turrifs Settlement. 

CHAPTER IX. 

The settlement called "Turrifs" was not a village; it was only alocality, in which there were a good many houses within the radius of afew square miles. 

When Alec Trenholme started off the third time to reproach the recreantdriver of the ox-cart, he had no intention of again dealing with himdirectly. He bent his steps to the largest house in the neighbourhood, the house of the family called Turrifs; whose present head, being thesecond of his generation on the same farm, held a position of looselyacknowledged pre-eminence. Turrif was a Frenchman, who had had oneScotch forefather through whom his name had come. This, indeed, was thecase with many of his neighbours. 

Trenholme had had various negotiations with this Turrif and hisneighbours, but he had only once been to the house he was now seekingand in the darkness, which had fallen completely during his three-milewalk, he was a little puzzled to find it quickly. Its wooden andweather-greyed walls glimmered but faintly in the night; it was only byfollowing the line of log fences through the flat treeless fields thathe found himself at last full in the feeble rays of the candle-lightthat peeped from its largest window. Trenholme knocked. 

Turrif himself opened the door. He was a man of middle age, thick-setbut thin, with that curious grey shade on a healthy skin that so oftenpertains to Frenchmen. For a moment his shrewd but mild countenancepeered into the darkness; then, holding wide the door and making welcomemotion with his hand, he bade Trenholme enter. 

Trenholme could not speak French, but he knew that Turrif couldunderstand enough English to comprehend his errand if he told it slowlyand distinctly. Slowly and distinctly, therefore, he recounted all thathad befallen him since Saul arrived at the station; but such telling ofsuch a story could not be without some embarrassment, caused by thegrowing perception, on the part of both men, of its extraordinarynature. 

"Eh--h!" said the Frenchman during the telling. It was a prolongedsyllable, denoting meditative astonishment, and it brought anotherlistener, for the wife came and stood by her husband, who interpretedthe story to her, and shortly a girl of thirteen also drew near andstood listening to her father's interpretation. Trenholme began towonder whether the elder listeners were placing any confidence in hisword; but the doubt was probably in his mind only, for an honest mandoes not estimate the subtle force of his own honesty. 

Turrif and his wife listened to all that was said, and looked at eachother, and looked at him, and asked him a good many questions. They wereneither of them hasty, but, as the woman's manner was the morevivacious, so her questions, when translated, showed a somewhat quickerwit. When all was said, like wise people, they pronounced no sentence, either upon Trenholme's actions or upon those of the creature that hadinhabited the coffin; but they remarked that if the carter had committedno evil he would not have run away. They said that they had someknowledge of this man, whom they called "Monsieur Saul, " and that he wasa fellow of little worth. They agreed that Turrif should go withTrenholme, as requested, to bring the man to book. 

On crossing the threshold of the house Trenholme had come at once into alarge, long room, which composed the whole lower flat of the dwelling, as appeared from the windows on both sides and from the fact that thestaircase went up from one end of it. It was a comfortable, well-warmedroom, containing evidences of all the various industries of the family, from the harness that hung on the wall and the basket of carded wool bythe spinning-wheel, to the bucket of cow's mash that stood warming bythe stove at the foot of the baby's cradle. At the far end a largetable, that held the candle, had a meal spread upon it, and also someopen dog's-eared primers, at which small children were spelling audibly. 

When the conference, which had taken place near the door, was over, thewife went back to her children and her lighted table, and Trenholme madeas if to open the door, supposing that Turrif would walk away with him. 

"Eh--_non, "_ said the older man, with a kindly smile. _"Pas encore, "_and taking Trenholme by the arm, he pushed him gently towards the table. "I weel get out my 'orse, " said he, in slow, broken English. "You havehad enough walking to-day, and I have had enough work. _Ŕprésent"_--with a gesture toward the table. 

He made Trenholme sit down at the table. There was a very large pan ofthick sour milk on it, and a loaf of grey bread. Bits of this bread wereset round the edge of the table, near the children, who munched at them. 

Turrif gave Trenholme a bit of bread, cutting into the loaf as men onlydo in whose lives bread is not scarce. With a large spoon he took aquantity of the thick rich cream from the top of the milk and put asaucer of it before the visitor. Trenholme ate it with his bread, andfound it not as sour as he expected, and on the whole very good. Turrif, eating bread as he went, carried the harness out of the house. 

As there was no one left for him to talk to, Trenholme grew moreobservant. He remarked the sweetness and sense in the face of thehouse-mother as she bestowed their suppers upon the children. She wasstill comparatively young, but there was no beauty of youth about her, only the appearance of strength that is produced by toil and endurancebefore these two have worn the strength away. But, in spite of this lookof strength, the face was not hard--no, nor sad; and there was a certainlatent poetry, too, about the gesture and look with which she gave foodto the little ones, as if the giving and receiving were a free thing, and not the mere necessity of life. Her manner of giving them supper wasto push the large pan of curded milk close to the edge of the table, where the little ones were clustered, and let them, four of them atonce, lap out of the side of it with their little spoons. At the sametime she pushed the creasy yellow cover of cream to the farther side, with a watchful glance at Trenholme's saucer, evidently meaning that itwas kept for him. She and the elder boy and girl waited to sup till thelittle ones had finished. 

Trenholme endeavoured to say that he should not want any more cream, butshe did not understand his words. He would have felt more concerned atthe partiality shown him if the youngsters had looked more in need ofcream; but they were, in truth, so round-faced and chubby, and soevidently more pleased to stare at him with their big, black eyes thangrieved to lose the richest part of their milk, that he felt distresswould have been thrown way. All four little ones wore round knittedcaps, and their little heads, at uneven heights, their serious eyesrolling upon him, and their greedy little mouths supping in the milk thewhile, formed such an odd picture round the white disk of the milk-panthat Trenholme could not help laughing. The greedy little feeders, without dropping their spoons, looked to their mother to see whetherthey ought to be frightened or not at such conduct on the stranger'spart, but seeing her smile, they concluded that they were safe. 

Upon Trenholme's making further overtures of friendship, one or two ofthem began to smile: the smile was infectious, it spread to all four, and they began to laugh, and laughed in baby fashion quite immoderately. Their mother considered this a sign that they had had enough, and tooktheir spoons from them. As they scattered from the table Trenholmeperceived that, though their heads were covered, their feet were not. Their whole costume consisted of a short blue cotton nightgown and thelittle knitted cap. 

When Turrif came in to say that the horse was ready, Trenholme made aneffort to present his thanks in saying good-bye to the mistress of thehouse, but she did not seem to expect or take much notice of thesemanners. As he went out of the door he looked back to see her bendingover the baby in the cradle, and he noticed for the first time thatabove the cradle there was a little shrine fastened to the wall. It wasdecked with a crucifix and paper flowers; above was a coloured pictureof the Virgin. 

Trenholme, whose nerves were perhaps more susceptible than usual byreason of the creature set at large by the opening of the coffin, wondered that Turrif should leave his wife and children alone sowillingly, without any effort to bar the house and without objection ontheir part. He knew there was no other house within half a mile, and thedarkness that lay on the flat land appeared to give room for a thousanddangers. 

He expressed this surprise to Turrif, who replied placidly that the goodsaints took care of women and children--a reply which probably did notgo to prove the man's piety so much as the habitual peace of theneighbourhood. 

The vehicle to which Turrif had harnessed his pony was a small haycart--that is to say, a cart consisting of a platform on two wheels, anda slight paling along each side intended to give some support to itscontents. It was much more lightly made than Saul's ox-cart. The wheelswent over the frozen ruts at a good pace, and the inmates were badlyjolted. Trenholme would rather have walked, but he had already observedthat the Canadian rustic never walked if he could possibly avoid it, andhe supposed there must be some reason for this in the nature of thecountry. The jolting made talking disagreeable; indeed, when heattempted conversation he found his words reminded him forcibly of timeswhen, in the nursery of his childhood, he had noticed the cries of babycompanions gradually grow less by reason of the rapid vibrations of thenurse's knee. He kept silence therefore, and wondered whether Turrif orthe pony was guiding, so carelessly did they go forth into the darkness, turning corners and avoiding ghostly fences with slovenly ease. 

It soon appeared that Turrif knew no more than Trenholme where to findSaul; his only method of seeking was to inquire at each house. It wasnot, however, necessary to go into each house; the cart was only broughtsufficiently near upon the road for a lusty shout to reach the familyinside. The first house Trenholme hardly saw in the darkness; at one ortwo others he had a good view of the interior through an open door orwindow. From each door men and boys, sometimes women and children, sallied forth eagerly into the cold night to see what was wanted, and toeach inquiry the phlegmatic Turrif repeated Trenholme's tale. Trenholmewould have given a good deal to be able fully to understand what wassaid. There was much conversation. From each house one or two men joinedthem, and in one case, from a squalid-looking doorway, a loud-speakingand wilful girl came out and insisted on getting into the cart. Shetalked to the men and shrieked loudly when any object, such as a barn ora tree, loomed dimly at the side of the road. Two of the men brought alantern and walked behind. When they came to the house whose roof wasfound to cover Saul, a party of eight entered to hear and pronounce uponhis explanation. Certainly, if Trenholme had had the management of thebusiness, he would not have proceeded in this fashion, but he had nochoice. 

The carter had been drinking whisky--not much as yet, but enough to givehim a greater command of words than he ordinarily possessed. When he sawTrenholme among the band who were inquiring for him, he manifesteddistinct signs of terror, but not at his visitors; his ghastly glanceswere at door and window, and he drew nearer to the company forprotection. It was plainly what they had to tell, not what they had todemand, that excited him to trembling; the assembled neighbourhoodseemed to strike him in the light of a safeguard. When, however, hefound the incomers were inclined to accuse him of trick or knavery, hespoke out bravely enough. 

Old Cameron had died--they knew old Cameron?

Yes, the men assented to this knowledge. 

And after he had been dead two days and one night, Mr. Bates--they knewMr. Bates?--

Assent again. 

--Had put him in the coffin with his own hands and nailed down the lid. He was quite dead--perfectly dead. 

On hearing this the bold girl who had come with them shrieked again, andtwo of the younger men took her aside, and, holding her head over abucket in the corner poured water on it, a process which silenced her. 

"And, " said Turrif, quietly speaking in French, "what then?"

"What then?" said Saul; "Then to-day I brought him in the cart. "

"And buried him on the road, because he was heavy and useless, and letsome friend of yours play with the box?" continued Turrif, with aninsinuating smile. 

Saul swore loudly that this was not the case, at which the men shruggedtheir shoulders and looked at Trenholme. 

To him the scene and the circumstances were very curious. The house intowhich they had come was much smaller than Turrif's. The room was adismal one, with no sign of woman or child about it. Its atmosphere wasthick with the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of hot whisky, in whichSaul and his host had been indulging. A soft, homemade candle, gutteringon the table, shed a yellow smoky light upon the faces of the beardedmen who stood around it. Saul, perhaps from an awkward feeling oftrembling in his long legs, had resumed his seat, his little eyes morebeady, his little round cheeks more ruddy, than ever, his whiskers nowentirely disregarded in the importance of his self-vindication. 

Too proud for asseveration, Trenholme had not much more to say. Hestated briefly that he could not be responsible for the contents of abox when the contents had run away, nor for any harm that the runawaymight do to the neighbourhood, adding that the man who had consigned thebox to his care must now come and take it away. 

He spoke with a fine edge of authority in his voice, as a man speaks whofeels himself superior to his circumstances and companions. He did notlook at the men as he spoke, for he was not yet sure whether they gavehim the credence for which he would not sue, and he did not care to seeif they derided him. 

"I sink, " said Turriff, speaking slowly in English now, --"I sink wecannot make that mee-rácle be done. "

"What miracle?" asked Trenholme. 

Those of the men who understood any English laughed. 

"Se mirácle to make dis genteel-man, M. Saul, fetch se box. "

Trenholme then saw that Saul's shudderings had come, upon him again atthe mere suggestion. 

"What am I to do, then?" he asked. 

At this the men had a good deal of talk, and Turrif interpreted thedecision. 

"We sink it is for M. Bates to say what shall be done wit se box. Wesink we take se liberté to say to sis man--'Stay here till some one goto-morrow and fetch M. Bates. '"

This struck Trenholme as just, and any objection he felt to spending thenight under the same roof with the mysterious coffin did not seem worthremark. 

As for Saul, he professed himself satisfied with the arrangement. He wasonly too glad to have some one brought who would share hisresponsibility and attest, in part at least, his tale. 

"Well, " said Trenholme, "I'll go then. "

He felt for the key of the station in his pocket, and would have thankedthe men and bid them "good evening, " had they not, rather clamorously, deprecated his intention. Living, as they did, far from all organisedjustice, there was in them a rough sense of responsibility for eachother which is not found in townsmen. 

Trenholme shortly made out that they had decided that two of them shouldhelp him to guard the station that night, and were only disputing as towho should be allotted for the purpose. 

"It isn't at all necessary, " said Trenholme. 

"We sink, " said Turrif, with his deliberate smile, "it will be best; forif you have not been wandering in your mind, some one else's body hasbeen wandering. "

Trenholme went back to his station in the not unpleasant company of twosturdy farmers, one young and vivacious, the other old and slow. Theyfound the place just as he had left it. The coffin was empty, save forthe sweet-scented cushion of roughly covered pine tassels on which thebody of the gaunt old Cameron had been laid to rest. 

The three men sat by the stove in the other room. The smoke from theirpipes dimmed the light of the lamp. The quiet sounds of their talk andmovements never entirely took from them the consciousness of the largedark silence that lay without. No footfall broke it. When they heard thedistant rush of the night train, they all three went out to see itsgreat yellow eye come nearer and nearer. 

Trenholme had one or two packages to put in the van. He and hiscompanions exchanged greetings with the men of the train. 

Just as he was handing in his last package, a gentlemanly voice accostedhim. 

"Station-master!" said a grey-haired, military-looking traveller, "Station-master! Is there any way of getting milk here?"

A lady stood behind the gentleman. They were both on the platform at thefront of a passenger car. 

"It's for a child, you know, " explained the gentleman. 

Trenholme remembered his untouched tea, and confessed to the possessionof a little milk. 

"Oh, hasten, hasten!" cried the lady, "for the guard says the train willmove on in a moment. "

As Trenholme knew that the little French conductor thus grandly quoteddid not know when the train would start, and as in his experience thetrain, whatever else it did, never hastened, he did not move with thesudden agility that was desired. Before he turned he heard aloud-whispered aside from the lady: "Tell him we'll pay himdouble--treble, for it; I have heard they are avaricious. "

When Trenholme had started the train he jumped upon it with the milk. Hefound himself in a long car. The double seats on either side were filledwith sleepy people. There was a passage down the middle, and the lampsabove shone dimly through dirty glasses. Trenholme could not immediatelysee any one like the man who had spoken to him outside, but he did spyout a baby, and, jug in hand, he went and stood a moment near it. 

The lady who held the baby sat upright, with her head leaning againstthe side of the car. She was dozing, and the baby was also asleep. Itwas a rosy, healthy child, about a year old. The lady's handsome facesuggested she was about seven-and-twenty. Among all the shawl-wrappedheaps of restless humanity around them, this pair looked very lovelytogether. The dusty lamplight fell upon them. They seemed to Trenholmelike a beautiful picture of mother and child, such as one sometimescomes upon among the evil surroundings of old frames and hideous prints. 

Said Trenholme aloud: "I don't know who asked me for the milk. "

The lady stirred and looked at him indifferently. She seemed verybeautiful. Men see with different eyes in these matters, but inTrenholme's eyes this lady was faultless, and her face and air touchedsome answering mood of reverence in his heart. It rarely happens, however, that we can linger gazing at the faces which possess for us themost beauty. The train was getting up speed, and Trenholme, just thencatching sight of the couple who had asked for the milk, had no choicebut to pass down the car and pour it into the jar they held. 

The gentleman put his hand in his pocket. "Oh no, " said Trenholme, andwent out. But the more lively lady reopened the door behind him, andthrew a coin on the ground as he was descending. 

By the sound it had made Trenholme found it, and saw by the light of thepassing car that it was an English shilling. When the train was gone hestood a minute where it had carried him, some hundred feet from thestation, and watched it going on into the darkness. 

Afterwards, when his companions had composed themselves to sleep, and helay sleepless, listening to all that could be heard in the silent night, curiously enough it was not upon the exciting circumstances of the earlyevening that he mused chiefly, but upon the people he had seen in thenight train. 

A seemingly little thing has sometimes the power to change thosecurrents that set one way and another within a man, making him satisfiedor dissatisfied with this or that. By chance, as it seems, a song issung, a touch is given, a sight revealed, and man, like a harp hung tothe winds, is played upon, and the music is not that which he devises. So it was that Trenholme's encounter in the dusty car with the beautifulwoman who had looked upon him so indifferently had struck a chord whichwas like a plaintive sigh for some better purpose in life than he wasbeating out of this rough existence. It was not a desire for greaterpleasure that her beauty had aroused in him, but a desire for nobleraction--such was the power of her face. 

The night passed on; no footfall broke the silence. The passing trainwas the only episode of his vigil. 

In the morning when Trenholme looked out, the land was covered deep insnow. 

CHAPTER X. 

When the night train left Turrifs Station it thundered on into thedarkness slowly enough, but, what with bumping over its rough rails andrattling its big cars, it seemed anxious to deceive its passengers intothe idea that it was going at great speed. A good number of its carswere long vans for the carriage of freight; behind these came two forthe carriage of passengers. These were both labelled "First Class. " Onewas devoted to a few men, who were smoking; the other was the one fromwhich Trenholme had descended. Its seats, upholstered in red velvet, were dusty from the smoke and dirt of the way; its atmosphere, heated bya stove at one end, was dry and oppressive. It would have beenimpossible, looking at the motley company lounging in the lamplight, tohave told their relations one to another; but it was evident that anuncertain number of young people, placed near the lady who held thebaby, were of the same party; they slept in twos and threes, leaning onone another's shoulders and covered by the same wraps. It was to seatsleft vacant near this group that the man and his wife who had procuredthe milk returned. The man, who was past middle life, betook himself tohis seat wearily, and pulled his cap over his eyes without speaking. Hiswife deposited the mug of milk in a basket, speaking in low but brisktones to the lady who held the baby. 

"There, Sophia; I've had to pay a shilling for a cupful, but I've gotsome milk. "

"I should have thought you would have been surer to get good milk at alarger station, mamma. " She did not turn as she spoke, perhaps for fearof waking the sleeping baby. 

The other, who was the infant's mother, was rapidly tying a shawl roundher head and shoulders. She was a little stout woman, who in middle agehad retained her brightness of eye and complexion. Her features wereregular, and her little nose had enough suggestion of the eagle's beakin its form to preserve her countenance from insignificance. 

"Oh, my dear, " she returned, "as to the milk--the young man looked quiteclean, I assure you; and then such a large country as the cows have toroam in!"

Having delivered herself of this energetic whisper, she subsided belowthe level of the seat back, leaving Sophia to sit and wonder in a drowsymuse whether the mother supposed that the value of a cow's milk would beincreased if, like Io, she could prance across a continent. 

Sophia Rexford sat upright, with the large baby in her arms and a biggerchild leaning on her shoulder. Both children were more or less restless;but their sister was not restless, she sat quite still. The attitude ofher tall figure had the composure and strength in it which do not belongto first youth. Hers was a fine face; it might even be called beautiful;but no one now would call it pretty--the skin was too colourless, theexpression too earnest. 

Her eyes took on the look that tells of inward, rather than outward, vision. Her thoughts were such as she would not have told to any one, but not because of evil in them. 

This was the lady to whom Robert Trenholme, the master of the college atChellaston, had written his letter; and she was thinking of that letternow, and of him, pondering much that, by some phantasy of dreams, sheshould have been suddenly reminded of him by the voice of the man whohad passed through the car with the milk. 

Her mind flitted lightly to the past; to a season she had once spent ina fashionable part of London, and to her acquaintance with the youngcurate, who was receiving some patronage from the family with whom shewas visiting. She had been a beauty then; every one danced to the tuneshe piped, and this curate--a mere fledgeling--had danced also. That wasnothing. No, it was nothing that he had, for a time, followed lovesickin her train--she never doubted that he had had that sickness, althoughhe had not spoken of it--all that had been notable in the acquaintancewas that she, who at that time had played with the higher aims andimpulses of life, had thought, in her youthful arrogance, that shediscerned in this man something higher and finer than she saw in othermen. She had been pleased to make something of a friend of him, condescending to advise and encourage him, pronouncing upon his desireto seek a wider field in a new country, and calling it good. Later, whenhe was gone, and life for her had grown more quiet for lack ofcircumstances to feed excitement, she had wondered sometimes if this manhad recovered as perfectly from that love-sickness as others had done. That was all--absolutely all. Her life had lately come again intoindirect relations with him through circumstances over which neither henor she had had any control; and now, when she was about to see him, hehad taken upon him to write and pick up the thread of personalfriendship again and remind her of the past. 

In what mood had he written this reminder? Sophia Rexford would surelynot have been a woman of the world if she had not asked herself thisquestion. Did he think that on seeing her again he would care for her asbefore? Did he imagine that intervening years, which had broughtmisfortune to her family, would bring her more within his grasp? Or washis intention in writing still less pleasing to her than this? Had hewritten, speaking so guardedly of past friendship, with the desire toward off any hope she might cherish that he had remained unmarried forher sake? Sophia's lips did not curl in scorn over this last suggestion, because she was holding her little court of inquiry in a mental regionquite apart from her emotions. 

This woman's character was, however, revealed in this, that she passedeasily from her queries as to what the man in question did, or would belikely to, think of her. A matter of real, possibly of paramount, interest to her was to wonder whether his life had really expanded intothe flower of which she had thought the bud gave promise. She tried tolook back and estimate the truth of her youthful instinct, which hadtold her he was a man above other men. And if that had been so, was heless or more now than he had been then? Had he been a benefit to the newcountry to which he had come? Had the move from the Old World tothis--the decision in which she had rashly aided with youthfuladvice--been a good or a bad thing for him and for the people to whom hehad come?

From this she fell a-thinking upon her own life as, in the light ofTrenholme's letter, the contrast of her present womanly self with thebright, audacious girl of that past time was set strongly before her. Itis probably as rare for any one really to wish to be the self of anyformer time--to wish to be younger--as it is really to wish to be anyone else. Sophia certainly did not dream of wishing to be younger. Weare seldom just to ourselves--either past or present: Sophia had a finescorn for what she remembered herself to have been; she had greaterrespect for her present self, because there was less of outward show, and more of reality. 

It might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been more, sincethe train had last started, but now it stopped rather suddenly. Sophia'sfather murmured sleepily against the proximity of the stations. He wasreclining in the seat just behind her. 

Sophia looked out of her window. She saw no light. By-and-by some mencame up the side of the track with lanterns. She saw by the light theyheld that they were officials of the train, and that the bank on whichthey walked looked perfectly wild and untrodden. She turned her headtoward her father. 

"We are not at any station, " she remarked. 

"Ay!" He got up with cumbrous haste, as a horse might rise. He, too, looked out of the window, then round at his women and children, and cladhimself in an immense coat. 

"I'll just go out, " he whispered, "and see how things are. If there'sanything wrong I'll let you know. "

He intended his whisper to be something akin to silence; he intended toexercise the utmost consideration for those around him; but his longremark was of the piercing quality that often appertains to whispers, and, as he turned his back, two of the children woke, and a young girlin the seat in front of Sophia sat up, her grey eyes dilated with alarm. 

"Sophia, " she said, with a low sob, "oh, Sophia, is there something_wrong_?"

"Be quiet!" said Sophia, tartly. 

The snoring mother now shut her mouth with a snap. In a twinkling shewas up and lively. 

"Has your father got on his overcoat, Sophia? Is there danger?" Shedarted from one side of the carriage to another, rubbing the moistureoff each window with a bit of her shawl and speaking with rapidity. 

Then she ran out of the car. Two of the children followed her. Theothers, reassured by Sophia's stillness, huddled together at thewindows, shivering in the draught of cold air that came from the opendoor. 

After some minutes Sophia's father came in again, leading his wife andchildren with an old-world gallantry that was apparent even in theseunsatisfactory circumstances. He had a slow impressive way of speakingthat made even his unimportant words appear important. In the presentcase, as soon as he began to speak most of the people in the car camenear to hear. 

Some obstruction, he said, had fallen across the line. It was not much;the men would soon remove it. An Indian woman, who lived near, hadheroically lit a fire, and thus stopped the train in time. There was noother train due upon the road for many hours. There was no danger. There_might_ have been a bad accident, but they had been providentiallypreserved. 

His utterance greatly impressed the bystanders, for he was animportant-looking gentleman; but long before he had finished speaking, the bright-eyed little mother had set her children into their variousseats again, pulled their jackets close in front, rolled up their feet, patted their caps down on their heads, and, in fact, by a series ofpokes and pulls, composed her family to sleep, or, at least, startedthem as far on the way to sleep as a family can be sent by such amethod. 

Quiet settled on the car again. Soon the train went on. Sophia Rexford, looking out, could dimly discern the black outline of wood and river. Atlength the window grew thicker and opaque. There was no sound of rain orhail, and yet something from without muffled the glass. Sophia sleptagain. 

When the dawn of day at length stole upon them she found that snow hadbeen upon the glass and had melted. Snow lay thick on the ledges of thewindows outside. Yet in that part of the country in which they now werethere was none on the ground. They seemed to have run a race with asnowstorm in the night, and to have gained it for the nonce. But thesight struck her sadly. The winter, which she dreaded, was evidently ontheir track. 

It was in the first grey hour of dawn that the train steamed into thestation, which was the junction for Quebec, and passengers bound for theEnglish settlements south of that city were obliged to change. 

For a few minutes before the train stopped the Rexford family had beenbooted and spurred, so to speak, ready for the transfer. Each youngperson was warmly buttoned up and tied into a warlike-looking muffler. Each had several packages in charge. A youth came in from thesmoking-car and attached himself to them. When the train had come to astandstill the little French conductor was energetic in helping them todescend. 

The family was very large, and, moreover, it was lively; its memberswere as hard to count as chickens of a brood. Sophia, holding theyoungest child and the tickets, endeavoured to explain their number tothe conductor. 

"There are three children that go free, " she said. "Then two little boysat half fare--that makes one ticket. Myself and three young ladies--makefive tickets; my brother and father and mother--eight. "

The sharp Frenchman looked dubious. "Three children free; two at halffare, " he repeated. He was trying to see them all as he spoke. 

Sophia repeated her count with terse severity. 

"There was not another young lady?"

"Certainly not. "

And Sophia was not a woman to be trifled with, so he punched the ticketsand went back into his car. 

Wooden platforms, a station hotel built of wood, innumerable lines ofblack rails on which freight trains stood idle, the whole place shut inby a high wooden fence--this was the prospect which met the eyes of theEnglish travellers, and seen in the first struggling light of morning, in the bitter cold of a black frost, it was not a cheerful one. TheRexford family, however, were not considering the prospect; they wereintent only on finding the warm passenger-car of the train that was totake them the rest of their journey, and which they had been assuredwould be waiting here to receive them. 

This train, however, was not immediately to be seen, and, in themeantime, the broad platform, which was dusted over with dry frostcrystals, was the scene of varied activities. 

From the baggage-car of the train they had left, a great number of boxesand bags, labelled "Rexford, " were being thrown down in a violentmanner, which greatly distressed some of the girls and their father. 

"Not that way. That is not the way. Don't you know that is not the wayboxes should be handled?" shouted Captain Rexford sternly, and then, seeing that no one paid the slightest attention to his words, he wasfain to turn away from the cause of his agitation. He took a brisk turndown the empty end of the platform, and stood there as a man might whofelt that the many irritations of life were growing too much for hisself-control. 

The little boys found occupation because they observed that the whitecondensed vapour which came from their mouths with each breath boregreat resemblance to the white steam a slowly moving engine was hissingforth. They therefore strutted in imitation of the great machine, emitting large puffs from their little warm mouths, and making the soundwhich a groom makes when he plies the curry-comb. The big brother wasassisting in the unloading of a large carriage from an open van in therear of the train, and Mrs. Rexford, neat, quick-moving, and excitable, after watching this operation for a few minutes and issuing severalorders as to how it was to be done, moved off in lively search of thenext train. She ran about, a few steps in each direction, looking at thevarious railway lines, and then accosted a tall, thin man who wasstanding still, doing nothing. 

"Is the train for the Eastern Townships here? We were told it would behere waiting to receive us at daybreak. Is it here? Is it ready?"

Seeing from the man's face, as she had already seen from the emptytracks, that no such train was in readiness, she ran at one of thepuffing and strutting children whose muffler was loose, and tied it upagain. Then, struck by another thought, she returned to the impassiveman whom she had before addressed. 

"This is really the _actual_ dawn, I suppose?" she asked, with an air ofimportance. "I have read that in some countries there is what is calleda 'false dawn' that comes before the real one, you know. "

Compelled now to speak, the man, who was a New Englander, took a smallstick from between his teeth and said: "As far as I know, marm, thismorning is genuine. "

"Oh really"--with abatement of interest in her tone--"I thought perhapsthere might be that sort of thing in Canada, you know--we certainly readof Northern Lights. Very strange that our train isn't here!"

The Yankee took the trouble to reply again, hardly moving a muscle ofhis face. "Keep a good heart, marm; it may come along yet, a-ridin' onthese same Northern Lights. "

"Riding on--? I beg your pardon--on what, did you say?" she askedeagerly. 

At this the grey-eyed girl who had been frightened in the night pluckedher by the sleeve and pulled her away. "Don't you see he's making fun ofyou, mamma?"

Besides the grey-eyed girl, who wore short frocks, there were two othergirls in the first bloom of young-womanhood. One of these, havingoverheard the conversation, ran and told the other. 

"Just because we happened to read of such a thing in that book ofAsiatic travel! Isn't it absurd? And there's papa fuming at the otherend of the station. "

Both girls giggled. 

"I know _quite_ well that people will think us all crazy, " urged thefirst speaker. Then they laughed again, not unhappily. 

"There's not a doubt of it, " gasped the other. 

These two girls were very much alike, but one wore a red cloak and theother a blue one. In spite of the fact that they were somewhat blousedand a little grimy, and their pretty little noses were now nipped red bythe icy morning, they looked attractive as they stood, pressing theirhandkerchiefs to their mouths and bending with laughter. The extent oftheir mirth was proportioned to their youth and excitement, not to thecircumstances which called it forth. 

The train they had left now moved off. Most of the other passengers whohad alighted with them had taken themselves away in various directions, as travellers are apt to do, without any one else noticing exactly whathad become of them. 

Sophia, with the child in her arms, made her way to a mean waiting-room, and thither the children followed her. The mother, having at lastascertained the train would be ready in the course of time, soon came inalso, and the father and brother, hearing it would not be ready for atleast a quarter of an hour, went away to see the town. 

There was a stove burning hotly in the small waiting-room. The onlyother furniture was a bench all round the wall. The family, that hadentered somewhat tumultuously, almost filled it. There was only oneother traveller there, a big girl with a shawl over her head and abundle under her arm. When Sophia had come into the room alone with thebaby, she had asked the girl one or two questions, and been answeredcivilly enough; but when the rest of the family followed, the girlrelapsed into silence, and, after regarding them for a little while, sheedged her way out of the room. 

Mrs. Rexford, who in the excitement of change and bustle was alwayssubject to being struck with ideas which would not have occurred to hermind at other times, suddenly remembered now that they were dependentupon the resources of the new country for domestic service, and thatshe had heard that no chance of securing a good servant must be lost, asthey were very rare. Stating her thought hastily to Sophia, and dartingto the narrow door without waiting for a reply, she stretched out herhead with an ebullition of registry-office questions. 

"My good girl!" she cried, "my good girl!"

The girl came back nearer the door and stood still. 

"Do you happen to know of a girl about your age who can do kitchenwork?"

"I don't know any one here. I'm travelling. "

"But perhaps you would do for me yourself"--this half aside--"Can youmake a fire, keep pots clean, and scour floors?"

"Yes. " She did not express any interest in her assent. 

"Where are you going? Would you not like to come with me and enter myservice? I happen to be in need of just such a girl as you. "

No answer. 

"She doesn't understand, mamma, " whispered the grey-eyed girl in a shortfrock, who, having wedged herself beside her mother in the narrowdoorway, was the only one who could see or hear the colloquy. "Speakslower to the poor thing. "

"Looks very stupid, " commented Mrs. Rexford, hastily pulling in her headand speaking within the room. "But still, one must not lose a chance. "Then with head again outside, she continued, "Do you understand me, mygood girl? What is your name?"

"Eliza White. "

"That is a very good name"--encouragingly. "Where do you live?"

"I used to live a good bit over there, in the French country. " Shepointed with her arm in a certain direction, but as the points of thecompass had no existence for Mrs. Rexford's newly immigratedintelligence, and as all parts of Canada, near and remote, seemed verymuch in the same place in her nebulous vision of geography, the littleinformation the girl had given was of no interest to her and she tooklittle note of it. 

"Did you come from Quebec just now?"

"Yes, " replied the girl, after a moment's pause. 

Then, in answer to further questions, she told a succinct tale. She saidthat her father had a farm; that he had died the week before; that shehad no relatives in the place; that, having seen her father buried, shethought it best to come to an English-speaking locality, and wait thereuntil she had time to write to her father's brother in Scotland. 

"Sad, sad story! Lonely fate! Brave girl!" said Mrs. Rexford, shakingher head for a minute inside the waiting-room and rapidly repeating thetale. 

"Yes, if it's true, " said Sophia. But Mrs. Rexford did not hear, as shehad already turned her head out of the door again, and was commendingEliza White for the course she had taken. 

The grey-eyed Winifred, however, still turned inside to combatreproachfully Sophia's suspicions. "You would not doubt her word, Sophia, if you saw how cold and tired she looked. "

Mrs. Rexford seemed to argue concerning the stranger's truthfulness invery much the same way, for she was saying:--

"And now, Eliza, will you be my servant? If you will come with me toChellaston I will pay your fare, and I will take care of you until youhear from your uncle. "

"I do not want to be a servant. " The reply was stolidly given. 

"What! do you wish to be idle?"

"I will work in your house, if you like; but I can pay my own fare inthe cars, and I won't be a servant. "

There was so much sullen determination in her manner that Mrs. Rexforddid not attempt to argue the point. 

"Take her, mamma, " whispered Winifred. "How ill she seems! And she mustbe awfully lonely in this great country all alone. "

Mrs. Rexford, having turned into the room, was rapidly commenting toSophia. "Says she will come, but won't be called a servant, and can payher own fare. Very peculiar--but we read, you know, in that New Englandbook, that that was just the independent way they felt about it. Theycan only induce _slaves_ to be servants _there_, I believe. " She gavethis cursory view of the condition of affairs in the neighbouring Statesin an abstracted voice, and summed up her remarks by speaking out herdecision in a more lively tone. "Well, we must have some one to helpwith the work. This girl looks strong, and her spirit in the mattersignifies less. " Then, turning to the girl without the door: "I thinkyou will suit me, Eliza. You can stay with us, at any rate, till youhear from your uncle. You look strong and clean, and I'm _sure_ you'lldo your best to please me"--this with warning emphasis. "Come in now tothe warmth beside us. We can make room in here. "

The place was so small and the family so large that the last assurancewas not wholly unnecessary. Mrs. Rexford brought Eliza in and set hernear the stove. The girls and children gathered round her somewhatcuriously, but she sat erect without seeming to notice them much, anexpression of impassive, almost hardened, trouble on her pale face. Shewas a very tall, strong girl, and when she dropped the shawl back alittle from her head they saw that she had red hair. 

CHAPTER XI. 

The village of Chellaston was, in itself, insignificant. Its chiefincome was derived from summer visitors; its largest building was anhotel, greatly frequented in summer; and its best houses were owned bytownspeople, who used them only at that season. That which gaveChellaston a position and name above other places of the same size inthe country was an institution called "The New College, " in which boysup to the age of eighteen were given a higher education than could beobtained at ordinary schools. The college was a square brick building, not handsome, but commodious; and in the same enclosure with it were thehead-master's house, and a boarding-house in which the assistant-masterslived with the pupils. With that love of grand terms which a new countryis apt to evince, the head-master was called "The Principal, " and hisassistants "Professors. " The New College was understood to have thefuture of a university, but its present function was merely that of apublic school. 

Chellaston was prettily situated by a well-wooded hill and a fairflowing river. The college, with some fields that were cultivated forits use, was a little apart from most of the houses, placed, both as tophysical and social position, between the commonplace village and thefarms of the undulating land around it; for, by a curious drift ofcircumstances, the farms of this district were chiefly worked by Englishgentlemen, whose families, in lieu of all other worldly advantage, heldthe more stoutly by their family traditions. In doing so they were buttreasuring their only heirloom. And they did not expect to gain from thenear future any new source of pride; for it is not those who, asconvention terms it, are the best born who most easily gather again themoss of prosperity when that which has been about them for generationshas once been removed. They were, indeed, a set of people who exhibitedmore sweetness of nature than thrift. Elegance, even of the simplestsort, was almost unknown in their homes, and fashion was a word that hadonly its remotest echoes there; yet they prided themselves upon adheringstrictly to rules of behaviour which in their mother-country had alreadyfallen into the grave of outgrown ideas. Their little society was, indeed, a curious thing, in which the mincing propriety of the Old Worldhad wed itself right loyally to the stern necessity of the New. Howstern such necessity might be, the Rexford family, who came rolling intothis state of things in their own family carriage, had yet to learn. 

It was to the Principalship of the New College that Robert Trenholme, byvirtue of scholastic honours from Oxford, had attained. Although a youngman for the post, it was admitted by all that he filled it admirably. The school had increased considerably in the three years of hismanagement. And if Trenholme adapted himself to the place, the place wasalso adapted to him, for by it he held an assured standing in thecountry; he could, as the saying is, mix with the best; and he valuedhis position. Why should he not value it? He had won it honourably, andhe cherished it merely as the greatest of his earthly goods, which hebelieved he held in due subordination to more heavenly benefits. Thoselives are no doubt the most peaceful in which self-interest and dutycoalesce, and Trenholme's life at this period was like a fine cord, composed of these two strands twisted together with exquisite equality. His devotion to duty was such as is frequently seen when a man ofsanguine, energetic temperament throws the force of his being intobattle for the right. He had added to his school duties voluntaryservice in the small English church of Chellaston, partly because thecongregation found it hard to support a clergyman; partly because hepreferred keeping his schoolboys under the influence of his own sermons, which were certainly superior to those of such clergymen as were likelyto come there; and partly, if not chiefly, because the activity of hisnature made such serving a delight to him. The small church, like theschool, had been greatly improved since it had come under his hand, andthe disinterestedness of his unpaid ministrations was greatly lauded. Hewas a very busy, and a successful, man, much esteemed by all who knewhim. The New College was expected to become a university; RobertTrenholme hoped for this and expected to remain at its head, but thishope of his was by the way; he did not think of it often, for he lovedwork for its own sake. Even the value he set on his present success wasnot often, more actively in his mind than the value he set on the freshair he breathed. It was very occasionally that the pride of him came tothe surface, and then chiefly when animated by the memory of the timewhen he had been at a disadvantage in worldly things. Such memories cameto him when he prepared to go to the railway station to meet theRexfords. He concealed it perfectly, but it gave him certain swellingsof heart to think that Miss Rexford would now gradually see all to whichhe had attained. 

When Captain Rexford had decided upon buying a farm at Chellaston, hehad had some correspondence with Principal Trenholme on the subject, having been put into communication with him by the widow of the relativeat whose house Sophia and Trenholme had first met. This was the wholeextent of the acquaintance. Of Sophia's step-mother and her numerouschildren Robert Trenholme knew nothing, save that a second familyexisted. Nor did Captain Rexford imagine that his eldest daughter hadany distinct remembrance of a man whom she had so casually known. Fathers are apt to assume that they know the precise extent of theirdaughters' acquaintanceships, for the same reason that most peopleassume that what they never heard of does not exist. Yet when Trenholmeactually repaired to the station at the hour at which Captain Rexfordhad announced his arrival, it was a fact that many of his leisurethoughts for a month back had been pointing forward, like so manyguide-posts, to the meeting that was there to take place, and it wasalso true that the Rexford family--older and younger--were prepared tohail him as a friend, simply because their knowledge of him, thoughslight, was so much greater than of any other being in the place towhich they were come--and everything in this world goes by comparison. 

Now the main feature of the arrival of the Rexford family in Chellastonwas that they brought their own carriage with them. It was an old, heavycarriage, for it had come into Captain Rexford's possession in the firstplace by inheritance, and it was now a great many years since he hadpossessed horses to draw it. From its long and ignominious retreat in anouthouse it had lately emerged to be varnished and furbished anew, inorder to make the handsomer appearance in the new country. It had beenone of the considerations which had reconciled Mrs. Rexford toemigration, that on a farm this carriage could be used with little extraexpense. 

Principal Trenholme had come to the station, which was a little way fromthe village, in a smart gig of his own. According to Captain Rexford'sinstructions, he had sent to the station a pair of horses, to beharnessed to the aforesaid carriage, which had been carefully brought onthe same train with its owners. He had also sent of his own accord acomfortable waggon behind the horses, and he straightway urged that thefamily should repair in this at once to their new home, and leave thecarriage to be set upon its wheels at leisure. As he gave this advice heeyed the wheelless coach with a curiosity and disfavour which was almostapparent through his studious politeness. 

His arguments, however, and Captain Rexford's, who agreed with him, wereof no avail. Mrs. Rexford, partly from sentiment, partly from a certainpathetic vanity, had set her heart on driving to the new home in the oldcarriage. Captain Rexford's eldest son had helped to get the vehicle offthe train, and was now working steadily with one of the station hands toget it upon its wheels. It was assuredly such a carriage as that bit ofCanadian road had never seen before. The station loiterers, sometimeshelping in its arrangement, sometimes merely looking on, gazed at itwith unwavering attention. Robert Trenholme gazed at it also, and atlast felt obliged to give some more distinct warning of difficulties heforesaw. 

"We have native horses, " he said, with a good-humoured smile that leapedout of his eyes before it parted his lips; "we have horses, and we haveponies, and I am afraid that a pair of the one would be as serviceablein the long run as a pair of the other in drawing it on these roads. Are you getting out carriage-horses from England, Captain Rexford?"

The gentleman addressed continued to set the cushions in their places, but in a minute he went back into the station, where by a stove he foundhis wife and Sophia warming themselves, the smallest children, and a potof carriage oil. 

"You know, my dears, I never felt quite clear in my own mind that it waswise of us to bring the carriage. " He held his hands to the warmth as hespoke. "Mr. Trenholme, I find, seems to think it heavy for these roads. "

His wife heard him quite cheerfully. "In weather like this nothing couldbe more desirable, " said she, "than to have one's own comfortablycushioned carriage; and besides, I have always told you we owe it to ourchildren to show the people here that, whatever misfortunes we have had, we _have_ been people of consequence. " She added after a moment inconclusion: "Harold has brought the best grease for the wheels. "

She had her way therefore, and in course of time the ladies, and as manyof the children as could be crowded into the carriage, thus commencedthe last stage of their journey. The others were driven on by Trenholme. As for the little boys, "a good run behind, " their mother said, was justwhat they needed to warm them up. 

They began running behind, but soon ran in front, which rather confusedMrs. Rexford's ideas of order, but still the carriage lumbered on. 

CHAPTER XII. 

Captain Rexford had no fortune with his second wife; and their childrennumbered seven daughters and three sons. It was natural that theexpenses of so large a family should have proved too much for a slenderincome in an English town where a certain style of living had beendeemed a necessity. When, further, a mercantile disaster had swept awaythe larger part of this income, the anxious parents had felt that therewas nothing left for their children but a choice between degradingdependence on the bounty of others and emigration. From the new start inlife which the latter course would give they had large hopes. Accordingly, they gathered together all that they had, and, with a loanfrom a richer relative, purchased a house and farm in a locality wherethey were told their children would not wholly lack educationalopportunities or society. This move of theirs was heroic, but whetherwise or unwise remained to be proved by the result of indefinite years. The extent of their wealth was now this new property, an income which, in proportion to their needs, was a mere pittance, and the debt to thericher relative. 

The men who came to call on their new neighbour, and congratulate him onhis choice of a farm, did not know how small was the income nor how bigthe debt, yet even they shook their heads dubiously as they thought oftheir own difficulties, and remarked to each other that such a largefamily was certainly a great responsibility. 

"I wonder, " said one to another, "if Rexford had an idea in coming herethat he would marry his daughters easily. It's a natural thing, youknow, when one hears of the flower of British youth leaving England forthe Colonies, to imagine that, in a place like this, girls would be at apremium. I did. When we came out I said to my wife that when our littlegirls grew up they might pick and choose for themselves from among adozen suitors, but--well, this isn't just the locality for that, is it?"

Both men laughed a little. They knew that, however difficult it might beto find the true explanation of the fact, the fact remained that therewere no young men in Chellaston, that boys who grew up there went asinevitably elsewhere to make their fortunes as they would have done froman English country town. 

Among the ladies who came to see Mrs. Rexford and count her children, the feeling concerning her was more nearly allied to kindlycommiseration than she would at all have liked had she known it. Theysaid that Captain Rexford might succeed if his wife and daughters--Eachwould complete the conditional clause in her own way, but it was clearto the minds of all that the success of the Rexford farm would depend toa great extent upon the economy and good management practised in thehouse. 

Now the Rexfords, man, woman, and child, had come with brave hearts, intending to work and to economise; yet they found what was actuallyrequired of them different from all that their fancy had pictured; andtheir courage, not being obliged to face those dangers to which they hadadjusted it, and being forced to face much to which it was not adjusted, suffered shock, and took a little time to rally into moderate animation. 

At the end of their weary journey they had found themselves in a largewooden house, not new by any means, or smart in any of its appointments;and, as convenience is very much a matter of custom, it appeared to theminconvenient--a house in which room was set against room without vestigeof lobby or passage-way, and in which there were almost as many doors tothe outside as there were windows. They had bought it and its furnitureas a mere adjunct to a farm which they had chosen with more care, andwhen they inspected it for the first time their hearts sank somewhatwithin them. Captain Rexford, with impressive sadness, remarked to hiswife that there was a greater lack of varnish and upholstery and oftraces of the turning lathe than he could have supposed possiblein--"_furniture_. " But his wife had bustled away before he had quitefinished his speech. Whatever she might feel, she at least expressed nodiscouragement. Torture does not draw from a brave woman expressions ofdismay. 

That which gave both Mrs. Rexford and Sophia much perplexity in thefirst day or two of the new life was that the girl Eliza seemed to themto prove wholly incompetent. She moved in a dazed and weary fashionwhich was quite inconsistent with the intelligence and capacityoccasionally displayed in her remarks; and had they in the first threedays been able to hear of another servant, Mrs. Rexford would haveabruptly cancelled her agreement with Eliza. At the end of that time, however, when there came a day on which Mrs. Rexford and Sophia wereboth too exhausted by unpacking and housework to take their ordinaryshare of responsibility, Eliza suddenly seemed to awake and shakeherself into thought and action. She cleared the house of the litter ofpacking-cases, set their contents in order, and showed her knowledge ofthe mysteries of the kitchen in a manner which fed the family and sentthem to bed more comfortably than since their arrival. From that dayEliza became more cheerful; and she not only did her own work, but oftenaided others in theirs, and set the household right in all its variousefforts towards becoming a model Canadian home. If the ladies had nothad quite so much to learn, or if the three little children had not beenquite so helpless, Eliza's work would have appeared more effective. Asit was, the days passed on, and no tragedy occurred. 

It was a great relief to Captain and Mrs. Rexford in those days to turnto Principal Trenholme for society and advice. He was their nearestneighbour, and had easy opportunity for being as friendly and kind as heevidently desired to be. Captain Rexford pronounced him a fine fellowand a perfect gentleman. Captain Rexford had great natural courtesy ofdisposition. 

"I suppose, Principal Trenholme, " said he blandly, as he entertained hisvisitor one day in the one family sitting-room, "I suppose that you arerelated to the Trenholmes of----?"

Trenholme was playing with one of the little ones who stood between hisknees. He did not instantly answer--indeed, Captain Rexford's manner wasso deliberate that it left room for pauses. Sophia, in cloak and furbonnet, was standing by the window, ready to take the children fortheir airing. Trenholme found time to look up from his tiny playmate andsteal a glance at her handsome profile as she gazed, with thoughtful, abstracted air, out upon the snow. "Not a very near connection, CaptainRexford, " was his reply; and it was given with that frank smile whichalways leaped first to his eyes before it showed itself about his mouth. 

It would have been impossible for a much closer observer than CaptainRexford to have told on which word of this small sentence the emphasishad been given, or whether the smile meant that Principal Trenholmecould have proved his relationship had he chosen, or that he laughed atthe notion of there being any relationship at all. Captain Rexfordaccordingly interpreted it just as suited his inclination, and mentionedto another neighbour in the course of a week that his friend, thePrincipal of the College, was a distant relative, by a younger branchprobably, of the Trenholmes of--, etc. Etc. , an item of news of whichthe whole town took account sooner or later. 

To Mrs. Rexford Trenholme was chiefly useful as a person of whom shecould ask questions, and she wildly asked his advice on every possiblesubject. On account of Captain Rexford's friendly approval, and hisvalue to Mrs. Rexford as a sort of guide to useful knowledge on thesubject of Canada in general and Chellaston in particular, RobertTrenholme soon became intimate, in easy Canadian fashion, with thenewcomers; that is, with the heads of the household, with the rompingchildren and the pretty babies. The young girls were not sufficientlyforward in social arts to speak much to a visitor, and with Sophia hedid not feel at all on a sure footing. 

After this little conversation with Captain Rexford about his relatives, and when Sophia had received the other children from the hands of Elizaand repaired with them to the house door, Trenholme also took leave, androse to accompany her as far as the gate. 

Sophia shivered a little when she stepped out upon the narrow woodengallery in front of the door. 

The Rexford house was not situated in the midst of the farm, but betweenthe main road that ran out of the village and the river that here layfor some distance parallel with the road. On the next lot of land stoodan empty house in the centre of a large deserted garden; and on theother side of the road, about a quarter of a mile off, stood the collegebuildings, which were plainly to be seen over flat fields and low logfences. Beyond the college grounds were woods and pastures, and beyondagain rose Chellaston Mountain. This view was what Sophia and Trenholmelooked upon as they stood on the verandah; and all that they saw--field, road, roof, tree, and hill--was covered with sparkling snow. It was aweek since the snow came, and Sophia still shivered a little whenevershe looked at it. 

"I am sorry to see you do not look upon this scene as if it rejoicedyour heart, " he said. "When you know it better, you will, I hope, loveit as I do. It is a glorious climate, Miss Rexford; it is a gloriouscountry. The depressions and fears that grow up with one's life in theOld World fall away from one in this wonderful air, with the stimulus ofa new world and a strong young nation all around. This snow is not cold;it is warm. In this garden of yours it is just now acting as a blanketfor the germs of flowers that could not live through an English winter, but will live here, and next summer will astonish you with theirrichness. Nor is it cold for _you_; it is dry as dust; you can walk overit in moccasins, and not be damp: and it has covered away all the decayof autumn, conserving for you in the air such pure oxygen that it willbe like new life in your veins, causing you to laugh at the frost. "

"I have not your enthusiasm, " she replied. Together they led theunsteady feet of the little ones down the crisp snow path which Harold'sindustrious shovel had made. 

Trenholme spoke briefly of the work he was trying to do in his school. A clergyman has social licence to be serious which is not accorded toother men. Wherefore he spoke as a clergyman might speak to a friend, saying, in general terms, how steep is the ascent when, among mundaneaffairs, human beings try to tread only where the angels of the higherlife may lead. 

Sophia assented, feeling a little sharp because it seemed to her that hewas taking up the thread of his acquaintance with her just where it hadformerly parted when she had thrown before him the gauntlet of such highresolves and heavenly aims as young girls can easily talk about whenthey know as yet nothing of their fulfilment. Whether or not Sophia knewmore of their fulfilment since then, she had, at least, learned a morehumble reverence for the very thought of such struggles, and she wasquite ready to believe that the man to whom she had once called to comeonward had by this time far outstripped her in the race. She was _ready_for this belief; but she had not accepted it, because, as yet confusedand excited by all that was new, she had formed no conclusion whateverwith regard to Trenholme. It had puzzled her somewhat from the outset tofind him such a model of elegance in the matter of clothes and manners. She had, somehow, fancied that he would have a long beard and wear anold coat. Instead of that, his usual manner of accosting her remindedher more of those fashion plates in which one sees tailors' blockstaking off their hats to one another. She did not think this was to hisdisadvantage; she did not, as yet, think distinctly on the matter atall. She certainly had no time to deliberate during this particularconversation, for her companion, having only a few minutes to utilise, was in a talkative humour. Having spoken of his own work, and made themore general observations on the difficulties of what is commonly calledthe "narrow road, " in a quiet, honest way, he said something morepersonal. 

"I have always felt, Miss Rexford, that it would be a pleasure to me tosee you again, because of the strength and courage which you managed toinfuse into my youthful aspirations; but now that I have seen you, willyou permit me to say that you have been quite unknowingly a help to meagain? A week ago I was half-disheartened of my life because of theapparent sordidness of its daily duties, and now that I have seen yougiving your life to perform small and unassuming services for others, myown duties have appeared more sacred. I can't tell you how much I admireyour unselfish devotion to these children. Don't think me rude because Isay it. I often think we are shabby to one another because, in thestrife, we do not frankly say when we are helped by seeing the bravefight that some one else is making. "

They had stopped by the gate, for he was going one way and she and thelittle ones another. Two strong young firs, with snow upon theirshelving branches, formed gateposts. The long broad road was white astheir footpath had been. 

Sophia answered: "There is no virtue in what I do, for, had I thechoice, I certainly should not be their nursemaid. "

"Do you know, " he said, "I think when we see life in its reality, instead of in its seeming, we shall find that the greatest deeds havebeen done just because their doers believe that they could not dootherwise. "

"I don't see that. If circumstances shut us up to doing certain things, there is no virtue in doing them. There may be a little virtue in notrepining at our fate, but not much. "

He did not answer for a minute, but broke the curl of a little snowdriftgently with his stick. Because he did not answer or say good-bye, Sophiatarried for a moment and then looked up at him. 

"Miss Rexford, " he replied, "the voice of circumstances says to us justwhat we interpret it to say. It is in the _needs must_ of a high naturethat true nobility lies. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

It is upon the anniversary of feasts that a family, if despondent atall, feels most despondent. So it fell out that at Christmas-time thehomesickness which hitherto had found its antidote in novelty andsurprise now attacked the Rexford household. The girls wept a good deal. Sophia chid them for it sharply. Captain Rexford carried a solemn face. The little boys were in worse pickles of mischief than was ordinary. Even Mrs. Rexford was caught once or twice, in odd corners, hastilywiping away furtive tears. 

This general despondency seemed to reach a climax one afternoon somedays before the end of the year. Without, the wind was blowing and snowwas descending; inside, the housework dragged monotonously. The onlylively people in the house were the little children. They were playingquite riotously in an upper room, under the care of the Canadian girl, Eliza; but their shouts only elicited sighs from Mrs. Rexford's elderdaughters, who were helping her to wash the dinner dishes in thekitchen. 

These two elder daughters had, since childhood, always been dressed, sofar as convenient, the one in blue, the other in red, and were nicknamedaccordingly. Their mother thought it gave them individuality which theyotherwise lacked. The red frock and the blue were anything but gay justnow, for they were splashed and dusty, and the pretty faces above themshowed a decided disposition to pout and frown, even to shed tears. 

The kitchen was a long, low room. The unpainted wood of floor, walls, and ceiling was darkened somewhat by time. Two square, four-panedwindows were as yet uncurtained, except that Nature, with the kindnessof a fairy helper, had supplied the lack of deft fingers and veiled theglass with such devices of the frost as resembled miniature landscapesof distant alp and nearer minaret. The large, square cooking-stovesmoked a little. Between the stove and the other door stood the table, which held the dishes at which worked the neat, quick mother and herrather untidy and idle daughters. 

"Really, Blue and Red!" The words were jerked out to conceal a sighwhich had risen involuntarily. "This is disgraceful. "

Her sharp brown eyes fell on the pile of dishes she had washed, whichthe two girls, who were both drying them, failed to diminish as fast asshe increased it. 

"Our cloths are wet, " said Blue, looking round the ceiling vaguely, asif a dry dish-towel might be lying somewhere on a rafter. 

"I declare--" the mother began, tapping her foot. But what she was goingto declare was never known, for just then a knock at the outer doordiverted their attention. 

However commonplace may be the moment after a door is opened, the momentbefore the opening is apt to be full of interest, for one can never knowbut that some cause of delightful excitement is on the other side. 

It was Blue who opened the door. She did not at first open it very wide, for she had learned by experience how much icy air could rush in, andthe other two, watching from behind, saw her answering some salutationwith dubious politeness. Then, after a moment, they saw her open it morewidely, and with a shy but hospitable inclination of the prettyhead--"Will you walk in?" said Blue. 

The young man who immediately entered had a very smart appearance toeyes which had grown accustomed to the working garb of father andbrother. He was, moreover, handsome to a degree that is not ordinary. The curly hair from which he had lifted his fur cap was black and glossyas a blackbird's plumage, and the moustache, which did not cover thefull red lips, matched the hair, save that it seemed of finer and softermaterial. His brown eyes had the glow of health and good spirits inthem. 

"Dear me!" Mrs. Rexford gave this involuntary exclamation of surprise;then she turned inquiringly to the visitor. It was not in her nature toregard him with an unfriendly eye; and as for Blue and Red, a spot ofwarm colour had come into each of their sorrowful cheeks. They were toowell bred to look at each other or stare at the stranger, but there wasa flutter of pleased interest about the muscles of their rosy lips thatneeded no expressive glances to interpret it. 

To be sure, the next few minutes' talk rather rubbed the bloom off theirpleasure, as one rubs beauty off a plum by handling; but the plum isstill sweet; and the pleasure was still there, being composed purely ofthe excitement of meeting a young human creature apparently so akin tothemselves, but different with that mysterious difference which naturesets between masculine and feminine attributes of mind and heart. 

The young man was an American. Any one experienced in American lifewould have observed that the youth was a wanderer, his tricks of speechand behaviour savouring, not of one locality, but of many. His accentand manner showed it. He was very mannerly. He stated, without loss oftime, that, hearing that they had lately come to the country and hadsome rooms in their house which they did not use, he had taken theliberty of calling to see if they could let him a couple of rooms. Hewas anxious, he said, to set up as a dentist, and had failed, so far, tofind a suitable place. 

The disappointment which Blue and Red experienced in finding that thehandsome youth was a dentist by profession was made up for by theecstasy of amusement it caused them to think of his desiring to set uphis business in their house. They would almost have forgiven Fate if shehad withdrawn her latest novelty as suddenly as she had sent him, because his departure would have enabled them to give vent to the mirththe suppression of which was, at that moment a pain almost as great astheir girlish natures could bear. 

Oh, no, Mrs. Rexford said, they had no rooms to let in the house. 

The stranger muttered something under his breath, which to an acute earmight have sounded like "Oh, Jemima!" but he looked so very disconsolatethey could not help being sorry for him as he immediately replied, soberly enough, "I _am_ sorry. I can't think of any place else to go, ma'am. I'm _real_ tired, for I've been walking this long time in theloose snow. Will you permit me to sit and rest for a time on thedoorstep right outside here till I can think what I better do next?"

Blue fingered the back of a chair nervously. 

"Take a chair by the stove and rest yourself, " said Mrs. Rexford. Shehad a dignity about her in dealing with a visitor that was not oftenapparent in other circumstances. She added, "We have too lately beenstrangers ourselves to wish to turn any one weary from our door. " Then, in whispered aside, "Dry your dishes, girls. "

The dignity of bearing with which she spoke to him altered as she threwher head backward to give this last command. 

"I thank you from my heart, madam. " The young man bowed--that is, hemade an angle of himself for a moment. He moved the chair to which shehad motioned him, but did not sit down. "It is impossible for me tosit, " said he, fervently, "while a lady stands. "

The quaintness and novelty in his accent made them unable to test hismanners by any known standard. For all they knew, the most culturedinhabitant of Boston, New York, or Washington might have behavedprecisely in this way. 

"Sit down, mamma, " whispered Blue and Red, with praiseworthyconsideration for their mother's fatigue; "we'll finish the dishes. "

The girls perceived what, perhaps, the stranger had already perceived, that if their mother consented to sit there was a chance of a more equalconversation. And Mrs. Rexford sat down. Her mind had beenunconsciously relieved from the exercise of great dignity by the factthat the stranger did not appear to notice her daughters, apparentlyassuming that they were only children. 

"It is _real_ kind of you, ma'am, to be so kind to me. I don't think_any_ lady has seemed so kind to me since I saw my own mother last. "

He looked pensively at the stove. 

"Your mother lives in the United States, I suppose. " He shook his headsadly. "In heaven now. "

"Ah!" said Mrs. Rexford; and then in a minute, "I am glad to see thatyou feel her loss, I am sure. " Here she got half off her chair to pokethe damper of the stove. "There is no loss so great as the loss of amother. "

"No, and I _always_ feel her loss most when I am tired and hungry;because, when I was a little chap, you know, it was always when I wastired and hungry that I went home and found her just sitting there, quite natural, waiting for me. "

Blue and Red looked at the cupboard. They could not conceive how theirmother could refrain from an offer of tea. But, as it was, she gave theyoung man a sharp glance and questioned him further. Where had he comefrom? When had he arrived?

He had come, he said, from the next station on the railway. He had beenlooking there, and in many other places, for an opening for his work, and for various reasons he had now decided that Chellaston was a moreeligible place than any. He had come in the early morning, and hadcalled on the doctor and on Principal Trenholme of the College. They hadboth agreed that there was an opening for a young dentist who would dohis work well, charge low prices, and be content to live cheaply tillthe Tillage grew richer. "It's just what _I_ want, " he said. "I don'tseem to care much about making money if I can live honestly amongkind-hearted folks. "

"But surely, " cried Mrs. Rexford, "neither Dr. Nash nor PrincipalTrenholme suggested to you that Captain Rexford could give you roomsfor--" She was going to say "pulling out teeth, " but she omitted that. 

The young man looked at her, evidently thinking of something else. "Would you consider it a liberty, ma'am, if I--" He stopped diffidently, for, seeing by his manner that he meditated immediate action of somesort, she looked at him so fiercely that her glance interrupted him fora moment, "if I were to stop the stove smoking?" He completed thesentence with great humility, evidently puzzled to know how he hadexcited her look of offence. 

She gave another excited poke at the damper herself, and, having got herhand blacked, wiped it on her coarse grey apron. The diamond keeperabove the wedding-ring looked oddly out of place, but not more so thanthe small, shapely hand that wore it. Seeing that she had done the stoveno good, she sat back in her chair with her hands crossed upon her nowdirty apron. 

"You can do nothing with it. Before we came to Canada no one told usthat the kitchen stoves invariably smoked. Had they done so I shouldhave chosen another country. However, as I say to my children, we mustmake the best of it now. There's no use crying; there's no uselamenting. It only harasses their father. "

The last words were said with a sharp glance of reproof at Blue and Red. This mother never forgot the bringing up of her children in any one'spresence, but she readily forgot the presence of others in her remarksto her children. 

"But you aren't making the best of it, " said the visitor. With that hegot up, carefully lifted an iron piece in the back of the stove, turneda key thus disclosed in the pipe, and so materially altered the mood ofthe fire that in a few moments it stopped smoking and crackled nicely. 

"Did you ever, mamma!" cried the girls. A juggler's feat could not haveentertained them more. 

"_If_ for a time, first off, you had someone in the house who had livedin this country, you'd get on first class, " said the youth. 

"But you know, my dears, " Mrs. Rexford spoke to her daughters, forgetting the young man for a moment as before, "if I had not supposedthat Eliza understood the stove I should have inquired of PrincipalTrenholme before now. "

"May I enquire where you got your help?" asked the American. "If she wasfrom this locality she certainly ought to have comprehended the stove. "

"She is a native of the country. "

"As I say, " he went on, with some emphasis, "if she comes fromhereabouts, or further west, she ought to have understood this sort of astove; but, on the other hand, if she comes from the French district, where they use only the common box stove, she would not understand thiskind. "

He seemed to be absorbed entirely in the stove, and in the benefit tothem of having a "help, " as he called her, who understood it. 

"I think she comes from the lumbering country somewhere near the St. Lawrence, " said Mrs. Rexford, examining the key in the stove-pipe. Shecould not have said a moment before where Eliza had come from, but thisphrase seemed to sum up neatly any remarks the girl had let fall abouther father's home. 

"_That_ accounts for it! Will you be kind enough to let me see her? Icould explain the mechanism of this stove to her in a few words; thenyou, ma'am, need have no further trouble. "

She said she should be sorry to trouble him. If the key were all, shecould explain it. 

"Pardon me"--he bowed again--"it is _not_ all. There are several innerdampers at the back here, which it is most important to keep free fromsoot. If I might only explain it to the help, she'd know once for all. I'd be real glad to do you that kindness. "

Mrs. Rexford had various things to say. Her speeches were usuallycomplex, composed of a great variety of short sentences. She asked herdaughters if they thought Eliza would object to coming down. She saidthat Eliza was invaluable, but she did not always like to do as she wasasked. She thought the girl had a high temper. She had no wish to rouseher temper; she had never seen anything of it; she didn't wish to. Perhaps Eliza would like to come down. Then she asked her daughtersagain if they thought Eliza would come pleasantly. Her remarks showedthe track of her will as it veered round from refusal to assent, asbubbles in muddy water show the track of a diving insect. Finally, because the young man had a strong will, and was quite decided as towhat he thought best, the girls were sent to fetch Eliza. 

Blue and Red ran out of the kitchen. When they got into the next roomthey clasped one another and shook with silent laughter. As the doorbetween the rooms did not shut tightly, they adjured one another, bydances and gestures, not to laugh loud. Blue danced round the table onher toes as a means of stifling her laughter. Then they both ran to thefoot of the attic stair and gripped each other's arms very tight by wayof explaining that the situation was desperate, and that one or othermust control her voice sufficiently to call Eliza. 

The dining-room they were in was built and furnished in the same styleas the kitchen, save that here the wood was painted slate-colour and aclean rag carpet covered the floor. The upper staircase, very steep anddark, opened off it at the further end. All the light from a square, small-paned window fell sideways upon the faces of the girls as theystretched their heads towards the shadowed covert of the stairs. 

And they could not, _could_ not, speak, although they made gestures ofdespair at each other and mauled each other's poor little arms sadly inthe endeavour to prove how hard they were trying to be sober. 

If any one wants to know precisely what they were laughing at, the onlyway would be to become for a time one of two girls to whom all the worldis a matter of mutual mirth except when it is a matter of mutual tears. 

Although it seemed very long to them, it was, after all, only a minutebefore Blue called in trembling tones, "Eliza!"

"Eliza!" called Red. 

"Eliza! Eliza!" they both called, and though there was that in theirvoices which made it perfectly apparent to the young man in the nextroom, that they were laughing, so grand was their composure comparedwith what it had been before, that they thought they had succeededadmirably. 

But when a heavy foot was heard overhead and an answering voice, and itwas necessary to explain to Eliza wherefore she was called, an audiblelaugh did escape, and then Blue and Red scampered upstairs and made thecommunication there. 

It spoke much for the strength and calibre of character of the girl whohad so lately come into this family that a few minutes later, when thethree girls entered the kitchen, it was Eliza who walked first, with abearing equal to that of the other two and a dignity far greater. 

The young man, who had been fidgeting with the stove, looked up gravelyto see them enter, as if anxious to give his lesson; but had any onelooked closely it would have been seen that his acute gaze covered theforemost figure with an intensity of observation that was hardly calledfor if he took no other interest in her than as a transient pupil in thematter of stove dampers. 

Perhaps any one might have looked with interest at her. She wasevidently young, but there was that in her face that put years, or atleast experience of years, between her and the pretty young things thatfollowed her. She was largely made, and, carrying a dimpled child of twoyears upon her shoulder, she walked erect, as Southern women walk withtheir burdens on their heads. It detracted little that her gown was ofthe coarsest, and that her abundant red hair was tossed by the child'srestless hands. Eliza, as she entered the kitchen, was, if not abeautiful girl, a girl on the eve of splendid womanhood; and the youngman, perceiving this almost faltered in his gaze, perhaps also in thepurpose he was pursuing. The words of the lesson he had ready seemed tobe forgotten, although his outward composure did not fail him. 

Eliza came near, the child upon her shoulder, looked at him and waited. 

"Eliza will hear what you have to say, " said Mrs. Rexford. 

"Oh, " said he, and then, whatever had been the cause of his momentarypause, he turned it off with the plea that he had not supposed this tobe "the--young lady who--wished to learn about the stove. "

She received what he had to say without much appreciation, remarkingthat, with the exception of the one key, she had known it before. 

As for him, he took up his cap to go. "Good-day, ma'am, " he said; "I'mobliged for your hospitality. Ladies, I beg leave now to retire. " Hemade his bow elaborately, first to Mrs. Rexford, then in the directionof the girls. 

"My card, ma'am, " he said, presenting Mrs. Rexford with the thing hementioned. 

Then he went out. 

On the card was printed, "Cyril P. Harkness, M. D. S. "

It was growing so dark that Mrs. Rexford had to go to the window to readit. As she did so, the young man's shadow passed below the frosted paneas he made his way between snow-heaps to the main road. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Next day Eliza went out with two of the little children. It was in theearly afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. Eliza had an errand downthe street, but every one knows that one does not progress very fast onan errand with a toddler of two years at one's side. Eliza sauntered, giving soothing answers to the little one's treble remarks, and onlyoccasionally exerting herself to keep the liveliness of her older chargein check. Eliza liked the children and the sunshine and the road. Hersaunter was not an undignified one, nor did she neglect her duty in anyparticular; but all the while there was an undercurrent of greateractivity in her mind, and the under-thoughts were occupied wholly andentirely with herself and her own interests. 

After walking in the open road for a little while she came under thegreat elm trees that held their leafless limbs in wide arch over thevillage street. Here a footpath was shovelled in the snow, on eitherside of the sleigh road. The sun was throwing down the graceful lines ofelm twigs on path and snowdrift. The snow lawns in front of the villagehouses were pure and bright; little children played in them with tinysledge and snow spade, often under the watchful eye of a mother who satsewing behind the window pane. Now and then sleighs passed on thecentral road with a cheerful jingle of bells. 

When Eliza, with the children, came to the centre of the village, itbecame necessary to cross the street. She was bound for the largestshop, that stood under part of the great hotel, and just here, oppositethe hotel, quite a number of sleighs were passing. Eliza picked up thelittle one in her arms, and, taking the other child by the hand, essayedto cross. But one reckons without one's host in counting surely on theactions of children. Sturdy five-year-old baulked like a little horse, and would not come. Eliza coaxed in vain. A long line of draught-horses, dragging blue box-sleighs, came slowly up the road, each jingling aheavy belt of bells. Five-year-old was frightened and would not come. Eliza, without irritation, but at the same time without hesitation, tookit by the waist under her left arm and started again. She got halfacross before the child seemed thoroughly to realise what was occurring, and then, with head and arms in front and little gaitered legs behind, it began to struggle so violently that the young woman, strong andcomposed as she was, was brought for a minute to a standstill. 

Two men were watching her from the smoking-room of the hotel; the one anelderly man, the owner of the house, had his attention arrested by thecalm force of character Eliza was displaying; the other, the youngAmerican dentist, saw in the incident an excuse for interference, and herushed out now to the rescue, and gallantly carried the little naughtyone safely to the right side of the road. 

Eliza, recognising him, saw that he was looking at her with the pleasantair of an old acquaintance--one, in fact, who knew her so well that anyformal greeting was unnecessary--not that she knew anything aboutgreetings, or what might or might not be expected, but she had anindistinct sense that he was surprisingly friendly. 

"How's the stove going?" then he asked. He escorted her into the shop, and superintended her little purchases in a good-natured, elder-brotherfashion. That done, he carried the elder child across the road again, and Eliza went upon her way back down the long narrow pavement, with thechildren at her side. 

She had shown nothing to the young man but composed appreciation of hisconduct. She was, however, conscious that he would not have been so kindto any girl he happened to meet. "He admires me, " thought Eliza toherself. For all that, she was not satisfied with the encounter. Shefelt that she had not played her part well; she had been too--had beentoo--she did not know what. She thought if she had held her head higherand shown herself less thankful--yes, there had been something amiss inher behaviour that ought to be corrected. She could not define what shehad done, or ought to have done. How could she? An encounter of thissort was as new to her as Mrs. Rexford's sewing machine, which she hadnot yet been allowed to touch. Yet had she been shut up alone with themachine, as she was now shut up to revise her own conduct withinherself, she would, by sheer force of determined intelligence, havemastered its intricacy to a large degree without asking aid. And so withthis strong idea that she must learn how to act differently to thisyoung man; dim, indeed, as was her idea of what was lacking, or what wasto be gained, she strove with it in no fear of failure. 

She raised her head as she walked, and recast the interview just past inanother form more suited to her vague ideal, and again in another. Shehad a sense of power within her, that sense which powerful natures have, without in the least knowing in what direction the power may go forth, or when they will be as powerless--as Samson shaven. She only felt thepower and its accompanying impulses; she supposed that in all ways, atall times, it was hers to use. 

In a day or two Cyril Harkness met Eliza in the street again, and tookoccasion to speak to her. This time she was much less obliging in hermanner. She threw a trifle of indifference into her air, looking infront of her instead of at him, and made as if she wished to proceed. Had this interview terminated as easily as the other, she would havebeen able to look back upon it with complete satisfaction, as havingbeen carried on, on her part, according to her best knowledge ofbefitting dignity; but, unfortunately for her, the young American was ofan outspoken disposition, and utterly untrammelled by those instincts ofconventionality which Eliza had, not by training, but by inheritancefrom her law-abiding and custom-loving Scotch ancestry. 

"Say, " said he, "are you mad at anything?"

He gained at least this much, that she instantly stared at him. 

"If you aren't angry with me, why should you act crusty?" he urged. "Youaren't half as pleasant as t'other day. "

Eliza had not prepared herself for this free speaking, and her mind wasone that moved slowly. 

"I must take the children home, " she said. "I'm not angry. I wasn'tpleasant that I know of. "

"You ought to be pleasant, any way; for I'm your best friend. "

Eliza was not witty, and she really could not think of an answer to thisastonishing assertion. Again she looked at him in simple surprise. 

"Well, yes, I am; although you don't know it. There isn't man roundTurriffs who has the least idea in the world where you are, for yourfriends left you asleep when they came out with the old gentleman; whenI twigged how you got off I never told a word. Your father had beenseen" (here he winked) "near Dalhousie, wandering round! But they won'tfind you unless I tell them, and I won't. "

"Won't find me unless you tell them, " repeated Eliza slowly, the utmostastonishment in her tone. "Who?"

So vague and great was the wonder in her voice that he brought his eyesto interrogate hers in sudden surprise. He saw only simple and stronginterest on the face of a simple and strong country girl. He hadexpected a different response and a different expression. 

He put his tongue in the side of his cheek with the air of anuncontrolled boy who has played a trump-card in vain. "Say, " said he, "didn't you, though?"

"Didn't I?" said Eliza, and after a minute she said, "What?"

The young man looked at her and smiled. His smile suggested a cunningrecognition that she was deceiving him by pretended dulness. 

At this Eliza looked excessively offended, and, with her head aloft, began to push on the little sleigh with the baby in it. 

"Beg your pardon, ma'am, " he said with sudden humility, but with acertain lingering in his voice as if he could not relinquish his formeridea as suddenly as he wished to appear to do. "I see I've made amistake. "

Eliza hesitated in her onward movement. "But what was it you were goingto tell about me?" She spoke as if she had merely then remembered howthe conversation began. 

His recantation was now complete. "Nothing; oh, nothing. T'was just myfun, miss. "

She surveyed him with earnest disapprobation. 

"You're not a very sensible young man, I'm afraid. "

She said this severely, and then, with great dignity, she went home. 

The young man lingered for a minute or two by the snow piles in front ofthe hotel where they had been standing. Then he went into the hotel withthe uncertain step that betokens an undecided mind. When he got to thewindow he looked out at her retreating figure--a white street with thisgrey-clad healthy-looking girl walking down it, and the little redbox-sleigh with the baby in it which she pushed before her. He was quitealone, and he gave vent to an emphatic half-whisper to himself. 

"If she did it, she's a magnificent deep one--a magnificent deep one. "There was profound admiration in his voice. 

That evening it was Mrs. Rexford who happened to wipe the tea-thingswhile Eliza washed them. 

"That young Mr. Harkness, the dentist--" began Eliza. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Rexford, alert. 

"Twice when I've been to the shop he's tried to make himself pleasant tome and the children. I don't suppose he means any harm, but he's not asensible young man, I think. "

"You're a very sensible girl, Eliza, " said Mrs. Rexford, with quickvigour and without any sense of contrast. 

"It doesn't matter to me, " went on Eliza, "for I don't answer him morethan I can help; but if he was to talk to the other girls when they goout, I suppose they'd know not to notice him too much. "

Mrs. Rexford was one of those people who get accustomed tocircumstances in the time that it takes others to begin to wonder atthem. She often took for granted now that Eliza would consider herdaughters as, entirely on a level with herself, but less sensible. Itmight not be wholly agreeable; neither, to Mrs. Rexford's mind, was itagreeable to have the earth covered with snow for four months of theyear; but she had ceased wondering at that phenomenon a minute after shehad first read of it in a book of travels, and all the ever-fresh marvelof its glossy brightness had, failed to bring fresh comment to her lips, or to make her mind more familiar with the idea. In the same way, shehad accepted Eliza's position and character as a complex fact which, like the winter, had advantages and disadvantages. Mrs. Rexford put upwith the latter, was thankful for the former, and wasted no morethoughts on the matter. 

Eliza's last remark, however, was a subject for consideration, and withMrs. Rexford consideration was speech. 

"Dear me!" she said. "Well!" Then she took a few paces backward, dish-cloth and dish still in hand, till she brought herself opposite thenext room door. The long kitchen was rather dark, as the plates werebeing washed by the light of one candle, but in the next room CaptainRexford and his family were gathered round a table upon which stoodlamps giving plenty of light. 

The mother addressed the family in general. "The dentist, " said she, "talks to Eliza when she goes to the shop. Blue and Red! if he shouldspeak to you, you must show the same sense Eliza did, and take not theslightest notice. "

Sophia had asked what the dentist said to Eliza, and Mrs. Rexford hadreproved the girls for laughing, while the head of the family preparedhimself to answer in his kindly, leisurely, and important way. 

"To 'take not the slightest notice' is, perhaps, requiring more of suchyoung heads than might be possible. It would be difficult even for me totake no notice whatever of a young man who accosted me in a place likethis. Severity, mild displeasure, or a determination not to speak, might be shown. "

"If necessary, " said Sophia; "but--"

"If _necessary_, " the father corrected himself, emphasizing his wordswith a gentle tap of his fingers on the table. "I only mean ifnecessary, of course. "

"People have such easy-going ways here, " said Sophia. "Don't you think, mamma, a little ordinary discretion on the girls' part would be enough?Blue and Red have too much sense, I suppose, to treat him as an equal;but they can be polite. "

Eliza, overhearing this, decided that she would never treat the youngAmerican as an equal, although she had no idea why she should not. 

Let it not be supposed that Mrs. Rexford had idled over the dish she waswiping. The conversation was, in fact, carried on between the family inthe bright sitting-room and an intermittent appearance of Mrs. Rexfordat the door of the shady kitchen. Twice she had disappeared towardsEliza's table to get a fresh plate and come again, rubbing it. 

"Ah, girls, " she now cried, "Sophia is always giving you credit for moresense than I'm afraid you possess. No giggling, now, if this youngfellow should happen to say 'good morning. ' Just 'good morning' inreturn, and pass on--nothing more. "

The father's leisurely speech again broke in and hushed the littlebabble. 

"Certainly, my dear daughters, under such circumstances as your mothersuggests; to look down modestly, and answer the young man's salutationwith a little primness, and not to hesitate in your walk--that, I shouldthink, is perhaps the course of conduct your mother means to indicate. "

"It strikes me, " said Harold, the eldest son, "a good deal depends onwhat he _did_ say to Eliza. Eliza!"

This last was a shout, and the girl responded to it, so that there werenow two figures at the door, Mrs. Rexford drying the dish, and Elizastanding quite quietly and at ease. 

"Yes, my son, " responded Captain Rexford, "it _does_ depend a good dealon what he _did_ say to Eliza. Now, Eliza" (this was the beginning of ajudicial inquiry), "I understand from Mrs. Rexford that----"

"I've heard all that you have said, " said Eliza. "I've been just here. "

"Ah! Then without any preface" (he gave a wave of his hand, as ifputting aside the preface), "I might just ask you, Eliza, what thisyoung--Harkness, I believe his name is--what----"

"He's just too chatty, that's all that's the matter with him, " saidEliza. "He took off his hat and talked, and he'd have been talking yetif I hadn't come away. There was no sense in what he said, good or bad. "

The children were at last allowed to go on with their lessons. 

When the dish-washing was finished and Mrs. Rexford came into thesitting-room, Sophia took the lamp by the light of which she had beendoing the family darning into the kitchen, and she and Haroldestablished themselves there. Harold, a quiet fellow about nineteen, wasmore like his half-sister than any other member of the family, and therewas no need that either should explain to the other why they were gladto leave the nervous briskness of the more occupied room. It was theirhabit to spend their evenings here, and Sophia arranged that Elizashould bring her own sewing and work at it under her direction. Haroldvery often read aloud to them. It was astonishing how quickly, notimperceptibly, but determinedly, the Canadian girl took on the habitsand manners of the lady beside her; not thereby producing a poorimitation, for Eliza was not imitative, but by careful study reproducingin herself much of Sophia's refinement. 

CHAPTER XV. 

That evening Blue and Red were sent to bed rather in disgrace, becausethey had professed themselves too sleepy to finish sewing a seam theirmother had given them to do. 

Very sleepy, very glad to fold up their work, they made their way, through the cold empty room which was intended to be the drawing-roomwhen it was furnished, to one of the several bedrooms that opened offit. There was only one object in the empty room which they passedthrough, and that was the big family carriage, for which no possible usecould be found during the long winter, and for the storing of which nooutside place was considered good enough. It stood wheelless in acorner, with a large grey cloth over it, and the girls passing it withtheir one flickering candle looked at it a little askance. They had thefeeling that something might be within or behind it which would bounceout at them. 

Once, however, within their small whitewashed bedroom, they felt quitesafe. Their spirits rose a little when they shut the door, for now therewas no exacting third person to expect anything but what they chose togive. Theirs was that complete happiness of two persons when it has beenlong proved that neither ever does anything which the other does notlike, and neither ever wants from the other what is not naturally given. 

They were still sleepy when they unbuttoned each other's frocks, butwhen they had come to the next stage of shaking out their curly hairthey began to make remarks which tended to dispel their drowsiness. 

Said Blue, "Is it very dreadful to be a dentist?"

Said Red, "Yes; horrid. You have to put your fingers in people's mouths, you know. "

"But doctors have to _cut off legs_, and doctors are quite----"

There is another advantage in perfect union of twin souls, and that is, that it is never necessary to finish a remark the end of which does notimmediately find expression on the tip of the tongue, for the otheralways knows what is going to be said. 

"Yes, I know doctors are, " replied Red; "still, you know, PrincipalTrenholme said Mr. Harkness is not a well-bred American. "

"His first name is Cyril. I saw it on the card, " replied Blue, quittingthe question of social position. 

"It's a _lovely_ name, " said Red, earnestly. 

"And I'll tell you, " said Blue, turning round with sudden earnestnessand emphasis, "I think he's the _handsomest_ young man I _ever saw_. "

The rather odd plan Mrs. Rexford had hit on for lessening the likenessbetween these two, clothing each habitually in a distinctive colour, hadnot been carried into her choice of material for their dressing-gowns. These garments were white; and, as a stern mood of utility had guidedtheir mother's shears, they were short and almost shapeless. The curlyhair which was being brushed over them had stopped its growth, as curlyhair often does, at the shoulders. In the small whitewashed room the twogirls looked as much like choristers in surplices as anything mightlook, and their sweet oval faces had that perfect freshness of youthwhich is strangely akin to the look of holiness, in spite of theabsolute frivolity of conduct which so often characterises youngcompanionship. 

When Blue made her earnest little assertion, she also made an earnestlittle dab at the air with her brush to emphasise it; and Red, lettingher brush linger on her curly mop, replied with equal emphasis and thesame earnest, open eyes, "Oh, so do I. "

This decided, there was quiet for a minute, only the soft sound ofbrushing. Then Red began that pretty little twittering which bore totheir laughter when in full force the same relation that the first faintchit, chit, chit of a bird bears to its full song. 

"Weren't papa and mamma funny when they talked about what we should doif he spoke to us?"

She did not finish her sentence before merriment made it difficult forher to pronounce the words; and as for Blue, she was obliged to throwherself on the side of the bed. 

Then again Blue sat up. 

"You're to look down as you pass him, Red--like this, look!"

"_That_ isn't right. " Red said this with a little shriek of delight. "You're smiling all over your face--that won't do. "

"Because I _can't_ keep my face straight. Oh, Red, what _shall_ we do? Iknow that if we _ever_ see him after this we shall simply _die_. "

"Oh, yes"--with tone of full conviction--"I know we shall. "

"But we _shall_ meet him. "

They became almost serious for some moments at the thought of theinevitableness of the meeting and the hopelessness of conductingthemselves with any propriety. 

"And what will he think?" continued Blue, in sympathetic distress; "hewill certainly think we are laughing at _him_, for he will never imaginehow much we have been amused. "

Red, however, began to brush her hair again. "Blue, " said she, "did youever try to see how you looked in the glass when your eyes were castdown? You can't, you know. "

Blue immediately tried, and admitted the difficulty. 

"I wish I could, " said Red, "for then I should know how I should lookwhen he had spoken to me and I was passing him. "

"Well, do it, and I'll tell you. "

"Then you stand there, and I'll come along past and look down just whenI meet you. "

Red made the experiment rather seriously, but Blue cried out:

"Oh, you looked at me out of the corner of your eye, just as you werelooking down--that'll never do. "

"I didn't mean to. Now look! I'm doing it again. " The one white-gownedfigure stood with its back to the bed while the other through its littleacting down the middle of the room. 

"That's better"--critically. 

"Well, " pursued Red, with interest, "how does it look?"

"Rather nice. I shouldn't wonder if he fell in love with you. "

This was a sudden and extraordinary audacity of thought. 

"Oh, Blue!"--in shocked tones--"How could you think of such a thing!" Shereproached her sister as herself. It was actually the first time such atheme had been broached even in their private converse. 

"Well, " said Blue, stoutly, "he might, you know. Such things happen. "

"I don't think it's quite nice to think of it, " said Red, meditatively. 

"It isn't nice, " said Blue, agreeing perfectly, but unwilling to recant;"still, it may be our duty to think of it. Sophia said once that a womanwas always more or less responsible if a man fell in love with her. "

"Did Sophia say that?" Weighty worlds of responsibility seemed to besettling on little Red's shoulders. 

"Yes; she was talking to mamma about something. So, as it's quitepossible he might fall in love with us, we _ought_ to consider thematter. "

"You don't think he's falling in love with Eliza, do you?"

"Oh no!"--promptly--"but then Eliza isn't like us. "

Red looked at her pretty face in the glass as she continued to smoothout the brown curls. She thought of Eliza's tall figure, immobile whiteface, and crown of red hair. 

"No, " she said, meditatively; "but, Blue"--this quite seriously--"I hopehe won't fall in love with us. "

"Oh, so do I; for it would make him feel so miserable. But I think, Red, when you looked down you did not look _prim_ enough--you know papasaid 'prim. ' Now, you stand, and I'll do it. "

So Blue now passed down the little narrow room, but when she came to thecritical spot, the supposed meeting ground, her desire to laughconflicting with the effort to pull a long face, caused such a wrycontortion of her plump visage that seriousness deserted them once more, and they bubbled over in mirth that would have been boisterous had itnot been prudently muffled in the pillows. 

After that they said their prayers. But when they had taken off theclumsy dressing-gowns and got into the feather-bed under the bigpatchwork quilt, like two little white rabbits nestling into oneanother, they reverted once more to their father's instructions formeeting the dentist, and giggled themselves to sleep. 

Another pair of talkers, also with some common attributes of character, but with less knowledge of each other, were astir after these sistershad fallen asleep. 

Most of the rooms in the house were on the ground-floor, but there weretwo attic bedrooms opening off a very large room in the roof which theformer occupant had used as a granary. One of these Sophia occupied witha child; the other had been given to Eliza. That night, when Sophia wascomposing herself to sleep, she heard Eliza weeping. So smothered werethe sounds of sorrow that she could hardly hear them. She lifted herhead, listened, then, putting a long fur cloak about her, went into thenext room. 

No sooner was her hand on the latch of Eliza's door than all soundceased. She stood for a minute in the large, dark granary. The draughtin it was almost great enough to be called a breeze, and it whispered inthe eaves which the sloping rafters made round the edges of the floor asa wind might sigh in some rocky cave. Sophia opened the door and wentin. 

"What is the matter, Eliza?"

Even in the almost darkness she could see that the girl's movement Wasan involuntary feigning of surprise. 

"Nothing. "

"I used to hear you crying when we first came, Eliza, and now you havebegun it again. Tell me what troubles you. Why do you pretend thatnothing is the matter?"

The cold glimmer of the light of night reflected on snow came in at thediamond-shaped window, and the little white bed was just shadowed forthto Sophia's sight. The girl in it might have been asleep, she remainedso quiet. 

"Are you thinking about your father?"

"I don't know. "

"Do you dislike being here?"

"No; but--"

"But what? What is troubling you, Eliza? You're not a girl to cry fornothing. Since you came to us I have seen that you are astraightforward, good girl; and you have plenty of sense, too. Come, tell me how it is you cry like this?"

Eliza sat up. "You won't tell them downstairs?" she said slowly. 

"You may trust me not to repeat anything that is not necessary. "

Eliza moved nervously, and her movements suggested hopelessness oftrouble and difficulty of speech. Sophia pitied her. 

"I don't know, " she said restlessly, stretching out aimless hands intothe darkness, "I don't know why I cry, Miss Sophia. It isn't for onething more than another; everything is the reason--everything, everything. "

"You mean, for one thing, that your father has gone, and you arehomesick?"

"You said you wouldn't _tell?_"

"Yes. "

"Well, I'm not sorry about _that_, because--well, I suppose I likedfather as well as he liked me, but as long as he lived I'd have had tostay on the clearin', and I hated that. I'm glad to be here; but, oh! Iwant so much--I want so much--oh, Miss Sophia, don't you know?"

In some mysterious way Sophia felt that she did know, although she couldnot in any way formulate her confused feeling of kinship with this younggirl, so far removed from her in outward experience. It seemed to herthat she had at some time known such trouble as this, which was composedof wanting "so much--so much, " and hands that were stretched, nottowards any living thing, but vaguely to all possible possession outsidethe longing self. 

"I want to be something, " said Eliza, "rich or--I don't know--I wouldlike to drive about in a fine way like some ladies do, or wear granderclothes than any one. Yes, I would like to keep a shop, or do somethingto make me very rich, and make everybody wish they were like me. "

Sophia smiled to herself, but the darkness was about them. Then Sophiasighed. Crude as were the notions that went to make up the ignorant ideaof what was desirable, the desire for it was without measure. There wasa silence, and when Eliza spoke again Sophia did not doubt but that shetold her whole mind. 

It is a curious thing, this, that when a human being of averageexperience is confided in, the natural impulse is to assume thatconfidence is complete, and the adviser feels as competent to pronounceupon the case from the statement given as if minds were as limpid ascrystal, and words as fit to represent them as a mirror is to show theobjects it reflects. Yet if the listener would but look within, he wouldknow that in any complicated question of life there would be much thathe would not, more than he could not, tell of himself, unless long yearsof closest companionship had revealed the one heart to the other in waysthat are beyond the power of words. And that is so even if the wholeheart is set to be honest above all--and how many hearts are so set?

"You see, " said Eliza, "if people knew I had lived on a very poorclearin' and done the work, they'd despise me perhaps. "

"It is no disgrace to any one to have worked hard, and it certainlycannot be a disadvantage in this country. "

"It was rough. "

"You are not very rough, Eliza. It strikes me that you have been prettycarefully trained and taught. "

"Yes, I was that"--with satisfaction. "But don't you think, if I got on, grand people would always look down at me if they knew I'd lived socommon? And besides, I'm sometimes afraid the man that went shares atthe land with father will want to find me. "

"But you said you told him you were coming away. "

"I told him, plain and honest; but I had a long way to walk till I gotto the train, and I just went off. But he won't find it so easy to fillmy place, and get some one to do the housework! He'd have kept me, if hecould; and if he heard where I was he might come and try to get me backby saying father said I was to obey him till I was twenty-one. "

"If your father said--that--"

"No, " cried the girl, vehemently, "he never did. "

"You will hear from your uncle in Scotland?" said Sophia. 

"I don't believe he'll write to me. I don't believe he lives any morewhere I sent the letter. It's years and years since father heard fromhim. I said I'd write because I thought it would look more respectableto Mrs. Rexford to have an uncle. And I did write; but he won't answer. "

This was certainly frank. 

"Was that honest, Eliza?"

"No, Miss Sophia; but I felt so miserable. It's hard to walk off withyour bundle, and be all alone and afraid of a man coming after you, andbeing so angry. He was dreadful angry when I told him I'd come. If you'donly _promise_ not tell where I came from to anybody, so that it can'tget round to him that I'm here, and so that people won't know how Ilived before--"

"Well, we certainly have no reason to tell anybody. If it will make youcontent, I can assure you none of us will talk about your affairs. Wasthat all the trouble?"

"No--not all. "

"Well, what else?" Sophia laughed a little, and laid her cool hand onthe girl's hot one. 

"I can't be anything grand ever, and begin by being a servant, MissSophia. I say I'm not a servant, and I try not to act like one; but Mrs. Rexford, she's tried hard to make me one. You wouldn't like to be aservant, Miss Sophia?"

"You are very childish and foolish, " said Sophia. "If I had not beenjust as foolish about other things when I was your age I would laugh atyou now. But I know it's no use to tell you that the things you wantwill not make you happy, and that the things you don't want would, because I know you will not believe it. I will do my best to help you toget what you want, so far as it is not wrong, if you will promise totell me all your difficulties. "

"Will you help me? Why are you so kind?"

"Because--" said Sophia. Then she said no more. 

Eliza showed herself cheered. 

"You're the only one I care to talk to, Miss Sophia. The others haven'tas much sense as you, have they?"

As these words were quietly put forth in the darkness, without a notionof impropriety, Sophia was struck with the fact that they coincided withher own estimate of the state of the case. 

"Eliza, what are you talking of--not of my father and mother surely?"

"Why, yes. I think they're good and kind, but I don't think they've adeal of sense--do you?"

"My father is a wiser man than you can understand, Eliza; and--" Sophiabroke off, she was fain to retreat; it was cold for one thing. 

"Miss Sophia, " said Eliza, as she was getting to the door, "there's onething--you know that young man they were talking about to-night?"

"What of him?"

"Well, if he were to ask about me, you'd not tell him anything, wouldyou? I've never told anybody but you about father, or any particulars. The others don't know anything, and you won't tell, will you?"

"I've told you I won't take upon myself to speak of your affairs. Whathas that young man to do with it?"--with some severity. 

"It's only that he's a traveller, and I feel so silly about everytraveller, for fear they'd want me to go back to the clearin'. "

Sophia took the few necessary steps in the cold dark granary and reachedher own room. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Sophia was sitting with Mrs. Rexford on the sofa that stood with itsback to the dining-room window. The frame of the sofa was not turned, but fashioned with saw and knife and plane; not glued, but nailedtogether. Yet it did not lack for comfort; it was built oblong, large, and low; it was cushioned with sacking filled with loose hay plentifullymixed with Indian grass that gave forth a sweet perfume, and the wholewas covered with a large neat pinafore of such light washing stuff aswomen wear about their work on summer days. Sophia and her step-motherwere darning stockings. The homesickness of the household was rapidlysubsiding, and to-day these two were not uncomfortable or unhappy. Therest of the family, some to work, some to play, and some to run errands, had been dismissed into the large outside. 

The big house was tranquil. The afternoon sun, which had got round tothe kitchen window, blazed in there through a fringe of icicles thathung from the low eaves of the kitchen roof, and sent a long strip ofbright prismatic rays across the floor and through the door on to therag carpet under the dining-room table. Ever and anon, as the ladiessewed, the sound of sleigh-bells came to them, distant, then nearer, then near, with the trotting of horses' feet as they passed the house, then again more distant. The dining-room window faced the road, but onecould not see through it without standing upright. 

"Mamma, " said Sophia, "it is quite clear we can never make an ordinaryservant out of Eliza; but if we try to be companionable to her we mayhelp her to learn what she needs to learn, and make her more willing tostay with us. "

It was Mrs. Rexford's way never to approach a subject gradually inspeech. If her mind went through the process ordinarily manifested inintroductory remarks it slipped through it swiftly and silently, and herspeech darted into the heart of the subject, or skipped about and hit iton all sides at once. 

"Ah, but I told her again and again, Sophia, to say 'miss' to the girls. She either didn't hear, or she forgot, or she wouldn't understand. Ithink you're the only one she'll say 'miss' to. But we couldn't dowithout her. Mrs. Nash was telling me the other day that her girl hadleft in the middle of the washing, and the one they had before that fora year--a little French Romanist--stole all their handkerchiefs, and didnot give them back till she made confession to her priest at Easter. Itwas very _awkward_, Sophia, to be without handkerchiefs all winter. " Thecrescendo emphasis which Mrs. Rexford had put into her remarks found itsfortissimo here. Then she added more mildly, "Though I got no characterwith Eliza I am convinced she will never pilfer. "

Mrs. Rexford was putting her needle out and in with almost electricspeed. Her mind was never quiet, but there was a healthy cheerfulness inher little quick movements that removed them from the region of weaknervousness. Yet Sophia knit her brow, and it was with an effort thatshe continued amicably:

"Certainly we should be more uncomfortable without her just now thanshe would be without us; but if she left us there's no saying where herambition might lead her. "

Mrs. Rexford bethought her that she must look at some apples that werebaking in the kitchen oven, which she did, and was back in time to makea remark in exchange without causing any noticeable break in theconversation. She always gave remarks in exchange, seldom in reply. 

"Scotchmen are faithful to their kinsfolk usually, aren't they, Sophia?"

"You think that the uncle she wrote to will answer. He may be dead, ormay have moved away; the chances are ten to one that he will not get theletter. I think the girl is in our hands. We have come into aresponsibility that we can't make light of. "

"Good gracious, Sophia! it's only the hen with one chicken that's afraidto take another under her wing. "

"I know you want to do your best for her--that's why I'm talking. "

"Oh, _I_--it's you that takes half the burden of them all. "

"Well, _we_ want to do our best--"

"And you, my dear, could go back whenever you liked. _You_ have notburned the bridges and boats behind you. There's _one_ would be glad tosee you back in the old country, and that lover of yours is a good man, Sophia. "

A sudden flush swept over the young woman's face, as if the allusionoffended her; but she took no other notice of what was said, andcontinued: "I don't suggest any radical alteration in our ways; I onlythought that, if you had it in your mind to make a companion of her, thepains you take in teaching her might take a rather different form, andperhaps have a better result. "

"I think our own girls grow more giddy every day, " said Mrs. Rexford, exactly as if it were an answer. "If Blue and Red were separated theywould both be more sensible. "

The mother's mind had now wandered from thought of the alien she hadtaken, not because she had not given attention to the words of thedaughter she thought so wise, but because, having considered them aslong as she was accustomed to consider anything, she had decided to actupon them, and so could dismiss the subject with a good conscience. 

The conversation ceased thus, as many conversations do, without apparentconclusion; for Sophia, vexed by her step-mother's flighty manner ofspeech, hid her mood in silence. Anything like discussion between thesetwo always irritated Sophia, and then, conscious that she had in thisfallen below her ideal, she chafed again at her own irritation. The evilfrom which she now suffered was of the stuff of which much of the painof life is made--a flimsy stuff that vanishes before the investigationof reason more surely than the stuff of our evanescent joys. There wasnothing that could be called incompatibility of temper between thesetwo; no one saw more clearly than Sophia the generosity and courage ofMrs. Rexford's heart; no one else sympathised so deeply with hermotherly cares, for no one else understood them half so well; and yet itmight have been easier for Sophia Rexford to have lived in externalpeace with a covetous woman, able to appreciate and keep in steady viewthe relative importance of her ideas. 

Meantime Mrs. Rexford went on talking. She was generally unconscious ofthe other's intellectual disdain. Pretty soon they heard bells andhorses' feet that slackened at the gate. Sophia stood up to look. 

There was a comfortable sleigh, albeit somewhat battered and dingy, turning in at the gate. A good-looking girl was driving it; a thin, palelady sat at her side. Both were much enveloped in faded furs. Over theseats of the sleigh and over their knees were spread abundant robes ofbuffalo hide. The horse that drew the vehicle was an old farm-horse, andthe hand that guided the reins appeared more skilful at driving than wasnecessary. The old reins and whip were held in a most stylish manner, and the fair driver made an innocent pretence of guiding her steed upthe road to the back-yard with care. The animal the while, having oncebeen shown the gate, trotted quietly, with head down, up the middle ofthe sleigh track, and stopped humbly where the track stopped, preciselyas it would have done had there been no hand upon the rein. 

Sophia, standing in the middle of the sitting-room, watched the visitorsthrough the windows of that room and of the kitchen, with unwontedanimation in her handsome face. The girl, who was now evidently comingwith her mother to call upon them, had been named to her more than onceby discriminating people as the most likely person in the neighbourhoodto prove a friend and companion to herself, and Sophia, in her presentsituation, could not be at all indifferent to such a prospect. She hadalready observed them in church, wondering not a little at thatscrupulous attention to ceremony which had made them ignore theexistence of the newcomers till their acquaintance should have been madein due form. 

"Mamma, " said she, "this is Mrs. Bennett and her daughter. "

"Something to do with an admiral, haven't they?" cried Mrs. Rexford. 

It proved to be an unnecessary exertion of memory on Mrs. Rexford's partto recollect what she had heard of the relatives of her visitors, fornot long after Mrs. Bennett had introduced herself and her daughter shebrought her uncle, the admiral, into the conversation with considerableskill. 

She was a delicate, narrow-minded woman, with no open vulgarity abouther, but simply ignorant of the fact that bragging of one'sdistinguished relatives had fallen into disuse. Her daughter, was likeher in manner, with the likeness imposed by having such a mother, butmuch more largely made in mind and body, pleasant-looking, healthy, high-browed. Sophia liked her appearance. 

Mrs. Rexford, her mind ever upon some practical exigency, now rememberedthat she had also heard that the Bennetts managed their dairyexcellently, and, having a large craving for help on all such subjects, she began to bewail her own ignorance, asking many and variousquestions; but, although she did not perceive it, it soon becameapparent to her more observant daughter that the visitors, having comeout to make a call of ceremony, preferred to talk on subjects moreremote from their daily drudgery, on subjects which they apparentlyconsidered more elegant and becoming. Unable to check the flow of hermother's talk, Sophia could only draw her chair cosily near to MissBennett and strike into a separate conversation, hoping for, andexpecting, mental refreshment. 

"I suppose there are no good lending libraries in any of the towns nearhere, " she began. "How do you get new books or magazines?"

Miss Bennett had a bright, cordial manner. She explained that shethought there was a circulating library in every town. When she wasvisiting in Quebec her friends had got a novel for her at two cents aday. And then she said Principal Trenholme bought a good many books, andhe had once told her mother that he would lend them any they chose, butthey had never had time to go and look over them. "It has, " she added, "been such an advantage to Chellaston to have a gentleman so clever ashe at the college. "

"Has it?" said Sophia, willing to hear more. "Is he very clever?"

"Oh, " cried the other, "from Oxford, you know;" and she said it in muchthe tone she might have said "from heaven. "

"Is it long, " asked Sophia, "since you have been in England?"

Miss Bennett said she had never been "home, " but she longed, above allthings, to go. 

She had, it seemed, been born in Canada, and her parents had nopossessions in the mother-country, and yet she always called it "home. "This was evidently a tradition. 

Sophia, who had come from England a little tired of the conditionsthere, and eager for a change, felt the pathetic sameness of thediscontent wrought by surfeit and by famine. 

"Yet, " said she, "it is a relief to the mind to feel that one lives in acountry where no worthy person is starving, and where every one has agood chance in life if he will but avail himself of it. It seems to makeme breathe more freely to know that in all this great country there isnone of that necessary poverty that we have in big English towns. "

Little answer was made to this, and Sophia went on to talk of whatinterested her in English politics; but found that of the politics, aswell as of the social condition, of the country she adored, Miss Bennettwas largely ignorant. Her interest in such matters appeared to sumitself up in a serene belief that Disraeli, then prominent, was the oneprop of the English Constitution, and as adequate to his position asAtlas beneath the world. Now, Sophia cherished many a Radical opinion ofher own, and she would have enjoyed discussion; but it would have beenas difficult to aim a remark at the present front of her newacquaintance as it would be for a marksman to show his skill with acloud of vapour as a target. Sophia tried Canadian politics, owning herignorance and expressing her desire to understand what she had read inthe newspapers since her arrival; but Miss Bennett was not sure thatthere was anything that "could exactly be called politics" in Canada, except that there was a Liberal party who "wanted to ruin the country byfree trade. "

Sophia ceased to take the initiative. She still endeavoured to respectthe understanding of a girl of whom she had heard that when her father'sfortunes were at a low ebb she had retrieved them by good management andpersonal industry--a girl, too, who through years of toil had preservedsprightliness and perfect gentility. What though this gentility wassomewhat cramped by that undue importance given to trifles which isoften the result of a remote life; it was still a very lovely thing, ajewel shining all the more purely for its iron setting of honest labour. Sophia fought with the scorn that was thrusting itself into her heart asshe listened when Miss Bennett now talked in a charming way about thepublic characters and incidents which interested her. 

"I wish for your sake, Miss Rexford, " she said, "that some of the Royalfamily would come out again. The only time that there is any realadvantage in being in a colony is when some of them come out; for here, you know, they take notice of every one. "

"One would still be on the general level then, " said Sophia, smiling. 

"Well, I don't know. It makes one feel distinguished, you know, in spiteof that. Now, when the Prince was out, he stopped here for a night, andwe had a ball. It was simply delightful! He danced with us all--I meanwith all who could claim to be ladies, and indeed with some who couldnot; but how could _he_ discriminate? There was a man called Blake, whokept a butcher's shop here then--you may have noticed we haven't such athing as a butcher's shop in the village now, Miss Rexford?"

"Indeed I have. It seems so odd. "

"Blake had a handsome daughter; and when we had a ball for the Prince, didn't he buy her a fine dress, and take her to it! She really lookedvery handsome. "

"I hope the Prince danced with her, " laughed Sophia. Her good spiritswere rising, in spite of herself, under the influence of the livelinesswith which Miss Bennett's mind had darted, birdlike, into its ownelement. 

"_Yes_, he did. Wasn't it good-natured of him! I believe hisaide-de-camp told him who she was; but he was so gracious; he said sheshould not go away mortified. I never spoke to her myself; but I've nodoubt she was unable to open her mouth without betraying her origin; butperhaps on that occasion she had the grace to keep silent, and shedanced fairly well. "

"Was her head turned by the honour?" asked Sophia, led by the other'stone to expect a sequel to the tale. 

"Poor girl! The end was sadder than that. She caught a violent cold, from wearing a dress cut low when she wasn't accustomed to it, and shedied in a week. When we heard of it I was glad that he _had_ danced withher; but some were cruel enough to say that it served Blake right forhis presumption. He was so broken-hearted he left the place. The dressshe wore that night was a green silk, and he had her buried in it; andsome one told the Prince, and he sent some flowers. Wasn't it sweet ofhim! They were buried with her too. It was quite romantic. "

"More romantic to have such a swan-like death than to live on as abutcher's daughter, " said Sophia, and sarcasm was only a smallingredient in the speech. 

"We were quite grieved about it, " said Miss Bennett, sincerely. 

Sophia also felt sorry, but it was not her way to say so. She was moreinterested in remarking upon the singular method of getting butcher'smeat then in vogue at Chellaston. A Frenchman, a butcher in a small way, drove from door to door with his stock, cutting and weighing his jointsin an open box-sleigh. To see the frozen meat thus manipulated in themidst of the snow had struck Sophia as one of the most novel features oftheir present way of life. Miss Bennett, however, could hardly beexpected to feel its picturesqueness. Her parents did not fancy thisvendor's meat, and at present they usually killed their own. Her father, she said, had grown quite dexterous in the art. 

"Really!" cried Sophia. This was an item of real interest, for itsuggested to her for the first time the idea that a gentleman couldslaughter an ox. She was not shocked; it was simply a new idea, whichshe would have liked to enlarge on; but good-breeding forbade, for MissBennett preferred to chat about the visit of the Prince, and shecontinued to do so in a manner so lively that Sophia found it no dullhearing. 

"And, do you know, " she cried, "what Bertha Nash did? The Nashes, youknow, are of quite a common family, although, as Dr. Nash is everybody'sdoctor, of course we are all on good terms with them. Well, Bertha askedthe Prince how his mother was!" She stopped. 

"I suppose he knew whom she was talking about?"

"Oh, that was the worst of it--he couldn't _help knowing_, " cried MissBennett. "I should have sunk through the floor with mortification if Ihad done such a thing. I should have expected to be arrested on the spotfor high treason. Bertha says, you know, that she was so nervous at thethought of who her partner was that she didn't know what she was saying;but I scarcely think she knew really how to address him. One can neverbe thankful enough, I'm sure, for having been thoroughly well broughtup. "

She went on to explain what had been her own sensations when firstaccosted by this wonderful Prince, upon being led out by him, and so on. It all sounded like a new fairy tale; but afterwards, when she had gone, with cordial wishes, as she took leave, that another prince might comesoon and dance with Sophia, the latter felt as if she had been reading apage of an old-fashioned history which took account only of kings andtournaments. 

This visit was a distinct disappointment on the whole. Sophia had hopedmore from it, and coming after weeks that had been trying, it had powerto depress. It was late afternoon now, and the day was the last in theyear. Sophia, going upstairs to get rid of the noise of the children, was arrested by the glow of the sunset, and, weary as she was, stoodlong by the diamond window that was set in the wooden wall of her room. It was cold. She wrapped a cloak about her. She did not at first lookobservantly at the glow and beauty outside. Her eyes wandered over thescene, the bright colour upon it rousing just enough interest to keepher standing there: her thoughts were within. 

Sophia Rexford had set herself, like many a saint of olden and moderntimes, to crush within her all selfishness; and the result had been theresult of all such effort when it is staunch and honest--to show thatthat against which she was warring was no mere mood or bad habit, to beovercome by directing the life on a nobler plan, but a living thing, with a vitality so strong that it seemed as if God Himself must havegiven it life. She stood now baffled, as she had often been before, byher invincible enemy. Where was the selfless temper of mind that was herideal? Certainly not within her. She was too candid to suppose for amoment that the impatient scorn she felt for those with whom she hadbeen talking approached in any way to that humility and love that arerequired of the Christian. She felt overwhelmed by surging waves of evilwithin. It was at the source the fountain ought to be sweet, and thereambition and desire for pleasure rose still triumphant; and the currentof her will, set against them, seemed only to produce, not theirabatement, but a whirlpool of discontent, which sucked into itself allnatural pleasures, and cast out around its edge those dislikes anddisdains which were becoming habitual in her intercourse with others. Itwas all wrong--she knew it. She leaned her head against the cold pane, and her eyes grew wet with tears. 

There is no sorrow on earth so real as this; no other for which suchbitter tears have been shed; no other which has so moved the heart ofGod with sympathy. Yet there came to Sophia just then a strange thoughtthat her tears were unnecessary, that the salvation of the world wassomething better than this conflict, that the angels were looking uponher discouragement in pained surprise. 

She had no understanding with which to take in this thought. As shelooked at it, with her soul's eye dim, it passed away; and she, tryingin vain to recall the light that it seemed to hold, wondered if it wouldcome again. 

Perhaps the tears had given relief to her brain; perhaps some DivinePresence had come near her, giving hope that she could not weigh ormeasure or call by name; at any rate, as she looked round again withfresh glance, the scene outside seemed fairer than it had yet appearedto her. 

A long strip had been swept on the ice of the river by pleasure-lovinghands. Down this burnished path young men and maidens were skating, andtheir way was paved with gold. There was soft tinting of this same lighton the undulations of the pearly land beyond; blue shadows were in itswoods, and reflected fire on many a window of the houses that clusterednear and far. She knew that in each house that was a true Canadian homethere was joyous preparations going on for the next day's fęte. Shewondered what it would be like to be at home in this country, to be onein its sports and festivities. She could not see from her attic windowthe land on this side of the river, but she heard the shouts of someboys who were spending their holiday at the college. They were at somegame or other in a field near. Sophia liked to hear them. 

Just then Mrs. Rexford came upstairs to consult her about something. Shejoined in the outlook for a few moments, and the sunset made herreflective. 

"Well, my love, " said she, "last year at this time we did not know weshould be here to-day! Ah, Sophia, it is always a little doleful to seethe Old Year go out; but here, where there are no bells in the churches, it will seem less solemn. "

END OF BOOK I. 

BOOK II. 

 "_Necessity, like light's electric force, Is in ourselves and all things, and no more Without us than within us_--. "

CHAPTER I. 

The bells have solemn sound that from old belfries ring the passing ofthe year in the hearing of thousands; but perhaps it is a more solemnthing to watch and tell the birth of a new year by the march of starsthat look down out of their purple void upon a land of trackless snow. If ceremony and the united sentiment of many hearts have impressiveeffect, they yet tend to lighten the burden of individualresponsibility, which presses with weight, like the weight of theatmosphere upon a vacuum, when a man tries to grapple with his own soulin solitude. 

Alec Trenholme was spending another wakeful night in the living-room ofhis small railway station. Winter lay around him. For a month theblueberry flats and bramble thickets had been wholly lost under thesnow, which stretched far whiter than the pure white of the birch treesin the nearest groves. Now the last night but one of the old year hadbrought a fresh downfall, unusually heavy; the long, straight railwaytrack, and the sleigh-road which was kept open between the station andTurrifs Settlement, had been obliterated by it. Alec Trenholme had awokethat morning to observe that his little station of new wood, and theendless line of rough telegraph poles, were the only remaining signs ofman's lordship of earth, as far as his eyes could see. It was upon thissight, when the snow clouds had fled, that he had seen a scarlet suncome up; over the same scene he had watched it roll its golden chariotall day, and, tinging the same unbroken drifts, it had sunk scarletagain in the far southwest. He had not been far from his house, and noone, in train, or sleigh, or on snow-shoes, had happened to come nearit. 

He would have gone himself to Turrifs for milk, for the pleasure ofexchanging a word with his fellow-men, and for air and exercise, had itnot been that he had hourly expected to see an engine, with itssnow-plough, approaching on the rails. Conversation by telegraph wouldhave been a relief to him, but the wires seemed to have succumbed inmore than one place to their weight of snow, and there was nothing forthis young station-master to do but wait, and believe that communicationwould be re-established over the road and the wires sooner or later. Inthe meantime he suffered no personal inconvenience, unless lonelinesscan be thus named, for he had abundance of food and fuel. He watched thebright day wane and the sun of the old year set, and filled his stovewith wood, and ate his supper, and told himself that he was a veryfortunate fellow and much better off than a large proportion of men. 

It is not always when we tell ourselves that we are well off that we arehappiest: that self-addressed assertion often implies some tacitcontradiction. 

When darkness came he wondered if he should put on his snow-shoes andrun over to Turrifs. Yet for some reason he did not go, in the way thatmen so often do not do things that they think on the whole would be verygood things to do. An hour or two later he knew that the good peoplethere would have gone to bed and that he had no longer the option ofgoing. He did not go to bed himself. He had not had enough exercise thatday to make him sleepy; and then, too, he thought he would sit up andsee the old year out. He had an indistinct idea that it was rather avirtuous thing to do, rather more pious than sleeping the night throughjust as if it were any other night. He put his much-handled, oft-readbooks down before him on the table, and set himself to passing theevening with them. Midnight is actually midnight when the sun goes downbefore five o'clock and there is no artificial interest for the afterhours. 

Most men have more religion at heart, latent or developed, than can beseen by others. When they have not, when what shows is as much as whatis--God pity them!

Alec Trenholme was not given to self-dissection or to expression of hisprivate sentiments, therefore neither to himself nor to others was thereligion of him very visible. Nevertheless, this evening his books, which had become not less but more to him because he had read themoften, palled upon his taste. When he was a boy his father had taughthim that at New Year's time one ought to consider whether the past hadbeen spent well, and how the future could be spent better. So, as timewent on, he pushed his books further and set himself to thisconsideration. For a while he sat looking at his own doings only by thelight, as it were, of two candles--the one, of expediency; the other, ofrectitude. Had he been wise? Had he been good?

Not being of a contemplative or egotistical disposition, he soonfidgeted. Thinking he heard a sound outside, which might be wind rising, or might be the distant approach of the iron snow-plough, he got up tolook out. The small panes of his window were so obscured by frostworkthat he did not attempt to look through the glass, but opened his door. Far or near there was no sign of rising wind or coming engine; only, above, the glowing stars, with now and then a shaft of northern lightpassing majestically beneath them, and, below, the great white world, dim, but clearly seen as it reflected the light. The constellationsattracted his attention. There hung Orion, there the Pleiades, therethose mists of starlight which tell us of space and time of which wecannot conceive. Standing, looking upwards, he suddenly believed himselfto be in the neighbourhood of God. 

When the keen air upon his bare head had driven him indoors, he sat downagain to formulate his good resolutions, he found that his candles ofexpediency and morality had gone out. The light which was there insteadwas the Presence of God; but so diffused was this light, so dim, that itwas as hard for him now to see distinction between right and wrong asit would have been outside upon the snow to see a shadow cast by rayswhich had left their stars half a century before. All, all of which hecould think seemed wrong, because it was not God; all, all of which hecould think seemed right, because it was part of God. The young man'sface sank on his arms and lay buried there, while he thought, andthought, and thought, trying to bring a life of which he could thinkinto relation with that which is unthinkable. 

Was ever reverie more vain! He raised his head and stared about him. Theglaring lamp showed all the details of the room, and made it seem soreal, so much more real than mere thoughts, let alone that of which onecannot think. He got up to alter the stove-damper, pushing it shut witha clatter of iron, burning his fingers slightly, and sat down again, feeling it a relief to know, if by the smart, that he had touchedsomething. 

The wood within the stove ceased blazing when the damper was shut, andwhen its crackling was silenced there was a great quiet. The air outsidewas still; the flame of the lamp could hardly make sound. Trenholme'swatch, which lay on the table, ticked and seemed to clamour for hisattention. He glanced down at it. It was not very far from midnight. 

Just then he heard another sound. It was possibly the same as that whichcame to him an hour ago, but more continuous. There was no mistakingthis time that it was an unusual one. It seemed to him like a humanvoice in prolonged ejaculatory speech at some distance. 

Startled, he again looked out of his door. At first he saw nothing, butwhat he had seen before--the world of snow, the starry skies. Yet thesound, which stopped and again went on, came to him as if from thedirection in which he looked. Looking, listening intently, he was justabout to turn in for his coat and snow-shoes in order to go forth andseek the owner of the voice, when he perceived something moving betweenhim and the nearest wood--that very birch wood in which, more than amonth before, he had sought for the man Cameron who had disappeared fromhis own coffin. In an instant the mood of that time flashed back on himas if there had been nothing between. 

All the search that had been made for Cameron in the first days of thesnow had resulted in nothing but the finding of his coarse winding-sheetin this birch wood. Then and since, confused rumours had come that hewas wandering from village to village, but no one had been brave enoughto detain him. Trenholme knew that people on the railway line to thesouth believed firmly that the old man was still alive, or that hisghost walked. Now, as his eyes focussed more intently upon the movingthing, it looked to him like a man. 

Again he heard the sound of a voice, a man's voice certainly. It wasraised for the space of a minute in a sort of chant, not loud enough forhim to hear any word or to know what language was spoken. 

"Hi!" cried Trenholme at the top of his voice. "Hi, there! What do youwant?"

There was no doubt that a man out there could have heard, yet, whateverthe creature was, it took not the slightest notice of the challenge. 

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he saw that the figure wasmoving on the top of the deep snow near the outskirts of thewood--moving about in an aimless way, stopping occasionally, andstarting again, raising the voice sometimes, and again going on insilence. Trenholme could not descry any track left on the snow; all thathe could see was a large figure dressed in garments which, in thestarlight, did not seem to differ very much in hue from the snow, and hegained the impression that the head was thrown back and the faceuplifted to the stars. 

He called again, adjuring the man he saw to come at once and say why hewas there and what he wanted. No attention was paid to him; he might aswell have kept silent. 

A minute or two more and he went in, shut and bolted his door, eventook the trouble to see that the door of the baggage-room was secured. He took his lamp down from the wall where, by its tin reflector, it hungon a nail, and set it on the table for company. He opened the damper ofthe stove again, so that the logs within crackled. Then he sat down andbegan to read the Shakespeare he had pushed from him before. What he hadseen and heard seemed to him very curious. No obligation rested uponhim, certainly, to go out and seek this weird-looking creature. Therewas probably nothing supernatural, but--well, while a man is alone it iswisest to shut out all that has even the appearance of the supernaturalfrom his house and from his mind. So Trenholme argued, choosing thesatirical fool of the Forest of Arden to keep him company. 

"Now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in abetter place: but travellers must be content. "

Trenholme smiled. He had actually so controlled his mind as to becomelost in his book. 

There was a sound as if of movement on the light snow near by and ofhard breathing. Trenholme's senses were all alert again now as he turnedhis head to listen. When the moving figure had seemed so indifferent tohis calls, what reason could it have now for seeking his door--unless, indeed, it were a dead man retracing his steps by some mysteriousimpulse, such as even the dead might feel? Trenholme's heart beat lowwith the thought as he heard a heavy body bump clumsily against thebaggage-room door and a hand fumble at its latch. There was enough lightshining through his window to have shown any natural man that the smalldoor of his room was the right one by which to enter, yet the fumblingat the other door continued. 

Trenholme went into the dark baggage-room and heard the stir against thedoor outside. He went near it. Whoever was there went on fumbling tofind some way of entrance. 

By this time, if Trenholme had suffered any shock of dismay, he hadrighted himself, as a ship rights itself after shuddering beneath awave. Clearly it now came within his province to find out what thecreature wanted; he went back into his room and opened its outer door. 

Extending beyond the wall, the flooring of the house made a littleplatform outside, and, as the opening of the door illuminated this, aman came quietly across the threshold with clumsy gait. This man was noghost. What fear of the supernatural had gathered about Trenholme's mindfell off from it instantly in self-scorn. The stranger was tall andstrong, dressed in workman's light-coloured clothes, with a big, somewhat soiled bit of white cotton worn round his shoulders as a shawl. He carried in his hand a fur cap such as Canadian farmers wear; his greyhead was bare. What was chiefly remarkable was that he passed Trenholmewithout seeming to see him, and stood in the middle of the room with alook of expectation. His face, which was rugged, with a glow ofweather-beaten health upon it, had a brightness, a strength, aneagerness, a sensibility, which were indescribable. 

"Well?" asked Trenholme rather feebly; then reluctantly he shut thedoor, for all the cold of the night was pouring in. Neither of him norof his words or actions did the old man take the slightest notice. 

The description that had been given of old Cameron was fulfilled in thevisitor; but what startled Trenholme more than this likeness, whichmight have been the result of mere chance, was the evidence that thisman was not a person of ordinary senses and wits. He seemed like one whohad passed through some crisis, which had deprived him of much, andgiven him perhaps more. It appeared probable, from his gait and air, that he was to some extent blind; but the eagerness of the eyes and theexpression of the aged face were enough to suggest at once, even to anunimaginative mind, that he was looking for some vision of which he didnot doubt the reality and listening for sounds which he longed to hear. He put out a large hand and felt the table as he made his clumsy wayround it. He looked at nothing in the room but the lamp on the tablewhere Trenholme had lately put it. Trenholme doubted, however, if he sawit or anything else. When he got to the other side, having wanderedbehind the reflector, he stopped, as if perhaps the point of light, dimly seen, had guided him so far but now was lost. 

Trenholme asked him why he had come, what his name was, and several suchquestions. He raised his voice louder and louder, but he might as wellhave talked to the inanimate things about him. This one other humanbeing who had entered his desolate scene took, it would seem, nocognisance of him at all. Just as we know that animals in some caseshave senses for sights and sounds which make no impression on human eyesand ears, and are impervious to what we see and hear, so it seemed toTrenholme that the man before him had organs of sense dead to the worldabout him, but alive to something which he alone could perceive. Itmight have been a fantastic idea produced by the strange circumstances, but it certainly was an idea which leaped into his mind and would not bereasoned away. He did not feel repulsion for the poor wanderer, or fearof him; he felt rather a growing attraction--in part curiosity, in partpity, in part desire for whatever it might be that had brought the lookof joyous expectancy into the aged face. This look had faded now to someextent. The old man stood still, as one who had lost his way, notseeking for indications of that which he had lost, but looking rightforwards and upwards, steadily, calmly, as if sure that something wouldappear. 

Trenholme laid a strong hand upon his arm. "Cameron!" he shouted, to seeif that name would rouse him. The arm that he grasped felt like a rockfor strength and stillness. The name which he shouted more than once didnot seem to enter the ears of the man who had perhaps owned it in thepast. He shook off Trenholme's hand gently without turning towards him. 

"Ay, " he said. (His voice was strong. ) Then he shook his head with apatient sigh. "Not here, " he said, "not here. " He spoke as deaf menspeak, unconscious of the key of their own voice. Then he turnedshuffling round the table again, and seemed to be seeking for the door. 

"Look here, " said Trenholme, "don't go out. " Again he put his handstrongly on his visitor, and again he was quietly brushed aside. Theoutside seemed so terribly cold and dark and desolate for this poor oldman to wander in, that Trenholme was sorry he should go. Yet go he did, opening the door and shutting it behind him. 

Trenholme's greatcoat, cap, and snow-shoes were hanging against thewall. He put them on quickly. When he got out the old man was fumblingfor something outside, and Trenholme experienced a distinct feeling ofsurprise when he saw him slip his feet into an old pair of snow-shoesand go forth on them. The old snow-shoes had only toe-straps and noother strings, and the feat of walking securely upon seemed almost asdifficult to the young Englishman as walking on the sea of frozen atomswithout them; but still, the fact that the visitor wore them made himseem more companionable. 

Trenholme supposed that the traveller was seeking some dwelling-place, and that he would naturally turn either up the road to Turrifs or towardthe hills; instead of that, he made again for the birch wood, walkingfast with strong, elastic stride. Trenholme followed him, and they wentacross acres of billowy snow. 

CHAPTER II. 

Why Alec Trenholme followed the old man toward the wood he himself wouldhave found it a little difficult to tell. If this was really Cameron hedid not wish that he should escape; but, at the same time, he saw nomeans of keeping him against his will, unless he went of his own accordto some place where other men could be called to help. Quite apart, however, from the question whether the stranger was Cameron or not, Trenholme felt for him a sort of respect which character alone inspires, and which character written in a man's appearance has often power toinspire without a word or action to interpret it further. It was becauseof this that curiosity to know where he was going and what for, and areal solicitude as to what would happen to him, were strong enough tolead the young man on. 

They who have not walked upon snow by starlight do not know, perhaps, that the chief difficulty of such progress is that there is no shadow;perhaps they do not even know that at all times the difference betweenan upward and a downward slope is revealed to the eye by light andshade. The snow on which the two men were now walking had been left bythe wind with slight undulations of surface, such as are produced in aglassy sea by the swing of a gentle under-swell; and Trenholme, notsensitive as the stranger seemed to be in the points of his snow-shoes, found himself stepping up when he thought himself stepping down, and thereverse. At last he stumbled and fell. 

It is not a matter of ease to rise from a bed which yields endlessly toevery pressure of arm or knee. Even a sea-bird, that strongest offlyers, finds it hard to rise from any but its own element; and beforeTrenholme had managed to spring up, as it were, from nothing, the man infront had in some way become aware of his presence for the first time, and of his fall; he turned and lifted him up with a strong hand. WhenTrenholme was walking again the other retained a firm hold of his arm, looked at him earnestly, and spoke to him. His words expressed areligious idea which was evidently occupying his whole mind. 

"The Lord is coming presently to set up His kingdom, " he said. "Are youready to meet Him?"

On Alec Trenholme the effect of these words, more unexpected than anyother words could have been, was first and chiefly to convince him thathe was dealing with a witless person. Leaving him again, the speaker hadhurried on in front, making his way still toward the wood. WhenTrenholme came up with him the wanderer had evidently found the placewhere he had been before, for there was the irregular circular track ofhis former wandering upon the snow. Trenholme counted himself a fool tohave been able before to suppose that there was no track because he hadnot seen it. But he had hardly time for even this momentary glance at sosmall a matter, for the old man was standing with face uplifted to thestars, and he was praying aloud that the Divine Son of Man would returnto earth and set up His kingdom. 

Sometimes there was more light upon the dark scene, sometimes less, forgiant rays of the northern light stalked the sky, passing from it, coming again, giving light faintly. 

Trenholme felt an uncontrollable excitement come over him. His mind wascarried out of himself, not so much to the poor man who was praying, asto the Divine Man to whom the supplication was addressed; for the voiceof prayer spoke directly from the heart of the speaker to One who heevidently felt was his friend. The conviction of this other man that heknew to whom he was speaking caught hold of Alec Trenholme's mind withmastering force; he had no conviction of his own; he was not at allsure, as men count certainty, whether there was, or was not, any ear buthis own listening to the other's words; but he did not notice his ownbelief or unbelief in the matter, any more than he noticed the airbetween him and the stars. The colourlessness of his own mind took onfor the time the colour of the other's. 

And the burden of the prayer was this: Our Father, thy kingdom come. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. 

The hardihood of the prayer was astonishing; all tender arguments oflove were used, all reasonable arguments as of friend with friend andman with man, and its lengthened pathos was such that Trenholme felthis heart torn for pity within him. 

"Look here!" he said at last. (He had been listening he knew not howlong, but the planets in the sky above had moved westward. He took holdof the old man. ) "Look here! He won't come so that you can see Him; butHe's here just the same, you know. "

The only result was that the old man ceased speaking aloud, andcontinued as if in silent prayer. 

It seemed irreverent to interrupt him. Trenholme stood again irresolute, but he knew that for himself at least it was madness to stand longerwithout exercise in the keen night. 

"Come, Lord Jesus!" cried the old man again in loud anguish. "Come. Theworld is needing only Thee. We are so wicked, so foolish, so weak--weneed Thee. Come!"

Whether or not his companion had the full use of eyes and ears, Trenholme was emboldened by the memory of the help he had received onhis fall to believe that he could make himself heard and understood. Heshouted as if to one deaf: "The Lord is here. He is with you now, onlyyou can't see Him. You needn't stay here. I don't know who you are, butcome into my place and get warmed and fed. "

"How do you know He is here?" asked the old man, shaking his headslowly. 

"Everybody knows that. "

"I can't hear. "

"Everybody knows, " shouted Trenholme. 

"How do you know? What do you know?" asked the other, shaking his headsorrowfully. 

Trenholme would have given much to comfort him. He tried to drag him bymain force in the direction of the house. The old man yielded himself afew steps, then drew back, asking, "Why do you say He is here?"

"Because" (Trenholme called out his words in the same high key) "beforeHe died, and after, He said He would always be with His servants. Don'tyou believe what He said?"

Again the old man yielded a few paces, evidently listening and hearingwith difficulty, perhaps indeed only hearing one or two words thatattracted him. 

"Did the Lord say it to _you_?" he asked eagerly. 

"No. "

There was blank disappointment shown instantly. They had come to astandstill again. 

"Do you know him?" The strong old face was peering eagerly into his, asif it had not been dark. "Have you heard his voice?"

"I don't know, " answered Trenholme, half angrily. 

Without another word the old man shook him off, and turned once more tothe starry sky above. 

"Lord Jesus!" he prayed, "this man has never heard thy voice. They whohave heard Thee know thy voice--they know, O Lord, they know. " Heretraced all the steps he had taken with Trenholme and continued inprayer. 

After that, although Trenholme besought and commanded, and tried to drawhim both by gentleness and force, he obtained no further notice. It wasnot that he was repulsed, but that he met with absolute neglect. The oldman was rock-like in his physical strength. 

Trenholme looked round about, but there was certainly no help to beobtained. On the one side he saw the birch wood indistinctly; the whitetrunks half vanished from sight against the white ground, but the brushof upper branches hung like the mirage of a forest between heaven andearth. All round was the wild region of snow. From his own small housethe lamp which he had left on the table shot out a long bright raythrough a chink in the frostwork on the window. It occurred to him thatwhen he had fetched down the lamp it was probably this ray, sudden andunexpected in such a place, that had attracted his strange visitor tohis house. Had his poor dazed brain accepted it as some sign of theglorious appearing for which he waited?

Trenholme looked again at his companion. It mattered nothing to him whoor what he was; he would have done much to still that pleading voice andpacify him, but since he could not do this, he would go for a littlewhile out of sight and hearing. He was fast growing numb with the fiercecold. He would come back and renew his care, but just now he would gohome. He walked fast, and gained his own door with blood that ran lesschill. 

He heaped his stove with fresh logs, and set on food to warm, in thehope that the stranger might eventually partake of it, and then, openingthe stove door to get the full benefit of the blaze, he sat down for alittle while to warm himself. He looked at his watch, as it lay on thetable, with that glance of interest which we cast at a familiar thingwhich has lain in the same place while our minds have undergonecommotion and change. Midnight had passed since he went out, and it wasnow nearly two o'clock. 

Whether it was that the man with whom he had been, possessed that power, which great actors involuntarily possess, of imposing their own moods onothers, or whether it was that, coming into such strange companionshipafter his long loneliness, his sympathies were the more easily awakened, Trenholme was suffering from a misery of pity; and in pity for anotherthere weighed a self-pity which was quite new to him. To have seen thestalwart old man, whose human needs were all so evident to Trenholme'seyes, but to his own so evidently summed up in that one need which wasthe theme of the prayer he was offering in obstinate agony, was anexperience which for the time entirely robbed him of the power of seeingthe elements of life in that proportion to which his mind's eye hadgrown accustomed--that is, seeing the things of religion as a shadowybackground for life's important activities. 

The blazing logs through the open stove door cast flickering flamelightupon the young man, who was restlessly warming himself, shifting hisposition constantly, as a man must who tries to warm himself toohastily. A traveller read in ancient lore, coming suddenly on this cabinamid its leagues of snow, and looking in to see its light and warmth andthe goodly figure of its occupant, might have been tempted to think thatthe place had been raised by some magician's wand, and would vanishagain when the spell was past. And to Alec Trenholme, just then, thestation to which he was so habituated, the body which usually seemed thelarger part of himself, might have been no more than a thought or adream, so intent was he upon another sort of reality. He was regardlessof it all, even of the heat that, at the same time, scorched him andmade him shiver. He thought of the words that he--he, AlecTrenholme--had lifted up his voice to say, waking the echoes of thesnow-muffled silence with proclamation of--He tried not to remember whathe had proclaimed, feeling crushed with a new knowledge of his ownfalseness; and when perforce the thought came upon him of the invisibleActor in the night's drama whose presence, whose action, he had been sostrenuously asserting, he was like a man in pain who does not know whatremedy to try; and his mood was tense, he sought only relief. He essayedone thought and another to reason away the cloud that was upon him; andthen he tried saying his prayers, which of late had fallen somewhat intodisuse. It was only by way of a try to see if it would do any good; andhe did not give himself much time, for he felt that he must go out againto try to bring in the old man. 

Before he had put on his fur cap a second time, however, he heard thewhistle of the engine he had been expecting now for nearly twenty-fourhours. It came like a sudden trumpet-sound from the outside world tocall him back to his ordinary thoughts and deeds. For the first momenthe felt impatient at it; the second he was glad, for there wouldcertainly be some one with it who could aid him in using force, ifnecessary, to bring the old man to spend the remainder of the nightwithin doors. 

Trenholme saw the black and fiery monster come on into his dark andsilent white world. It shook a great plume of flaming smoke above itssnorting head, and by the light of the blazing jewel in its front he sawthat the iron plough it drove before it was casting the snow in mistyfountains to right and left. 

When the engine stopped, Trenholme found that there was a small car withit, containing about twenty men sent to dig out the drifts where snowsheds had given way. These were chiefly French Canadians of a rather lowtype. The engine-driver was a Frenchman too; but there was a briskEnglish-speaking man whose business it was to set the disorderedtelegraph system to rights. He came into the station-room to test itscondition at this point of the route. As there was a stove in their car, only a few of the men straggled in after him. At a larger place theparty might have been tempted to tarry, but here they had no thought ofstopping an unnecessary moment. Trenholme had no time to lose, and yethe hardly knew how to state his case. He sought the Englishman, who wasat the little telegraph table. The engineer and some others loungednear. He began by recalling the incident of the dead man'sdisappearance. Every one connected with the railway in those parts hadheard that story. 

"And look here!" said he, "as far as one can judge by description, hehas come back again here to-night. " All who could understand werelistening to him now. "See here!" he urged addressing the brisktelegraph man, "I'm afraid he will freeze to death in the snow. He'squite alive, you know--alive as you are; but I want help to bring himin. "

The other was attending to his work as well as to Trenholme. "Why can'the come in?"

"He won't. I think he's gone out of his mind. He'll die if he's left. It's a matter of life or death, I tell you. He's too strong for me tomanage alone. Someone must come too. "

The brisk man looked at the engineer, and the French engineer looked athim. 

"What's he doing out there?"

"He's just out by the wood. "

It ended in the two men finding snow-shoes and going with Trenholmeacross the snow. 

They all three peered through the dimness at the space between them andthe wood, and they saw nothing. They retraced the snow-shoe tracks andcame to the place where the irregular circuit had been made near the endof the wood. There was no one there. They held up a lantern and flashedit right and left, they shouted and wandered, searching into the edge ofthe wood. The old man was not to be found. 

"I dare say, " said the telegraph man to Trenholme, "you'd do well to getinto a place where you don't live quite so much alone. 'T'aint good foryou. "

The whole search did not take more than twenty minutes. The railway-menwent back at a quick pace. Trenholme went with them, insisting only thatthey should look at the track of the stranger's snow-shoes, and admitthat it was not his own track. 

The French engineer was sufficiently superstitious to lend a half beliefto the idea that the place was haunted, and that was his reason forhaste. The electrician was only sorry that so much time had been purelywasted; that was his reason. He was a middle-aged man, spare, quick, andimpatient, but he looked at Alec Trenholme in the light of the enginelamp, when they came up to it, with some kindly interest. 

"I say, " he went on again, "don't you go on staying here alone--agood-looking fellow like you. You don't look to me like a chap to havefancies if you weren't mewed up alone. "

As Trenholme saw the car carried from him, saw the faces and forms ofthe men who stood at its door disappear in the darkness, and watched thered light at its back move slowly on, leaving a lengthening road ofblack rails behind it, he felt more mortified at the thought of thetelegraph man's compassion than he cared to own, even to himself. 

He went out again, and hunted with a lantern till he found a trackleading far into the wood in the opposite direction from his house. This, then, was the way the old man had gone. He followed the track fora mile, but never came within sight or sound of the man who made it. 

At last it joined the railway line, and where the snow was rubbed smoothhe could not trace it. Probably the old man had taken off his snow-shoeshere, and his light moccasins had left no mark that could be seen in thenight. 

CHAPTER III. 

For two nights after that Alec Trenholme kept his lamp lit all night, placing it in his window so that all the light that could strugglethrough the frosted panes should cast an inviting ray into the night. Hedid this in the hope that the old man might still be wandering in theneighbourhood; but it was soon ascertained that this was not the case;the stranger had been seen by no one else in Turrifs Settlement. Thoughit was clear, from reports that came, that he was the same who hadvisited other villages and been accepted as the missing Cameron, nothingmore was heard of him, and it seemed that he had gone now off the linesof regular communication--unless, indeed, he had the power of appearingand disappearing at will, which was the popular view of his case. Turrifs Station had become notorious. Trenholme received jeers and gibeseven by telegraph from neighbouring stations. He had given account to noone of the midnight visit, but inventive curiosity had supplied detailsof a truly wonderful nature. It was not on this account that he gave uphis situation on the line, but because a new impulse had seized him, andhe had no particular reason for remaining. He waited till a newcaretaker arrived from the headquarters of the railway, and then setforth from the station the following morning on foot. 

Turrif had been laid up with some complaint for a week or two, and Alecwent to say good-bye to him. The roads had been opened up again. He hadhis snow-shoes on his back, and some clothes in a small pack. 

Turrif's wife opened the door, and Trenholme disburdened himself andwent and sat by the bed. The little children were about, as usual, inblue gowns; he had made friends in the house since his first supperthere, so they stood near now, and laughed at him a great deal withoutbeing afraid. In the long large wooden room, the mother and eldest girlpursued the housework of the morning tranquilly. Turrif lay upon a bedin one corner. The baby's cradle, a brown box on rockers, was close tothe bed, and when the child stirred the father put out his hand androcked it. The child's head was quite covered with the clothes, so thatTrenholme wondered how it could breathe. He sat by the foot of the bed, and Turrif talked to him in his slow English. 

"You are wise to go--a young man and genteel-man like you. "

"I know you think I was a fool to take the place, but a man might aswell earn his bread-and-butter while he is looking round the country. "

"You have looked round at this bit of country for two months"--with ashrug of the shoulders. "I should have sought your bright eyes could seeall what sere is to see in two days. "

"You'll think me a greater fool when you know where I am going. "

"I hope" (Turrif spoke with a shade of greater gravity on his placidface)--"I hope sat you are going to some city where sere is money to bemade, and where sere is ladies and other genteel-men like you. "

"I knew you would think me mad. I'm going to Bates's clearing to cutdown his trees. "

"Why?" The word came with a certain authority. 

"You would almost be justified in writing to the authorities to lock meup in an asylum, wouldn't you? But just consider what an awful conditionof loneliness that poor wretch must be in by this time. You think I'vebeen more alone than's good for me; think of him, shut up with an oldwoman in her dotage. He was awfully cut up about this affair of oldCameron and the girl, and he is losing all his winter's lumbering forwant of a man. Now, there's a fix, if you will, where I say a man is tobe pitied. "

"Yes, " said Turrif, gravely, "it is sad; but sat is _hees_ trouble. "

"Look here: he's not thirty miles away, and you and I know that if heisn't fit to cut his throat by this time it isn't for want of trouble tomake him, and you say that that state of things ought to be only his ownaffair?"

"Eh?"

"Well, I say that you and I, or at least I, have something to do withit. You know very well I might go round here for miles, and offer ahundred pounds, and I couldn't get a single man to go and work forBates; they're all scared. Well, if they're scared of a ghost, let themstay away; but _I'm_ not frightened, and I suppose I could learn to chopdown trees as well as any of them. He's offered good wages; I can takehis wages and do his work, and save him from turning into a bletheringidiot. "

Probably, in his heat to argue, he had spoken too quickly for theFrenchman to take in all his words. That his drift was understood andpondered on was evident from the slow answer. 

"It would be good for Monsieur Bates, but poor for you. "

"I'm not going to turn my back on this country and leave the fellow inthat pickle. I should feel as if his blood were on my head. "

"Since?"

"How since?"

"Since what day did you have his care on you? Last time you came you didnot mean sen to help him. " It was true, but so strongly did Trenholmesee his point that he had not realised how new was the present aspect ofthe case to him. 

"Well, " said he, meaning that this was not a matter of importance. 

"But why?" said Turrif again. 

"Oh, I don't know. " Trenholme looked down at his moccasined feet. "Ithought" (he gave a laugh as if he were ashamed) "I'd turn over a newleaf this year, and do something that's more worth doing. I was wellenough off here so far as looking out for myself was concerned. "

Turrif looked at him with kind and serious disapproval. 

"And when will you begin to live se life of a _man_?"

"How do you mean--'a man'?"

"When will you make money and get married?"

"Do you think time is all wasted when one isn't making money and gettingmarried?"

"For a _boy_, no; for a _man_, yes. "

Trenholme rose. "Good-bye, and thank you for all your hospitality, " saidhe. "I'll come back in spring and tell you what I'm going to do next. "

He was moving out, when he looked again at the little shrine in themiddle of the wall, the picture of the Virgin, and, below, the littlealtar shelf, with its hideous paper roses. He looked back as it caughthis eye, arrested, surprised, by a difference of feeling in him towardsit. 

Noticing the direction of Trenholme's glance, the Frenchman crossedhimself. 

It was a day of such glory as is only seen amid Northern snowfields. Alec Trenholme looked up into the sky, and the blue of other skies thathe remembered faded beside it, as the blue of violets fades beside theblue of gentian flowers. There was no cloud, no hint of vapour; thesky, as one looked for it, was not there, but it was as if the sightleaped through the sunlit ether, so clear it was, and saw the dark bluegulfs of space that were beyond the reach of the sun's lighting. Theearth was not beyond the reach of the sunlight, and in all that widewhite land, in mile after mile of fields, of softened hillock and buriedhollow, there was not a frozen crystal that did not thrill to its centrewith the sunlight and throw it back in a soft glow of myriad rays. 

Trenholme retraced his steps on the road from Turrif's door to a pointnearer his old railway-station; then he put on his snow-shoes and setout for the gap in the hills that led to the Bates and Cameron clearing. As he mounted the soft snow that was heaped by the roadside and struckout across the fields, his heart bounded with a sense of power andfreedom, such as a man might have who found means to walk upon theocean. Little need had he of map or guide to mark the turning orcrossing of his road; the gap in the hills was clear to his eyes fifteenmiles away; the world was white, and he strode across it. When the earthis made up of pearl-dust and sunshine, and the air is pure as the air ofheaven, the heart of man loses all sense of effort, and action is asspontaneous as breath itself. Trenholme was half-way to the hills beforehe felt that he had begun his day's journey. 

When he got past the unbroken snow of the farm lands and the blueberryflats, the white surface was broken by the tops of brushwood. He did nottake the line of the straight corduroy road; it was more free andexciting to make a meandering track wherever the snow lay sheer over achain of frozen pools that intersected the thickets. There was noperceptible heat in the rays the sun poured down, but the light was sogreat that where the delicate skeletons of the young trees were massedtogether it was a relief to let the eye rest upon them. 

That same element of pleasure, relief, was found also in the restfuldeadness of the wooded sides of the hills when he came near them. Greythere was of deciduous trees in the basin of the river, and dull greenof spruce firs that grew up elsewhere. Intense light has the effect oflack of light, taking colour from the landscape. Even the green of thefir trees, as they stood in full light on the hill summits, was faded incomparison with the blue beyond. 

This was while he was in the open plain; but when he walked into theforest, passing into the gap in the hills, all was changed. The snow, lightly shadowed by the branches overhead, was more quiet to the sight, and where his path lay near fir trees, the snow, where fell their heavyshade, looked so dead and cold and grey that it recalled thoughts ofnight-time, or of storm, or of other gloomy things; and this thought ofgloom, which the dense shadow brought, had fascination, because it wassuch a wondrous contrast to the rest of the happy valley, in which thesunbeams, now aslant, were giving a golden tinge to the icy facets ofcrags, to high-perched circling drifts, to the basin of unbroken snow, to the brown of maple trunks, and to the rich verdure of the very firswhich cast the shadow. 

It was after four o'clock in the afternoon when he stopped his steadytramp, arrested by the sight of the first living things he had seen--aflock of birds upon a wild vine that, half snow-covered, hung out theremnant of its frozen berries in a cleft of the hill. The birds did notfly at his approach, and, going nearer and nearer on the silent snow, heat last stopped, taking in greedily the sight of their pretty, fluttering, life. They were rather large birds, large as the misselthrush; they had thick curved beaks and were somewhat heavy in form; butthe plumage of the males was like the rose-tint of dawn or evening whenit falls lightly upon some grey cloud. They uttered no note, but, busywith their feast, fluttered and hopped with soft sound of wings. 

In lieu of gun or net, Trenholme broke a branch from a tree beside him, and climbed nearer to the birds in order to strike one down ifpossible. To his surprise, as he advanced deftly with the weapon, thelittle creatures only looked at him with bright-eyed interest, and madeno attempt to save themselves. The conviction forced itself upon himwith a certain awe that these birds had never seen a man before. His armdropped beside him; something of that feeling which comes to theexplorer when he thinks that he sets his foot where man has never trodcame to him now as he leaned against the snow-bank. The birds, it istrue, had fluttered beyond his arm's length, but they had no thought ofleaving their food. Twice his arm twitched with involuntary impulse toraise the stick and strike the nearest bird, and twice the impulsefailed him, till he dropped the stick. 

The slight crust which usually forms on snow-banks had broken with theweight of his figure as he leaned against it, and he lay full lengthagainst the soft slope, enjoying rest upon so downy a couch, until thebirds forgot him, and then he put out his hand and grasped the nearest, hardly more to its own surprise than to his. The bird feigned dead, asfrightened birds will, and when he was cheated into thinking it dead, itgot away, and it was only by a very quick movement that he caught itagain. He put it in a hanging pocket of his coat, and waited till hecould catch a companion to fill the opposite pocket. 

Thus weighted, he continued his journey. It gave him the cheerfulfeeling that a boy has when choice marbles are in his pocket. Neitherbirds nor marbles under such circumstances have absolute use, but thenthere is always the pleasant time ahead when it will be suitable to takethem out and look at them. The man did not finger his birds as a boymight have done his marbles, but he did not forget them, and every nowand then he lifted the flaps of the, baggy pockets to refill them withair. 

He was tramping fast now down the trough of the little valley, undertrees that, though leafless, were thick enough to shut out thesurrounding landscape. The pencils of the evening sunlight, it is true, found their way all over the rounded snow-ground, but the sunset washidden by the branches about him, and nothing but the snow and the treetrunks was forced upon his eye, except now and then a bit of blue seenthrough the branches--a blue that had lost much depth of colour with thedecline of day, and come nearer earth--a pale cold blue that showedexquisite tenderness of contrast as seen through the dove-coloured greyof maple boughs. 

Where the valley dipped under water and the lake in the midst of thehills had its shore, Trenholme came out from under the trees. The sunhad set. The plain of the ice and the snowclad hills looked blue withcold--unutterably cold, and dead as lightless snow looks when the eyehas grown accustomed to see it animated with light. He could not seewhere, beneath the snow, the land ended and the ice began; but itmattered little. He walked out on the white plain scanning thesouth-eastern hill-slope for the house toward which he intended to bendhis steps. He was well out on the lake before he saw far enough roundthe first cliff to come in sight of the log house and its clearing, andno sooner did he see it than he heard his approach, although he was yetso far away, heralded by the barking of a dog. Before he had gone muchfarther a man came forth with a dog to meet him. 

The two men had seen one another before, in the days when theneighbourhood had turned out in the fruitless search for Cameron'sdaughter and for Cameron himself. At that time a fevered eye and haggardface had been the signs that Bates was taking his misfortune to heart;now Trenholme looked, half expecting to see the same tokens developed bysolitude into some demonstration of manner; but this was not the case. His flesh had certainly wasted, and his eye had the excitement ofexpectation in it as he met his visitor; but the man was the same manstill, with the stiff, unexpressive manner which was the expression ofhis pride. 

Bates spoke of the weather, of the news Trenholme brought from TurrifsSettlement, of the railway--all briefly, and without warmth of interest;then he asked why Trenholme had come. 

"You haven't been able to get any one yet to fell your trees for you?"

Bates replied in the negative. 

"They think the place is dangerous, " said the other, as if givinginformation, although he knew perfectly that Bates was aware of this. Hehad grown a little diffident in stating why he had come. 

"Fools they are!" said Bates, ill-temperedly. 

Trenholme said that he was willing to do the work Bates had wanted a manfor, at the same wages. 

"It's rough work for a gentlemany young man like you. "

Trenholme's face twitched with a peculiar smile. "I can handle an axe. Ican learn to fell trees. "

"I mean, the living is rough, and all that; and of course" (this wasadded with suspicious caution) "it wouldn't be worth my while to pay thesame wages to an inexperienced hand. "

Trenholme laughed. This reception was slightly different from what hehad anticipated. He remarked that he might be taken a week on trial, andto this Bates agreed, not without some further hesitation. Trenholmeinquired after the health of the old aunt of whom he had heard. 

"In bodily health, " said Bates, "she is well. You may perhaps have heardthat in mind she has failed somewhat. "

The man's reserve was his dignity, and it produced its result, althoughobvious dignity of appearance and manner was entirely lacking to him. 

The toothless, childish old man woman Trenholme encountered when heentered the house struck him as an odd exaggeration of the report he hadjust received. He did not feel at home when he sat down to eat the foodBates set before him; he perceived that it was chiefly because in a newcountry hospitality is considered indispensable to an easy consciencethat he had received any show of welcome. 

Yet the lank brown hand that set his mug beside him shook so that sometea was spilt. Bates was in as dire need of the man he received sounwillingly as ever man was in need of his fellow-man. It is when thefetter of solitude has begun to eat into a man's flesh that he begins toproclaim his indifference to it, and the human mind is never in suchneed of companionship as when it shuns companions. 

The two spent most of the evening endeavouring to restore to livelinessthe birds that Trenholme had taken from his pockets, and in discussingthem. Bates produced a very old copy of a Halifax newspaper whichcontained a sonnet to this bird, in which the local poet addressed it as

 "The Sunset-tinted grosbeak of the north"

Trenholme marvelled at his resources. Such newspapers as he stored upwere kept under the cushion of the old aunt's armchair. 

Bates brought out some frozen cranberries for the birds. They made arough coop and settled them in it outside, in lee of one of the sheds. It is extraordinary how much time and trouble people will expend on suchsmall matters if they just take it into their heads to do it. 

CHAPTER IV. 

There was no very valuable timber on Bates's land. The romance of thelumber trade had already passed from this part of the country, but thefarmers still spent their winters in getting out spruce logs, which weresold at the nearest saw-mills. Bates and Cameron had possessedthemselves of a large portion of the hill on which they had settled, with a view to making money by the trees in this way--money that wasnecessary to the household, frugal as it was, for, so far, all theirgains had been spent in necessary improvements. Theirs had been afar-seeing policy that would in the end have brought prosperity, had theyears of uninterrupted toil on which they calculated been realised. 

It was not until the next day that Trenholme fully understood howhelpless the poor Scotchman really was in his present circumstances. Inthe early morning there was the live-stock to attend to, which took himthe more time because he was not in strong health; and when that wasdone it seemed that there was much ado in the house before the old womanwould sit down peacefully for the day. He apologised to Trenholme forhis housework by explaining that she was restless and uneasy all dayunless the place was somewhat as she had been accustomed to see it; hedrudged to appease her, and when at last he could follow to the bush, whither he had sent Trenholme, it transpired that he dared not leave hermore than an hour or two alone, for fear she should do herself amischief with the fire. In the bush it was obvious how pitifully smallwas the amount of work accomplished. Many trees had been felled beforeCameron's death; but they still had to be lopped and squared, cut intotwelve-foot lengths, dragged by an ox to the log-slide, and passed downon to the ice of the lake. Part of the work required two labourers; onlya small part of what could be done single-handed had been accomplished;and Trenholme strongly suspected that moonlight nights had been given tothis, while the old woman slept. 

It is well known that no line can be drawn between labour and play; itis quite as much fun making an ox pull a log down a woodland path asplaying at polo, if one will only admit it, especially when novelty actsas playmate. Most healthy men find this fascination hidden in labour, provided it only be undertaken at their own bidding, although few havethe grace to find it when necessity compels to the task. Alec Trenholmefound the new form of labour to which he had bidden himself toilsome anddelightful; like a true son of Adam, he was more conscious of his toilthan of his delight--still both were there; there was physicalinspiration in the light of the snow, the keen still air, and the sweetsmell of the lumber. So he grew more expert, and the days went past, hardly distinguished from one another, so entire was the unconsciousnessof the slumber between them. 

He had not come without some sensation of romance in hisknight-errantry. Bates was the centre, the kernel as it were, of a wildstory that was not yet explained. Turrif had disbelieved the detailsSaul had given of Bates's cruelty to Cameron's daughter, and Trenholmehad accepted Turrif's judgment; but in the popular judgment, ifCameron's rising was not a sufficient proof of Bates's guilt, theundoubted disappearance of the daughter was. Whatever had been hisfault, rough justice and superstitious fear had imposed on Bates a termof solitary confinement and penal servitude which so far he had acceptedwithout explanation or complaint. He still expressed no satisfaction atTrenholme's arrival that would have been a comment on his own hard caseand a confession of his need. Yet, on the whole, Trenholme's interest inhim would have been heightened rather than decreased by a nearer view ofhis monotonous life and his dry reserve, had it not been that the manwas to the last degree contentious and difficult to deal with. 

Taking for granted that Trenholme was of gentle extraction, he treatedhim with the generosity of pride in the matter of rations; but heassumed airs of a testy authority which were in exact proportion to hisown feeling of physical and social inferiority. Seen truly, there was apathos in this, for it was a weak man's way of trying to be manful buthis new labourer, could not be expected to see it in that light. Then, too, on all impersonal subjects of conversation which arose, it was thenature of Bates to contradict and argue; whereas Trenholme, who hadlittle capacity for reasonable argument, usually dealt withcontradiction as a pot of gunpowder deals with an intruding spark. Asregarded the personal subject of his own misfortune--a subject on whichTrenholme felt he had a certain right to receive confidence--Bates'sdemeanour was like an iron mask. 

Bates scorned the idea, which Turrif had always held, that Cameron hadnever really died; he vowed, as before, that the box he had sent inSaul's cart had contained nothing but a dead body; he would hear nodescription of the old man who, it would seem, had usurped Cameron'sname; he repeated stolidly that Saul had put his charge into someshallow grave in the forest, and hoaxed Trenholme, with the help of anaccomplice; and he did not scruple to hint that if Trenholme had notbeen a coward he would have seized the culprit, and so obviated furthermystery and after difficulties. There was enough truth in this view ofthe case to make it very insulting to Trenholme. But Bates did not seemto cherish anger for that part of his trouble that had been caused bythis defect; rather he showed an annoying indifference to the wholeaffair. He had done what he could to bury his late partner decently; heneither expressed nor appeared to experience further emotion concerninghis fate. 

When a man has set himself to anything, he generally sticks to it, for atime at least; this seemed to be the largest reason that Trenholme hadthe first four weeks for remaining where he was. At any rate, he didremain; and from these unpromising materials, circumstance, as is oftenthe case, beat, out a rough sort of friendship between the two men. Thefact that Bates was a partial wreck, that the man's nerve and strengthin him were to some extent gone, bred in Trenholme the gallantry of thestrong toward the weak--a gallantry which was kept from rearing intoself-conscious virtue by the superiority of Bates's reasoning powers, which always gave him a certain amount of real authority. Slowly theybegan to be more confidential. 

"It's no place for a young man like you to be here, " Bates observed withdisfavour. 

It was Sunday. The two were sitting in front of the house in thesunshine, not because the sun was warm, but because it was bright;dressed, as they were, in many plies of clothes, they did not feel thecold, in flat, irregular shape the white lake lay beneath their hill. Onthe opposite heights the spruce-trees stood up clear and green, asperfect often in shape as yews that are cut into old-fashioned cones. 

"I was told that about the last place I was in, and the place beforetoo, " Trenholme laughed. He did not seem to take his own words much toheart. 

"Well, the station certainly wasn't much of a business, " assented Bates;"and, if it's not rude to ask, where were ye before?"

"Before that--why, I was just going to follow my own trade in a placewhere there was a splendid opening for me; but my own brother put a stopto that. He said it was no fit position for a young man like me. Mybrother's a fine fellow, " the young man sneered, but not bitterly. 

"He ought to be, " said Bates, surveying the sample of the family beforehim rather with a glance of just criticism than of admiration. "What'syour calling, then?"

Alec pulled his mitts out of his pocket and slapped his moccasins withthem to strike off the melting snow. "What do you think it is, now?"

Bates eyed him with some interest in the challenge. "I don't know, " hesaid at last. "Why didn't your brother want ye to do it?"

"'Twasn't grand enough. I came out naturally thinking I'd set up near mybrother; but, well, I found he'd grown a very fine gentleman--all honourto him for it! He's a good fellow. " There was no sneer just now. 

Bates sat subjecting all he knew of Alec to a process of consideration. The result was not a guess; it was not in him to hazard anything, even aguess. 

"What does your brother do?"

"Clergyman, and he has a school. "

"Where?"

"Chellaston, on the Grand Trunk. "

"Never heard of it. Is it a growing place?"

"It's thriving along now. It was just right for my business. "

"Did the clergyman think your business was wrong?"

The young man laughed as a man laughs who knows the answer to an amusingriddle and sees his neighbour's mental floundering. "He admits that it'san honest and respectable line of life. "

"Did ye give in, then?"

"I took a year to think over it. I'm doing that now. "

"Thinking?"

"Yes. "

"I've not observed ye spending much time in meditation. "

The young man looked off across the basin of the frozen lake. What ismore changeful than the blue of the sky? Today the far firmament lookedopaque, an even, light blue, as if it were made of painted china. Theblue of Alec Trenholme's eyes was very much like the sky; sometimes itwas deep and dark, sometimes it was a shadowy grey, sometimes it washard and metallic. A woman having to deal with him would probably haveimagined that something of his inward mood was to be read in thesechanges; but, indeed, they were owing solely to those causes whichchange the face of the sky--degrees of light and the position of thatlight. As for Bates, he did not even know that his companion had blueeyes; he only knew in a general way that he was a strong, good-lookingfellow, whose figure, even under the bulgy shapes of multipliedgarments, managed to give suggestion of that indefinite thing we callstyle. He himself felt rather thinner, weaker, more rusty in knowledgeof the world, more shapeless as to apparel, than he would have done hadhe sat alone. 

After a minute or two he said, "What's your trade?"

Trenholme, sitting there in the clear light, would have blushed as heanswered had his face not been too much weathered to admit of change ofcolour. He went through that momentary change of feeling that we connectwith blushes. He had been perfectly conscious that this question wascoming, and perfectly conscious, too, that when he answered it he wouldfall in Bates's estimation, that his prestige would be gone. He thoughthe did not mind it, but he did. 

"Butcher, " he said. 

"Ye're not in earnest?" said Bates, with animosity. 

"Upon my word. "

"Ye don't look like that"--with disappointment. 

"Look like what?"--fiercely--"What would you have me look like? Myfather was as good-looking a man as you'd see in the three kingdoms, andas good a butcher, too. He got rich, had three shops, and he sent usboys to the best school he could find. He'd have set me up in anybusiness I liked; if I chose his it was because--I did choose it. "

He was annoyed at Bates's open regret, just as we are constantly moreannoyed at fresh evidence of a spirit we know to be in a man than withthe demonstration of some unexpected fault, because we realise the traitwe have fathomed and see how poor it is. 

"How did your brother come to be a minister?"

"He's a _clergyman_ of the Church of England"--with loftiness. 

"Well, that's more of a thing than a minister; how did he come by it?"

"He was clever, and father was able to send him to Oxford. He was a gooddeal older than I was. I suppose he took to the Church because hethought it his duty. "

"And now that he's out here he wants to sink the shop?"

"Oh, as to that"--coldly--"when he was quite young, in England, he gotin with swells. He's tremendously clever. There were men in England thatthought no end of him. "

"Did he lie low about the shop there?"

"I don't know"--shortly--"I was at school then. "

Bates, perceiving that his questions were considered vastly offensive, desisted, but not with that respectfulness of mind that he would havehad had Alec's father been a clergyman as well as his brother. Bates'sfeeling in this matter was what it was by inheritance, exactly as wasthe shape of his nose or the length of his limbs; it required noexercise of thought on his part to relegate Alec Trenholme to a place ofless consequence. 

Trenholme assuaged his own ill-temper by going to take out his pink andgrey grosbeaks and give them exercise. He was debating in his mindwhether they were suffering from confinement or not--a question whichthe deportment of the birds never enabled him to solve completely--whenBates wandered round beside him again, and betrayed that his mind wasstill upon the subject of their conversation. 

"Ye know, " he began, with the deliberate interest of a Scotchman in anargument, "I've been thinking on it, and I'm thinking your brother's inthe right of it. "

"You do!" The words had thunderous suggestion of rising wrath. 

"Well, " said the other again, "ye're hard to please; ye were vexed awhile since because ye thought I was criticising him for lying low. "

The answer to this consisted in threats thrown out at any man who tookupon himself to criticise his brother. 

"And now, when I tell ye I'm thinking he's in the right of it, ye'revexed again. Now, I'll tell ye: ye don't like to think the Rev. Mr. Trenholme's in the right, for that puts ye in the wrong; but ye don'tlike me to think he's in the wrong, because he's your brother. Well, it's natural! but just let us discuss the matter. Now, ye'll agree withme it's a man's duty to rise in the world if he can. "

Upon which he was told, in a paraphrase, to mind his own business. 

CHAPTER V. 

It was a delightful proof of the blessed elasticity of inconsistency inhuman lives, a proof also that there was in these two men more of goodthan of evil, that that same evening, when the lamp was lit, theydiscussed the problem that had been mooted in the afternoon with a fairamount of good temper. As they sat elbowing the deal table, sheets ofold newspapers under their inspection, Trenholme told his story moresoberly. He told it roughly, emphasising detail, slighting importantmatter, as men tell stories who see them too near to get the justproportion; but out of his words Bates had wit to glean the truth. Itseemed that his father had been a warmhearted man, with somethingsuperior in his mental qualities and acquirements. Having made amoderate fortune, he had liberally educated his sons. There is nothingin which families differ more by nature than in the qualities of heartwhich bind them together or easily release them from the bonds ofkinship. The members of this small family had that in them which heldthem together in spite of the pulling of circumstance; for although theelder son had come on the stage of manhood ten years before the younger, although he had had talents that advanced him among scholarly men, andhad been quickly taken from his first curacy to fill a superior positionin a colony, he had never abated an affectionate correspondence withAlec, and had remained the hero of his young brother's imagination. Thisyounger son, not having the same literary tastes, and having possibly asofter heart, gratified his father by going into business with him; butat that good man's death he had had sufficient enterprise, sufficientdistaste, possibly, for his English position, to sell the business thatwas left in his hands, and affection drew him, as a loadstone a magnet, to his brother's neighbourhood. He brought with him securities of thesmall fortune they were to divide between them, and expected nothing buthappiness in the meeting and prosperity in his future career. Unfortunately, a cause of dispute between the two brothers aroseinstantly on Alec's arrival: there was an exceptionally good opening inChellaston for one of Alec's calling; the brothers took different viewsconcerning that calling; they had quarrelled with all the fire of warmnatures, and were parted almost as soon as met. 

"And did ye think it would be pleasing to your brother to have atradesman of the same name and blood as himself in the same place?"asked Bates with lack of toleration in his tone. 

"That's all very fine!"--scornfully. "You know as well as I do that mylord and my gentleman come out to this country to do what farm-hands andcattle-men would hardly be paid to do at home--"

"When they've ruined themselves first, but not till then, " Bates put in. 

"And besides, old Robert sets up to be a saint. I didn't suppose he'dlook upon things in the _vulgar_ way. " This reflection was cast on Batesas one of a class. "Was I likely to suppose he'd think that to kickone's heels on an office stool was finer than honest labour, or that myparticular kind of labour had something more objectionable about it thanany other? In old times it was the most honourable office there was. Look at the priests of the Old Testament! Read Homer!"

"I don't know that I'm understanding ye about Homer. "

"Why, hear him tell the way the animals were cut up, and the number ofthem--yards and yards of it. "

"But in the Bible the animals were used for sacrifice; that's verydifferent. " Bates said this, but felt that a point had been scoredagainst him in the poetry of Homer; the Old Testament was primeval, butHomer, in spite of ancient date, seemed to bring with him the authorityof modern culture. 

"If they were, the people feasted upon them all the same, and theoffice of preparing them was the most honourable. I'm not claiming to bea priest (I leave that to my respected brother); I claim my right in anew country, where Adam has to delve again, to be a butcher and agentleman. " All his words were hot and hasty. 

"But ye see, " said Bates, "in the towns here, things are beginning toregulate themselves much in the shape they take in the old country. "

"My brother cares more what people think than I do. "

"And a verra good thing too; for with the majority there is wisdom, " putin Bates, keen and contentious. 

"You think so, do you?"--with sarcasm. 

"Ye must remember ye're young yet; your brother has seen more of theworld--"

Now Alec Trenholme had had no intention of telling what, to his mind, was the worst of his brother's conduct, but here he slapped the tableand burst out angrily:

"And I tell you he believes as I do, but he hasn't pluck to act up toit. He's not even told one of his fine friends what his brother does; hesays it's for the sake of his school. He's living a lie for his ownpride. He's got himself made master of a college, fine as a fiddle, andhe cares more about that than about his brother. With all his prayersand his sermons in church every Sunday, he'd let me go to the dogsrather than live out the truth. He thinks I've gone to the devil now, because I left him in a rage, and I told him I'd go and learn to spendmy money, and drink, and swear, and gamble as a _gentleman_ should. Hethinks I've done it, and he writes and implores me, by all that's holy, to forsake evil courses; but never a word like 'Come back and set upyour shop, old fellow, and I'll be your customer. ' That's the amount ofhis religion. "

"It was a hard choice ye put upon him, " said Bates, solemnly. 

"You think it was? Well!" The young man gave a boisterous laugh. 

"For, in the first place, it's not his fault, but your own entirely, ifye go to the bad. "

"I've not gone to the bad; but if I had, if I'd gone straight there, itwould have been his fault. "

"'Twould just have been your own. There's just one man that'sresponsible for your actions, and that's yourself. If your brother was acompete blackguard, instead of a good man, that's no excuse for you. Godnever put any man into this world and said, 'Be good if some other manis. '"

"When a man sets up to preach, and then throws away his influence overhis own brother for a little finery opposition, it's more than being ablackguard. What does a man mean by standing up to preach if he doesn'tmean that he's taking some responsibility for other people?"

"Well, but it wasn't he that threw away his influence over you; it wasyou. He never said 'Don't be influenced any more by me. ' If ye thoughthe was an angel before then, more fool ye were, for no man is an angel. What business had you to make all the influence of his godly lifecondeetion on his doing right, or what you thought right, on a certainpoint of opinion?"

"He's living a lie, I tell you. "

"I'm not sure but he's right not to have blazoned it. I'm not sure butI'd have done the same myself. "

"Well, as you just remarked, men are not angels. That you would havedone it doesn't prove anything. "

Next morning Trenholme, whose half-awaked mind had not yet recurred tothe night's dispute stepped out of the house into a white morning fog, not uncommon in fierce weather when holes for fishing had been made inthe ice of the lake. The air, seemingly as dry as smoke, but keen andsweet, was almost opaque, like an atmosphere of white porcelain, if suchmight be. The sun, like a scarlet ball, was just appearing; it mighthave been near, it might have been far; no prospect was seen to mark thedistance. Trenholme was walking round by the white snow path, hardlydiscerning the ox-shed to which he was bound, when he suddenly cameupon the dark figure of Bates, who was pitching hay for his Cattle. Bates let down his fork and stood in his path. 

"For God's sake, Mr. Trenholme, " said he, "let your brother know whereyou are. "

Trenholme started: Bates's figure stood not unlike some gnarled thornthat might have appeared to take human shape in the mist. 

"For God's sake, man, write! If ye only knew what it was to feel theweight of another soul on ye, and one that ye had a caring for! Ye'reeasy angered yourself; ye might as easy anger another, almost withoutknowing it; and if he or she was to go ye didn't know where, or perhapsdie, be sure ye would blame yourself without heeding their blame. "

Bates's voice was trembling. The solemnity of his mien and the femininepronoun he had let slip revealed to Trenholme the direction his thoughtshad taken. 

He went on, holding out an arm, as though by the gesture swearing to hisown transgression: "I counted myself a good man, and I'll not say nowbut I did more for"--some name died upon his lips--"than one man in ahundred would have done; but in my folly I angered her, and when I'dhave given my life ten times over--"

This, then, was the sorrow that dogged his life. Trenholme knew, withoutmore ado, that Bates loved the lost girl, that it was her loss thatoutweighed all other misfortune. He felt a great compassion: he saidimpatiently:

"There's no use trying to interfere between brothers. You can't see thething as I see it. Let's leave it. "

"Ay, leave it, " cried the other, voice and limb shaking, "and life isshort, and the time to die is every time, and if some accident is tosweep us away to-night, who's to tell him that your death, and your soultoo, isn't on his head?"

"Bother my soul!" said Alec; and yet there was a certain courtesyexpressed in the gentler tone in which he spoke, and what he thoughtwas, "How much he must have loved her!"

When the fog had vanished, leaving daylight absolute, this scene of themorning seemed like a dream, and in the evening, as much from curiosityto see if he could revive its essence again as from a friendly desire torelieve the overcharged heart of his comrade, he said:

"Tell me about her, Bates. What was she like?"

Bates responded to the question like a man whose heart is beatingagainst the walls of his silence as a bird beats upon its cage. He spokea few words, hardly noticing that he was telling his memories; then themask of his self-bound habit was resumed; then again the dignity of hissorrow found some expression; and still again he would retire intodumbness, setting the questioner aside slightingly; and when he hadforgotten that he had drawn back within himself some further revealingwould come from him. It was little that he said in all, but languagethat has been fused in the furnace of so strong a sorrow and silence haslittle of the dross of common speech--the unmeaning, misleading, unnecessary elements: his veritable memory and thought and feeling werepainted by his meagre tale. 

Was that tale true? John Bates would have thought it a great sin todeceive himself or another, and yet, such was the power of his love, blown to white heat by the breath of regret and purified, that when hespoke of the incidents of Sissy's childhood, of the cleverness shedisplayed when he taught her, of her growth until the day in which hehad offended her by speaking of marriage, when he told of her tears, andprayers, and anger, and of his own despotism, the picture of it all thatarose in Trenholme's imagination was exceedingly different from whatwould have been there had he seen the reality. He would not have likedCameron's daughter had he seen her, but, seeing her through the mediumof a heart that loved her, all the reverence that is due to womanlysweetness stirred in him. Cupid may be blind, but to the eyes ofchastened love is given the vision of God. 

When it appeared that Bates had said all that he was going to say, AlecTrenholme sat pondering the problem of this girl's disappearance withmore mental energy than he had before given to it. Knowing the placenow, he knew that what Bates and Saul had averred was true--that therewere but two ways by which any one could leave it while water wasunfrozen, one by the boat, and the other by striking at random acrossthe hill to the back of the farm--a route that could only lead either toone of several isolated farms, or, by a forty-mile tramp round by thenearest river bridge, to the railway. At no farmhouse had she been seen, and the journey by the bridge was too long to have been accomplishedbefore the snow storm must have impeded her. It was in attempting thisjourney, Bates was convinced, that she had perished. There was, ofcourse, another possibility that had been mooted at Turrifs Settlement;but the testimony of Bates and Saul, agreeing in the main points, hadentirely silenced it. Trenholme, thinking of this now, longed toquestion more nearly, yet hardly dared. 

"Do you think she could have gone mad? People sometimes do go stark madsuddenly. Because, if so, and if you could be mistaken in thinking yousaw her in the house when you went--"

The Scotchman was looking keenly at him with sharp eyes and haggardface. "I understand ye, " he said, with a sigh of resignation, "the noiseo' the thing has been such that there's no evil men haven't thought ofme, or madness of her. Ye think the living creature ye saw rise from thecoffin was, maybe, the dead man's daughter?"

"I think it was much too big for a woman. "

"Oh, as to that, she was a good height. " Perhaps, with involuntarythought of what might have been, he drew himself up to his full statureas he said, "A grand height for a woman; but as to this idea of yours, I'll not say ye're insulting her by it, though! that's true too; butI've had the same notion; and now I'll tell ye something. She was notmad; she took clothes; she left everything in order. Was that the act ofa maniac? and if she wasn't mad, clean out of her wits, would she havedone such a thing as ye're thinking of?"

"No"--thoughtfully--"I should think not. "

"And, furthermore; if she had wished to do it, where is it she couldhave laid him? D'ye think I haven't looked the ground over? There's noplace where she could have buried him, and to take him to the lake wasbeyond her strength. " There was nothing of the everyday irascibilityabout his voice; the patience of a great grief was upon him, as heargued away the gross suspicion. 

"That settles it. " Trenholme said this willingly enough. 

"Yes, it settles it; for if there was a place where the earth was looseI dug with my own hands down to the very rock, and neither man nor womanlay under it. "

Trenholme was affected; he again renounced his suspicion. 

"And now I've told ye that, " said Bates, "I'll tell ye something else, for it's right ye should know that when the spring comes it'll not be inmy power to help ye with the logs--not if we should lose the flood andhave to let 'em lie till next year--for when the snow passes, I must beon the hills seeking her. " (He had put a brown, bony hand to shade hiseyes, and from out its shade he looked. ) "There were many to help meseek her alive; I'll take none wi' me when I go to give her burial. "

The other saddened; The weary length and uncertainty of such a search, and its dismal purpose, came to him. 

"You've no assurance that she hasn't drowned herself in the lake here, "he cried, remonstrating. 

"But I have that; and as ye'll be naturally concerned at me leaving thelogs, I'll tell ye what it is, if ye'll give me your word as an honestman that ye'll not repeat it at any time or place whatsoever. "

He looked so like a man seeking courage to confess some secret sin thatTrenholme drew back. 

"I'll not _tell_, but--"

Bates took no heed. "My aunt, " he began, "had money laid by; she had tenEnglish sovereigns she liked to keep by her--women often do. There wasno one but me and Sissy knew where it was; and she took them with her. By that I know she was making for the railway, and--" His voice grewunsteady as he brought his hand down; there was a look of far-off visionin his eyes, as though he saw the thing of which he spoke. "Ay, she'slying now somewhere on the hills, where she would be beaten down by thesnow before she reached a road. "

Trenholme was thinking of the sadness of it all, forgetting to wondereven why he had been told not to repeat this last, when he found Bateswas regarding his silence with angry suspicion. 

"It wasn't stealing, " he said irritably; "she knew she might have themif she wanted. " It was as though he were giving a shuffling excuse forsome fault of his own and felt its weakness. 

The young man, taken by surprise, said mechanically, "Would Miss Bateshave given them to her?" He had fallen into the habit of referring tothe childish old woman with, all due form, for he saw Bates liked it. 

"Hoots! What are you saying, man? Would ye have had the lassie leave theburden on my mind that she'd gone out of her father's house penniless?'Twas the one kindness she did me to take the gold. "

CHAPTER VI. 

One evening Alec Trenholme sat down to write to his brother. Bates hadurged him to write, and, after a due interval, of his own accord hewrote. The urging and the writing had a certain relation of cause andeffect, but the writer did not think so. Also, the letter he wrote wasvery different from the document of penitence and recantation that Bateshad advised, and now supposed him to be writing. 

He gave a brief account of what he had done before he accepted the postof station-master at Turrifs Station, and then, "I liked it well enough, " he wrote, "until one night a queer thing happened. As evening came on, a man drove up bringing a coffin to be sent by train to the next village for burial. When I was left alone with the thing, the man inside got up--he really did, I saw him. I shut him in and ran to fetch the carter, but couldn't catch him. When I came back, the man had got out and ran into the wood. They had lined the box with a white bed-quilt, and we found that some miles away in the bush the next day, but we never found the man; and the queer thing is that there were two men and a girl who seem to have been quite certain he was dead. One of them, a very intelligent fellow that I am staying with now, thinks the carter must have played some trick on the way; but I hardly believe that myself, from the way the carter acted. I think he spoke the truth; he said he had been alone on the road all day, and had been scared out of his wits by hearing the man turn in the coffin. He seemed well frightened, too. Of course, if this is true, the man could not really have been dead; but I'm not trying to give an explanation; I'm just telling you what occurred. Well, things went on quietly enough for another month, and on the last night of the old year the place was snowed up--tracks, roads, everything--and at midnight an old man came about who answered to the description I had of the dead man, clothes and all, for it seems they were burying him in his clothes. He was rather deaf, and blind I think, though I'm not sure, and he seemed to be wandering in his mind somehow; but he was a fine, powerful fellow--reminded me a little of father--and the pathetic thing about it was that he had got the idea into his head--"

Here Alec stopped, and, holding the pen idly in his hand, sat lost inthought. So wistful did he look, so wrapt, that Bates, glancingfurtively at him, thought the letter had raised associations of his homeand childhood, and took himself off to bed, hoping that the letter wouldbe more brotherly if the writer was left alone. But when Alec put pen topaper again he only wrote:--

 "Well, I don't know that it matters what he had got into his head; it hadn't anything to do with whether he was Cameron (the name of the man supposed dead) or not. I could not get a word out of him as to who he was or where he came from. I did all I could to get him to come in and have food and get warmed; but though I went after him and stood with him a long while, I didn't succeed. He was as strong as a giant. It was awfully solemn to see an old man like that wandering bareheaded in the snow at night, so far from any human being. I was forced to leave him, for the engine came clearing the track. I got some men to come after him with me, but he was gone, and we never saw him again. I stayed on there ten days, trying to hear something of him, and after that I came here to try my hand at lumbering. The owner of this place here was terribly cut up about the affair. It was he who started the coffin I told you of, and he's been left quite alone because this tale frightened men from coming to work for him in the winter as usual. I have a very comfortable berth here. I think there must have been something curious--a streak of some kind--in the dead man's family; his only daughter went off from here in a rage a few days after his death, and as the snow came at once, she is supposed to have perished in the drifts on the hills. Our logs have to be floated down the small river here at the spring flood, and this man, Bates, is determined to look for the lost girl at the same time. I'll stay and see him through the spring. Very likely I shall look in on you in summer. "

Alec Trenholme went to bed not a little sleepy, but satisfied that hehad given a clear account of the greater part of what had befallen him. 

The next day he tramped as far as the railway to post the letter. 

When Principal Trenholme received this letter he was standing in hislibrary, holding an interview with some of his elder pupils. He had apleasant manner with boys; his rule was to make friends with them asmuch as possible; and if he was not the darling of their hearts, he wasas dear to them as a pedagogue ever is to a class under his authority. When he saw Alec's letter, his heart within him leaped with hope andquailed with fear. It is only a few times during his life that a manregards a letter in this way, and usually after long suspense on asubject which looms large in his estimate of things. When he coulddisengage himself, he tore it open, and the first question with whichhe scanned it concerned Alec only--was he in trouble? had he carried outhis threat of evil-doing? or was it well with him?

Robert Trenholme was not now merely of the stuff of which men of theworld are made. Could we but know it, a man's mind probably bears to hisreligion no very different relation from what his body bears; his creed, opinions, and sentiments are more nearly allied to what St. Paul calls"the flesh" than they are to the hidden life of the man, with which Goddeals. To the inner spring of Robert Trenholme's life God had access, sothat his creed, and the law of temperance in him, had, not perfection, but vitality; and the same vitality, now permitted, now refused, byunseen inlets flowed into all he did and was, and his estimate of thingswas changed. He, in subtle selfishness, did much, almost all he could, to check and interrupt the incoming life, although indeed he prayed, andoften supposed his most ardent desire was, to obtain it. Such is theaverage man of faith; such was Robert Trenholme--a better thing, truly, than a mere man, but not outwardly or inwardly so consistent. 

The great fear he had when he opened this letter was that he had causedhis brother to stumble; the great hope, that, because of his prayers, Heaven would grant it should not be so; but when, on the first hastyglance over the pages, he discovered that Alec was well, and wasapparently amusing himself in a harmless way, that fear and hopeinstantly glided into the background; he hardly knew that they had bothbeen strong, so faded did they look in the light of the commonplacecertainty. 

The next question that pressed assumed an air of paramount importance. He had asked Alec to enter some honourable mercantile profession. He hadpressed this in the first interview, when the hot-tempered young man hadleft him in a rage. He had argued the point in subsequent letters; hehad even offered his own share of their inheritance as additionalcapital. He felt that he deserved an answer to this offer, and believedthat his happiness depended upon Alec's acceding to the proposed changeof his life-plan. His mind full of this secondary subject, he perusedthe sheets of the letter with singular impatience and distaste. Any manmight, in the most favourable circumstances, have been excused forexperiencing impatience at having so wild a tale foisted in briefconfusion upon his credulity; in the mood of his present circumstancethe elder Trenholme refolded the letter, using within himself thestrongest language in his vocabulary. 

Robert Trenholme was not a happy man just now. Since he had last seenAlec a change had come to him which made this matter of the other'scalling of warmer interest than it had been. Then his early love forSophia Rexford had been a memory and a far, half-formed hope; now it hadbeen roused again to be a true, steady flame, an ever-present influence. His one desire now was to win her affection. He would not be afraid thento tell her all that there was to tell of himself, and let her lovedecide. He did not feel that he should wrong her in this. At present hehad everything to give, she everything to receive, except the possessionof gentle blood, which would apparently be her only dowry. The girl hecould not once have dared to address was now working servantless in herfather's kitchen; he knew that it was no light drudgery; and he couldoffer her a comparatively luxurious home, and a name that had attractedto itself no small honour. He had a nice appreciation for what is calledposition, and the belief that their mutual positions had changed wasvery sweet to him. All his mind expanded in this thought, as the nervesof the opium-eater to the influence of his drug; it soothed him when hewas weary; it consoled him when he was vexed; it had come to him as anunexpected, unsought good, like a blessing direct from heaven. 

This was as things now were; but if his brother adhered to his purposeof establishing himself in his business in the same country, that wouldmake a difference--a difference that it was hard, perhaps, for athoughtful man to put into words, but which was still harder to wipeaway by any sophistry of words. Robert Trenholme may have been wise, orhe may have been foolish, but he estimated this difference as great. Should Alec persist in this thing, it would, in the first place, endanger the success of his school, or alter his relation to thatschool; in the second, it would make him more unworthy in the eyes ofall Sophia's well-born relatives. While he remained in suspense, therefore, he was too honourable to seek to entangle her affections bythe small arts that are used for such purposes; for if the worst came, he felt that he would be too proud to ask her to be his wife, or, iflove should overcome pride, and he should still sue for what he lovedbetter than life, he must do so before he sought her heart--not after;he must lay his cause before the tribunal of Sophia's wit before she hadlet go her heart--a thing that he, being what he was, had not courage todo. 

He was not "living a lie" (as his brother had said) any more than everyman does who allows his mind to dwell on the truth of what pleases himmore than on disagreeable truth. The fact that he was, by a distant tieof consanguinity, related to a gentleman of some county position inEngland was just as true, and to Trenholme's mind more largely true, than the fact of his father's occupation. Yet he had never made this aboast; he had never voluntarily stated the pleasant truth to any one towhom he had not also told the unpleasant; and where he had kept silenceconcerning the latter, he had done so by the advice of good men, andwith excuse concerning his professional influence. Yet, some way, he wasnot sufficiently satisfied with all this to have courage to bring itbefore Miss Rexford, nor yet was he prepared (and here was his worldlydisadvantage) to sacrifice his conscience to success. He would not askhis brother to change, except in so far as he could urge that brother'sduty and advantage; he would not say to him, "Do this for my sake"; noryet would he say, "Go, then, to the other side of the world"; nor yet, "You shall be no longer my brother. "

Robert Trenholme was bearing a haunted life. The ghost was fantasticone, truly--that of a butcher's shop; but it was a very real haunting. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Rexford family was without a servant. Eliza, the girl they hadbrought with them from Quebec, had gone to a situation at the Chellastonhotel. The proprietor and manager of that large building, having becomelame with rheumatism, had been sorely in need of a lieutenant, orhousekeeper, and had chosen one with that shrewdness which had ever beenhis business capital. His choice had fallen on Eliza and she hadaccepted the place. 

When Robert Trenholme heard of this arrangement he was concerned, knowing how difficult servants were to procure. He took occasion tospeak to Miss Rexford on the subject, expressing sympathy with her andstrong censure of Eliza. 

"Indeed I am not sure but that she has done right, " said Sophia. 

"You surprise me very much. I thought you made somewhat of a companionof her. "

"I do; and that is why, after hearing what she has to say about it, Ithink she has done right. She has abilities, and this is the onlyopening in sight in which she can exercise them. "

"I should think"--sternly--"that these abilities were betterunexercised. "

"That is probably because you haven't the least idea what it is to haveenergies and faculties for which you have no scope"--this archly. 

"But I should think the risk of learning pert manners--"

"That is the way men always argue about women. I tell you there is nosuch risk for an energetic, clever girl as to place her where the rustof unexercised faculties will eat into her soul. It is just because somany girls have to undergo this risk, and cannot do it safely, that theworld is so full of women that are captious or morbid or silly. Boystreated in the same way would turn out as badly. "

"But there is scope for all the highest faculties of a woman's nature insuch a household as yours, " cried he. 

"Since you say so"--politely--"I am bound to believe it. "

"No, but really--do you mean to say you don't think so?"

"You have just expressed yourself so positively that I am curious toknow how you came by your knowledge, first, as to Eliza's faculties, andsecondly, as to the scope for them in our house. "

"It is unkind of you to laugh at me when I am only a humble enquirerafter truth. "

"Having expressed yourself thus modestly--"

"Nay, but I only said what I would have said about any girl in any suchfamily. "

"And you only said it with that simplicity of certainty which every manwould have felt on the same subject. "

"I cry a truce; I plead for mercy. Let us have out the traits of Eliza'scharacter separately, and examine the scope in detail. "

"To begin with, she has wonderful foresight; her power to plan the workof the house so as to get it done as easily as possible often surprisesme. Now, of what use is this faculty in the kingdom of my step-mother, who always acts on the last impulse, and upsets every one's planswithout even observing them? She has great executive ability, too; butwhat use is it when, as soon as she gets interested in theaccomplishment of something, my mother cries, 'Come, Eliza, all workand no play makes Jack a dull boy; go and romp with the children!' Then, too, she has plenty of resource; but of what use is that, when the thingshe sees to be best in an emergency is seldom the thing that is done?The hotel-keeper is more observing than you; he has noticed that Elizais no ordinary manager, and offered her high wages. "

"You know, of course, what you are talking about, " said Trenholme, feelingly, for he had no doubt that her sympathy with Eliza had arisenout of the pains of her own experience; "but in your house there issurely boundless room for humble, loving service; and how much betterthis girl would be if she could set aside her cleverness to perform suchservice. " He did not add, "as you have done, " but there was that in hisvoice which implied it. He went on: "I do not yet allow that you havedisproved my statement, for I said that where she was she had scope forher _highest_ faculties. "

"I suppose it is admitted that the highest faculty of man is worship, "remarked Sophia, suggesting that he was not speaking to the point; "butthat is no reason why a boy with a head for figures should be made afarmer, or that a young woman with special ability should remain amaid-of-all-work. "

"And what of the affections--love for children, and for other womenbetter than herself? A girl who has such privileges as this girl hadwith you has a far better chance of doing well than in a public hotel, even if that were a safe place for her. "

Possibly Sophia thought her companion showed too great sensibilityconcerning Eliza's privileges, for she did not take notice of any butthe last part of his sentence. 

"It is a safe place for her; for she is able to take care of herselfanywhere, if she chooses; and if she doesn't choose, no place is safe. Besides, you know, the place is a boarding-house really, rather than anhotel. "

"I am not so surprised at the view _you_ take of it, for you will domore than any one else to supply her place. "

This, Trenholme's feeling prophecy, was quite true. Sophia did do moreof Eliza's work than any one. She spared her younger sisters because shewanted them to be happy. 

In spite of this, however, Sophia was not so much in need of some one'ssympathy as were those younger girls, who had less work to do. A largeelement in happiness is the satisfaction of one's craving for romance. Now, there are three eras of romance in human life. The first ischildhood, when, even if the mind is not filled with fictitious fairytales which clothe nature, life is itself a fairy tale, a journeythrough an unexplored region, an enterprise full of effort and wonder, big with hope, an endless expectation, to which trivial realisationsseem large. It was in this era that the younger Rexford children, up toWinifred, still lived; they built snow-men, half-expecting, when theyfinished them in the gloaming, that the thing of their creation wouldturn and pursue them; they learned to guide toboggans with a trailingtoe, and half dreamed that their steeds were alive when they felt thembound and strain, so perfectly did they respond to the rider's will. Sophia, again, had reached the third epoch of romance, when, at acertain age, people make the discovery of the wondrous loveliness in theface of the Lady Duty, and, putting a hand in hers, go onward, thinkingnothing hard because of her beauty. But it is admitted by all that thereis often a stage between these two, when all the romance of life issummed up in the hackneyed word "love. " The pretty girls who werenicknamed Blue and Red had outgrown childhood, and they saw noparticular charm in work; they were very dull, and scarce knew why, except that they half envied Eliza, who had gone to the hotel, and who, it was well known, had a suitor in the person of Mr. Cyril Harkness, thePhiladelphian dentist. 

Harkness had set up his consulting room in the hotel, but, for economy'ssake, he lodged himself in the old Harmon house that was just beyondCaptain Rexford's, on the same road. By this arrangement he passed thelatter house twice a day, but he never took any notice of Blue and Red. They did not wish that he should--oh no, they were above that--but theyfelt sure that Eliza was very silly to dislike him as she did, and--well, between themselves, they found an infinite variety of thingsto say concerning him, sayings emphasised by sweet little chuckles oflaughter, and not unfrequently wandering sighs. Sophia, at their age, had had many suitors, this was the family tradition, and lo, upon theirown barren horizon there was only one pretty young man, and he only tobe looked at, as it were, through the bars of a fence. 

One day, when the blue merino frock was flitting about near the red one, the wearers of both being engaged in shaking up a feather bed, Redsuddenly stopped her occupation in some excitement. 

"Oh, Blue!" She paused a moment as if she were experiencing someinteresting sensation; "oh, Blue, I think I've got toothache. "

"No!" cried Blue, incredulously, but with hope. 

Again over Red's face came the absorbed expression of introspection, andshe carefully indented the outside of her pretty cheek several timeswith her forefinger. 

"Yes, I'm sure I feel it. But no; there, it's gone again!"

"It's just the very way things have, " said Blue, lamenting. "For twomonths we've quite wished we had toothache, and there was Tommy theother night just roaring with it. "

"I shouldn't like a _roaring_ toothache, " said Red, reflectively. 

"Oh, but the worse it was, " cried Blue, encouragingly, "the morenecessary it would be--" She stopped and shook her head with a veryroguish and significant glance at her sister. 

"Mamma only put a bag of hot salt to Tommy's, " said Red, prognosticatingevil. 

"But if it were me, " cried Blue, with assurance, "I'd not be cured bybags of hot salt. I would insist upon consulting a dentist. "

They both laughed a laugh of joyful plotting. 

"It was only the other day, " said Red, twisting her little English voiceinto the American accent, "that he told Harold he was right down cleverat tinkering a tooth in the most pain_less_ manner. "

"Oh, Red, dear Red, " begged Blue, "do feel it again, for my sake; itwould be so joyfully funny if mamma would take us to him. "

"I'd a little bit rather _you_, had the ache, Blue. "

"I'd have it this _instant_ if I could, but"--reproachfully--"it was youthat felt the twinge. ". 

"Well, I don't mind, " said Red, heroically, "as long as my cheek doesn'tswell; I won't go with a swelled face. "

"What would it matter? He knows that your face is alike on both sides_usually_. "

"Still, I shouldn't like it, " replied Red, with a touch of obstinacy. 

Eliza, however, was of a very different mind about this same young man. She had not taken her new situation with any desire to see more of him;rather she hoped that by seeing him oftener she should more quickly putan end to his addresses. 

The "Grand Hotel" of Chellaston was, as Miss Rexford had said, aboarding-house. It had few transient visitors. The only manufacturer ofthe village, and his wife, lived in it all the year round; so did one ofthe shopkeepers. Several other quiet people lived there all winter; insummer the prices were raised, and it was filled to overflowing by morefashionable visitors from the two cities that were within a shortjourney. This "hotel" was an enormous wooden house, built in thesimplest fashion, a wide corridor running from front to rear on eachstorey, on which the room doors opened. Rooms and corridors were large, lofty, and well-lighted by large windows. The dining-room, billiard-room, office, and bar-room, on the ground-floor, together withthe stairs and corridors, were uncarpeted, painted all over a lightslate grey. With the exception of healthy geraniums in most of thewindows, there was little ornament in these ground-floor rooms; but allwas new, clean, and airy. The upper rooms were more heavily furnished, but were most of them shut up in winter. All the year round the landlordtook in the daily papers; and for that reason his bar-room, large andalways tolerably quiet, was the best public reading-room the villageboasted. 

The keeper of this establishment was a rather elderly man, and of latehe had been so crippled by rheumatism that he could walk little and onlyon crutches. He was not a dainty man; his coat was generally dusty, hisgrey beard had always a grimy appearance of tobacco about it. He spentthe greater part of his day now sitting in a high pivot chair, hiscrutches leaning against it. 

"You see, miss, " he said to Eliza, "I'll tell you what the crying needfor you is in this house at present; it's to step round spry and seethat the girls do their work. It's this way; when I was spry, if Iwasn't in the room, the young people knew that, like as not, I was justround the corner; they knew I _might_ be there any minute; at presentthey know they'll hear my sticks before I see them. It makes all thedifference. What I want of you is to be feet for me, and eyes for me, and specially in the dining-room. Mrs. Bantry--that dressy lady you sawin the corridor--Mrs. Bantry told me that this morning they brought herbuckwheat cakes, and _ten minutes after_, the syrup to eat 'em with. Howhot do you suppose they were?"

He finished his speech with the fine sarcasm of this question. He lookedat Eliza keenly. "You're young, " he remarked warningly, "but I believeyou're powerful. "

And Eliza showed that she was powerful by doing the thing that hedesired of her, in spite of the opposition from the servants which sheat first experienced. She had a share of hand work to do also, which wasnot light, but she had high wages, a comfortable room in the topstorey, and the women who were boarding in the house made friends withher. She would have thought herself very well off had it not been forher dislike of Harkness, for which one reason certainly was the show hemade of being in love with her. 

Harkness had his office on the first floor, and he took dinner at thehotel. For about a week after Eliza's advent the young dentist and theyoung housekeeper measured each other with watchful eyes, a measurementfor which the fact that they crossed each other's path several times aday gave ample opportunity. Because the woman had the steadier eyes andthe man was the more open-tempered, Eliza gained more insight intoHarkness's character than he did into hers. While he, to use his ownphrase, "couldn't reckon her up the least mite in the world, " sheperceived that under his variable and sensitive nature there was astrong grip of purpose upon all that was for his own interest in amaterial way; but having discovered this vein of calculatingselfishness, mixed with much of the purely idle and something that wasreally warmhearted, she became only the more suspicious of hisintentions towards herself, and summoned the whole strength of hernature to oppose him. 

She said to him one day, "I'm surprised to hear that you go abouttelling other gentlemen that you like me. I wonder that you're notashamed. "

As she had hitherto been silent, he was surprised at this attack, and atfirst he took it as an invitation to come to terms. 

"I've a right-down, hearty admiration for you, Miss White. I express itwhenever I get the chance; I'm not ashamed of my admiration. "

"But I am, " said Eliza, indignantly. "It's very unkind of you. "

Harkness looked at her, failing to unravel her meaning. 

"There ain't anything a young lady likes better than to have anadmirer. She mayn't always like _him_, but she always likes him to beadmiring of her. "

However true this philosophy of the inner secrets of the heart might be, Eliza did not admit it for a moment. She denounced his behaviour, but itwas clear, as the saying is, that she was speaking over the head of heraudience. The youth evidently received it as a new idea that, when hehad spoken only in her praise, she could seriously object. 

"Why now, " he burst forth, "if any young lady took to admiring me, thinking a heap of me and talking about me to her friends, d'ye thinkI'd be cut up? I'd be pleased to that extent I'd go about on the broadgrin. I mightn't want to marry just yet; and when I did, I mightn't_possibly_ take up with her; but I can tell you, as soon as I wasdisposed to marry, I'd have a soft side towards her; I'd certainly thinkit right to give her the first chance in considering who I'd have. Andthat's all I ask of you, Miss White. You won't have anything to do withme (why, I can't think), but I just give it put that I'm an admirer, andI hang on, hoping that you'll think better of it. "

He was good-natured about it, perfectly open apparently, and at the sametime evidently so confident that his was the sensible view of the matterthat Eliza could only repeat her prohibition less hopefully. 

A little later she found that he had quelled a revolt against herauthority that was simmering in the minds of the table-maids. She wentat once to the door that was decorated with the dentist's sign. 

It was opened by Harkness in the bowing manner with which he was wont toopen to patients. When he saw Eliza's expression he straightenedhimself. 

"I want to know what you've been saying to those girls downstairs aboutme. "

"Well now, " said he, a little flustered, "nothing that you'd dislike tohear. "

"Do you think, " she went on with calm severity, "that I can't manage myaffairs without your help?"

"By no means. " His emphasis implied that he readily perceived whichanswer would give least offence. "Same time, if I can make your pathmore flowery--fail to see objections to such a course. "

"I don't want you to trouble yourself. "

"It wasn't the least mite of trouble, " he assured her. "Why, those girlsdownstairs, whenever I roll my eyes, they just fly to do the thing Iwant. "

"Do you think that is nice?" asked Eliza. 

"Lovely--so convenient!"

"I do not like it. "

"It don't follow that whenever they roll their eyes, I do what theywant. Jemima! no. They might roll them, and roll them, and roll them, right round to the back of their heads; 'twouldn't have an atom ofeffect on me. "

He waited to see some result from this avowal, but Eliza was looking athim as coldly as ever. 

"In that respect, " he added, "there ain't no one that interferes withyour prerogative. "

Eliza looked as if he had spoken in a foreign tongue. "I do notunderstand, " she said, and in this she told a lie, but she told it sosuccessfully that he really did not know whether she had understood, orwhether it behooved him to speak more plainly. 

Before he could make up his mind, she had taken her departure. When shewas gone he stood looking darkly, wishing he knew how to hasten the daywhen she should change her aspect to him. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

When Harkness found that he was always defied by Eliza he grew gloomy, and was quiet for a time. One day, however, he recovered his formercheerfulness. He seemed, indeed, to be in high spirits. When he saw histime, he sought talk with Eliza. He did not now affect to be lively, butrather wore a manner of marked solemnity. 

"Can you read the French language?" he asked. 

"No, " she answered. 

"That's unfortunate, for I'm not a good hand at it myself; but I'vefound a bit of news in a French paper here that is real interesting andimportant. "

He unfurled a crushed copy of a Quebec journal a few days old. "Itsays, " he began translating, that "there's a man called Cameron, who'sbeen nicknamed Lazarus Cameron, because he seemed to be dead and came tolife again. "

He looked hard at the paper, as if needing a few moments to formulatefurther translation. 

"Do go on, " said Eliza, with manifest impatience. 

"Why now, you're _real_ interested, Miss White. "

"Anybody would want to know what you're at. "

"Well, but, considering it's any one so composed as you, Miss White, it's real pleasant to see you so keen. "

"I'm keen for my work. I haven't time, like you, to stand here all day. "

All this time he had been looking at the paper. "What I've read so far, you see, is what I've told you before as having happened to my knowledgeat a place called Turrifs Station. "

"Is that all?"

"No, " and he went on translating. "'Whether this man was dead or not, heis now alive, but partially deaf and blind; and whether he has ever seenanything of the next world or not, he has now no interest in this one, but spends his whole time praying or preaching, living on crusts, andwalking great distances in solitary places. He has lately appeared inthe suburbs of this city' (that is Quebec) 'and seems to be astreet-preacher of no ordinary power. '"

Harkness stopped with an air of importance. 

"Is that all?" asked Eliza. 

He gave her another paper, in English, to read. This contained a longerand more sensational account of the same tale, and with this difference, that instead of giving the simple and sentimental view of the Frenchwriter, the English journalist jeered greatly, and also stated that thenickname Lazarus had been given in derision, and that the man, who waseither mad or an imposter, had been hooted, pelted, and even beaten inthe streets. 

"Is that all?" she asked. 

"Unless you can tell me any more. " He did not say this lightly. 

"Is that all?" she asked again, as if his words had been unmeaning. 

"Well now, I think that's enough. 'Tisn't every day this poor earth ofours is favoured by hearing sermons from one as has been t'other side ofdying. I think it would be more worth while to hear him than to go tochurch, I do. "

"Do you mean to say, " she asked, with some asperity, "that you reallybelieve it?"

"I tell you I saw the first part of it myself, and unless you can giveme a good reason for not believing the second, I'm inclined to swallowit down whole, Miss Cameron--I beg your pardon, White, I mean. One getsreal confused in names, occasionally. "

"Well, " said Eliza, composedly, preparing to leave him, "I can't say Iunderstand it, Mr. Harkness, but I must say it sounds too hard for me tobelieve. "

He looked after her with intense curiosity in his eyes, and in the nextfew days returned to the subject in her presence again and again, repeating to her all the comments that were made on the story in thebar-room, but he could not rouse her from an appearance of cheerfulunconcern. 

Another item appeared in the papers; the old man called Cameron had beenbrought before the magistrates at Quebec for some street disturbance ofwhich he appeared to have been the innocent cause. 

Upon this Cyril Harkness took a whim into his head, which he made knownto all his friends in the place, and then to Eliza--a most extraordinarywhim, for it was nothing less than to go down to Quebec, and take thestreet preacher under his own protection. 

"I feel as if I had a sort of responsibility, " said he, "for I was atthe very beginning of this whole affair, and saw the house where he hadlived, and I got real well acquainted with his partner, who no doubt hadill-treated him. I saw the place where a daughter of his perished too, and now he's got so near up here as this, I can't bear to think of thatold man being ill-treated and having no one to look after him. I'm goingright down to Quebec by the Saturday-night train, an' I'll be backMonday morning if I can persuade the old gentleman to come right herewhere I can look after him. I reckon there's room in the Harmon housefor both him and me, an' I reckon, if he's got anything particularlypowerful to say in the way of religion, it won't do this little town anyharm to hear it. "

He had said all this to Eliza. 

"Don't!" she cried in great surprise, but with determined opposition. "Ishall never think you have any sense again if you do such a foolish andwicked thing. "

"Why now, Miss White, as to losing your good opinion, I didn't know asI'd been fortunate enough to get it yet; and as to its being wicked, Idon't see how you make _that_ out. "

"It's meddling with what you have nothing to do with. "

"Well now, what will you give me not to go?" He said these words, as hesaid most of his words, in a languid, lingering way, but he turned andfaced her with an abrupt glance. 

He and she were standing at the head of the first staircase in theunfurnished corridor. It was the middle of the afternoon; no one chancedto be passing. He, light-moving, pretty fellow as he was, leaned on thewall and glanced at her sharply. She stood erect, massive, not only inher form, but in the strength of will that she opposed to his, and a redflush slowly mantled her pale, immobile face. 

"I don't know what you want of me, " she said. "Money's the thing youlove, and I haven't any money; but whether I had or not, I would giveyou _nothing_. " She turned at the last word. 

Then Harkness, taking the chiding and jeers of all his companionsgood-naturedly, and giving them precisely the same excuses that he hadgiven to Eliza, started for Quebec. 

What was more remarkable, he actually brought back the old preacher withhim--brought him, or rather led him, to the Harmon house, for the oldman was seemingly quite passive. This was an accomplished fact whenEliza and Harkness met again. 

CHAPTER IX. 

The day after his coming, and the next, for some reason the old strangercalled Cameron remained in the brick house to which Harkness had broughthim. The young man, impatient for novelty, if for nothing else, began towonder if he had sunk into some stupor of mind from which he would notemerge. He had heard of him as a preacher, and as the conceptions ofordinary minds are made up only of the ideas directly presented to them, he had a vague notion that this old man continually preached. As it was, he went to his work at the hotel on the third morning, and still lefthis strange guest in the old house, walking about in an empty room, munching some bread with his keen white teeth, his bright eyes half shutunder their bushy brows. 

Harkness came to the hotel disconcerted, and, meeting Eliza near thedining-room, took off his hat in sullen silence. Several men in the roomcalled after him as he passed. "How's your dancing bear, Harkness?""How's the ghost you're befriending?" "How's your coffin-gentleman?"There was a laugh that rang loudly in the large, half-empty room. 

After Harkness had despatched two morning visitors, however, and waslooking out of his window, as was usual in his idle intervals, henoticed several errand-boys gazing up the road, and in a minute anadvancing group came within his view, old Cameron walking down themiddle of the street hitting the ground nervously with his staff, andbehind him children of various sizes following rather timidly. Every nowand then the old man emitted some sound--a shout, a word of some sort, not easily understood. It was this that had attracted the following ofchildren, and was very quickly attracting the attention of every one inthe street. One or two men, and a woman with a shawl over her head, werecoming down the sidewalks the same way and at about the same pace as thecentral group, and Harkness more than suspected that they had divergedfrom the proper course of their morning errands out of curiosity. Hetook more interest in the scene than seemed consistent with his slightconnection with the principal actor. He made an excited movement towardhis door, and his hand actually trembled as he opened it. Eliza wasusually about the passages at this time of day. He called her name. 

She put her head over the upper bannister. 

"Come down and see Lazarus Cameron!"

"I'll come in a minute. "

He saw through the railing of the bannisters the movement of some linenshe was folding. 

"He'll be past in a minute. " Harkness's voice betrayed his excitementmore than he desired. 

Eliza dropped the linen and came downstairs rather quickly. Harknessreturned to his window; she came up beside him. The inner window wasopen, only one pane was between them and the outer air. In yards allround cocks were crowing, as, on a mild day in the Canadian March, cockswill crow continually. Light snow of the last downfall lay on theopposite roofs, and made the hills just seen behind them very white. Thewhole winter's piles of snow lay in the ridges between the footpaths andthe road. Had it not been that some few of the buildings were of brick, and that on one or two of the wooden ones the white paint was worn off, the wide street would have been a picture painted only in differenttones of white. But the clothes of the people were of dark colour, andthe one vehicle in sight was a blue box-sleigh, drawn by a shaggy pony. 

Eliza was conscious of the picture only as one is conscious ofsurroundings upon which the eye does not focus. Her sight fastened onthe old man, now almost opposite the hotel. He was of a broad, powerfulframe that had certainly once possessed great strength. Even now he wasstrong; he stooped a little, but he held his head erect, and thewell-formed, prominent features of his weather-beaten face showed fortha tremendous force of some sort; even at that distance the brightness ofhis eyes was visible under bushy brows, grey as his hair. His clotheswere of the most ordinary sort, old and faded. His cap was of thecommonest fur; he grasped it now in his hand, going bareheaded. Tappingthe ground with his staff, he walked with nervous haste, looking upwardthe while, as blind men often look. 

Harkness did not look much out of the window; he was inspecting Eliza'sface: and when she turned to him he gave her a glance that, had she beena weaker woman, would have been translated into many words--question andinvective; but her silence dominated him. It was a look also that, hadhe been a stronger man, he would have kept to himself, for it served nopurpose but to betray that there was some undercurrent of antagonism toher in his mind. 

"You're very queer to-day, Mr. Harkness, " she remarked, and with thatshe withdrew. 

But when the door closed she was not really gone to the young man. Hesaw her as clearly with his mind as a moment before he had seen her withhis eyes, and he pondered now the expression on her face when she lookedout of the window. It told him, however, absolutely nothing of thesecret he was trying to wring from her. 

There was no square in Chellaston, no part of the long street muchwider than any other or more convenient as a public lounging place. Here, in front of the hotel, was perhaps the most open spot, andHarkness hoped the old man would make a stand here and preach; but heturned aside and went down a small side street, so Harkness, who had nodesire to identify himself too publicly with his strange _protégé_, wasforced to leave to the curiosity of others the observation of hismovements. 

The curiosity of people in the street also seemed to abate. The morerespectable class of people are too proud to show interest in the sameway that gaping children show it, and most people in this villagebelonged to the more respectable class. Those who had come to doors orwindows on the street retired from them just as Harkness had done; thoseout in the street went on their ways, with the exception of two men ofthe more demonstrative sort, who went and looked down the alley afterthe stranger, and called out jestingly to some one in it. 

Then the old man stopped, and, with his face still upturned, as if blindto everything but pure light, took up his position on one side of thenarrow street. He had only gone some forty paces down it. A policeman, coming up in front of the hotel, looked on, listening to the jesters. Then he and they drew a little nearer, the children who had followedstood round, one man appeared at the other end of the alley. On eitherside the houses were high and the windows few, but high up in the hotelthere was a small window that lighted a linen press, and at that smallwindow, with the door of the closet locked on the inside, Eliza stoodunseen, and looked and listened. 

The voice of the preacher was loud, unnatural also in its rising andfalling, the voice of a deaf man who could not hear his own tones. Hiswords were not what any one expected. This was the sermon he preached:

"In a little while He that shall come will not tarry. Many shall say toHim in that day, 'Lord, Lord, ' and He shall say, 'Depart from me; Inever knew you. '"

His voice, which had become very vehement, suddenly sank, and he wassilent. 

"Upon my word, that's queer, " said one of the men who stood near thepoliceman. 

"He's staring mad, " said the other man in plain clothes. "He should bein the asylum. "

This second man went away, but the first speaker and the policeman drewstill nearer, and the congregation did not diminish, for the man wholeft was replaced by the poor woman with the checked shawl over her headwho had first followed the preacher up the street, and who now appearedstanding listening at a house corner. She was well known in the villageas the wife of a drunkard. 

The old man began speaking again in softer voice, but there was the sameodd variety of tones which had exciting effect. 

"Why do you defraud your brother? Why do you judge your brother? Why doyou set at nought your brother? Inasmuch as you do it unto the least ofthese, you do it to Him. "

His voice died away again. His strong face had become illumined, and hebrought down his gaze toward the listeners. 

"If any man shall do His will he shall know of the doctrine. He willknow--yes, know--for there is no other knowledge as sure as this. "

Then, in such a colloquial way that it almost seemed as if the listenersthemselves had asked the question, he said: "What shall we do that wemay work the works of God?"

And he smiled upon them, and held out his hands as if in blessing, andlifted up his face again to heaven, and cried, "This is the work of God, that ye believe on Him Whom He hath sent. "

As if under some spell, the few to whom he had spoken stood still, tillthe preacher slowly shifted himself and began to walk away by the roadhe had come. 

Some of the children went after him as before. The poor womandisappeared behind the house she had been standing against. Thepoliceman and his companion began to talk, looking the while at theobject of their discussion. 

Eliza, in the closet, leaned her head against the pile of linen on anupper shelf, and was quite still for some time. 

CHAPTER X. 

Principal Trenholme had been gone from Chellaston a day or two onbusiness. When he returned one evening, he got into his smart littlesleigh which was in waiting at the railway station, and was drivinghimself home, when his attention was arrested and his way blocked by acrowd in front of the hotel. He did not force a way for his horse, butdrew up, listening and looking. It was a curious picture. The widestreet of snow and the houses were dusky with night, except where lightchanced to glow in doorways and windows. The collection of people wasmotley. Above, all the sky seemed brought into insistent notice as aroof or covering, partly because pale pink streamers of flickeringnorthern light were passing over it, partly because the leader of thecrowd, an old man, by looking upwards, drew the gaze of all to followwhither his had gone. 

Trenholme heard his loud voice calling: "Behold He shall come again, andevery eye shall look on Him Whom they have pierced. Blessed are thoseservants whom their Lord when He cometh shall find watching. "

The scene was foreign to life in Chellaston. Trenholme, who had no mindto stand on the skirts of the crowd, thrust his reins into the hand ofhis rustic groom, and went up the broad steps of the hotel, knowing thathe would there have his inquiries most quickly answered. 

In the bar-room about thirty men were crowded about the windows, lookingat the preacher, not listening, for the double glass, shut out thepreacher's voice. They were interested, debating loudly amongthemselves, and when they saw who was coming up the steps, they said toeach other and the landlord, "Put it to the Principal. " There were menof all sorts in this group, most of them very respectable; but whenTrenholme stood inside the door, his soft hat shading his shaven face, his fur-lined driving coat lying back from the finer cloth it covered, he was a very different sort of man from any of them. He did not knowthat it was merely by the influence of this difference (of which perhapshe was less conscious than any of them) that they were provoked toquestion him. Hutchins, the landlord, sat at the back of the room on hishigh office chair. 

"Good evening, Principal, " said he. "Glad to see you in the place again, sir. Have you heard of a place called Turrifs Road Station? 'Tain't onour map. "

Trenholme gave the questioner a severe glance of inquiry. The sceneoutside, and his proposed inquiry concerning it, passed from his mind, for he had no means of divining that this question referred to it. Theplace named was known to him only by his brother's letter. The men, hesaw, were in a rough humour, and because of the skeleton in his closethe jumped to the thought that something had transpired concerning hisbrother, something that caused them to jeer. He did not stop to thinkwhat it might be. His moral nature stiffened itself to stand for truthand his brother at all costs. 

"I know the place;" he said. 

His words had a stern impressiveness which startled his hearers. Theywere only playing idly with the pros and cons of a newspaper tale; butthis man, it would seem, treated the matter very seriously. 

Hutchins had no desire to annoy, but he did not know how to desist fromfurther question, and, supposing that the story of Cameron was known, hesaid in a more ingratiating way:

"Well, but, sir, you don't want us to believe the crazy tale of thestation hand there, that he saw the dead walk?"

Again there was that in Trenholme's manner which astonished hishearers. Had they had the slightest notion they were offending him, theywould have known it was an air of offence, but, not suspecting that, they could only judge that he thought the subject a solemn one. 

"I would have you believe his word, certainly. He is a man of honour. "

A facetious man here took his pipe out of his mouth and winked to hiscompanions. "You've had private information to that effect, I suppose, Principal. "

Very haughtily Trenholme assented. 

He had not been in the room more than a few moments when all this hadpassed. He was handed a newspaper, which gave still another account ofthe remote incident which was now at last ticklings the ears of thepublic, and he was told that the man Cameron was supposed to be thepreacher who was now without. He heard what part Harkness had played, and he saw that his brother's name was not mentioned in the publicprint, was apparently not known. He took a little pains to be genial (athing he was certainly not in the habit of doing in that room), in orderto dissipate any impression his offended manner might have given, andwent home. 

It is not often a man estimates at all correctly the effect of his ownwords and looks; he would need to be a trained actor to do this, and, happily, most men are not their own looking-glasses. Trenholme thoughthe had behaved in a surly and stiff manner, and, had the subject beenless unpleasant, he would rather have explained at once where and whohis brother was. This was his remembrance of his call at the hotel, butthe company there saw it differently. 

No sooner had he gone than the facetious man launched his saw-like voiceagain upon the company. "He had private information on the subject, _hehad_. "

"There's one sure thing, " said a stout, consequential man; "he believesthe whole thing, the Principal does. "

A commercial traveller who was acquainted with the place put in hisremark. "There isn't a man in town that I wouldn't have expected to seegulled sooner. "

To which a thin, religious man, who, before Trenholme entered, hadleaned to the opinion that there were more things in the world than theycould understand, now retorted that it was more likely that the lastspeaker was gulled himself. Principal Trenholme, he asserted, wasn't aman to put his faith in anything without proofs. 

Chellaston was not a very gossiping place. For the most part the peoplehad too much to do, and were too intent upon their own business, to takemuch trouble to retail what they chanced to hear; but there are somethings which, as the facetious man observed, the dead in their graveswould gossip about if they could; and one of these themes, according tohim, was that Principal Trenholme believed there had been somethingsupernatural about the previous life of the old preacher. The story wentabout, impressing more particularly the female portion of the community, but certainly not without influence upon the males also. Portly men, whoa week before would have thought themselves compromised by giving aserious thought to the narrative, now stood still in the street to getthe chance of hearing the preacher, and felt that in doing so they werewrapped in all the respectability of the cloth of Trenholme's coats, andstanding firm on the letters of his Oxford degree and upon all thelearning of the New College. 

They did not believe the story themselves. No, there was a screw loosesomewhere; but Principal Trenholme had some definite knowledge of thematter. The old man had been in a trance, a very long trance, to say theleast of it, and had got up a changed creature. Principal Trenholme wasnot prepared to scout the idea that he had been nearer to death thanfalls to the lot of most living men. 

It will be seen that the common sense of the speakers shaped cruderumour to suit themselves. Had they left it crude, it would have died. It is upon the nice sense of the probable and possible in talkative menthat mad rumour feeds. 

As for Trenholme, he became more or less aware of the report that hadgone out about his private knowledge of old Cameron, but it was lessrather than more. The scholastic life of the college was quite apartfrom the life of the village, and in the village those who talked mostabout Cameron were the least likely to talk to Trenholme on any subject. His friends were not those who were concerned with the rumour; but evenwhen he was taxed with it, the whole truth that he knew was no apparentcontradiction. He wrote to Alec, making further inquiries, but Alec hadretreated again many miles from the post. To be silent and ignore thematter seemed to be his only course. 

Thus it happened that, because Harkness housed him in the hope ofworking upon Eliza, and because Trenholme happened to have had a brotherat Turrifs Station, the strange old preacher found a longer restingplace and a more attentive hearing in the village of Chellaston than hewould have been likely to find elsewhere. 

CHAPTER XI. 

There was in Chellaston a very small and poor congregation of the sectcalled Adventists. The sect was founded by one Miller, a native of NewYork State, a great preacher and godly man, who, from study of prophecy, became convinced that the Second Coming of the Lord would take place inthe year 1843. He obtained a large following; and when the time passedand his expectation was not fulfilled, this body, instead of meltingaway, became gradually greater, and developed into a numerous and ratherinfluential sect. In the year of Miller's prediction, 1843, there hadbeen among his followers great excitement, awe and expectation; and theset time passed, and the prediction had no apparent fulfilment, but layto every one's sight, like a feeble writing upon the sands of fantasy, soon effaced by the ever flowing tide of natural law and orderlyprogression. Now, that this was the case and that yet this body ofbelievers did not diminish but increased, did not become demoralised butgrew in moral strength, did not lose faith but continued to cherish amore ardent hope and daily expectation of the Divine appearing, is nodoubt due to the working of some law which we do not understand, andwhich it would therefore be unscientific to pronounce upon. 

The congregation of Adventists in Chellaston, however, was notnoticeable for size or influence. Some in the neighbourhood did not evenknow that this congregation existed, until it put forth its hand andtook to itself the old preacher who was called Lazarus Cameron. Theyunderstood his language as others did not; they believed that he hadcome with a message for them; they often led him into theirmeeting-place and into their houses; and he, perhaps merely falling intothe mechanical habit of going where he had been led, appeared in his ownfashion to consort with them. 

There, was something weird about the old preacher, although he washealthy, vigorous, and kindly, clean-looking in body and soul; but theaspect of any one is in the eye of the beholder. This man, whose mindwas blank except upon one theme, whose senses seemed lost except at raretimes, when awakened perhaps by an effort of his will, or perhaps by anunbidden wave of psychical sympathy with some one to whom he was drawnby unseen union, awoke a certain feeling of sensational interest in mostpeople when they approached him. The public were in the main dividedinto two classes in their estimate of him--those who felt the force ofhis religion, and argued therefrom that his opinions were to berespected; and those who believed that his mind was insane, and arguedtherefrom that his religion was either a fancy or a farce. At firstthere was a great deal of talk about whether he should be put in amadhouse or not; some called Harkness a philanthropist, and otherscalled him a meddling fellow. Soon, very soon, there was less talk:that which is everybody's business is nobody's business. Harknesscontinued to befriend him in the matter of food and lodging; the old mangrew to be at home in the Harmon house and its neglected surroundings. When the will to do so seized him, he went into the village and liftedup his voice, and preached the exactions of the love of the Son of God, proclaiming that He would come again, and that quickly. 

The winter days had grown very long; the sun had passed the vernalequinox, and yet it looked upon unbroken snowfields. Then, about themiddle of April, the snow passed quickly away in blazing sunshine, in athousand rivulets, in a flooded river. The roads were heavy with mud, but the earth was left green, the bud of spring having been nurturedbeneath the kindly shelter of the snow. 

CHAPTER XII. 

Now came the most lovely moment of the year. All the trees were puttingforth new leaves, leaves so young, so tiny as yet, that one could seethe fowls of the air when they lodged in the branches--no smallprivilege, for now the orange oriole, and the bluebird, and theprimrose-coloured finch, were here, there, and everywhere; and morerarely the scarlet tanager. A few days before and they had not come; afew days more and larger leaves would hide them perfectly. Just at thistime, too, along the roadsides, big hawthorn shrubs and wild plum werein blossom, and in the sheltered fields the mossy sod was pied withwhite and purple violets, whose flowerets so outstripped theirhalf-grown leaves that blue and milky ways were seen in woodland glades. 

With the sense of freedom that comes with the thus sudden advent of theyoung summer, Winifred Rexford strayed out of the house one morning. She did not mean to go, and when she went through the front gate sheonly meant to go as far as the first wild plum-tree, to see if the whitebloom was turning purple yet, as Principal Trenholme had told her itwould. When she got to the first plum-tree she went on to the second. Winifred wore a grey cotton dress; it was short, not yet to her ankles, and her broad hat shaded her from the sun. When she reached the secondgroup of plum-trees she saw a scarlet tanager sitting on a telegraphpole--for along the margin of the road, standing among uncut grass andflowers and trees, tall barkless stumps were set, holding the wires onhigh. Perhaps they were ugly things, but a tree whose surface is uncutis turned on Nature's lathe; at any rate, to the child the poles weremerely a part of the Canadian road, and the scarlet tanager showed itsplumage to advantage as it sat on the bare wood. There was no turningback then; even Sophia would have neglected her morning task to see atanager! She crept up under it, and the bird, like a streak of redflame, shot forth from the pole, to a group of young pine trees furtheron. 

So Winifred strayed up the road about a quarter of a mile, till she cameto the gate of the Harmon garden. The old house, always half concealed, was quickly being entirely hidden by the massive Curtains the youngleaves were so busily weaving. The tanager turned in here, as what birdwould not when it spied a tract of ground where Nature was riotouslydecking a bower with the products of all the roots and seeds of adeserted garden! There was many a gap in the weather-beaten fence wherethe child might have followed, but she dare not, for she was in greatawe of the place, because the preacher who was said to have died andcome to life again lived there. She only stood and looked through thefence, and the tanager--having flitted near the house--soared andsettled among the feathery boughs of a proud acacia tree; she had tolook across half an acre of bushes to see him, and then he was so highand so far that it seemed (as when looking at the stars) she did notsee him, but only the ray of scarlet light that travelled from himthrough an atmosphere of leaflets. It was very trying, for any one knowsthat it is _something_ to be able to say that you have come to closequarters with a scarlet tanager. 

Winifred, stooping and looking through the fence, soon heard the collegebell jangle; she knew that it was nine o'clock, and boys and masterswere being ingathered for morning work. The college buildings in theirbare enclosure stood on the other side of the road. Winifred would havebeen too shy to pass the playground while the boys were out, but nowthat every soul connected with the place would be indoors, she thoughtshe might go round the sides of the Harmon garden and see the red birdmuch nearer from a place she thought of. 

This place was nothing but a humble, disused, and untidy burying-ground, that occupied the next lot in the narrow strip of land that here for amile divided road and river. Winifred ran over the road between theHarmon garden and the college fence, and, climbing the log fence, stoodamong the quiet gravestones that chronicled the past generations ofChellaston. Here grass and wild flowers grew apace, and close by ran therippling river reflecting the violet sky above. A cemetery, every oneknows, is a place where any one may walk or sit as long as he likes, butWinifred was surprised to find Principal Trenholme's housekeeper therebefore her; and moreover, this staid, sad woman was in the very placeWinifred was going to, for she was looking through the fence thatenclosed the Harmon garden. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Martha, " said Winifred politely, concealing hersurprise. 

"I've been milking, " said the sad woman, glancing slightly at a pail offoaming milk that she had set for greater security between twograve-heaps. 

Winifred came and took her place beside the housekeeper, and they bothlooked through the paling of the Harmon property. 

The tanager was still on the acacia, from this nearer point looking likea great scarlet blossom of some cactus, so intense was the colour; butWinifred was distracted from her interest in the bird by seeing the oldhouse more plainly than she had ever seen it before. It stood, a largesubstantial dwelling, built not without the variety of outline whichcustom has given to modern villas, but with all its doors and windows onthis side fastened by wooden shutters, that, with one or two exceptions, were nailed up with crossbeams and overgrown with cobwebs. Winifredsurveyed it with an interested glance. 

"Did you come to see him?" whispered the housekeeper. 

Winifred's eye reverted to the tanager of which, on the whole, her mindwas more full. "Yes"--she whispered the word for fear of startling it. 

"I should think yer ma would want you in of a morning, or Miss Sophiawould be learning you yer lessons. When I was your age--But"--sadly--"itstands to reason yer ma, having so many, and the servant gone, and thecows comin' in so fast these days one after t'other, that they can'tlearn you much of anything reg'lar. "

Winifred acquiesced politely. She was quite conscious of theshortcomings in the system of home education as it was being applied toher in those days; no critic so keen in these matters as the pupil offourteen!

"Well now, it's a pity, " said the housekeeper, sincerely, "and they dosay yer ma does deplorable bad cooking, and yer sisters that's olderthan you aren't great hands at learning. " The housekeeper sat down on agrave near the paling, as if too discouraged at the picture she haddrawn to have energy to stand longer. 

Winifred looked at the tanager, at the housekeeper, and round her at thehappy morning. This sad-eyed, angular woman always seemed to her morelike a creature out of a solemn story, or out of a stained-glass window, than an ordinary person whose comments could be offensive. They hadtalked together before, and each in her own way took a serious interestin the other. 

"Sister Sophia has learned to cook very nicely, " said the child, but notcheerfully. It never seemed to her quite polite to be cheerful when shewas talking to Mrs. Martha. 

"Yes, child; but she can't do everything"--with a sigh--"she's put upondreadful as it is. " Then in a minute, "What made you think of cominghere after him?"

"I think it's so wonderful. " The child's eyes enlarged as she peeredthrough the fence again at the scarlet bird. 

"Lolly, child! I'm glad to hear you say that, " said Mrs. Martha, strongly. "He's far above and beyond--he's a very holy man. "

Winifred perceived now that she was talking of old Cameron, and shethought it more polite not to explain that she had misunderstood. Indeed, all other interests in her mind became submerged in wonderconcerning the old man as thus presented. 

"He's mad, isn't he?"

"No, he isn't. "

"I knew he was very good, but couldn't he be good and mad too?"

"No, " said Mrs. Martha; and the serious assertion had all the moreeffect because it stood alone, unpropped by a single reason. 

"When I've milked the Principal's special cow I often come here of amorning, and sometimes I see the saint walking under the trees. I don'tmind telling you, child, for you've a head older than yer years, but youmustn't speak of it again. I'd not like folks to know. "

"I won't tell, " whispered Winifred, eagerly. She felt inexpressiblyhonoured by the confidence. "Do you think he'll come out now?" Awe andexcited interest, not unmingled with fear, were taking possession ofher. She crouched down beside the solemn woman, and looked through atthe house and all its closed windows. The hedge was alive with birdsthat hopped and piped unnoticed, even the scarlet bird was forgotten. 

"Mrs. Martha, " she whispered, "I heard papa say Cameron believed thatour Saviour was soon coming back again, and only those people would gowith Him who were watching and waiting. Mr. Trenholme said every one wasmad who thought that. "

"There's a sight of people will tell you you're mad if you're onlyfervent. "

The child did not know precisely what "fervent" meant, but she began todoubt Trenholme's positive knowledge on the subject. "Do you believe theend of the world's coming so soon?"

"Lor, child! what do I know but the world might go on a good bit afterthat? I can't tell from my Bible whether the Lord will take us who arelooking for Him up to His glory for a while, or whether He'll appoint usa time of further trial while He's conquering the earth; but I do knowit wouldn't matter much which, after we'd heard Him speak to each of usby name and seen His face. " The sad woman looked positively happy whileshe spoke. 

"Oh, Mrs. Martha, are _you_ watching like that? But how can you all thetime--you must sleep and work, you know?"

"Yes, child; but the heart can watch; and He knows we must sleep andwork; and for that reason I'm not so sure but, if we're faithful, Hemight in mercy give us a word beforehand to let us know when to beexpecting more particularly. I don't know, you know, child; I'm onlysaying what might be. "

"But what makes you think so, Mrs. Martha?"

Winifred was quick-witted enough to perceive something withheld. 

"There's things that it's not right for any one to know but those aswill reverence them. "

"Oh, I will, I will, " said Winifred, clasping her hands. 

"As I understand it, Mr. Cameron's had no assurance yet. "

Winifred did not ask what this meant. She felt that she was listeningto words that, if mysterious, were to be pondered in silence. 

"You know the poor thing whose husband is always tipsy--drunken Job theycall him--that you've seen listening to Mr. Cameron?--and that weaklyMr. McNider, with the little boy?"

"Yes, " assented Winifred. 

"He told them, " whispered the housekeeper, "that when he was agonisingin prayer it came into his mind to _wait until August this year_. Hehasn't any assurance what it may have meant; but that may come later, and p'r'aps the days may be told him; and he's awaiting, and we'reawaiting too. There, that's all I have to tell, child, and I must begoing. "

She gathered her lean figure up from the hillock, and took up her pail. 

As for the girl Winifred, a terrible feeling of fear had come over her. All the bright world of sun and flowers seemed suddenly overshadowed bythe lowering cloud of an awful possibility. She would no more haveallowed herself to be left alone in that sunny corner of the glad springmorning than she would have remained alone where visible danger besether. Her face bathed in the sudden tears that came so easily to hergirlish eyes, she sprang like a fawn after her companion and grasped herskirt as she followed. 

"How you take on!" sighed the woman, turning. "Do you mean to say youain't, glad?"

"I'm frightened, " gasped the girl. 

"And you been confirmed this spring! What did it mean to you if youain't glad there's ever such a little chance of perhaps seeing Himbefore the year's out. "

They both climbed the fence, handing over the milk-pail between them. When they had got on to the road and must part, the housekeeper spoke. 

"I tell you what it is, Winifred Rexford; we've not one of us much tobring Him in the way of service. If there's one thing more than anotherI'm fond of it's to have my kitchen places to myself, but I've oftenthought I ought to ask yer ma to send one of you over every day to learnfrom me how a house ought to be kept and dinner cooked. Ye'd learn morewatching me in a month, you know, than ye'd learn with yer ma a fussin'round in six years. Don't tell yer ma it's a trial to me, but just askher if she'll send you over for an hour or two every morning. "

"Thank you, " said Winifred, reluctantly. "Do you think I _ought_ tocome?"

"Well, I'd want to be a bit more use to my ma if I was you. "

"It's very kind of you, " acknowledged Winifred; "but--but--Mrs. Martha, if it was true about this--_this August, _ you know--what would be theuse of learning?"

"Child, " said the woman, and if her voice was sad it was also vehement, "them as are mad in religion are them as thinks doing the duty of eachday for _His_ sake ain't enough without seeing where's the _use_ ofdoing what He puts to our hand. "

"Mrs. Martha, " besought Winifred, timidly, "I--don't like cooking; butdo you think if I did this I should perhaps get to be glad to think--beglad to think our Saviour might be coming again so soon?"

"To love Him is of His grace, and you must get it direct from Him; butit's wonderful how doing the best we can puts heart into our prayers. "

The scarlet tanager rose and flew from tree to tree like a dartingflame, but Winifred had forgotten him. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Midsummer came with its culmination of heat and verdure; and a greatepoch it was in the Chellaston year, for it brought the annual influx offashionable life from Quebec and Montreal. To tell the plain truth, thisinflux only consisted of one or two families who had chosen this as aplace in which to build summer residences, and some hundred other peoplewho, singly or in parties, took rooms in the hotel for the hot season;but it made a vast difference in the appearance of the quiet place tohave several smart phaetons, and one carriage and pair, parading itsroads, and to have its main street enlivened by the sight of the gaycrowd on the hotel verandahs. 

"Now, " said Miss Bennett, calling upon Miss Rexford, "there will be afew people to talk to, and we shall see a little life. These people arereally a very good sort; you'll begin to have some enjoyment. "

The Rexfords had indeed been advertised more than once of the advantagethat would accrue to them from the coming of the town-folks, and thischiefly by Trenholme himself. 

"The place will seem far different, " he had said, "when you have passedone of our summers. We really have some delightful pleasure parties herein summer. " And another time he had said, "When Mrs. Brown and herdaughters come to their house on the hill I want you to know them. Theyare such true-hearted people. All our visitors are genuine Canadians, not immigrants as we and our neighbours are; and yet, do you know, theyare so nice you would _hardly_ know them from English people. Oh, theyadd to our social life very much when they come!"

He had said so many things of this sort, ostensibly to Mrs. Rexford, really to Sophia, who was usually a party to his calls on her mother, that he had inspired in them some of his own pleasurable anticipation. It was not until the summer visitors were come that they realised howgreat was the contrast between their own bare manner of living and theeasy-going expenditure of these people, who were supposed to be suchchoice acquaintances for them. Everything is relative. They had not beenmortified by any comparison of their own circumstances and those ofChellaston families, because, on one account and another, there hadalways appeared to be something to equalise the difference. Either theirneighbours, if better off, had not long ago begun as meagrely, or elsethey lacked those advantages of culture or social standing which theRexfords could boast. Such are the half conscious refuges of ouregotism. But with the introduction of this new element it was different. Not that they drew any definite comparison between themselves and theirnew neighbours--for things that are different cannot be compared, andthe difference on all points was great; but part of Trenholme's prophecytook place; the life in that pleasant land did appear more and moredesirable as they witnessed the keen enjoyment that these people, whowere not workers, took in it--only (Trenholme and Miss Bennett seemed tohave overlooked this) the leisure and means for such enjoyment were nottheirs. 

"Oh, mamma, " said Blue and Red, "we saw the Miss Browns driving on theroad, and they had such pretty silver-grey frocks, with feathers intheir hats to match. We wish we could have feathers to match ourfrocks. "

And later Sophia, seeking her step-mother, found her in her own room, privately weeping. The rare sight rent her heart. 

"If I am their mother" (she began her explanation hurriedly, wiping hertears) "I can say truthfully they're as pretty a pair of girls as may beseen on a summer day. You had your turn, Sophia; it's very noble of youto give up so much for us now, but it can't be said that you didn't haveyour turn of gaiety. "

Now Blue and Red were not in need of frocks, for before they leftEngland their mother had stocked their boxes as though she was never tosee a draper's shop again. But then, she had been in a severelyutilitarian mood, and when she cut out the garments it had not occurredto her that Fashion would ever come across the fields of a Canadianfarm. 

Sophia rallied her on this mistake now, but resolutely abstractedcertain moneys from the family purse and purchased for the girls whitefrocks. She did not omit blue and red ribbons to distinguish between thefrocks and between the wearers. Trenholme had remarked of the girlslately that neither would know which was herself and which the other ifthe badge of colour were removed, and Sophia had fallen into the way ofthinking a good deal of all he said. She was busy weighing him in thescales of her approval and disapproval, and the scales, she hardly knewwhy, continued to balance with annoying nicety. 

For the making up of the frocks, she was obliged to apply for advice toEliza, who was the only patron of dressmakers with whom she wasintimate. 

"I think, on the whole, she is satisfactory, " said Eliza of one whom shehad employed. "She made the dress I have on, for instance; it fitspretty well, you see. "

Sophia did not resent this. Eliza had had a rocket-like career ofsuccess in the hotel which pleased and amused her; but she felt that toforgive the Brown family for having a carriage and pair requiredlarge-mindedness while her father's carriage still stood in theunfurnished drawing-room, and even Mrs. Rexford had given up hopes offinding horses to draw it. 

Very soon after, their annual arrival, Mr. And Mrs. Brown and their twodaughters came kindly to call on the new English family. PrincipalTrenholme found time to run over by appointment and introduce hisfriends. The visitors were evidently generous-minded, wholesome sort ofpeople, with no high development of the critical faculty, travelled, well-read, merry, and kind. Sophia confessed to herself after the firstinterview that, had it not been for their faulty degree of wealth andprosperity, she would have liked them very much. Mrs. Bennett, whoseuncle had been an admiral, considered them desirable friends for herdaughter, and this was another reason why, out of pure contrariness, Sophia found liking difficult; but she determined for Trenholme's saketo try--a good resolution which lasted until she had taken Blue and Redto return the call, but no longer. 

"And Miss Rexford, " said good Mrs. Brown, "we hear you have had theprivilege of knowing Principal Trenholme for a long time before he cameout here. He is a very _good_ man; for so comparatively young a man, andone, as you might say, with so many worldly advantages, I think it isperhaps remarkable that he is so spiritually-minded. I count it ablessing that we have the opportunity of attending his church during thesummer months. " Simple sense and perfect sincerity were written on everyline of Mrs. Brown's motherly face. 

"He really is very good, " said one of the daughters. "Do you know, MissRexford, we have a friend who has a son at the college. He really wentto the college a _very_ naughty boy, no one could manage him; and he'sso changed--such a nice fellow, and doing so well. His mother says shecould thank Principal Trenholme on her knees, if it was only theconventional thing to do. "

"He is a most devoted Christian, " added Mrs. Brown, using the religiousterms to which she was accustomed, "and I believe he makes it a matterof prayer that no young man should leave his college without deepenedreligious life. I believe in prayer as a power; don't you, MissRexford?"

"Yes, " replied Sophia, tersely. She did not feel at that moment as ifshe wanted to discuss the point. 

"And then he's so jolly, " put in the youngest Miss Brown, who was ahearty girl. "That's the sort of religion for me, the kind that canrollick--of course I mean _out of church_, " she added naďvely. 

Blue and Red sat shyly upon their chairs and listened to this discourse. It might have been Greek for all the interest they took in it. 

As for Sophia, it could not be said to lack interest for her--it wasvery plain, she thought, why Robert Trenholme thought so highly of theBrowns. 

There was a youth belonging to this family who was a year or two olderthan Blue and Red. His mother, sent for him to come into the room, andintroduced him to them. He was a nice youth, but precocious; he said tothem:

"I suppose you think Chellaston is a very pretty place, but I'll tellyou what our natural beauties lack as yet. It is such a literature asyou have in England, which has done so much to endear the wildflowersand birds and all natural objects there to the heart of the people. OurCanadian flora and fauna are at present unsung, and therefore, to alarge extent, unobserved by the people, for I think the chief use of thepoet is to interpret nature to the people--don't you?"

Blue ventured "yes, " and Red lisped in confusion, "Do you think so, really?" but as for any opinion on the subject they had none. Sophia, fearing that her sisters would be cast aside as hopeless dunces, wasobliged to turn partially from the praise that was being lavished onTrenholme to make some pithy remark upon the uses of the poet. 

Sophia, although half conscious of her own unreasonableness, decided nowthat the Browns might go one way and she another; but she was indebtedto this visit for a clue in analysing the impression Trenholme made uponher. His new friends had called him noble; she knew now that when sheknew him ten years before he had seemed to her a more noble character. 

In the next few weeks she observed that in every picnic, every pleasureparty, by land or water, Principal Trenholme was the most honouredguest, and, indeed, the most acceptable cavalier. His holidays had come, and he was enjoying them in spite of much work that he still exactedfrom himself. She wondered at the manner in which he seemed to enjoythem, and excused herself from participation. It was her own doing thatshe stayed at home, yet, perversely, she felt neglected. She hardly knewwhether it was low spite or a heaven-born solicitude that made her feelbitter regret at the degeneracy she began to think she saw in him. 

In due time there came a pleasure party of which Trenholme was to be thehost. It was to take place in a lovely bit of wilderness ground by theriver side, at the hour of sunset and moonrise, in order that, if theusual brilliancy attended these phenomena, the softest glories of lightmight be part of the entertainment. Music was also promised. PrincipalTrenholme came himself to solicit the attendance of the Miss Rexfords;but Sophia, promising for Blue and Red, pleaded lack of time forherself. "And I wish your scheme success, " cried she, "but I need notwish you pleasure since, as on all such occasions, you will 'sitattentive to your own applause. '"

She felt a little vexed that he did not seem hurt by her quotation, butonly laughed. She did not know that, although the adulation he receivedwas sweet to him, it was only sweet that summer because he thought itmust enhance his value in her eyes. Some one tells of a lover who gainedhis point by putting an extra lace on his servants' liveries; and thesavage sticks his cap with feathers: but these artifices do not alwayssucceed. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Up the road, about a mile beyond the college and the Harmon house, therewas a wilderness of ferns and sumac trees, ending in a stately pinegrove that marked the place where road and river met. Thither Blue andRed were sent on the evening of Trenholme's picnic. They were dressed intheir new frocks, and had been started at the time all the picnic-goerswere passing up the road. They walked alone, but they were consigned toMrs. Bennett's care at the place of assembly. Several carriages full ofguests passed them. 

"I'm growing more shy every moment, " said Blue. 

"So am I, " sighed Red. 

Young girls will make haunting fears for themselves out of many things, and these two were beset with a not unnatural fear of young men whowould talk to them about flora and fauna. Sophia had told them that theylooked like ninnies when they appeared not to know what people meant, and they could not endure the thought. 

Sighed Blue at last, "Do you think it would be dreadfully wicked not togo?"

All the guests had passed them by this time, for they had loiteredsadly. It was not that they were not proud of their clothes; they wereas proud as peacocks, and minced along; but then it was enough just towear one's fine clothes and imagine that they might meet somebody whowould admire them. 

"Oh, Blue, " said Red suddenly, withholding her steps, "suppose we didn'tgo, and were to walk back just a little later, don't you think we mightmeet--?" There was no name, but a sympathetic understanding. It wasHarkness of whom they thought. 

"I'm sure he's a great deal better looking than young Mr. Brown, and Ithink it's unkind to mind the way he talks. Since Winifred had her teethdone, I think we might just bow a little, if we met him on the road. "

"I think it would be naughty, " said Red, reflectively, "but nice--muchnicer than a grown-up picnic. "

"Let's do it, " said Blue. "We're awfully good generally; that ought tomake up. "

The sunset cloud was still rosy, and the calm bright moon was riding upthe heavens when these two naughty little maidens, who had waited out ofsight of the picnic ground, judged it might be the right time to bewalking slowly home again. 

"I feel convinced he won't come, " said Blue, "just because we should somuch like to pass him in these frocks. "

Now an evil conscience often is the rod of its own chastisement; but inthis instance there was another factor in the case, nothing less than alittle company of half tipsy men, who came along from the town, peacefully enough, but staggering visibly and talking loud, and thegirls caught sight of them when they had come a long way from thepleasure party and were not yet very near any house. The possibility ofpassing in safety did not enter their panic-stricken minds. They nosooner spied the men than they stepped back within the temporary shelterof a curve in the road, speechless with terror. They heard the voicesand steps coming nearer. They looked back the long road they had come, and perceived that down its length they could not fly. It was in thismoment of despair that a brilliant idea was born in the mind of Red. Sheturned to the low open fence of the little cemetery. 

"Come, we can pretend to be tombs, " she cried, and whirled Blue over thefence. They climbed and ran like a streak of light, and before thedrunkards were passing the place, the girls were well back among marblegravestones. 

Some artistic instinct warned them that two such queer monuments oughtto be widely apart to escape notice. So, in the gathering dimness, eachknelt stock still, without even the comfort of the other's proximity tohelp her through the long, long, awful minutes while the roisterouscompany were passing by. The men proceeded slowly; happily they had nointerest in inspecting the gravestones of the little cemetery; but hadthey been gazing over the fence with eager eyes, and had their designsbeen nothing short of murderous upon any monument they chanced to findalive, the hearts of the two erring maidens could not have beat withmore intense alarm. Fear wrought in them that sort of repentance whichfear is capable of working. "Oh, we're very, very naughty; we ought tohave gone to the picnic when Sophia was so good as to buy us newfrocks, " they whispered in their hearts; and the moon looked down uponthem benevolently. 

The stuff of their repentance was soon to be tested, for the voice ofHarkness was heard from over the Harmon fence. 

"Oh, Glorianna! there was never such sculptures. Only want wings. Hatsinstead of wings is a little curious even for a funeral monument. "

The two girls stood huddled together now in hasty consultation. "Wedidn't mean to be sculptures, " spoke up Red, defending her brilliantidea almost before she was aware. "There's nothing but stand-up slabshere; we thought we'd look something like them. "

"We were so frightened at the men, " said Blue. They approached the fenceas they spoke. 

"Those men wouldn't have done you one mite of harm, " said the dentist, looking down from a height of superior knowledge, "and if they had, I'dhave come and made a clearance double quick. "

They did not believe his first assertion, and doubted his ability tohave thus routed the enemy, but Blue instinctively replied, "You see, wedidn't know you were here, or _of course_ we shouldn't have beenfrightened. "

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?" remarked the dentist. 

"Yes, but I think perhaps, "--Red spoke doubtfully--"we ought to be goinghome now. "

She was a little mortified to find that he saw the full force of thesuggestion. 

"Yes, I suppose your mother'll be looking for you. "

They both explained, merely to set him right, that this would not be thecase, as they had started to Principal Trenholme's picnic. 

He asked, with great curiosity, why they were not there, and theyexplained as well as they could, adding, in a little burst ofsemi-confidence, "It's rather more fun to talk to you across a fencethan sit up and be grand in company. "

He smiled at them good-naturedly. 

"Say, " said he, "if your mother let you stay out, 'twas because you weregoing to be at the Trenholme party. You're not getting benefit of clergyhere, you know. "

"We're going;"--loftily--"we're only waiting to be sure there's no moredrunken people. "

"I was just about to remark that I'd do myself the pleasure of escortingyou. "

At this they whispered together. Then, aloud--"Thank you very much, butwe're not afraid; we're often out as late in papa's fields. We'reafraid mamma wouldn't like it if you came with us. "

"Wouldn't she now?" said Harkness. "Why not? Is she stuck up?"

Blue felt that a certain romance was involved in acknowledging herparents' antipathy and her own regret. 

"Rather, " she faltered. "Papa and mamma are rather proud, I'm afraid. "It was a bold flight of speech; it quite took Red's breath away. "Andso, "--Blue sighed as she went on--"I'm afraid we mustn't talk to you anymore; we're very sorry. We--I'm sure--we think you are very nice. "

Her feeling tone drew from him a perfectly sincere reply, "So I am; I'mreally a very nice young man. My mother brought me up real well. " Headded benevolently, "If you're scared of the road, come right through myplace here, and I'll set you on your own farm double quick. "

It was with pleasurable fear that the girls got through the fence withhis help. They whispered to each other their self-excuses, saying thatmamma would like them to be in their own fields as quickly as possible. 

The moonlight was now gloriously bright. The shrubs of the old garden, in full verdure, were mysteriously beautiful in the light. The old housecould be clearly seen. Harkness led them across a narrow open space infront of it, that had once been a gravel drive, but was now almost greenwith weeds and grasses. On the other side the bushes grew, as it seemed, in great heaps, with here and there an opening, moonlit, mysterious. Asthey passed quickly before the house, the girls involuntarily shied likeyoung horses to the further side of Harkness, their eyes glancingeagerly for signs of the old man. In a minute they saw the door in anopening niche at the corner of the house; on its steps sat the oldpreacher, his grey hair shining, his bronzed face bathed in moonlight. He sat peaceful and quiet, his hands clasped. Harkness next led themthrough, a dark overgrown walk, and, true to his promise, brought themat once to the other fence. He seemed to use the old paling as a gatewhenever the fancy took him. He pulled away two of the rotten soft woodpales and helped the girls gallantly on to their father's property. 

"Charmed, I'm sure, to be of use, ladies!" cried he, and he made hisbow. 

On the other side of their own fence, knee-deep in dry uncut grass, theystood together a few paces from the gap he had made, and proffered theirearnest thanks. 

"Say, " said Harkness, abruptly, "d'you often see Miss White up to yourhouse?"

"Eliza, do you mean?" said they, with just a slight intonation tosignify that they did not look upon her as a "Miss. " Their furtheranswer represented the exact extent of their knowledge in the matter. "She didn't come much for a good while, but last week she came to tea. It is arranged for mamma to ask her to tea once in a while, and we'reall to try and be nice to her, because--well, our sister says, now thatpeople pay her attentions, she ought to have a place where she can cometo, where she can feel she has friends. "

"How d'ye mean--'pay her attentions'?"

"That was what we heard sister Sophia say, " they replied, pursing uptheir little lips. They knew perfectly well what the phrase meant, butthey were not going to confess it. The arts of those who are on thewhole artless are very pretty. 

"Say, d'ye think Miss White's got the least bit of a heart about heranywheres?"

"We don't know exactly what you mean"--with dignity--"but one of theladies who boards at the hotel told mamma that Eliza _always_ behaves_admirably_'; that's part of the reason we're having her to tea. "

"Did she, though? If having about as much feeling as this fence has issuch fine behaviour--!" He stopped, apparently not knowing exactly howto end his sentence. 

The girls began to recede. The grass grew so thin and dry that they didlittle harm by passing through it. It sprang up in front of their feetas they moved backwards in their white dresses. All colour had passedfrom the earth. The ripple of the river and the cry of thewhip-poor-will rose amid the murmur of the night insects. 

"Do you sometimes come down here of an evening?" asked the young man. "At sunset it's real pleasant. "

"Sometimes, " answered Blue. Her soft voice only just reached him. 

CHAPTER XV. 

So the days wore on till August. One morning Cyril Harkness lay in waitfor Eliza. It was early; none of the boarders at the hotel were downyet. Eliza, who was always about in very good time, found him in thecorridor on the first floor. He did not often attempt to speak to hernow. 

"Say, " said he, gloomily, "come into my office. I've something to tell. "

The gloom of his appearance, so unusual to him, gave her a presage ofmisfortune. She followed him into the room of dental appliances. 

He told her to sit down, and she did so. She sat on a stiff sofa againstthe wall. He stood with one elbow on the back of the adjustable chair. Behind him hung a green rep curtain, which screened a table at which hedid mechanical work. They were a handsome pair. The summer morningfilled the room with light, and revealed no flaw in their youngcomeliness. 

"Look here! It's January, February, March"--he went on enumerating themonths till he came to August--"that I've been hanging on here for noother earthly reason than to inspire in you the admiration for me thatrises in me for you quite spontaneous. "

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Isn't that enough--eight months out of a young man's life?"

"It's not enough to make me waste my time at this hour in the morning. "

"Well, it's _not_ all, but it's what I'm going to say first; so you'llhave to listen to it for my good before you listen to the other for yourown. I've done all I could, Miss White, to win your affection. "

He paused, looking at her, but she did not even look at him. She didappear frightened, and, perceiving this, he took a tone more gentle andpliant. 

"I can't think why you won't keep company with me. I'm a real lovableyoung man, if you'd only look at the thing fairly. "

He had plenty of humour in him, but he did not seem to perceive thehumour of acting as showman to himself. He was evidently sincere. 

"Why, now, one of my most lovable qualities is just that when I doattach myself I find it awful hard to pull loose again. Now, that's justwhat you don't like in me; but if you come to think of it, it's a realnice characteristic. And then, again, I'm not cranky; I'm real amiable;and you can't find a much nicer looking fellow than me. You'll be sorry, you may believe, if you don't cast a more favourable eye toward me. "

She did not reply, so he continued urging. "If it's because you're stuckup, it must have been those poor English Rexfords put it into your head, for you couldn't have had such ideas before you came here. Now, ifthat's the barrier between us, I can tell you it needn't stand, for Icould have one of those two pretty young ladies of theirs quick as not. If I said 'Come, my dear, let's go off by train and get married, and askyour father's blessing after, ' she'd come. "

"How dare you tell me such a falsehood!" Eliza rose magnificently. 

"Oh, " said he, "I meet them occasionally. "

She looked at him in utter disdain. She did not believe him; it was onlya ruse to attract her. 

"How do you know, " she asked fiercely, "what ideas I could have had ornot before I went to the Rexfords?"

"That's a part of what I was going to say next"--she sat downagain--"but I don't _want_ to hurt you, mind. I'd make it real easy foryou if you'd let me cherish you. "

"What have you to say?"

"Just this--that it'll all have to come out some time; you know to whatI allude. "

She did not look as if she knew. 

"Upon my word!" he ejaculated admiringly, "you do beat all. "

"Well, what are you talking of?" she asked. 

"In this world or the next, all you've done will be made public, youknow, " he replied, not without tone of menace. "But what I want to speakabout now is Father Cameron. I've got him here, and I've never regrettedthe bread and shelter I give him, for he's a real nice old gentleman;but I can't help him going to people's houses and putting ideas intotheir heads--no more than the wind, I can't keep him. He's crazed, poorold gentleman, that's what he is. "

"You ought never to have brought him here. "

"_You'd_ rather he'd been stoned in Quebec streets?" He looked at hersteadily. "It's because they all more than half believe that he got hisideas when dead, and then came to life again, that he gets into harm. Ifit wasn't for that tale against him he'd not have been hurt in Quebec, and he'd not be believed by the folks here. "

"I thought you believed that too. "

He gave her a peculiar smile. "If you was to say right out now in publicthat you knew he wasn't the man they take him for, but only a poormaniac who don't know who he is himself, you'd put an end to the mostpart of his influence. "

"What do I know about it?" she asked scornfully; but, in haste todivert him from an answer, she went on, "I don't see that he does anyharm, any way. You say yourself he's as good as can be. "

"So he is, poor gentleman; but he's mad, and getting madder. I don'tknow exactly what's brewing, but I tell you this, there's going to betrouble of some sort before long. "

"What sort?"

"Well, for one thing, drunken Job is calling out in the rum-hole thathe'll kill his wife if he finds her up to any more religious nonsense;and she is up to something of that sort, and he's quite able to do it, too. I heard him beating her the other night. "

Eliza shuddered. 

"I'm a kind-hearted fellow, Miss White, " he went on, with feeling in hisvoice. "I can't bear to feel that there's something hanging over theheads of people like her--more than one of them perhaps--and thatthey're being led astray when they might be walking straight on aftertheir daily avocations. "

"But what can they be going to do?" she asked incredulously, but withcurious anxiety. 

"Blest if I know! but I've heard that old man a-praying about what hecalled 'the coming of the Lord, ' and talking about having visions of'the day and the month, ' till I've gone a'most distracted, for otherwisehe does pray so beautiful it reminds me of my mother. He's talking of'those poor sheep in the wilderness, ' and 'leading them' to something. He's mad, and there's a dozen of them ready to do any mad thing hesays. "

"You ought to go and tell the ministers--tell the men of the town. "

"Not I--nice fool I'd look! What in this world have I to accuse him of, except what I've heard him praying about? I've done myself harm enoughby having him here. "

"What do you want me to do then?"

"Whatever you like; I've told you the truth. There was a carter atTurrifs drunk himself to death because of this unfortunate Mr. Cameron'srising again--that's one murder; and there'll be another. "

With that he turned on his heel and left her in his own room. He onlyturned once to look in at the door again. "If _you're_ in any trouble, I'm real soft-hearted, Eliza; I'll be real good to you, though you'vebeen crusty to me. "

If she was in trouble then, she did not show it to him. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Nothing contributes more frequently to indecision of character in thelarger concerns of existence than a life overcrowded with effort andperformance. Had Robert Trenholme not been living at too great a pace, his will, naturally energetic, would not, during that spring and summer, have halted as it did between his love for Sophia Rexford and his shameconcerning his brother's trade. With the end of June his school hadclosed for the summer, but at that time the congregation at his littlechurch greatly increased; then, too, he had repairs in the college tosuperintend, certain articles to write for a Church journal, interestingpupils to correspond with--in a word, his energy, which sometimes bynecessity and sometimes by ambition had become regulated to too quick apace, would not now allow him to take leisure when it offered, or evento perceive the opportunity. His mind, habituated to unrest, wasperpetually suggesting to him things needing to be done, and he alwayssaw a mirage of leisure in front of him, and went on the faster in orderto come up to it. By this mirage he constantly vowed to himself thatwhen the opportunity came he would take time to think out some thingswhich had grown indistinct to him. At present the discomfort and sorrowof not feeling at liberty to make love to the woman he loved was someexcuse for avoiding thought, and he found distraction in hard work andsocial engagements. With regard to Sophia he stayed his mind on thebelief that if he dared not woo she was not being wooed, either by anyman who was his rival, or by those luxuries and tranquillities of lifewhich nowadays often lure young women to prefer single blessedness. 

In the meantime he felt he had done what he could by writing again andagain, and even telegraphing, to Turrifs Station. It is a great reliefto the modern mind to telegraph when impatient; but when there isnothing at the other end of the wire but an operator who is under noofficial obligation to deliver the message at an address many milesdistant, the action has only the utility already mentioned--the reliefit gives to the mind of the sender. The third week in August came, andyet he had heard nothing more from Alec. Still, Alec had said he wouldcome in summer, and if the promise was kept he could not now be long, and Robert clung to the hope that he would return with ambitions towardsome higher sphere of life, and in a better mind concerning theadvisability of not being too loquacious about his former trade. 

In this hope he took opportunity one day about this time, when callingon Mrs. Rexford, to mention that Alec was probably coming. He desired, he said, to have the pleasure of introducing him to her. 

"He is very true and simple-heaped, " said the elder brother; "and fromthe photograph you have seen, you will know he is a sturdy lad. " Hespoke with a certain air of depression, which Sophia judged to relate towild oats she supposed this Alec to be sowing. "He was always his dearfather's favourite boy, " added Trenholme, with a quite involuntary sigh. 

"A Benjamin!" cried Mrs. Rexford, but, with that quickness of mindnatural to her, she did not pause an instant over the thought. 

"Well, really, Principal Trenholme, it'll be a comfort to you to havehim under your own eye. I often say to my husband that that must be ourcomfort now--that the children are all under our eye; and, indeed, withbut one sitting-room furnished, and so little outing except in our ownfields, it couldn't well be otherwise. It's an advantage in a way. "

"A doubtful advantage in some ways, " said Sophia; but the littlechildren were now heard crying, so she ran from the room. 

"Ah, Principal Trenholme, " cried the little step-mother, shaking herhead (she was sewing most vigorously the while), "if my children willbut profit by _her_ example! But, indeed, I reproach myself that she ishere at all, although she came against my desire. Sophia is not involvedin our--I might say poverty, Principal Trenholme. " (It was thefirst-time the word had crossed her lips, although she always conversedfreely to him. ) "When I see the farm producing so little in comparison, I may say, in confidence, _poverty_; but Sophia has sufficient income ofher own. " "I did not know that, " said Trenholme, sincerely. "She camewith us, for we couldn't think of taking any of it for the houseexpenses if she was away; and, as it's not large, it's the moresacrifice she makes. But Sophia--Sophia might have been a very richwoman if she'd married the man she was engaged to. Mr. Monekton was onlytoo anxious to settle everything upon her. "

Trenholme had positively started at these words. He did not hear thenext remark. The eight years just passed of Sophia's life were quiteunknown to him, and this was a revelation. He began to hear the talkagain. 

"My husband said the jointure was quite remarkable. And then thecarriages and gowns he would have given! You should have seen the jewelsshe had! And poor Mr. Monekton--it was one month off the day the weddingwas fixed, for when she broke it off. Suddenly she would have none ofit. "

Trying to piece together these staccato jottings by what he knew of thecharacter of his love, Trenholme's mind was sore with curiosity about itall, especially with regard to the character of Mr. Monckton. 

"Perhaps"--he spoke politely, as if excusing the fickleness of theabsent woman--"perhaps some fresh knowledge concerning the gentlemanreached Miss Rexford. "

"For many a year we had known all that was to be known about Mr. Monckton, " declared the mother, vigorously. "Sophia changed her mind. Itwas four years ago, but she might be Mrs. Monckton in a month if she'dsay the word. He has never been consoled; her father has just received aletter from him to-day begging him to renew the subject with her; butwhen Sophia changes once she's not likely to alter again. There's notone in a thousand to equal her. "

Trenholme agreed perfectly with the conclusion, even if he did not seethat it was proved by the premises. He went away with his mind muchagitated and filled with new anxieties. The fact that she had onceconsented to marry another seemed to him to make it more probable thatshe might do so again. He had allowed himself to assume that since thetime when he had seen her as a young girl, the admired of all, Sophiahad drifted entirely out of that sort of relation to society; but now, by this sudden alarm, she seemed to be again elevated on some pinnacleof social success beyond his reach. It struck him, too, as discouragingthat he should be able to know so little about a girl he had loved in avague way so long, and now for a time so ardently, and who had dwelt formonths at his very door. He blamed the conventionalities of society thatmade it impossible for him to ask her the thousand and one questions hefain would ask, that refused him permission to ask any until he wasprepared to make that offer which involved the explanation from which heshrank so much that he would fain know precisely what degree of evil hemust ask her to face before he asked at all. He told himself that heshrank not so much on account of his own dislike, as on account of thedifficulty in which his offer and explanation must place her if sheloved him; for if she was not bound strongly by the prejudices of herclass, all those she cared for certainly were. On the other hand, if shedid not love him, then, indeed, he had reason to shrink from aninterview that would be the taking away of all his hope. Who would notwrestle hard with hope and fear before facing such an alternative?Certainly not a man of Trenholme's stamp. 

It is a mistake to suppose that decision and fearlessness are always theattributes of strength. Angels will hover in the equipoise of indecisionwhile clowns will make up their minds. Many a fool will rush in to wooand win a woman, who makes her after-life miserable by inconsideratedealings with incongruous circumstance, in that very unbending temper ofmind through which he wins at first. Trenholme did not love the less, either as lover or brother, because he shrank, as from the galling of anold wound, when the family trade was touched upon. He was not a weakerman because he was capable of this long suffering. That nature has thechance to be the strongest whose sensibilities have the power to drawnourishment of pain and pleasure from every influence; and if such soulprove weak by swerving aside because of certain pains, because ofstooping from the upright posture to gain certain pleasures, it stillmay not be weaker than the more limited soul who knows not suchtemptations. If Trenholme had swerved from the straight path, if he hadstooped from the height which nature had given him, the result of hisfault had been such array of reasons and excuses that he did not nowknow that he was in fault, but only had hateful suspicion of it when hewas brought to the pass of explaining himself to his lady-love. Themurmurs of an undecided conscience seldom take the form of definiteself-accusation. They did not now; and Trenholme's suspicion that he wasin the wrong only obtruded itself in the irritating perception that histrouble had a ludicrous side. It would have been easier for him to havegone to Sophia with confession of some family crime or tragedy than tosay to her, "My father was, my brother is, a butcher; and I have allowedthis fact to remain untold!" It was not that he did not intend to proveto her that his silence on this subject was simply wise; he stillwrithed under the knowledge that such confession, if it did not evokeher loving sympathy, might evoke her merriment. 

That afternoon, however, he made a resolution to speak to Sophia beforeanother twenty-four hours had passed--a resolution which was trulynatural in its inconsistency; for, after having waited for months tohear Alec's purpose, he to-day decided to act without reference to him. At the thought of the renewed solicitation of another lover, his ownlove and manliness triumphed over everything else. He would tell herfully and frankly all that had made him hesitate so long, and of hislong admiration for her, and how dearly he now loved her. He would noturge her; he would, leave the choice to her. This resolution was notmade by any impulsive yielding to a storm of feeling, nor in the calm ofdetermined meditation; he simply made up his mind in the course of thatafternoon's occupation. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Trenholme went from Mrs. Rexford's door that same day to pay some visitsof duty in the village. The afternoon was warm, and exquisitely brightwith the sort of dazzling brightness that sometimes presages rain. Onhis return he met a certain good man who was the Presbyterian ministerof the place. The Scotch church had a larger following in Chellastonthan the English. The clergyman and the minister were friends of a sort, a friendship which was cultivated on chance occasions as much from thedesire to exercise and display large-mindedness as from the drawings ofpersonal sympathy. The meeting this afternoon led to their walking outof the village together; and when the Scotchman had strolled as far asthe college gate, Trenholme, out of courtesy and interest in theconversation, walked a mile further up the road with him. 

Very beautiful was the road on that bright summer day. They heard theripple of the river faintly where it was separated from them by theHarmon garden and the old cemetery. Further on, the sound of the watercame nearer, for there was only the wilderness of half overgrown pastureand sumac trees between them and it. Then, where the river curved, theycame by its bank, road and river-side meeting in a grove of majesticpines. The ground here was soft and fragrant with the pine needles ofhalf a century; the blue water curled with shadowed wave against mattedroots; the swaying firmament was of lofty branches, and the summer windtouched into harmony a million tiny harps. Minds that were not chokedwith their own activities would surely here have received impressions ofbeauty; but these two men were engaged in important conversation, andthey only gave impassive heed to a scene to which they were wellaccustomed. 

They were talking about improvements and additions which Trenholme hopedto get made to the college buildings in the course of a few years. Thefuture of the college was a subject in which he could always becomeabsorbed, and it was one sufficiently identified with the best interestsof the country to secure the attention of his listener. In this land, where no church is established, there is so little bitterness existingbetween different religious bodies, that the fact that the college wasunder Episcopal management made no difference to the Presbyterian'sgoodwill towards it. He sent his own boys to school there, admiredTrenholme's enthusiastic devotion to his work, and believed as firmly asthe Principal himself that the school would become a great university. It was important to Trenholme that this man--that any man of influence, should believe in him, in his college, and in the great future of both. The prosperity of his work depended so greatly upon the good opinion ofall, that he had grown into the habit of considering hours well spentthat, like this one, were given to bringing another into sympathy withhimself in the matter of the next projected improvement. It was thusthat he had advanced his work step by step since he came to Chellaston;if the method sometimes struck his inner self as a little sordid, thework was still a noble one, and the method necessary to the quickenlargement he desired. Both men were in full tide of talk upon thenecessity for a new gymnasium, its probable cost, and the best means ofraising the money, when they walked out of the pine shade into an openstretch of the road. 

Soft, mountainous clouds of snowy whiteness were winging their wayacross the brilliant blue of the sky. The brightness of the light hadwiped all warm colour from the landscape. The airy shadows of the cloudscoursed over a scene in which the yellow of ripened fields, the green ofthe woods on Chellaston Mountain, and the blue of the distance, wereonly brought to the eye in the pale, cool tones of high light. The roadand the river ran together now as far as might be seen, the one almostpure white in its inch-deep dust, the other tumbling rapidly, a dancingmirror for the light. 

The talkers went on, unmindful of dust and heat. Then a cloud camebetween them and the sun, changing the hue of all things for the moment. This lured them further. The oat harvest was ready. The reaping machineswere already in the fields far and near, making noise like that of somenew enormous insect of rattling throat. From roadside trees the cicadavied with them, making the welkin ring. 

There were labourers at various occupations in the fields, but on thedusty stretch of road there was only one traveller to be seen in frontof the two companions. When they gained upon him they recognised the oldpreacher who went by the name of Cameron. The poor old wanderer had beena nine days' wonder; now his presence elicited no comment. He waswalking cap in hand in the sunshine, just as he had walked in the wintersnow. To Trenholme the sight of him brought little impression beyond areminder of his brother's wayward course. It always brought thatreminder; and now, underneath the flow of his talk about collegebuildings, was the thought that, if all were done and said that mightbe, it was possible that it would be expedient for the future of the NewCollege that the present principal should resign. This was, of course, an extreme view of the results of Alec's interference; but Trenholme hadaccustomed himself to look at his bugbear in all lights, the mostextreme as well as the most moderate. _That_ for the future; and, forimmediate agitation, there was his resolution to speak to Sophia. As hewalked and talked, his heart was wrestling with multiform care. 

With one of those welcome surprises which Nature can bestow, the bigswinging cloud which had shadowed their bit of earth for a few minutesand then passed off the sun again, now broke upon them in a heavyshower. They saw the rain first falling on Chellaston Mountain, whichwas only about a quarter of a mile distant, falling in the sunshine likeperpendicular rays of misty light; then it swept down upon them; but sobright was the sunshine the while that it took them a few minutes torealise that this dazzling shower could actually be wet. Its drenchingcharacter was made apparent by the sight of field labourers running to agreat spreading maple for shelter; then they, literally having regard totheir cloth, ran also and joined the group. They passed the old man onthe road, but when they were all under the tree he also came towards it. 

There is no power in the art of words, or of painting, or of music, tofully describe the perfect gratefulness of a shower on a thirsty day. The earth and all that belongs to her thrill with the refreshing, andthe human heart feels the thrill just in so far as it is one with thegreat plan of nature, and has not cut itself off from the whole byegotism as a dead branch is cut. All under the tree were pleased intheir own way. The labourers cooled their sweating brows by wiping themwith the shirtsleeves the rain had wet; Trenholme and his friend sawwith contentment the dust laid upon their road, listened to the chirp ofbirds that had been silent before, and watched the raindrops dance highupon the sunny surface of the river. 

The old man came quietly to them. The rain falling through sunshine madea silver glory in the air in which he walked saintlike, his hoary locksspangled with the shining baptism. He did not heed that his old clotheswere wet. His strong, aged face was set as though looking onward andupward, with the joyful expression habitual to it. 

Trenholme and his friend were not insensible to the picture. They wereremarking upon it when the old man came into their midst. There wassomething more of keenness and brightness in his mien than was common tohim; some influence, either of the healing summer or of inward joy, seemed to have made the avenues of his senses more accessible. 

"Sirs, " he said, "do you desire the coming of the Lord?"

He asked the question quite simply, and Trenholme, as one humours avillage innocent, replied, "We hope we are giving our lives to advanceHis kingdom. "

"But the _King, _" said the old man. "He is coming. Do you cry to Him tocome quickly?"

"We hope and trust we shall see Him in His own time, " said Trenholme, still benignly. 

"His own time is suddenly, in the night, " cried the old man, "when theChurch is sleeping, when her children are planting and building, selling, buying; and marrying--that is _His time_. We shall see Him. Weshall see His face, when we tell Him that we love Him; we shall hear Hisvoice when he tells us that He loves us. We shall see Him when we pray;we shall hear Him give the answer. Sirs, do you desire that He shouldcome now, and reign over you?"

The labourers bestirred themselves and came nearer. The old man hadalways the power of transmitting his excitements to others, so that, strangely, they felt it incumbent upon them to answer. One, adull-looking man, answered "yes, " with conventional piety. Another saidsincerely that he would like to get the oats in first. Then, when thefirst effect of the enthusiast's influence was passing off, they beganto rebel at having this subject thrust upon them. A youth said rudelythat, as there were two parsons there, Father Cameron was not called onto preach. 

The old man fixed his questioning look on Trenholme. "He will come toreign, " he cried, "to exalt the lowly and meek, to satisfy the men whohunger for righteousness; and the pure in heart shall live with Him. Sir, do you desire that He shall come now?"

Trenholme did not give answer as before. 

"Poor fellow, " said the Presbyterian, pityingly. 

The shower was passing over, and they moved away. 

The old man lifted his arm, and pointed to the mountain that stood inall the beauty of its wet verdure. He looked round upon them all, andthere was unusual show of excitement in his manner. 

"I have a message to you, " he said. "Before another Lord's, day comes, _He_ will come. "

The two ministers heard him as they walked away, and the Scotchmanthought to go back and reprove such an audacious word. 

"He is mad; they all know that he is mad, " urged Trenholme, dissuadinghim. 

They looked back, and saw the old man still preaching to the labourersunder the tree. A mare with its foal, and two half-grown colts, had comeup to an open fence within the tree's shadow, and, with their longgentle heads hanging over, they too seemed to be listening. 

The Scotchman, exhilarated by the cooling of the atmosphere, geniallyinvited Trenholme to a longer walk. Chellaston Mountain, with its coolshades and fine prospect, was very near. A lane turned from the highroad, which led to the mountain's base. A hospitable farmhouse stoodwhere the mountain path began to ascend, suggesting sure offer of anevening meal. Trenholme looked at the peaceful lane, the beautiful hill, and all the sunny loveliness of the land, and refused the invitation. Hehad not time, he said. 

So they walked back the mile they had come, and Trenholme little thoughthow soon, and with what agitation, he would pass that way again. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The next day, before Trenholme had had time to devise a plan for seeingMiss Rexford, Mrs. Martha brought him a telegram. She watched him as hedrew his finger through the poor paper of the envelope, watched him asone might watch another on the eve of some decisive event; yet she couldnot have expected much from a telegram--they came too often. 

"Ha!" cried Trenholme, "we are going to have visitors, Mrs. Martha. "

A good deal to Trenholme's surprise, the message was from Alec, and froma point no further away than Quebec. It stated that he was there withBates, who was ill, and he thought the best thing would be to bring himwith him to Chellaston, if his brother had house-room enough. 

The answers we give to such appeals are more often the outcome oflife-long habit than instances of separate volition. No question of whatanswer to send occurred to Trenholme's mind as he pencilled his reply, assuring a welcome to the sick man. 

When the answer was despatched he saw that, as fate had thrust thenotice of this arrival between him and the proposed interview withSophia; it would be better, after all, to wait only a day or two more, until he knew his brother's mind. 

He heard nothing more from Alec that day. The day after was Saturday, and it rained heavily. 

"What time will the gentlemen arrive?" asked Mrs. Martha, but not as ifshe took much interest in the matter. 

"I can't tell, " he replied. "They will probably let us know; but it'sbest to be ready when guests may come any time, isn't it?"

He asked her this with a cheering smile, because her manner was strange, and he wished to rouse her to a sense of her duties. 

"Yes, sir; 'twouldn't seem like as if we was truly expecting and hopingunless we did our best to be ready. "

The fervour of her answer surprised him. 

For some time past Winifred Rexford had been spending part of eachmorning learning housewifery of Mrs. Martha. That day, because of therain, Trenholme insisted upon keeping her to dinner with him. He broughther into his dining-room with playful force, and set her at the head ofhis table. It was a great pleasure to him to have the child. He twittedher with her improvement in the culinary art, demanding all sorts ofimpossible dishes in the near future for his brother's entertainment. Hewas surprised at the sedateness of her answers, and at a strange look ofexcited solicitude that arose in her eyes. It seemed to him that she wasseveral times on the point of saying something to him, and yet she didnot speak. 

"What is it, Princess Win?" he cried. "What is in your mind, littleone?"

He came to the conclusion that she was not very well. He got noinformation from her on the subject of her health or anything else; butthinking naturally that the change in the weather might have given hercold, he took pains to wrap her in his own mackintosh and take her homeunder his own large umbrella. 

When there, he went in. He was greatly cheered by the idea that, although he might not tell his mind that day, he was now and henceforthcourting Sophia openly, whatever befell; but the open courting, since ithad only begun with his resolution of yesterday, and existed only in hisown intention, was naturally not recognised. He was received with theordinary everyday friendliness. But a change had occurred in the familycircumstances, nothing less than that they sat now in the long neglectedand still unfurnished room which went by the name of the drawing-room. The windows had been thrown open, and the covering taken from the familycarriage. There it stood, still wheelless, but occupied now by Sophiaand Mrs. Rexford, the girls and the darning basket, while some of thechildren climbed upon the box. Blue and Red, who were highly delightedwith the arrangement, explained it to Trenholme. 

"You see, we had a carriage we couldn't use, and a room we couldn't usefor want of furniture; so this rainy day, when we all were so tired ofthe other room, mamma suddenly thought that we'd make the carriage dofor furniture. It's the greatest fun possible. " They gave little jumpson the soft cushions, and were actually darning with some energy onaccount of the change. 

Trenholme shook hands with the carriage folk in the gay manner necessaryto the occasion, but his heart ached for the little mother who had thusso bravely buried her last vestige of pride in the carriage by giving itto her children as a plaything. 

"It's more comfortable than armchairs, and keeps the feet from the barefloor, " she said to him, in defiance of any criticisms he might have inmind. But all his thought was with and for her, and in this he waspleased to see that he had divined Sophia's mind, for, after adding herwarm but brief praise to the new arrangement, she changed the subject. 

Winifred went upstairs quietly. Trenholme suggested that he hardlythought her looking quite well. 

"She's an odd child, " said Sophia. "I did not tell you, mamma, what Ifound her doing the other day. She was trying on the white frock she hadthis spring when she was confirmed. It's unlike her to do a thing likethat for no reason; and when I teased her she began to cry, and thenbegan speaking to me about religion. She has been puzzled by the viewsyour housekeeper holds, Mr. Trenholme, and excited by old Cameron'steaching about the end of the world. "

"I don't think it's the end of the world he's prophesying exactly, " saidTrenholme, musingly. "The Adventists believe that the earth will not beruined, but glorified by the Second Advent. "

"Children should not hear of such abstruse, far-off things, " observedMrs. Rexford; "it does harm; but with no nursery, no schoolroom, whatcan one do?"

Trenholme told them of Alec's telegram, and something of what he knewconcerning Bates. His own knowledge was scanty, but he had not even saidall he might have said when Mrs. Rexford politely regretted that herhusband and son, taking advantage of the rain, had both gone to the nexttown to see some machinery they were buying, and would be away overSunday, otherwise they would not have missed the opportunity offered bySunday's leisure to call upon the newcomers. 

"Oh, he's quite a common working-man, I fancy, " added Trenholme, hastily, surprised at the gloss his words had thrown on Bates'sposition, and dimly realising that his way of putting things mightperhaps at some other times be as misleading as it had just that momentbeen. 

Then he went away rather abruptly, feeling burdened with the furtherapologies she made with respect to Alec. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Trenholme went home and sat down to write an article for a magazine. Itssubject was the discipline of life. He did not get on with it very well. He rose more than once to look at the weather-glass and the weather. Rain came in torrents, ceasing at intervals. The clouds swept over, withlighter and darker spaces among them. The wind began to rise. Thunderwas in the air; as it became dusk lightning was seen in the fardistance. 

A little after dark he heard a quick, light step upon the garden path. The voice of the young dentist was audible at the door, and Mrs. Marthaushered him into the study. Trenholme had felt more or less prejudiceagainst this fellow since he had become aware that he was in some wayconnected with the incident that had discomforted his brother in hislonely station. He looked at him with a glance of severe inquiry. 

"I'm _real_ sorry to disturb you, " said the dentist; "but, upon my word, I'm uneasy in my mind. I've lost old Mr. Cameron. "

It occurred to Trenholme now for the first time since he had heard ofBates's coming that he, Bates, was the very man who could speak withauthority as to whether the old man in question had a right to the nameof Cameron. He wondered if the American could possibly have privateknowledge of Bates's movements, and knew that his coming could dispelthe mystery. If so, and if he had interest in keeping up the weirdstory, he had done well now to lose his charge for the time being. Wildand improbable as such a plot seemed, it was not more extraordinary thanthe fact that this intensely practical young man had sought the otherand protected him so long. 

"Your friend is in the habit of wandering, is he not?" asked Trenholme, guardedly. 

"Can't say that he is since he came here, Principal. He's just like achild, coming in when it's dark. I've never"--he spoke with zeal--"I'venever known that good old gentleman out as late as this, and it'sstormy. "

"Did you come here under the idea that I knew anything about him?"

"Well, no, I can't say that I did; but I reckoned you knew your Biblepretty well, and that you were the nearest neighbour of mine that did. "There was an attempt at nervous pleasantry in this, perhaps to hide realearnestness. 

Trenholme frowned. "I don't understand you. "

"Well, 'twould be strange if you did, come to think of it; but I'mmighty uneasy about that old man, and I've come to ask you what theBible really does say about the Lord's coming. Whether he's crazed ornot, that old man believes that He's coming to-night. He's been tellingthe folks all day that they ought to go out with joy to meet Him. Inever thought of him budging from the house till some _manifestation_occurred, which I thought _wouldn't_ occur, but when I found just now hewas gone, it struck me all of a heap that he was gone out with thatidea. I do assure you"--he spoke earnestly--"that's what he's after atthis very time. He's gone out to meet Him, and I came to askyou--well--what sort of a place he'd be likely to choose. He knows hisBible right off, that old gentleman does; he's got his notions out ofit, whether they're right or wrong. "

Trenholme stared at him. It was some time before the young man's ideasmade their way into his mind. Then he wondered if his apparentearnestness could possibly be real. 

"Your application is an extraordinary one, " he said stiffly. 

Harkness was too sensitive not to perceive the direction the doubt hadtaken. "It may be extraordinary, but I do assure you it's genuine. "

As he grew to believe in the youth's sincerity, Trenholme thought heperceived that, although he had asked what would be the probabledirection of the enthusiast's wanderings, the dentist was reallystricken with doubt as to whether the prediction might not possibly becorrect, and longed chiefly to know Trenholme's mind on that importantmatter. 

"This crazy fellow is astray in his interpretation of Scripture, " hesaid, "if he believes that it teaches that the Second Advent is nowimminent; and his fixing upon to-night is, of course, quite arbitrary. God works by growth and development, not by violent miracle. If youstudy the account of our Lord's first coming, you see that, not only wasthere long preparation, but that the great miracle was hidden in thebeautiful disguise of natural processes. We must interpret all specialparts of the inspired Word by that which we learn of its Author in thewhole of His revelation, otherwise we should not deal as reverently withit as we deal with the stray words of any human author. "

The young man, if he did not understand, was certainly comforted by thisofficial opinion. 

"I'm glad to hear you look upon it in that light, " he said approvingly, "for, to tell the truth, if I thought the millennium was coming to-nightI'd be real scared, although I've lived better than most young men of myage do; but, some way, the millennium isn't the sort of thing I seem tohanker after very much. I suppose, though, people as good as you wouldlike nothing so well as to see it begin at once. "

Trenholme looked down at the sheet of paper before him, and absentlymade marks upon it with his pen. He was thinking of the spiritualcondition of a soul which had no ardent desire for the advent of itsLord, but it was not of the young man he was thinking. 

"Of course, " the latter continued, "I didn't suppose myself there wasanything in it--at least"--candidly--"I didn't in the day-time; but whenI found he'd gone out in the dark, and thought of all the times I'dheard him praying--" he broke off. "He's real good. I'm a better fellowfor having lived with him so long, but I wish to goodness I'd nevercaught him. "

The word "caught, " so expressive of the American's relation to thewanderer, roused Trenholme's attention, and he asked now with interest, "May I inquire why you did take possession of him and bring him here?"

"Well, as to that, I don't know that I'd like to tell, " said the youngman, frankly. "Since I've lived with him I've seen my reasons to be noneof the best. " He fidgeted now, rising, cap in hand. "I ought to go andlook after him, " he said, "if I only knew where to go. "

It struck Trenholme that Harkness had an idea where to go, and that hisquestioning was really a prelude to its announcement. "Where do _you_think he has gone?"

"Well, if you ask me what I think, Principal--but, mind, I haven't aword of proof of it--I think he's gone up the mountain, and that he'snot gone there alone. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I think drunken Job's wife, and old McNider, and some moreof the Second Advent folks, will go with him, expecting to be caughtup. "

"Impossible!" cried Trenholme, vehemently. Then more soberly, "Even ifthey had such wild intentions, the weather would, of course, put a stopto it. "

Harkness did not look convinced. "Job's threatened to beat his wife todeath if she goes, and it's my belief she'll go. "

He twirled his hat as he spoke. He was, in fact, trying to get theresponsibility of his suspicions lightened by sharing them withTrenholme at this eleventh hour, but his hearer was not so quicklyroused. 

"If you believe that, " he said coolly, "you ought to give information tothe police. "

"The police know all that I know. They've heard the people preaching andsinging in the streets. I can't make them believe the story if theydon't. They'd not go with me one step on a night like this--not onestep. "

There was a short silence. Trenholme was weighing probabilities. On thewhole, he thought the police were in the right of it, and that thisyoung man was probably carried away by a certain liking for novelexcitement. 

"In any case, " he said aloud, "I don't see what I can do in the matter. "

Harkness turned to leave as abruptly as he had come in. "If you don't, Isee what I can do. I'm going along there to see if I can find them. "

"As you are in a way responsible for the old man, perhaps that is yourduty, " replied Trenholme, secretly thinking that on such roads and undersuch skies the volatile youth would not go very far. 

A blast of wind entered the house door as Harkness went out of it, scattering Trenholme's papers, causing his study lamp to flare upsuddenly, and almost extinguishing it. 

Trenholme went on with his writing, and now a curious thing happened. About nine o'clock he again heard steps upon his path, and the bellrang. Thinking it a visitor, he stepped to the door himself, as he oftendid. There was no one there but a small boy, bearing a large box on hisshoulders. He asked for Mrs. Martha. "Have you got a parcel for her?"said Trenholme, thinking his housekeeper had probably retired, as shedid not come to the door. The boy signified that he had, and made hisway into the light of the study door. Trenholme saw now, by the label onthe box, that he had come from the largest millinery establishment theplace could boast. It rather surprised him that the lean old womanshould have been purchasing new apparel there, but there was nothing tobe done but tell the boy to put out the contents of the box and be gone. Accordingly, upon a large chair the boy laid a white gown of delicatematerial, and went away. 

Trenholme stood contemplating the gown; he even touched it lightly withhis hand, so surprised he was. He soon concluded there was somemistake, and afterwards, when he heard the housekeeper enter the kitchenfrom the garden door, he was interested enough to get up with alacrityand call to her. "A gown has come for you, Mrs. Martha, " he cried. Now, he thought, the mistake would be proved; but she only came in soberly, and took up the gown as if it was an expected thing. He bade hergood-night. "Good-night, " said she, looking at him. There was a red spoton each of her thin, withered cheeks. He heard her footstep mounting herbedroom staircase, but no clue to the mystery of her purchase offereditself to mitigate his surprise. Had she not been his housekeeper nowfor six years, and during that time not so much as a trace of any vagaryof mind had he observed in her. 

About an hour afterwards, when he had gone into the next room to lookfor some papers, he heard quiet sounds going on in the kitchen, whichwas just at the rear end of the small hall on which the room doorsopened. A moment more and he surmised that his housekeeper must haveagain descended for something. "Are you there, Mrs. Martha?" he called. There was no answer in words, but hearing the kitchen door open, helooked into the lobby, and there a strange vision flashed on his sight. His end of the lobby was dark, but in the kitchen doorway, by the lightof the candles she held, he saw his elderly housekeeper arrayed in thepure white gown. 

He paused in sheer astonishment, looking at her, and he observed shetrembled--trembled all over with the meek courage it cost her to thusexhibit herself; for she appeared to have opened the door for no otherpurpose than to let him see her. She said nothing, and he--most men arecowards with regard to women--he had a vague sense that it was his dutyto ask her why she wore that dress, but he did not do it. He had noreason to suppose her mad; she had a perfect right to array herself infull dress at night if she chose; she was a great deal older than he, awoman worthy of all respect. This was the tenor of his thought--of hisself-excusing, it might be. He bade her good-night again, somewhattimidly. Surely, he thought, it was her place to make remark, if remarkwere needful; but she stood there silent till he had gone back into theroom. Then she shut the kitchen door. 

In a little while, however, as stillness reigned in the house, somepresentiment of evil made him think it would be as well to go and see ifMrs. Martha had finished trying on her finery and gone to bed as usual. He found the kitchen dark and empty. He went to the foot of her stairs. There was no chink of light showing from her room. The stillness of theplace entered into his mind as the thin edge of a wedge of alarm. "Mrs. Martha!" he called in sonorous voice. "Mrs. Martha!" But no oneanswered. He opened the back-door, and swept the dark garden with thelight of his lamp, but she was not there. Lamp in hand, he wentupstairs, and passed rapidly through the different rooms. As he enteredthe less frequented ones, he began to fear almost as much to see thegaily-attired figure as he would have done to see a ghost. He did notknow why this feeling crept over him, but, whether he feared or hoped tosee her, he did not. The house was empty, save for himself. The nightblast beat upon it. The darkness outside was rife with storm, but intoit the old woman must have gone in her festal array. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Trenholme went out on the verandah. At first, in the night, he sawnothing but the shadowy forms of the college building and of the treesupon the road. It was not raining at the moment, but the wind made ithard to catch any sound continuously. He thought he heard talking ofmore than one voice, he could not tell where. Then he heard wheels beginto move on the road. Presently he saw something passing the trees--somevehicle, and it was going at a good pace out from the village. Shodthough he was only in slippers, he shut his door behind him, and ranacross the college grounds to the road; but the vehicle was already outof sight, and on the soft mud he could hear no further sound. 

Trenholme stood hardly knowing what to think. He wore no hat; the damp, cool air was grateful to his head, but he gave no thought to it. Justthen, from the other way of the road, he heard a light, elastic step andsaw a figure that, even in the darkness, he could not fail to know. 

"Sophia!" There was fear in his voice. 

"Have you seen Winifred?" she cried. 

"Winifred? No, " he called, back. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked, breathless. She never noticed thathe had called her by name. The abruptness of her own question wasevidently atoned for by some necessity the nature of which he had notyet entirely grasped. Yet a knowledge, gleaned too late from all theoccurrences of the evening, leaped up within him to anticipate hertidings. 

"Winifred has gone out since dark. Whether she is alone or not I don'tknow, but she has gone to the mountain. She means to climb it to-nightbecause they have told her that--that----"

His lady-love stopped. Voice and language seemed alike to fail her whenshe essayed to tell him, and he, awed at the thought of hearing suchsacred words from her lips, awed to think that the sword of thisfanaticism had come so near as to strike the pure young girl who was sodear to them both, took her pause as if it had told him everything. 

"How do you know?" His words were brief and stern. 

She was walking on, he thought merely from excitement. As he kept upwith her he perceived, more by quickness of sympathy than by any sign, that, in her effort to speak, she had begun to weep. She walked erect, giving no heed to her own tears nor lifting a hand to wipe them, only atfirst her throat refused to articulate a reply, and when she spoke itwas quickly, a word or two at a time, as though she feared her voicewould be traitor to her. 

"She left a paper for me. " And then she added, "She wrote on it--whatshe was afraid to say--dear child!"

He was silent a moment, listening with bowed head lest she should tellmore. He thought he saw her now dash the tears from her face. She waswalking fast, and he felt that she must not go further, also that he hadno time to lose; so he told her hastily that he thought his housekeeperhad gone also to the mountain, and why he thought so. He said that hehoped and believed Winifred would be with her, and that it was not manyminutes since they had driven away. He would go at once, hoping toovertake them on the difficult ascent, and Miss Rexford, he said, mustgo home and send her father and brother to aid him in his search. 

She never stopped in her steady walk. "You know they are not at home. "

He was shocked to remember it. "Never mind!" he cried, "I will go withyour authority. I will bring her back. "

Still she did not waver in her walk. She spoke thickly out of her tears. "You may go to find this woman who has worked for you so long; I will gofor Winifred. "

"You must not come, " he said almost harshly. "It is far too late; it isfar too wet. "

He stopped to make her stop, but she only went on, getting much infront. Then he ran up to her, laid his hand on her arm, and implored hernot to go. 

There was nothing in his words or action that was precisely loverlike, nor did such likeness occur to her; but in the restraint he put upon thelover in him, his manner appeared to assume the confidence and ease of aperfect friendship, and she, scarce noting much how he spoke or acted, still felt that this advance of his gave her a new liberty to tell himthat she scorned his friendship, for she had something of that sortseething in her mind concerning him. As to his request just then, shemerely said she would go on. 

He was very urgent. "Then I will not go, " he said, stopping again. "Youcan't go without me, and if my going involves your going, it is betternot to go. " He did not mean what he said, but he hoped to move her. 

"You can go or stay as you think right, " she said. "I am going to getWinifred, poor lamb. I am not in the least afraid to go alone. I havegot a pistol in my belt. "

So he went with her. They both walked fast. The road was wide and muddy, and the night was very dark. 

Trenholme noticed now for the first time that he walked in slippers; hewould as soon have thought of turning back on this account as he wouldhave thought of stopping if thorns and briars had beset his path. Hefelt almost as if it were a dream that he was walking thus, serving thewoman he loved; but even as he brooded on the dreamlike strangeness ofit, his mind was doing its practical work. If Winifred and Mrs. Marthawere in the vehicle he had seen, what time they would gain while drivingon the road they would be apt to lose by their feebleness on themountain path, which he and Sophia could ascend so much more lightly. Wherever their goal, and whatever their purpose, he was sanguine that hewould find and stop them before they joined the main party. Hecommunicated the grounds of this hope to his companion. His heart wassore for his lady's tears. He had never before seen her weep. They hadpassed the cemetery, and went forward now into the lonelier part of theroad. Then Trenholme thought of the warning Harkness had given him aboutthe drunkard's violence. The recollection made him hasten on, forgettingthat his speed was almost too great for a woman. 

In the stir of events we seldom realise to the full the facts with whichwe are dealing, certainly never perceive at first their full import. Trenholme, however, after some minutes of tramping and thinking, feltthat he had reason for righteous indignation, and became wroth. He gavevent to strictures upon superficiality of character, modern love ofexcitement, and that silly egotism that, causing people to throw offrightful authority, leaves them an easy prey to false teachers. He wasnot angry with Winifred--he excepted her; but against those who wereleading her astray his words were harsh, and they would have flowed morefreely had he not found language inadequate to express his growingperception of their folly. 

When he had talked thus for some time Sophia answered, and he knewinstantly, from the tone of her voice, that her tears had driedthemselves. 

"Are you and I able to understand the condition of heart that is notonly resigned, but eager to meet Him Whom they hope to meet--able sofully to understand that we can judge its worth?"

He knew her face so well that he seemed to see the hint of sarcasm comein the arching of her handsome eyebrows as she spoke. 

"I fear they realise their hope but little, " he replied. "The excitementof some hysterical outbreak is what they seek. "

"It seems to me that is an ungenerous and superficial view, especiallyas we have never seen the same people courting hysterics before, " shesaid; but she did not speak as if she cared much which view he took. 

Her lack of interest in his opinion, quite as much as her frank reproof, offended him. They walked in silence for some minutes. Thunder, whichhad been rumbling in the distance, came nearer and every now and then aflash from an approaching storm lit up the dark land with a pale, vividlight. 

"Even setting their motives at the highest estimate, " he said, "I do notknow that you, or even I, Miss Rexford, need hold ourselves incapable ofentering into them. " This was not exactly what he would have felt ifleft to himself, but it was what her upbraiding wrung from him. Hecontinued: "Even if we had the sure expectation for to-night that theyprofess to have, I am of opinion that we should express our devotionbetter by patient adherence to our ordinary duties, by doing all wecould for the world up to the moment of His appearing. "

"Our ordinary duties!" she cried; "_they_ are always with us! I dare sayyou and I might think that the fervour of this night's work had betterhave been converted into good works and given to the poor; but ouropinion is not specially likely to be the true one. What do we know?Walking here in the dark, we can't even see our way along this road. "

It was an apt illustration, for their eyes were becoming so dazzled bythe occasional lightning that they could make no use of its brief flash, or of the faint light of night that was mingled in the darkness of theintervals. 

Although he smarted under the slight she put upon him, he was weary ofopposing her, because he loved her. "I am sorry that nothing I say meetswith your approval, " he said sadly. 

It was lack of tact that made him use the personal tone when he and shehad so far to travel perforce together, and she, being excited and muchperturbed in spirit, had not the grace to answer wisely. 

"Happily it matters little whether what you say pleases me or not. "

She meant in earnestness to depreciate herself, and to exalt that highertribunal before which all opinions are arraigned; still, there was inthe answer a tinge of spite, telling him by the way that it did notdistress her to differ with him. It was not wonderful that Trenholme, self-conscious with the love she did not guess at, took the words onlyas a challenge to his admiration. 

"Indeed you wrong me. It was long ago I proved the value I put upon youradvice by acting upon it in the most important decision of my life. "

She had so long tacitly understood what her influence over him at thattime had been that she could not now be much affected by the avowal. 

"Indeed, if you recklessly mistook the advice of a vain child forwisdom, it is to be hoped that Providence has shaped your ends for you. "

He did not understand her mood; he only thought of protesting his longloyalty to her. "It is true, " said he, "that Providence has done morefor me than I have done for myself; but I have always been glad toattribute my coming here to your beneficent influence. "

Her heart was like flint to him at that moment, and in his clumsiness hestruck sparks from it. 

"Yet when I remember how you tried to explain to me then that the poorparish in which you were working might be offering the nobler life-workfor you, I think that you were wiser than I. In their serious momentspeople can judge best for themselves, Mr. Trenholme. "

He had noticed that, in the rare times she addressed him by name, shenever used his big-sounding title of Principal. This little habit ofhers, differently read before, seemed now like a clue to guide him tothe meaning of her last remark, partly wrapped as it was in herpoliteness. He was no dullard; once on the track of her thought, he sooncame up with her. In surprise he faced her insinuation squarely. 

"You mean to tell me that you think I have not done well. "

Half startled, she could think of no answer but the silence that givesconsent. 

"Is it for myself or others I have done ill?" he asked. 

"The world here speaks loudly of your exertions on its behalf; I havenever doubted the truth of its report. "

"Then you consider that I myself am not what you would wish?" There wasneither anger nor graciousness in his tone. His mind, arrested, merelysought to know further, and feeling had not yet arisen. 

"You alarm me, " she said coldly. "I had no thought of bringing thesequestions upon myself. "

But it was of moment to him to know her mind. 

"I spoke inadvisedly, " she added. 

"Yet you spoke as you thought?" he asked. 

Fast as they were walking, she could not but notice that they were inthe pine grove now, close by the river. Here the gale was loud, reminding her afresh of the loneliness of the place, and, as she feltthe force of his question pressing upon her, all her energies rushed inanger to her self-defence. 

"Yes, I said what I thought; but I ask your pardon for any truthfulness. Question me no further. "

His stronger will was also roused. In bitterness of spirit he told herthat he had a right to know her full meaning. He plied her withquestions. When in steady tramp they came out on the open stretch ofroad between the pines and the mountain, over the noise of the swollenriver he heard what she thought of him. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

That afternoon Alec Trenholme had essayed to bring his friend John Batesto Chellaston. Bates was in a very feeble state, bowed with asthma, andexhausted by a cough that seemed to be sapping his life. Afraid to keephim longer in the lodging they had taken in Quebec, and in the stiflingsummer heat that was upon, the narrow streets of that city, butuncertain as to what length of journey he would be able to go, Alecstarted without sending further notice. 

As the hours of travel wore on, Bates's dogged pluck and perseverancehad to give way to his bodily weakness, but they had reached a stationquite near Chellaston before he allowed himself to be taken out of thetrain and housed for the night in a railway inn. In his nervous statethe ordeal of meeting fresh friends seemed as great, indeed, as thatinvolved in the remaining journey. So it came to pass that at dusk onthat same evening, Alec Trenholme, having put his friend to bed, joinedthe loungers on the railway platform in front of the inn, and watchedlightning vibrate above the horizon, and saw its sheet-like flames lightup the contour of Chellaston Mountain. He did not know what hill it was;he did not know precisely where he was in relation to his brother'shome; but he soon overheard the name of the hill from two men who weretalking about it and about the weather. 

"How far to Chellaston?" asked Alec. 

They told him that it was only nine miles by road, but the railway wentround by a junction. 

Alec began to consider the idea of walking over, now that he haddisposed of Bates for the night. 

"Is the storm coming this way?" he said. 

The man who had first answered him pointed to another. "This gentleman, "he said, "has just come from Chellaston. "

As the remark did not seem to be an answer to his question about theweather, Alec waited to hear its application. It followed. 

The first man drew a little nearer. "He's been telling us that theAdventists--that means folks that are always expecting the end of theworld--all about Chellaston believe the end's coming to-night. "

Alec made an exclamation. It was a little like hearing that some onesees a ghost at your elbow. The idea of proximity is unpleasant, even tothe incredulous. "Why to-night?" he asked. 

"Well, I'll say this much of the notion's come true, " said the native ofChellaston hastily--"it's awful queer weather--not that I believe itmyself, " he added. 

"Has the weather been so remarkable as to make them think that?" askedAlec. 

"'Tain't the weather _made_ them think it. He only said the weatherweren't unlike as if it were coming true. " As the first man said this, he laughed, to explain that he had nothing to do with the tale or itscredence, but the very laugh betrayed more of a tendency to dislike theidea than perfect indifference to it would have warranted. 

In defiance of this laugh the Chellaston man made further explanation. He said the religious folks said it was clearly written in the Book ofDaniel (he pronounced it Dannel); if you made the days it talks ofyears, and the weeks seven years, the end must come about this time. Atfirst folks had calculated it would be 1843, but since then they hadfound they were thirty years out somehow. 

"That would make it this year, " agreed the first man. Some others thathad gathered round laughed in chorus. They vented some bad language to;but the Chellaston man, excited with his tale, went on. 

"All the Advent folks believe that. They believe all the good folks willbe caught up in the air; and after that they're to come back, and theworld will be just like the Garden of Eden for a thousand years. "

He was casting pearls before swine, for some of his hearers chantedgibes. "Is that so?" they sang, to the notes of a response in Churchmusic. 

Night had closed in black about them. All on the platform had cometogether in close group. The wind-blown light of the station lamp was ontheir faces. In the distance the smouldering storm rumbled and flashed. 

"All religious folks believe that, " continued the speaker, a littlescornfully, "and the Advents think it'll be now; but old Cameron we'vehad in Chellaston for a year, he tells them it'll be to-night. "

Alec Trenholme had by this time received his brother's letters. "Ayear!" interrupted he almost fiercely. "Didn't he come in January?"

The narrator drew in the horns of his exaggeration. "D'ye know all abouthim, for there's no use telling if you do?"

"I only thought you might be talking about an old man heard went therethen. "

"He a'most died, or did really, somewhere below Quebec; and then he gotup and preached and prayed, and his folks wouldn't keep him, so hewandered everywhere, and a kind young man we have at our place took himin and keeps him. When he was in the other world he heard the Judgmentwould happen to-night. Would that be the same man you know?"

"It will be the same man. "

"Did you know his people?" asked the other curiously. 

But Alec had no thought of being questioned. He brought the speaker backto his place as historian, and he, nothing loth, told of the intendedmeeting on the mountain, and of the white ascension robes, in hisignorant, blatant fashion, laying bare the whole pathetic absurdity ofit. 

Two ribald listeners, who had evidently been in some choir, paced arm inarm, singing the responses to the Litany in melodramatic fashion, exceptwhen their voices were choked with loud laughter at their own wit. 

Pushed by the disagreeableness of these surroundings, and by keeninterest in the old man who had once visited him, Alec decided on thewalk. The mountain was nearer than the village; he hoped to reach it intime. He was told to keep on the same road till he came to the river, tofollow its bank for about a mile, and when he saw the buildings of afarm just under the hill, to turn up a lane which would lead him by thehouse to the principal ascent. He walked out into the night. 

At first he was full of thoughts, but after walking a while, fatigue andmonotony made him dull. His intelligence seemed to dwell now in hismuscles rather than in his brain. His feet told him on what sort of aroad he was walking; by his fatigue he estimated, without consciousthought, how far he had walked. 

When he had gone for nearly two hours the storm had come so much nearerthat the lightning constantly blinded his eyes. He heard now the rushingof the river, and, as he turned into the road by its side, he saw theblack hill looming large. Nothing but the momentum of a will alreadymade up kept his intention turned to the climb, so unpropitious was thetime, so utterly lonely the place. As it was, with quiescent mind andvigorous step, he held on down the smooth road that lay beside theswollen river. 

Some way farther, when the water had either grown quieter or his earaccustomed to the sound, human voices I became audible, approaching onthe road. Perhaps they might have been two or three hundred yards awaywhen he first heard them, and from that moment his mind, roused from itslong monotony, became wholly intent upon those who were drawing near. 

It was a woman's voice he heard, and before he could see her in theleast, or even hear her footsteps in the soft mud, the sense of herwords came to him. She was, evidently speaking under the influence ofexcitement, not loudly, but with that peculiar quality of tone whichsometimes makes a female voice carry further than is intended. She wasaddressing some companion; she was also walking fast. 

"There _was_ a time when I thought you were ambitious, and wouldtherefore do great things. "

There was an exquisite edge of disdain in her tone that seemed to makeevery word an insult that would have had power, Alec thought, to witherany human vanity on which it might fall. 

Some reply, she received--he could not hear it--and she went on withsuch intensity in her voice that her words bore along the whole currentof Alec's thought with them, though they came to him falling out ofdarkness, without personality behind them. 

"We may _call_ it ambition when we try to climb trees, but it is notreally so for us if we once had mountain-tops for our goal. "

Again came a short reply, a man's voice so much lower in key that againhe could not hear; and then:

"Yes, I have wasted years in tree climbing, more shame to me; but evenwhen I was most willing to forget the highest, I don't think a littlepaltry prosperity in the commonplace atmosphere of a colony would havetempted me to sell my birthright. "

The man she was rating answered, and the clear voice came proudly again:

"You have at least got the pottage that pleases you--you are a successin this Canadian world. "

Just then the soft, wet sound of feet tramping in mud came to him, andapparently the sound of his own feet was heard also, for the talkingstopped until he had passed them. He discerned their figures, but sodimly he could hardly have told they were man and woman had he not knownit before by their voices. They were walking very fast, and so was he. In a moment or two they were out of sight, and he had ceased to heartheir footsteps. Then he heard them speak again, but the wind blew theirwords from him. 

The tones, the accent, of the woman who had been speaking, told that shewas what, in good old English, used to be called a lady. Alec Trenholme, who had never had much to do with well-bred women, was inclined to seearound each a halo of charm; and now, after his long, rough exile, thisdisposition was increased in him tenfold. Here, in night and storm, tobe roused from the half lethargy of mechanical exercise by themodulations of such a voice, and forced by the strength of its feelingto be, as it were, a confidant--this excited him not a little. For a fewmoments he thought of nothing but the lady and what he had heard, conjecturing all things; but he did not associate her with the poorpeople he had been told were to meet that night upon the mountain. 

Roused by the incident, and alert, another thought came quickly, however. He was getting past the large black hill, but the lane turningto it he had not found. Until he now tried with all his might to see, hedid not fully know how difficult seeing was. 

The storm was not near enough to suggest danger, for there was stillmore than a minute between each flash and its peal. As light raindrifted in his face, he braced himself to see by the next flash andremember what he saw; but when it came he only knew that it reflectedlight into the pools on the road in front of him, and revealed a blackpanorama of fence and tree, field and hill, that the next moment, wasall so jumbled in his mind that he did not know where to avoid the verypuddles he had seen so clearly, and splashed on through them, with nobetter knowledge of his way, and eyes too dazzled to see what otherwisethey would have seen. In this plight he did not hesitate, but turned andran after the two he had met, to ask his way, thinking, as he did so, that he must have already passed the lane. 

With some effort he caught them up. They must have heard him coming, fortheir voices were silent as he approached. He asked for the lane toCooper's Farm, which he had been told was the name of the house at thefoot of the mountain path. They both hesitated in their walk. The man, who ought to have answered, seemed, for some reason, suddenly dumb. After waiting impatiently, the lady took upon herself to reply. She saidthey had not yet reached the turning to the farm. She remarked that theywere going to the same place. 

Then they went on again, and he, too, walked quickly, supposing that hecould soon pass them and get in front. It is not the matter of a moment, however, to pass people who are walking at a rate of speed almost equalto one's own. He had the awkwardness of feeling, that, whether he wouldor no, he was obliged to intrude upon them. He noticed they were notwalking near together; but when one is tramping and picking steps asbest one can in mud that is hidden in darkness, it is, perhaps, morenatural that two people on a wide road should give one another a wideberth. At any rate, for a minute all three were making their way throughpuddles and over rough places in silence. Then, when Alec thought he hadgot a few paces in advance, he heard the lady speak again, and ofhimself. 

"Did you think you knew that man?"

There was no answer. Alec felt angry with her companion that he shoulddare to sulk so obviously. After a minute or two more of fast walking, she said again:

"I can't think where he has gone to. Do you see him anywhere?"

To this again there was no answer. Alec naturally went the quicker thathe might get out of hearing. As he did so he wondered much that hisfellow-travellers went so fast, or rather that the lady did, for she, although some way behind, seemed to keep very near to him. 

On they went in silence for ten minutes more, when the lady again tookup her reproachful theme. Her voice was quieter now, but amid theharmonious sounds of wind and river he still heard it distinctly. Theclear enunciation of her words seemed to pierce through the bafflingnoises of the night as a ray of light pierces through darkness, albeitthat there was excitement in her tones, and her speech was, interspersedwith breathless pauses. 

"I have been rude; but you insisted upon my rudeness, now you areoffended by it. So be it--let me say something else! I don't muchbelieve now in all the sentiment that used to seem so noble to me aboutforgetting oneself. No thoughtful person _can_ forget himself, and nocandid person says he has done it. What we need is to think _more_ ofourselves--to think so much of ourselves that all aims but the highestare beneath us--are impossible to our own dignity. What we chiefly needis ambition. "

She stopped to take breath. It seemed to Alec she came near enough tosee him as she continued. He could think of nothing, however, but whatshe was saying. He felt instinctively that it was because of haste andsome cause of excitement, not in spite of them, that this lady couldspeak as she now did. 

"Christianity appeals to self-regard as the motive of our best action, "she went on, giving out her words in short sentences, "so there must bea self-regard which is good--too good to degrade itself to worldlyends; too good even to be a part of that amalgam--the gold ofunselfishness and the alloy of selfishness--which makes the _ordinary_motive of the _ordinary_ good man. "

Her voice seemed to vibrate with scorn on the emphasized words. 

"If we desired to live nearer heaven--" she said, and then she stopped. 

Alec turned perforce to tell her, what she must now perceive, that hewas still close to them; but this impulse was checked by a suddenthought. Was she not addressing himself? Was there another man now withher?

He stopped, looked backward, listened. He was quite alone with the lady, who went past him now, only looking, as she walked, to see why he wastarrying. In his fierce young loyalty to her he took for granted, without question or proof, that her escort had deserted her in revengefor her disdain. He would willingly have gone back to fetch him up, butthe impossibility of finding a man who did not wish to be found, theimpossibility, as it seemed to him, of letting her go further alone, theboorishness of calling after her--all this constrained him to follow. Heran to make his communication gently, and, as he ran, courage to make itfailed him. He thought of her as delicately accustomed to incessantprotection. At the thought of letting her know that she was telling herthoughts to a stranger, that she was alone at such hour and place withhim, his throat swelled. He hated to speak words that would be sohateful to her; and when he came by her side breathless, and she spoketo him again, he walked on, waiting till she should stop, trying toformulate what he had to say, listening and watching intently for somesign of the recreant. Again speaking as though she must unburden hermind, she turned into the lane. Over its fences he peered down the darkmain road, but neither in flash nor interval could the other man beseen. He had not the slightest notion what the lady was saying now;lofty philosophy or practical sarcasm it might be, it was all lost inhis exaggerated idea of what her fear and dismay would be when he spoke. 

Before he had a chance to speak, however, he saw, in dark outline, thebuilding of the farm to which he supposed her to be going. It would be athousand times better to conduct her in silence to the door, which wasnow so near. To tell her before could serve no end, for even if sheshould wish to return to seek her late companion she could there obtainan escort. So, with feeling of guiltiness in the part he was acting, andin the surly silence he assumed, Alec let her lead up the lane she mustknow better than he. Her previous speeches, which he had followed soclosely, were only remembered now to give food for conjecture as to whoshe might be and what relation she held to her late companion. Theinterest in his own journey and its extraordinary object were lost forthe time in the excitement of his knight-errantry. 

He was astonished to see that the house, as they neared it, showed nosign of life and light. The lady, whether inmate or guest, must surelybe expected; but the very roofs of the house and huge barns seemed todroop in slumber, so black was the whole place and closely shut. Alecwas looking out for the house gate in order to step forward and open it, when, to his utter surprise, he saw that the lady with haste passed it, and went on toward the hill. 

He stopped with hand on the gate and called her. 

"What is the matter?" she asked, checking her walk. "Are you ill? Whatis it?"

He supposed that his strange voice would tell her all, but, although shewas evidently puzzled, to his further astonishment, she did not realisethat he was a stranger. 

"Why do you speak like that?" she asked. And she talked on rapidly aboutsome waggon she expected to find at the foot of the path. She went on, in fact, as if unable to endure the loss of time; and he, thinking ofthe waggon and waggoner as a further point of safety for her, ran after. In a minute they both came out of the lane on a small common. Here weretwo horses tied under a tree and an open waggon with its shafts laiddown. 

"Call the man, " she said. 

To Alec's call a man came sleepily from a small barn that was near. Hesaid he had brought about a dozen women in the waggon, and they had goneup the hill. Impatiently she demanded of him how long it was since theyhad started to walk, and heard it was about a quarter of an hour. Shewent on once more, with what seemed to Alec incredible speed. But thistime he gave way to no further indecision. Where she had darted underthe trees he followed in her path. 

They were just under the covert of the first trees on a steep footpathwhen he stopped her, and above him she turned, listening. The scent ofmoss and fern and overhanging leaf was sweet. So perfect a woodlandbower was the place, so delicate did the lady seem to his imagination, that he wished he could tell his concern for her alarm and readiness todevote himself to her cause. But when he saw her shrink from him, hecould only stand awkwardly, tell her in a few clumsy words that he andthe other man had changed places, he did not know how, and he hadthought to take her to the farm. 

"Your voice is very like his, " she said, looking at him strangely. 

But he now knew certainly, what for the last hour had seemed to himalmost impossible, that in very truth the religious assembly was to takeplace that night; and the thought of it, and of the strange excitementwith which others had gone before them on that same path took from Alec, and, he supposed, from the lady also, the power to give muchconsideration to their own strange encounter. When he had told her ofthe time he had seen old Cameron at prayer in the lone wintry fields, and how far he had just walked to see him again in the strangeconditions of to-night, they climbed on together. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

There is nothing of which men take less heed than the infection ofemotion, a thing as real as that mysterious influence which in somediseases leaps forth from one to another till all are in the same pain. With the exception, perhaps, of the infection of fear, which societieshave learnt to dread by tragic experience, man still fondly supposesthat his emotions are his own, that they must rise and fall withinhimself, and does not know that they can be taken in full tide fromanother and imparted again without decrease of force. May God send ahealthful spirit to us all! for good or evil, we are part of oneanother. 

There were a good many people who went up the mountain that night tofind the enthusiasts, each with some purpose of interference andcriticism. They went secure in their own sentiments, but with mindstickled into the belief that they were to see and hear some strangething. They saw and heard not much, yet they did not remain wholly theirown masters. Perhaps the idea that Cameron's assembly would be wellworth seeing was gleaned partly from the lingering storm, for anapproaching storm breeds in the mind the expectation of excitingculmination, but long before the different seekers had found the meetingplace, which was only known to the loyal-hearted, the storm, havingspent itself elsewhere, had passed away. 

There was an open space upon a high slope of the hill. Trees stood aboveit, below, around--high, black masses of trees. It was here oldCameron's company had gathered together. No woodland spot, in dark, dampnight, ever looked more wholly natural and of earth than this. SophiaRexford and Alec Trenholme, after long wandering, came to the edge ofthis opening, and stopped the sound of their own movements that theymight look and listen. They saw the small crowd assembled some way off, but could not recognise the figures or count them. Listening intently, they heard the swaying of a myriad leaves, the drip of their moisture, the trickle of rivulets that the rain had started again in troughs ofsummer drought, and, amidst all these, the old man's voice in accents ofprayer. 

Even in her feverish eagerness to seek Winifred, which had sustained herso long, Sophia chose now to skirt the edge of the wood rather thancross the open. As they went through long grass and bracken, here andthere a fallen log impeded their steps. A frog, disturbed, leaped beforethem in the grass; they knew what it was by the sound of its falls. Soon, in spite of the rustle of their walking, they began to hear theold man's words. 

It seemed that he was repeating such passages of Scripture as ascribethe Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Whether these were strung together ina prayer, or whether he merely gave them forth to the night air as thepoetry on which he fed his soul, they could not tell. The night was muchlighter now than when the storm hung over. They saw Cameron standing ona knoll apart from his company, his face upturned to the cloudy sky. Beyond him, over the lower ranks of trees, the thunder cloud they hadfeared was still visible, showing its dark volume in the southern sky bythe frequent fiery shudderings which flashed through its length anddepth; but it had swept away so far that no sound of its thunder touchedtheir air; and the old man looked, not at it but at the calm, cloud-wrapped sky above. 

"The Son of Man is coming in the clouds of heaven with power, and greatglory. "

The words fell upon the silence that was made up of the subdued soundsof nature; it seemed to breathe again with them; while their minds hadtime to be taken captive by the imagery. Then he cried, "He shall send His angels with a trumpet, and a great voice, and theyshall gather the elect upon the four winds. Two shall be in the fields;one shall be taken and the other left. " He suddenly broke off therecitation with a heartpiercing cry. "My Lord and my God! Let none ofThy children here be left. Let none of those loved ones, for whom theyhave come here to entreat Thee, be among those who are left. Let itsuffice Thee, Lord, that these have come to meet Thee on Thy way, to askThee that not one of their beloved may be passed over now, when Thoucomest--_Now!_"

The last word was insistent. And then he passed once more into theprayer that had been the burden of his heart and voice on the night thatAlec had first met him. That seemed to be the one thought of his poorcrazed brain--"Come, Lord Jesus!"

The little band were standing nearer the trees on the upper side of theopen. They seemed to be praying. Sophia came to the end of thestraggling line they formed, and there halted, doubtful. She did notadvance to claim her sister; she was content to single out her childishfigure as one of a nearer group. She tarried, as a worshipper who, entering church at prayer-time, waits before walking forward. Alec stoodbeside his unknown lady, whose servitor he felt himself to be, andlooked about him with no common interest. About thirty people were cladin white; there were a few others in ordinary clothes; but it wasimpossible to tell just how many of these latter were there or with whatintent they had come. A young man in dark clothes, who stood near thelast comers peered at them very curiously: Alec saw another man sittingunder a tree, and gained the impression, from his attitude, that he wassuffering or perplexed. It was all paltry and pitiful outwardly, andyet, as he looked about, observing this, what he saw had no hold on hismind, which was occupied with Cameron's words; and under theirinfluence, the scene, and the meaning of the scene, changed as his moodchanged in sympathy. 

A hymn began to rise. One woman's voice first breathed it; other voicesmingled with hers till they were all singing. It was a simple, swayingmelody in glad cadence. The tree boughs rocked with it on the lesseningwind of the summer night, till, with the cumulative force of risingfeeling, it seemed to expand and soar, like incense from a swingingcenser, and, high and sweet, to pass, at length through the cloudy wallsof the world. The music, the words, of this song had no more of art inthem than the rhythmic cry of waves that ring on some long beach, or theregular pulsations of the blood that throbs audibly, telling our suddenjoys. Yet, natural as it was, it was far more than any other voice ofnature; for in it was the human soul, that can join itself to othersouls in the search for God; and so complete was the lack of form in theyearning, that this soul came forth, as it were, unclothed, the moretouching because in naked beauty. 

 "Soon you will see your Saviour coming, In the air. "

So they sang. This, and every line, was repeated many times. It was onlyby repetition that the words, with their continuity of meaning, grew inignorant ears. 

 "All the thoughts of your inmost spirit Will be laid bare, If you love Him, He will make you White and fair. "

Then the idea of the first line was taken up again, and then again, withrenewed hope and exultation in the strain. 

 "Hark! you may hear your Saviour coming. "

It was a well-known Adventist hymn which had often roused the hearts ofthousands when rung out to the air in the camp meetings of the northernStates; but to those who heard it first to-night it came as therevelation of a new reality. As the unveiling of some solid marblefigure would transform the thought of one who had taken it, whenswathed, for a ghost or phantom, so did the heart's desire of thesesingers stand out now with such intensity as to give it objectiveexistence to those who heard their song. 

Into the cloud-walled heaven they all looked. It is in such moments thata man knows himself. 

Old Cameron, lifting up his strong, voice again, was bewailing the sinof the world. "We sinners have not loved Thee, O Christ. We have nottrusted Thy love. We have not been zealous for Thy glory. This--this isour sin. All else Thou would'st have mended in us; but this--this is oursin. Have mercy! Have mercy! Have mercy!" Long confession came from himslowly, bit by bit, as if sent forth, in involuntary cries, from a heartrent by the disappointment of waiting. In strong voice, clear and true, he made himself one with the vilest in this pleading, and all the viceswith which the soul of man has degraded itself were again summed up byhim in this--"We have not loved Thee. We have not trusted Thy love. Weare proud and vain; we have loved ourselves, not Thee. "

How common the night was--just like any other night! The clouds, as onelooked at them, were seen to swing low, showing lighter and darkerspaces. How very short a time can we endure the tensest mood! It is likea branding iron, which though it leaves its mark forever, cannot beborne long. The soul relaxes; the senses reclaim their share of us. 

Some men came rather rudely out from under the trees, and loitered near. Perhaps all present, except Cameron, noticed them. Alec did; and feltconcerning them, he knew not why, uneasy suspicion. He noticed otherthings now, although a few minutes before he had been insensible to allabout him. He saw that the lady he waited upon had dropped her face intoher hands; he saw that her disdainful and independent mood was melted. Strangely enough, his mind wandered back again to her first companion, and he wondered that she had not sent back for him or mourned hisabsence. He was amazed now at his own assumption that design, notaccident, had caused such desertion. He could almost have started inhis solicitude, to seek the missing man, such was the rebound of hismind. Yet to all this he only gave vagrant thoughts, such as we give toour fellows in church. The temple of the night had become a holy place, and his heart was heavy--perhaps for his old friend, standing there withuplifted face, perhaps on account of the words he was uttering, perhapsin contrition. In a few minutes he would go forward, and take the oldpreacher by the arm, and try, as he had once tried before, to lead himto rest and shelter from so vain an intensity of prayer. But just now hewould wait to hear the words he said. He could not but wait, for sodull, so silent, did all things remain, that the earnestness of theexpectant band made itself felt as an agony of hope waning to despair. 

Absorbed in this, Alec heard what came to him as harsh profane speech;and yet it was not this; it was the really modest address of a young manwho felt constrained to speak to him. 

"I don't know, " he said nervously (his accent was American), "who _you_may be, but I just wish to state that I've a sort of notion one of thosefellows right down there means mischief to one of these poor ladies inwhite, who is his wife. I ain't very powerful myself, but, I take it, you're pretty strong, aren't you?"

Alec gave impatient assent; but the men whom he was asked to watchapproached no nearer to the women but remained behind the preacher. 

All this time old Cameron prayed on, and while it might be that hope inhis followers was failing, in his voice there was increasing gladnessand fervour. 

The clouds above shifted a little. To those wrapped in true anticipationtheir shifting was as the first sign of a descending heaven. Somewherebehind the thick clouds there was a crescent moon, and when in the upperregion of the sky a rift was made in the deep cloud cover, though shedid not shine through, the sky beyond was lit by her light, and theupper edges of cloud were white as snow. 

As the well of clear far light was opened to the old man's gaze, hisprayer stopped suddenly, and he stood only looking upwards. They did notsee so much as know from the manner in which his voice had failed, thatfor him, at least, there were moments of ecstasy in the assurance ofhope. 

"Poor fellow!" muttered Alec under his breath, for he felt the poignantdisappointment of the awakening. 

A sweet sound made some of them turn an instant toward the wood, for alittle bird, disturbed in its hiding there, lilted forth a twitteringsong of joy. 

Its notes had not ceased when Alec heard a gasp of terror from the ladynear him, and saw, as one sees an act there is no time to avert, thatone of the rough fellows who were standing behind the old man hadsuddenly struck him down by a savage blow upon the head. 

Alec Trenholme ran and sprang upon the man who had struck the blow. Someother man, he did not see which, wrested the club from the fellow'shand. In the moments Alec was grappling with him he became consciousthat the old man lying near his feet on the grass was more to him thanrevenge, and, with the caprice of a boy who turns from what interestshim less to what interests him more, he contented himself with hurlingthe assailant from him, so that he fell heavily down the sloping groundto where his companions stood. Then Alec pushed others aside and liftedthe wounded man. 

Wounded? His hair was wet with warm blood. There was something done--agood deal done, by many people--to restore him. Alec rememberedafterwards that the young man who had previously spoken to him had beenactive, showing a more personal solicitude than was seen in the awedkindness even of the women. One lives through such scenes with littlereal perception of their details. He knew at last for certain that heput his burden from him, and throwing himself down laid his ear on thebroad, muscular breast. Long as he listened, there was no movementthere. The mad old preacher was dead. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

When Alec Trenholme rose from the dead man's side he felt his shouldertaken hold of by a familiar hand. He knew at once that it was hisbrother. It was quite what he would have expected, that Robert should bethere; it was surely his business to come after straying sheep. 

The manslayer, awed and sobered by finding what he had done, had beeneasily overpowered. Even his comrades helped to bind him. He was a poorcreature at best, and was now in the misery that comes with suddenreaction from the exaltation of strong drink. 

Alec saw that his brother was limping, that he seemed in actual pain; hewas anxious to know how this was, yet he did not say so. He asked ratherif Robert thought that the old man had consciously awakened from histrance of expectation, and they both, in spite of all that pressed, stooped with a lantern some one had lit to look again at the dead face. Just as he might have looked when the heavens seemed to open above him, so he looked now. They talked together, wondering who he really was, asmen find words for what is easiest to say, although not relevant to themoment's necessity. 

So absorbing is the interest of death to those who live in peacefultimes that, now that there was a lamp, all there required to slake theircuriosity by lingering gaze and comment before they would turn away. Even the prisoner, when he saw the lantern flashed near the face of thedead, demanded to be allowed to look before they led him down the hill. His poor wife, who had expected his violence to fall only on herself, kept by him, hysterically regretting that she had not been the victim. 

Yet, although all this had taken place, it was only a short time beforethe energy of a few, acting upon the paralysed will of others, hadcleared the ground. The white-dressed women crossed the open to thedescending path, huddling together as they walked, their eyes perforceupon the rough ground over which they must pick their steps. There wasmany a rift now in the breaking clouds above them, but only a few turnedan upward passionate glance. Sophia moved away in their midst. Seeingher thus surrounded, Alec did not feel that he need approach. 

"I don't know who she is, " he said, pointing her out to Robert. "Ihappened, in a queer way, to come up here with her. " He paused a moment. Some sentiment such as that she was a queen among women was in his mind, but it did not rise to his lips. "She would like your help better thanmine, " he added. "If you will see that she and her little sister aretaken care of, I will stay here"--he gave a gesture toward thecorpse--"till a stretcher comes. "

"I will do my best to take care of them all, " Robert Trenholme answeredwith a sigh. 

Old McNider and his little boy walked behind the women. Robert, limpingas he went, lifted the sleepy child in his arms and joined himself tothe company. They went under the dripping trees, down, down the dark, slippery path. The white robes hardly glimmered in the darkness. Some ofthe women wept; some of them held religious conversation, using suchforms of expression as grow up among certain classes of pious, peopleand jar terribly on unaccustomed ears. Those who talked at this time hadless depth of character than those who were silent, and there wasevinced in their conversation a certain pride of resistance tocriticism--that is, they wished to show that if what they had looked forhad not come that night, their expectation of it bad been reasonable, and that their greatest hopes would shortly be realised to theconfounding of unbelievers. They did not know the manner of theirspirit. Few who indulge in demonstration of piety as a relief tofeeling ever perceive how easily the natural passions can flow into thischannel. 

Jesus wished to try their faith, said they, but they would not cast awaytheir lamps; no, they must keep them trimmed and burning. They could notlive unless they felt that dear Jesus might come for them any night. 

"Blessed be His holy Name!" cried one. "When He comes the world will seeHim Whom they have despised, and His saints they have looked down on, too, reignin' together in glory. Yes, glory be to Jesus, there'll be aturnin' of the tables soon. "

To Trenholme it seemed that they bandied about the sacred name. Hewinced each time. 

One woman, with more active intellect than some of the rest, began todilate on the signs already in the world which proved the Second Adventwas near. Her tone was not one of exulted feeling, but of calm reason. Her desire was evidently to strengthen her sisters who might be castdown. In her view all the ages of the history of the vast human racewere seen in the natural perspective which makes things that are nearloom larger than all that is far. The world, she affirmed, was more evilthan it had ever been. In the Church there was such spiritual death asnever before. The few great revivals there were showed that now the poorwere being bidden from the highways to the marriage feast. And above allelse, it was now proved that the coming of the Lord was nigh, becausebands of the elect everywhere were watching and waiting for the greatevent. Her speech was well put forth in the midst of the weary descent. She did not say more than was needed. If there were drooping heartsamong her friends they were probably cheered. 

Then some more emotional talkers took up the exultant strain again. Itwas hard for Trenholme not to estimate the inner hearts of all thesewomen by the words that he heard, and therefore to attribute all thegrace of the midnight hour to the dead. 

When they got to the bottom of the hill, the farmer, at the request ofmen who had gone first, had another waggon in readiness to take home thewomen who had come to the hill on foot or who had sent away theirvehicles. Many of them did not belong to the village of Chellaston. Itwas evidently better that the lighter waggon which had come fromChellaston should go round now to the outlying farms, and that all thevillagers should return in that provided by the farmer. Trenholme put inthe child, who was now sleeping, and helped in the women, one by one. Their white skirts were wet and soiled; he felt this as he aided them todispose them on the straw which had been put in for warmth. The farmer, an Englishman, made some wise, and not uncivil, observations upon theexpediency of remaining at home at dead of night as compared withascending hills in white frocks. He was a kind man, but his words madeWinifred's tears flow afresh. She shrank behind the rest. Trenholmekissed her little cold hand when he had put her in. Then, last of all, he helped Sophia. 

She had no words ready now to offer him by which to make amends. "Youhave hurt your foot?" she said. 

He told her briefly that his foot had twisted under him, so that atfirst he had not been able to come on for the sprain, and he clasped herhand as he bade the waggon drive on. 

Feeling the lack of apology on her own part she thought he had shownhimself the greater, in that he had evidently pardoned her without it. 

He did not feel himself to be great. 

The cart jolted away. Trenholme stood in the farmyard. The light of alantern made a little flare about the stable door. The black, hugebarns, around seemed to his weary sense oppressive in their nearness. The waggon disappeared down the dark lane. The farmer talked moreroughly, now that kindness no longer restrained him, of the night'sevent. Trenholme leaned against a white-washed wall, silent but notlistening. He almost wondered he did not faint with the pain in hisankle; the long strain he had put upon the hurt muscle rendered italmost agonising, but faintness did not come: it seldom does to thosewho sigh for it, as for the wings of a dove, that they may go far awaywith it and be at rest. The farmer shut the stable door, put out thelight, and Trenholme limped out the house with him to wait for hisbrother. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

All this time Alec was walking, like a sentry, up and down beside theold man's corpse. He was not alone. When the others had gone he foundthat the young American had remained with him. He came back from thelower trees whence he had watched the party disappear. 

"Come to think of it, " he said, "I'll keep you company. "

Something in his manner convinced Alec that this was no second thought;he had had no intention of leaving. He was a slight fellow, and, apparently too tired now to wish to stand or walk longer, he lookedabout him for a seat. None offered in the close vicinity of the corpseand Alec, its sentinel; but, equal to his own necessity, he took anewspaper from his pocket, folded it into a small square, laid it on thewet beaten grass, and sat thereon, arching his knees till only the solesof his boots touched the ground. To Alec's eye his long, thin figurelooked so odd, bent into this repeated angle, that he almost suspectedburlesque, but none was intended. The youth clasped his hands round hisknees, the better to keep himself upright, and seated thus a few yardsfrom the body, he shared the watch for some time as mute as was all elsein that silent place. 

Alec's curiosity became aroused. At last he hesitated in his walk. 

"You are from the States?"

"Well, yes; I am. But I reckon I'm prouder of my country than it hasreason to be of me. I'm down in the mouth to-night--that's a fact. "

A fine description of sorrow would not have been so eloquent, butexactly what he sorrowed for Alec did not know. It could hardly be forthe death merely. 

Alec paced again. He had made himself an uneven track in the raggedgrass. Had the lineaments of the dead been more clearly seen, deathwould have had a stronger influence; but even as it was, death, darkness, and solitude had a language of their own, in which the heartsof the two men shared more or less. 

At length the American spoke, arresting Alec's walk. 

"See here, " he said, "if what they say is true--and as far as I know itis--he's got up from being dead _once_ already. "

The emphasis on the word "once" conveyed the suggestion which hadevidently just occurred to him. 

"Oh, I know all about _that_ story. " Alec spoke with the scorn ofsuperior information, casting off the disagreeable suggestion. "I wasthere myself. "

"You were, were you? Well, so was I, and I tell you I know no more thanbabe unborn whether this old gentleman's Cameron or not. "

Alec's mind was singularly free from any turn for speculative thought. He intended to bring Bates to see the dead in the morning, and thatwould decide the matter. He saw no sense in debating a question of fact. 

"I was one of the fellows in that survey, " explained Harkness, "and ifyou're the fellow we saw at the station, as I reckon you are, then Idon't know any more about this old gentleman I've been housing than youdo. "

Trenholme had an impulse to command silence, but, resisting it, onlykept silence himself and resumed his tread over the uneven ground. 

"'Tisn't true, " broke in the other again, in unexpected denial of hisown words, "that that's all I know. I know something more; 'tisn't much, perhaps, but as I value my soul's salvation, I'll say it here. Before Ileft the neighbourhood of Turrifs, I heard of this old gentleman herea-making his way round the country, and I put in currency the reportthat he was Cameron, and I've no doubt that that suggestion made thecountry folks head him off towards Turrifs Station as far as they couldinfluence his route; and that'll be how he came there at Christmas time. Look you here! I didn't know then, and I don't know now, whether he_was_ or _wasn't_--I didn't think he was--but for a scheme I had afoot Iset that idea going. I did it by telegraphing it along the line, as ifI'd been one of the operators. The thing worked better than I expected. "

Alec listened without the feeling of interest the words were expected toarouse. To his mind a fellow who spoke glibly about his soul's salvationwas either silly or profane. He had no conception that this man, whoseway of regarding his own feelings, and whose standard of propriety as totheir expression, differed so much from his own, was, in reality, goingthrough a moral crisis. 

"Well?" said he. 

"Well, I guess that's about all I have to say. "

"If you don't know anything more, I don't see that you've told meanything. " He meant, anything worth telling, for he did not feel that hehad any interest with the other's tricks or schemes. 

"I do declare, " cried Harkness, without heeding his indifference, "I'mjust cut up about this night's affair; I never thought Job would set onanyone but his wife. I do regret I brought this good old gentleman tothis place. If some one offered me half Bates's land now, I wouldn'tfeel inclined to take it. "

Trenholme returned to his pacing, but when he had passed and re-passed, he said, "Cameron doesn't seem to have been able to preach and pray likean educated man; but Bates is here, he will see him to-morrow, and if hedoesn't claim the body, the police will advertise. Some one must knowwho the old man is. "

The words that came in return seemed singularly irrelevant. "What aboutthe find of asbestos the surveyor thought he'd got on the hills whereBates's clearing is? Has Bates got a big offer for the land?"

"He has had some correspondence about it, " said Trenholme, stiffly. 

"He'll be a rich man yet, " remarked the American, gloomily. "Asbestosmines are piling in dollars, I can tell you. It's a shame, to my mind, that a snapping crab-stick like that old Bates should have it all. " Herose as with the irritation of the idea, but appeared arrested as helooked down at the dead man. "And when I think how them poor ladies gottheir white skirts draggled, I do declare I feel cut up to that extent Iwouldn't care for an asbestos mine if somebody came and offered it to mefor nothing this minute. "

Then, too absorbed in feeling to notice the bathos of his speech, he puthis hands in his pockets, and began strolling up and down a beat of hisown, a few yards from the track Trenholme had made, and on the otherside of the dead. 

As they walked at different paces, and passing each other at irregulartimes, perhaps the mind of each recurred to the remembrance of the otherghostly incident and the rumour that the old man had already risen once. The open spot of sloping ground surrounded by high black trees, whichhad been so lately trodden by many feet, seemed now the most desolate ofdesolate places. The hymn, the prayer, that had arisen there seemed toleave in the air only that lingering influence which past excitementlends to its acute reaction. 

A sudden sharp crack and rustling, coming from out the gloom of thetrees, startled them. 

"Ho!" shouted the American. "Stand! Is there any one there?"

And Alec in his heart called him a fool for his pains, and yet hehimself had not been less startled. Nothing more was heard. It was onlythat time--time, that mysterious medium through which circumstance comesto us from the source of being; that river which, unseen, unfelt, unheard, flows onward everywhere--had just then brought the moment forsome dead branch to fall. 

END OF BOOK II. 

BOOK III. 

"_Nothing is inexorable but Love_. "

CHAPTER I. 

That which is to be seen of any event, its causes and consequences, isnever important compared with the supreme importance of those unseenworkings of things physical and things spiritual which are the heart ofour life. The iceberg of the northern seas is less than its unseenfoundations; the lava stream is less than the molten sea whence itissues; the apple falling to the ground, and the moon circling in herorbit, are less than the great invisible force which controls theirmovements and the movements of all the things that do appear. The crimeis not so great as its motive, nor yet as its results; the beneficentdeed is not so great as the beneficence of which it is but a fruit; yetwe cannot see beneficence, nor motives, nor far-reaching results. Wecannot see the greatest forces, which in hidden places, act andcounteract to bring great things without observation; we see some brokenfragments of their turmoil which now and again are cast up within oursight. 

Notwithstanding this, which we all know, the average man feels himselfquite competent to observe and to pass judgment on all that occurs inhis vicinity. In the matter of the curious experience which the sect ofthe Adventists passed through in Chellaston, the greater part of thecommunity formed prompt judgment, and in this judgment the chief elementwas derision. 

The very next day, in the peaceful Sunday sunshine, the good people ofChellaston (and many of them were truly good) spent their breath inexpatiating upon the absurdity of those who had met with the madman uponthe mountain to pray for the descent of heaven. It was counted a goodthing that a preacher so dangerously mad was dead; and it wasconsidered as certain that his followers would now see their folly inthe same light in which others saw it. It was reported as a very goodjoke that when one white-clad woman had returned to her home, wan andweary, in the small hours of the night, her husband had refused to lether in, calling to her from an upper window that _his wife_ had gone tohave a fly with the angels, and he did not know who _she_ might be. Another and coarser version of the same tale was, that he had taken nonotice of her, but had called to his man that the white cow had gotloose and ought to be taken back into the paddock. Both versions wereconsidered excellent in the telling. Many a worthy Christian, coming outof his or her place of worship, chuckled over the wit of this amiablehusband, and observed, in the midst of laughter, that his wife, poorthing, had only got her deserts. 

In the earlier hours of that Sunday morning rumour had darted about, busily telling of the sudden freak the drunkard's violence had taken, and of Father Cameron's death. Many a version of the story was broughtto the hotel, but through them the truth sifted, and the people thereheard what had really occurred. Eliza heard, for one, and was a gooddeal shocked. Still, as the men about the place remarked that it was ahappy release for Father Cameron, who had undoubtedly gone to heaven, and that it was an advantage, too, to Job's wife, who would now be savedfrom further torment at her husband's hands, her mind becameacquiescent. For herself, she had no reason to be sorry the old man wasdead. It was better for him; it was better for her, too. So, withoutinward or outward agitation, she directed the morning business of thehouse, setting all things in such order that she, the guiding hand of itall, might that afternoon take holiday. 

Some days before she had been invited by Mrs. Rexford to spend thisafternoon with them and take tea. Then, as it was said that PrincipalTrenholme, in spite of a sprained ankle, had insisted upon taking theChurch services as usual, all the fine ladies at the hotel intended togo and hear him preach in the evening. Eliza would go too. Thisprogramme was highly agreeable to her, more so than exciting amusementwhich would have pleased other girls better. Although nothing would havedrawn expression of the fact from her, in the bottom of her deeplyambitious heart she felt honoured by the invitations Miss Rexfordobtained for her, and appreciated to the full their value. She also knewthe worth of suitable attendance at church. 

Sunday was always a peaceful day at Chellaston. Much that was trulygodly, and much that was in truth worldly, combined together to presenta very respectable show of sabbath-keeping. The hotel shared in thesabbath quiet, especially in the afternoon, when most people wereresting in their rooms. 

About three o'clock Eliza was ready to go to her room on the third storyto dress for the afternoon. This process was that day important, for sheput on a new black silk gown. It was beflounced and befrilled accordingto the fashion of the time. When she had arranged it to a nicety in herown room, she descended to one of the parlours to survey herself in thepier-glass. No one was there. The six red velvet chairs and the uniformsofa stood in perfect order round the room. The table, with figuredcloth, had a large black Bible on it as usual. On either side of thelong looking-glass was a window, in which the light of day was somewhatdulled by coarse lace curtains. Abundance of light there was, however, for Eliza's purpose. She shut the door, and pushed aside the table whichheld the Bible, the better to show herself to herself in thelooking-glass. 

Eliza faced herself. She turned and looked at herself over one shoulder;then she looked over the other shoulder. As she did so, the curvingcolumn of her white neck was a thing a painter might have desired tolook at, had he been able to take his eyes from the changeful sheen onher glossy red hair. But there was no painter there, and Eliza waslooking at the gown. She walked to the end of the room, looking backwardover her shoulder. She walked up the room toward the mirror, observingthe moving folds of the skirt as she walked. She went aside, out of therange of the glass, and came into it again to observe the effect ofmeeting herself as though by chance, or rather, of meeting a young womanhabited in such a black silk gown, for it was not in herself preciselythat Eliza was at the moment interested. She did not smile at herself, or meet her own eyes in the glass. She was gravely intent upon lookingas well as she could, not upon estimating how well she looked. 

The examination was satisfactory. Perhaps a woman more habituated tosilk gowns and mantua-makers would have found small wrinkles in sleeveor shoulder; but Eliza was pleased. If the gown was not perfect, it wasas good a one as she was in the habit of seeing, even upon galaoccasions. And she had no intention of keeping her gown for occasions;her intention was that it should be associated with her in the ordinarymind of the place. Now that she was fortunate enough to possess silk(and she was determined this should only be the forerunner of asuccession of such gowns) people should think of her as Miss White, whowore silk in the afternoons. She settled this as she saw how well thematerial became her. Then, with grave care, she arranged a veil roundthe black bonnet she wore, and stood putting on new gloves preparatoryto leaving the room. Eliza was not very imaginative; but had she beendisposed to foresee events, much as she might have harassed herself, shewould not have been more likely to hit upon the form to be taken by theretributive fate she always vaguely feared than are the poor creaturesenslaved by fearful imaginations. 

The door opened, and Harkness thrust his handsome head into the room. Hewas evidently looking for her. When he saw her he came in hastily, shutting the door and standing with his back to it, as if he did notcare to enter further. 

Eliza had not seen him that day. After what had happened, she ratherdreaded the next interview, as she did not know what he might find tosay; but the instant she saw him, she perceived that it was somethingmore decisive than he had ever shown sign of before. He looked tired, and at the same time as if his spirit was upwrought within him and hiswill set to some purpose. 

"I'm real glad to see you, " he said, but not pleasantly. "I've beenlooking for you; and it's just as well for you I found you without moreado. "

"I'm just going out, " said Eliza; "I can't stay now. "

"You'll just stop a bit where you are, and hear what I'm going to say. "

"I can't, " said she, angrily; but he was at the door, and she made nomovement towards it. 

He talked right on. "I'm going away, " he said. "I've packed up all thatI possess here in this place, and I'm going to depart by thisafternoon's train. No one much knows of this intention. I take it youwon't interfere, so I don't mind confiding my design to your _kind_ and_sympathetic_ breast. "

The emphasis he laid on the eulogy was evidently intended for bittersarcasm. Anger gave her unwonted glibness. 

"I'll ask you to be good enough to pay our bill, then. If you're makingoff because you can't pay your other debts it's no affair of mine. "

He bowed mockingly. "You are real kind. Can't think how much obliged Iam for your tactful reminder; but it don't happen to be my financialaffairs that I came to introdooce to your notice. " He stammered amoment, as if carried rather out of his bearings by his own loquacity. "It's--it's rather _your_ finances that I wish to enlarge upon. "

She opposed herself to him in cold silence that would not betray a gleamof curiosity. 

"You're a mighty fine young lady, upon my word!" he observed, runninghis eye visibly over her apparel. "Able to work for yourself, and buysilk skirts, and owning half a bit of ground that people are beginningto think will be worth something considerable when they get to miningthere. Oh, you're a fine one--what with your qualities and yourfortune!"

A sudden unbecoming colour came with tell-tale vehemence over her cheekand brow. 

"Your qualities of mind, as I've remarked, are fine; but the qualitiesof your heart, my dear, are finer still. I've been making love to you, with the choicest store of loving arts, for eight long months; and thefirst blush I've been enabled to raise on your lovely countenance iswhen I tell you you've more money than you looked for! You're atender-hearted young lady!"

"The only train I ever heard of on Sunday afternoon goes pretty soon, "she said; and yet there was now an eager look of curiosity in her eyesthat belied her words. 

He took no notice of her warning, but resumed now with mock apology. "But I'm afraid I'm mistaken in the identity. Sorry to disappoint you, but the estate I allude to belongs to Miss Cameron, who lived near alocality called Turrifs Station. Beg pardon, forgot for the moment yourname was White, and that you know nothing about that interesting andhistoric spot. "

Perhaps because she had played the part of indifference so long, itseemed easiest to her, even in her present confusion of mind; at anyrate she remained silent. 

"Pity you weren't her, isn't it?" He showed all his white teeth. He hadbeen pale at first, but in talking the fine dark red took its wontedplace in his cheeks. He had tossed back his loose smoke-coloured hairwith a nervous hand. His dark beauty never showed to better advantage ashe stood leaning back on the door. "Pity you aren't her, isn't it?" herepeated, smilingly. 

She had no statuesque pose, but she had assumed a look of insensibilityalmost equal to that of stone. 

"Come to think of it, even if you were her, you'd find it hard to say sonow; so, either way, I reckon you'll have to do without the tin. 'Twouldbe real awkward to say to all your respectable friends that you'd beensailing under false colours; that 'White' isn't your _bona fide_cognomen; that you'd deserted a helpless old woman to come away; and asto _how you left your home_--the sort of _carriage_ you took to, mydear, and how you got over the waggoner to do the work of a sexton--Oh, my, fine tale for Chellaston, that! No, my dear young lady, take afatherly word of admonition; your best plan is to make yourself easywithout the tin. "

He looked at her, even now, with more curiosity than malice in hissmiling face. A power of complete reserve was so foreign to his ownnature that without absolute proof he could not entirely believe it inher. The words he was speaking might have been the utter nonsense to herthat they would have been to any but the girl who was lost from theBates and Cameron clearing for all hint she gave of understanding. Heworked on his supposition, however. He had all the talking to himself. 

"You're mighty secret! Now, look at me. I'm no saint, and I've come hereto make a clean breast of that fact. When I was born, Uncle Sam said tome, 'Cyril P. Harkness, you're a son of mine, and it's your vocation toworship the God of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Almighty Dollar'; and Ipiped up, 'Right you are, uncle. ' I was only a baby then. " He addedthese last words reflectively, as if pondering on the reminiscence, andgained the object of his foolery--that she spoke. 

"If you mean to tell me that you're fond of money, that's no news. I'vehad sense to see _that_. If you thought I'd a mine belonging to mesomewhere that accounts for the affection you've been talking of somuch. I _begin_ to _believe_ in it now. "

She meant her words to be very cutting, but she had not much mobility ofvoice or glance; and moreover, her heart was like lead within her; herwords fell heavily. 

"Just so, " said he, bowing as if to compliment her discrimination. "Youmay believe me, for I'm just explaining to you I'm not a saint, and thatis a sentiment you may almost always take stock in when expressed byhuman lips. I was real sick last summer; and when I came to want aholiday I thought I'd do it cheap, so when I got wind of a walkingparty--a set of gentlemen who were surveying--I got them to let me goalong. Camp follower I was, and 'twas first rate fun, especially as Iwas on the scent of what they were looking for. So then we came onasbestos in one part. Don't know what that is, my dear? Never mind as toits chemical proportions; there's dollars in it. Then we dropped down onthe house of the gentleman that owned about half the hill. One of themwas just dead, and he had a daughter, but she was lost, and as I wasalways mighty fond of young ladies, I looked for her. Oh, you maybelieve, I looked, till, when she was nowhere, I half thought the manwho said she was lost had been fooling. Well, then, I--" (he stopped anddrawled teasingly) "But _possibly_ I intrude. Do you hanker afterhearing the remainder of this history?"

She had sat down by the centre table with her back to him. 

"You can go on, " she muttered. 

"Thanks for your kind permission. I haven't got much more to tell, for Idon't know to this mortal minute whether I've ever found that young ladyor not; but I have my suspicions. Any way, that day away we went acrossthe lake, and when the snow drove us down from the hills the day after, the folks near the railroad were all in a stew about the remains ofBates's partner, the poppa of the young lady. His remains, having comethere for burial, and not appearing to like the idea, had taken theliberty of stepping out on the edge of the evening, and hooking it. Sosaid I, 'What if that young lady was real enterprising! what if she gotthe waggoner to put her poppa under the soil of the forest, and rode onherself, grand as you please, in his burial casket!' (That poor waggonerdrank himself to death of remorse, but that was nothing to her. ) Thecircumstances were confusing, and the accounts given by different folkswere confusing, and, what's more, 'tisn't easy to believe in a sweetgirl having her poppa buried quite secret; most young ladies is toodelicate. Still, after a bit, the opinion I've mentioned did become myview of the situation; and I said to myself 'Cyril, good dog; here'syour vocation quite handy. Find the young lady, find her, good fellow!Ingratiate yourself in her eyes, and you've got, not only an asbestosmine, but a wife of such smartness and enterprise as rarely falls to thelot of a rising young man. ' I didn't blame her one bit for the part shehad taken, for I'd seen the beast she'd have had to live with. No doubther action was the properest she could take. And I thought if I came onher panting, flying, and offered her my protection, she'd fall down andadore me. So, to make a long tale short, I stopped a bit in thatlocality, hunting for her quite private after every one else had givenup hunting. I heard of a daft old man who'd got about, the Lord onlyknows how, and I set the folks firmly believing that he was old Cameron. Well, _if_ he was, then the girl was lost and dead; but if he_wasn't_--well, I twigged it she'd got on the railroad, and, by beingreal pleasant to all the car men, I found out, quite by the way andprivate, how she might have got on, and where any girl had got off, tillby patience and perseverance I got on your track; and I've been eightmonths trying to fathom your deepness and win your affections. The morefool I! For to try to win what hasn't any more existence than the pot atthe rainbow's tail is clear waste of time. Deep you are; but you haven'tgot any of the commodity of affection in your breast. "

"Why didn't you tell me this before, like an honest man?" she asked;"and I'd have told you you didn't know as much as you thought you did. "Her voice was a little thick; but it was expressionless. 

"I'm not green. If you'd known you were possessed of money, d'yousuppose you'd have stayed here to marry me? Oh no, I meant to get thatlittle ceremony over first, and _spring the mine_ on you for a weddingpresent _after_. The reason I've told you now is that I wouldn't marryyou now, not if you'd ten millions of dollars in cash in your pocket. "

"Why not? If I'm the person you take me for, I'm as rich and clevernow. " She still sat with her back to him; her voice so impassive thateven interrogation was hardly expressed in words that had the form of aquestion. 

"Yes, and you'd be richer and cleverer now with me, by a long chalk, than without me! If you'd me to say who you are, and that I'd known itall along, and how you'd got here, and to bring up the railroad fellows(I've got all their names) who noticed you to bear witness, your claimwould look better in the eyes of the law. 'Twould look a deal better inthe eyes of the world, too, to come as Mrs. Cyril P. Harkness, sayingyou had been Miss Cameron, than to come on the stage as Miss White, laying claim to another name; and it would be a long sight morecomfortable to have me to support and cherish you at such a time thannot to have a friend in the world except the folks whose eyes you'vepulled the wool over, and who'll be mighty shocked. Oh, yes; by Jemima!you'd be richer and cleverer now with me than without me. But I'll tellyou what I've come here to say"--his manner took a tone more serious;his mocking smile passed away; he seemed to pause to arrest his ownlightness, and put on an unwonted dignity. "I tell you, " he repeatedslowly, "what I've come here to say--I do despise a young lady without aheart. Do you know what occurred last night? As good an old gentleman asever lived was brutally felled to the earth and killed; a poor man whowas never worse than a drunkard has become a murderer, and there's amany good pious ladies in this town who'll go about till death's dayjeered at as fools. Would you like to be marked for a fool? No, youwouldn't and neither will they; and if you're the young lady I take youfor, you could have hindered all this, _and_ you didn't. _I_ brought theold man to this place; I am to blame in that, my own self, I am; but Itell you, by the salvation of my soul, when I stood last night and heardhim pray, and saw those poor ladies with their white garbs allbedraggled, around him praying, I said to myself, 'Cyril, you've reasonto call on the rocks and hills to cover you, ' and I had grace to beright down sorry. I'm right down ashamed, and so I'm going to pull upstakes and go back to where I came from; and I've come here now to tellyou that after what I've seen of you in this matter I'd sooner die thanbe hitched with you. You've no more heart than my old shoe; as long asyou get on it's all one to you who goes to the devil. You're not only assharp as I took you for, but a good deal sharper. Go ahead; you'll getrich somehow; you'll get grand; but I want you to know that, though I'mpretty tricky myself, and 'cute enough to have thought of a good thingand followed it up pretty far, I've got a heart; and I do despise aperson made of stone. I was _real_ fond of you, for you far exceeded myexpectations; but I'm not fond of you now one bit. If you was to go downon your bended knees and ask me to admire you now, I wouldn't. "

She listened to all the sentence he pronounced upon her. When he hadfinished she asked a question. "What do you mean about going to lawabout the clearin'?"

"Your worthy friend, Mr. Bates, has arrived in this place this very day. He's located with the Principal, he _is_. "

"He isn't here, " she replied in angry scorn. 

"All right. Just _as you please_. "

"He isn't here, " she said more sulkily. 

"But _he is_. "

She ignored his replies. "What do you mean about going to law about theland?"

"Why, I haven't got much time left, "--he was standing now with his watchin his hand--"but for the sake of old times I'll tell you, if you don'tsee through that. D'you suppose Bates isn't long-headed! He's heardabout Father Cameron being here, and knowing the old man couldn't givean account of himself, he's come to see him and pretend he's yourfather. Of course he's no notion of you being here. He swears right andleft that you went over the hills and perished in the snow; and he's gotup great mourning and lamenting, so I've heard, for your death. Oh, Jemima! Can't you see through that?"

"Tell me what you mean, " she demanded, haughtily. She was standing againnow. 

"Why, my dear, if you knew a bit more of the world you'd know that itmeant that he intends to pocket all the money himself. And, what's more, he's got the best of the situation; for you left him of your own accord, my dear, and changed your name, and if you should surprise him now byputting in an appearance and saying you're the lost young lady, what'sto hinder him saying you're _not_ you, and keeping the tin? I don't knowwho's to swear to you, myself. The men round Turrifs said you weregrowing so fast that between one time and another they wouldn't knowyou. Worst, that is, of living in out-of-the-way parts--no one sees youoften enough to know if you're you or if you're not you. "

"It is not true, " she cried. He had at last brought the flash to hereyes. She stood before him palpitating with passion. "You are a liar!"she said, intensely. "Mr. Bates is as honest as"--words failedher--"as--as honest and as good as _you_ don't even know how to thinkof. "

He was like a necromancer who, although triumphant at having trulyraised a spirit by his incantations, quails mystified before it. 

"Oh well, since you feel so badly about it I'll not say that you mayn'toutwit him if you put in your claim. You needn't give up all for lost ifhe does try to face it out. "

"Give up what for lost? Do you think I care about this old mine so much?I tell you, sooner than hear a tricky sharper like you say that Mr. Bates is as cunning as you are, I'd--I'd--" She did not say more, butshe trembled with passion. "Go!" she concluded. "If you say I'munfeeling, you say a thing I suppose is true enough; but you've saidthings to me this afternoon that are not true; and if there's a goodhonest man in this world, it's Mr. Bates. Sooner than not believe thatI'd--sooner die. "

The tears had welled up and overflowed her eyes. Her face was red andburning. 

"Say, Eliza, " he said, gently enough. He was more astonished than hecould realise or express, but he was really troubled to see her cry. 

"Oh, don't 'Eliza' me!" she cried, angrily. "You said you were going togo--go--go--I tell you, go! What business is it of yours, I'd like toknow, to mention Mr. Bates to me? You've no business with either him orme. "

"Upon my word! I'll take my gospel oath I've said no more than I dobelieve. "

"I dare say not. You don't know what an honest man is, so how could youbelieve in one?"

"I've a real soft heart; I hate to see you cry, Eliza. "

"Well, Mr. Bates hasn't a soft heart at all; he's as unkind as can be;but he's as much above you, with all your softness, as light is aboveboot blacking. "

She was not good-looking in her tears. She was not modest in her anger;all the crude rude elements of her nature broke forth. She wrenched thedoor open although with obstinate strength he tried to keep it shut, desiring stupidly to comfort her. She cast him aside as a rough manmight push a boy. When she was making her way upstairs he heardsmothered sounds of grief and rage escaping from her. 

CHAPTER II. 

When Eliza had been in her own room for about half an hour, her passionhad subsided. She was not glad of this; in perverseness she would haverecalled the tempest if she could, but she knew not what to call back orhow to call. She knew no more what had disturbed her than in times ofearthquake the sea water knows the cause of its unwonted surging. Shesat angry and miserable; angry with Harkness, not because he had calledher heartless--she did not care in the slightest for his praise orblame--but because he had been the bearer of ill tidings; and because hehad in some way produced in her the physical and mental distress ofangry passion, a distress felt more when passion is subsiding. Sheranked it as ill tidings that her father's land had risen in value. Shewould rather that her worldly wisdom in leaving it had been proved bysubsequent events than disproved, as now, by news which raised such agolden possibility before her ignorant eyes, that her heart was rentwith pangs of envy and covetousness, while her pride warred at the verythought of stooping to take back what she had cast away, and all thedisclosure that must ensue. Above all, she counted it ill tidings thatBates was reported to be in the place. She was as angry with him now ason the day she had left him--more angry--for now he could vaunt newprosperity as an additional reason why she had been wrong to go. Why hadhe come here to disturb and interrupt? What did the story about FatherCameron matter to him? She felt like a hunted stag at bay; she onlydesired strength and opportunity to trample the hunter. 

Partly because she felt more able to deal with others than with the dullangry misery of her own heart, partly because she was a creature ofcustom, disliking to turn from what she had set out to do, she foundherself, after about an hour of solitude, rearranging her street toiletto walk to Mrs. Rexford's house. 

When she had made her way down to the lower flat of the hotel she foundHarkness had spoken the truth in saying he intended to go, for he wasgone. The men in the cool shaded bar-room were talking about it. Mr. Hutchins mentioned it to her through the door. He sat in his big chair, his crutches leaning against him. 

"Packed up; paid his bill; gone clear off--did you know?"

"Yes, I knew, " said Eliza, although she had not known till that moment. 

"Said he was so cut up, and that he wouldn't stay to give evidenceagainst poor Job, or be hauled before the coroner to be cross-questionedabout the old man. He's a sharp 'un; packed up in less time than ittakes most men to turn round--adjustable chair and all. "

Eliza had come to the threshold of the bar-room door to hear all hesaid. The sunshine of a perfect summer day fell on the verandah justoutside, and light airs came through the outer door and fanned her, butin here the sweet air was tarnished with smoke from the cigars of one ortwo loiterers. 

Two men of the village were sitting with their hats on. As they said"Good-day" to Eliza, they did not rise or take off their hats, notbecause they did not feel towards her as a man would who would give thiscivility, but because they were not in the habit of expressing theirfeelings in that way. Another transient caller was old Dr. Nash, and he, looking at Eliza, recognised in a dull way something in her appearancewhich made him think her a finer woman than he had formerly supposed, and, pulling off his hat, he made her a stiff bow. 

Eliza spoke only to Mr. Hutchins: "I shall be gone about four hours; Iam going to the Rexfords to tea. You'd better look into the dining-roomonce or twice when supper's on. "

"All right, " said he, adding, when the clock had had time to tick once, "Miss White. "

And the reason he affixed her name to his promise was the same that hadcompelled Dr. Nash's bow--a sense of her importance growing upon him;but the hotel-keeper observed, what the old doctor did not, that thegown was silk. 

"Fine woman that, sir, " he remarked, when she was gone, to anyone whomight wish to receive the statement. 

"Well, " said one of the men, "I should just think it. "

"She seems, " said Dr. Nash, stiffly, "to be a good girl and a cleverone. "

"She isn't _just_ now what I'd call a gurl, " said the man who hadanswered first. "She's young, I know; but now, if you see her walkingabout the dining-room, she's more like a _queen_ than a _gurl_. "

Without inquiring into the nature of this distinction Dr. Nash got intohis buggy. As he drove down the street under the arching elm trees hesoon passed Eliza on her way to the Rexfords, and again he lifted hishat. Eliza, with grave propriety, returned the salutation. 

The big hawthorn tree at the beginning of Captain Rexford's fence wasthickly bedecked with pale scarlet haws. Eliza opened the gate beside itand turned up the cart road, walking on its grassy edge, concealed fromthe house by ragged lilac trees. She preferred this to-day to the openpath leading to the central door. This road brought her to the end ofthe long front verandah. Here she perceived voices from thesitting-room, and, listening, thought she heard Principal Trenholmetalking. She went on past the gable of the house into the yard, asloping straggling bit of ground, enclosed on three sides by the houseand its additions of dairies and stables, and on the fourth side boundedby the river. For once the place seemed deserted by the children. Abirch, the only tree in the enclosure, cast fluttering shadow on theclosely cropped sod. Sunlight sparkled on the river and on the row oftin milk pans set out near the kitchen door. To this door Eliza wentslowly, fanning herself with her handkerchief, for the walk had beenwarm. She saw Miss Rexford was in the kitchen alone, attending to somelight cookery. 

"I heard company in the front room, so I came round here till they weregone. "

"You are not usually shy, " said Sophia. 

Eliza sat down on a chair by the wall. With the door wide open the yardseemed a part of the kitchen. It was a pleasant place. The birch treeflicked its shadow as far as the much-worn wooden doorstep. 

"I was very sorry to hear about last night, Miss Sophia, " said Eliza, sincerely, meaning that she was sorry on Winifred's account moreimmediately. 

"Yes, " said Sophia, acknowledging that there was reason for suchsympathy. 

"Is that Principal Trenholme talking?" asked Eliza. The talk in thesitting-room came through the loose door, and a doubt suddenly occurredto her. 

"No; it's his brother, " said Sophia. 

"The voices are alike. "

"Yes; but the two men don't seem to be much alike. "

"I didn't know he had a brother. "

"Didn't you? He has just come. "

Sophia was taking tea-cakes from the oven. Eliza leaned her head againstthe wall; she felt warm and oppressed. One of the smaller childrenopened the sitting-room door just then and came into the kitchen. Thechild wore a very clean pinafore in token of the day. She came and saton Eliza's knee. The door was left ajar; instead of stray words andunintelligible sentences, all the talk of the sitting-room was now thecommon property of those in the kitchen. 

In beginning to hear a conversation already in full flow, it is a fewmoments before the interchange of remarks and interrogations makes senseto us. Eliza only came to understand what was being talked of when thevisitor said "No, I'm afraid there's no doubt about the poor girl'sdeath. After there had been two or three snow-storms there was evidentlyno use in looking for her any more; but even then, I think it was monthsbefore _he_ gave up hopes of her return. Night after night he used tohoist a pinewood torch, thinking she might have fallen in with Indiansand be still alive and trying to make her way back. The fact of thematter was, Mrs. Rexford, Bates _loved_ her, and he simply _could not_give her up for dead. "

The young man had as many emphasised words in his speech as a girl mighthave had, yet his talk did not give the impression of easily expressedfeeling. 

"Ah, it was very sad. "

"Yes, I didn't know I could have minded so much a thing that did notaffect me personally. Then when he had given up hope of finding herliving, he was off, when the spring came, everywhere over the woods, supposing that if she had perished, her body could be found when thesnow was gone. I couldn't help helping him to search the place for milesround. It's a fine place in spring, too; but I don't know when one caresless about spring flowers than when one's half expecting the dead bodyof a girl to turn up in every hollow where they grow thickest. I'vebeaten down a whole valley of trillium lilies just to be sure she hadnot fallen between the rocks they grew on. And if I felt that way, youmay suppose it was bad enough for Bates. "

"He seems to have had a feeling heart. "

"Oh well, he had brought the girl up. I don't think he cared foranything in the world but her. "

"And Dr. Nash saw Mr. Bates as soon as you got him to your brother's? IfDr. Nash thinks he'll pull through I should think you must feelhopeful. "

"Yes--well, I left him on the sofa. He's rather bad. "

There was a pause, as if Mrs. Rexford might be sighing and shaking herhead over some suffering before described. 

Sophia had gone to the milk cellar to get cream for tea. Eliza followedher out into the yard. 

"I had better not stay to tea, " said she, "there won't be room. "

"Oh yes, there will; I have a headache, so I'm not going into thedining-room. "

"Then I won't stay. I would rather come some night when you are there. "

"How handsome your dress looks! You are getting quite a fine lady, Eliza. "

"My dress!" said Eliza, looking down at it. It seemed to her so longsince she thought of it. "Yes, " she continued, stroking it, "it looksvery nicely, doesn't it?"

Sophia assented heartily. She liked the girl's choice of clothes; theyseemed to remove her from, and set her far above, the commoner peoplewho frequented the hotel. 

"You're very tired, Miss Sophia, I can see; and it's no wonder afterlast night. It's no fun staying to-night, for we all feel dull aboutwhat's happened; I'll go now. "

Eliza went quietly down the lane again, in shadow of the lilac hedge, and let herself out of the wooden gate; but she did not return to thevillage. She looked down the road the other way, measuring with her eyesthe distance to the roof of Trenholme's house. She walked in thatdirection, and when she came to Captain Rexford's pasture field, she gotthrough the bars and crossed it to a small wood that lay behind. Longgolden strips of light lay athwart the grass between elongated shadescast by cows and bushes. The sabbath quiet was everywhere. All the cowsin the pasture came towards her, for it was milking time, and any onewho came suggested to them the luxury of that process. Some followed herin slow and dubious fashion; some stopped before her on the path. Elizadid not even look at them, and when she went in among the young firtrees they left her alone. 

It was not a thick wood; the evening sun shone freely between the clumpsof young spruce. In an open glade an elm tree stood, stretching outbranches sensitive to each breath of air, golden in the slant sunlightabove the low dark firs. The roots of this tree were raised and dry. Eliza sat down on them. She could see between the young trees out to theside of the college houses and their exit to the road. She could see theroad too: it was this she watched. 

CHAPTER III. 

Eliza sat still in her rough woodland chamber till the stray sunbeamshad left its floor of moss and played only through the high open windowsin the elm bough roof. She had seen the cows milked, and now heard thechurch bells ring. She looked intently through the fissures of thespruce shrub walls till at length she saw a light carriage drive awayfrom the college grounds with the clergyman and his brother in it. Sheknew now that their house would be left almost empty. After waiting tillthe last church-going gig had passed on the road and the bells hadstopped, she went into the college grounds by a back way, and on to thefront of Trenholme's house. 

As was common in the place, the front door yielded when the handle wasturned. Eliza had no wish to summon the housekeeper. She stood in theinner hall and listened, that she might hear what rooms had inmates. From the kitchen came occasional clinking of cups and plates; thehousekeeper had evidently not swerved from her regular work. With earspreternaturally acute, Eliza hearkened to the silence in the other roomstill some slight sound, she could hardly tell of what, led her upstairsto a certain door. She did not knock; she had no power to stand therewaiting for a response; the primitive manners of the log house in whichshe had lived so long were upon her. She entered the room abruptly, roughly, as she would have entered the log house door. 

In a long chair lay the man she sought. He was dressed in commonill-fitting clothes; he lay as only the very weak lie, head and limbsvisibly resting on the support beneath them. 

She crossed her arms and stood there, fierce and defiant. She wasconscious of the dignity of her pose, of her improved appearance and ofher fine clothes; the consciousness formed part of her defiance. But hedid not even see her mood, just as, manlike, he did not see her dress. All that he did see was that here, in actual life before him, was thegirl he had lost. In his weakness he bestirred himself with a cry offond wondering joy--"Sissy!"

"Yes, Mr. Bates, I'm here. "

Some power came to him, for he sat erect, awed and reverent before thissudden delight that his eyes were drinking in. "Are you safe, Sissy?" hewhispered. 

"Yes, " she replied, scornfully, "I've been quite safe ever since I gotaway from you, Mr. Bates. I've taken care of myself, so I'm quite safeand getting on finely; but I'd get on better if my feet weren't tied ina sack because of the things you made me do--you _made_ me do it, youknow you did. " She challenged his self-conviction with fierce intensity. "It was you made me go off and leave your aunt before you'd got any oneelse to take care of her; it was you who made me take her money becauseyou'd give me none that was lawfully my own; it was you that made me runaway in a way that wouldn't seem very nice if any one knew, and dothings they wouldn't think very nice, and--and" (she was incoherent inher passion) "you _made_ me run out in the woods alone, till I could geta train, and I was so frightened of you coming, and finding me, and_telling_, that I had to give another name; and _now_, when I'm gettingon in the world, I have to keep hiding all this at every turn becausepeople wouldn't think it very pretty conduct. They'd think it was queerand get up a grand talk. So I've told lies and changed my name, and it'syou that made me, Mr. Bates. "

He only took in a small part of the meaning of the words she poured uponhim so quickly, but he could no longer be oblivious to her rage. His joyin seeing her did not subside; he was panting for breath with theexcitement of it, and his eyes gloated upon her; for his delight in herlife and safety was something wholly apart from any thought of himself, from the pain her renewed anger must now add to the long-accustomed painof his own contrition. 

"But how, " he whispered, wondering, "how did you get over the hills?How?--"

"Just how and when I could. 'Twasn't much choice that you left me, Mr. Bates. It signifies very little now how I got here. I _am_ here. You'vecome after the old man that's dead, I suppose. You might have savedyourself the trouble. He isn't father, if _that's_ what you thought. "

He did not even hear the last part of her speech. He grasped at thebreath that seemed trying to elude him. 

"You went out into the woods alone, " he said, pityingly. He was soaccustomed to give her pity for this that it came easily. "You--you meanover our hills to the back of the--"

"No, I don't, I wasn't such a silly as to go and die in the hills. I gotacross the lake, and I'm here now--that's the main thing, and I want toknow why you're here, and what you're going to do. "

Her tone was brutal. It was, though he could not know it, the halfhysterical reaction from that mysterious burst of feeling that had madeher defend him so fiercely against the American's evil imputation. 

She was not sufficiently accustomed to ill health to have a quick eyefor it; but she began now to see how very ill he looked. The hair uponhis face and head was damp and matted; his face was sunken, weather-browned, but bloodless in the colouring. His body seemedstruggling for breath without aid from his will, for she saw he wasthinking only of her. His intense preoccupation in her half fascinated, half discomforted her, the more so because of the feverish lustre of hiseye. 

"I'm sorry you're so ill, Mr. Bates, " she said, coldly; "you'd betterlie down. "

"Never mind about me, " he whispered, eagerly, and feebly moved upon theseat to get a little nearer her. "Never mind about me; but tell me, Sissy, have you been a good girl since you got off like this? You'resafe and well--have you been good?"

"I took your aunt's money, if you mean that, but I left you my half ofthings for it; and anyway, it was you who made me do it. "

"Yes, yes, " he assented, "'twas my doing; the sin of all you did thenlies at my door. But since then, Sissy?" His look, his whole attitude, were an eager question, but she looked at him scornfully. 

"Of _course_ I've been good. I go to church and say my prayers, andevery one respects me. I worked first in a family, but I didn't let themcall me a servant. Then I got a place in the Grand Hotel. Old Mr. Hutchins had got lame, so he couldn't see after things, and I could. I've done it now for six months, and it's a different house. I always doeverything I do well, so we've made money this summer. I'm thinking ofmaking Mr. Hutchins take me into partnership; he'd rather do it thanlose me. I'm well thought of, Mr. Bates, by everybody, and I'm going toget rich. "

"Rich, " he echoed, quietly. He looked now, his mind drawn by hers, ather fine clothes, and at the luxuriant red hair that was arranged withartificial display. The painfulness of his breath and his weaknessreturned now within his range of feeling. 

Without having expected to absorb his mind or knowing that she cared todo so, she still felt that instant that something was lost to her. Thewhole stream of his life, that had been hers since she had entered theroom, was no longer all for her. She pressed on quietly to the businessshe had with him, fearing to lose a further chance. 

"Look here, Mr. Bates! It's not more than a few hours since I heard youwere here, so I've come to tell you that I'm alive and all right, andall that I've done that wasn't very nice was your fault; but, look here, I've something else to say: I don't know why you've come here to seethis old preacher, or who he is, or what you have to do with him; but itwould be cruel and mean of you now, after driving me to do what I did, to tell the people here about it, and that my name isn't White, youknow. I've very nice friends here, who'd be shocked, and it would do meharm. I'm not going to accuse you to people of what you've done. I'msorry you're ill, and that you've had all the trouble of hunting for me, and all that; but I've come to ask you now to keep quiet and not say whoI am. "

He drew great sighs, as a wounded animal draws its breath, but he wasnot noticing the physical pain of breathing. He did not catch at breathas eagerly as he was trying to catch at this new idea, this new Sissy, with a character and history so different from what he had supposed. Hiswas not a mind that took rational account of the differences betweencharacters, yet he began to realise now that the girl who had made herown way, as this one had, was not the same as the girl he had imaginedwandering helplessly among pathless hills, and dying feebly there. 

She still looked at him as if demanding an answer to her request, lookedat him curiously too, trying to estimate how ill he _was_. He did notspeak, and she, although she did not at all fathom his feeling, knewinstinctively that some influence she had had over him was lessened. 

"Of course you can spoil my life if you like, Mr. Bates, but I've cometo ask you not. Someone's told me there's a mine found on ourclearin'--well, when I took your aunt's gold pieces I meant to leave youthe land for them. I'm too proud to go back on that now, _far_ tooproud; you can keep the money if you want to, or you can give me some ofit if you _want_ to. I'd like to be rich better than anything, but I'drather be poor as a church mouse, and free to get on my own way, thanhave you to say what I ought to do every touch and turn, thinking I'donly be good and sensible so long as I did what you told me" (there wasderision in her voice). "But now, as I say, you have the chance to makeme miserable if you choose; but I've come to ask you not to, although ifyou do, I dare say I can live it down. "

He looked at her bewildered. A few moments since and all the joy bellsof his life had been a-chime; they were still ringing, but janglingconfusedly out of tune, and--now she was asking him to conceal the causeof his joy, that he had found her. He could not understand fully; hismind would not clear itself. 

"I won't do anything to make you miserable, Sissy, " he said, faintly. 

"You won't tell that you've seen me, or who I am, or anything?" sheinsisted, half pleading, half threatening. 

He turned his face from her to hide the ghastly faintness that wascoming over him. "I--I oughtn't to have tried to keep you, when I did, "he said. 

"No, you oughtn't to, " she assented, quickly. 

"And I won't speak of you now, if that's what you want. "

"Thank you, " she said, wondering what had made him turn his back to her. "You aren't very ill, are you, Mr. Bates?"

"No--you--I only can't get my breath. You'd better go, perhaps. "

"Yes, I think I had, " she replied. 

And she went. 

CHAPTER IV. 

There are many difficulties in this world which, if we refuse to submitto them, will in turn be subdued by us, but a sprained ankle is not oneof them. Robert Trenholme, having climbed a hill after he had twistedhis foot, and having, contrary to all advice, used it to some extent thenext day, was now fairly conquered by the sprain and destined to be heldby this foot for many long days. He explained to his brother who thelady was whom he had taken up the hill, why he himself had firsthappened to be with her, and that he had slipped with one foot in aroadside ditch, and, thinking to catch her up, had run across a fieldand so missed the lane in the darkness. This was told in the meagre, prosaic way that left no hint of there being more to tell. 

"What is she like?" asked Alec, for he had confessed that he had talkedto the lady. 

"Like?" repeated Robert, at a loss; "I think she must be like her ownmother, for she is like none of the other Rexfords. "

"All the rest of the family are good-looking. "

"Yes, " said Robert dreamily. 

So Alec jumped to the conclusion that Robert did not consider MissRexford good-looking. He did not tell anything more about her or askanything more. He saw no reason for insulting Robert by saying he had atfirst overheard her conversation, and that it had been continued to himafter she had mistaken one for the other. He wondered over those of herremarks which he remembered, and his family pride was hurt by them. Hedid not conceive that Robert had been much hurt, simply because hebetrayed no sign of injured feeling. Younger members of a family oftenlong retain a curiously lofty conception of their elders, because inchildhood they have looked upon them as embodiments of age and wisdom. Alec, in loose fashion of thought, supposed Robert to be too muchoccupied by more important affairs to pay heed to a woman's opinion ofhim, but he cherished a dream of some day explaining to Miss Rexfordthat she was mistaken in his brother's character. His pulse beat quickerat the thought, because it would involve nearness to her and equality ofconversation. That Robert had any special fancy for the lady neverentered his mind. 

Although we may be willing to abuse those who belong to us we alwaysfeel that the same or any censure coming from an outsider is more orless unjust; and, too, although the faults of near relatives grieve usmore bitterly than the crimes of strangers, yet most of us have aneasy-going way of forgetting all about the offence at the firstopportunity. There is nothing in the world stronger than the quiet forceof the family tie, which, except in case of need, lies usually sopassive that its strength is overlooked by the superficial observer. Itwas by virtue of this tie now that the two brothers, although they hadso great a difference, although they were so constituted as to see mostthings very differently, found themselves glad to be in each other'scompany. Their hearts grew warmer by mere proximity; they talked of oldfamily incidents, and of the incidents of the present, with equal zest. The one thing they did not immediately mention was the subject of thequarrel about which they had not yet come to an agreement. 

One thing that fretted Alec considerably during that Sunday and Mondaywas that Bates had arrived at Chellaston in such a weak state, and hadhad so severe an attack of his malady on the Sunday evening, that it wasimpossible to take him to see the body of the old man who went by thename of Cameron. It was in vain that Bates protested, now more stronglythan ever, that he was certain the man was not Cameron; as he would giveno proof of his certainty further than what had already been discussedbetween them, Alec could not but feel that he was unreasonable inrefusing to take any interest in the question of identity. However, hewas not well enough to be troubled, certainly not well enough to bemoved. Alec strode over to Cooper's farm alone, and took a last look atthe old man where he lay in a rough shed, and gave his evidence aboutthe death before the coroner. 

What few belongings the old man had were taken from the Harmon house bythe coroner before Harkness left, but no writing was found upon them. Adescription of the body was advertised in the Monday's papers, but noclaim came quickly. Natural law is imperious, seeking to gather earth'schildren back to their mother's breast, and when three warm days werepast, all of him that bore earthly image and superscription was givenback to earth in a corner of the village cemetery. An Adventistminister, who sometimes preached in Chellaston, came to hold suchservice as he thought suitable over the grave, and Alec Trenholme wasone of the very few who stood, hat in hand, to see the simple rite. 

They were not in the old graveyard by the river, but in a new cemeterythat had been opened on a slope above the village. It was a bare, stonyplace; shrubs that had been planted had not grown. In the corner wherethey untie it, except little by little, in a lifetime, or ingenerations of lives! Alec Trenholme, confronted almost for the firsttime with the thought that it is not easy to find the ideal modern life, even when one is anxious to conform to it, began tugging at all thestrands of difficulty at once, not seeing them very clearly, but stillwith no notion but that if he set his strength to it, he could unravelthem all in the half-hour's walk that lay between him and the college. 

He had not got from under the arching elms at the thin end of thevillage when two young ladies in an open phaeton bowed to him. He wasnot absent; his mind worked wholesomely at the same instant with hissenses. He saw and knew that these were the Miss Browns, to whom Roberthad introduced him at the end of the Sunday evening service. He thoughtthem very pretty; he had seen then that they were very gentle andrespectful to Robert; he saw now from the smile that accompanied thebow, that he was a person they delighted to honour. They were drivingquickly: they were past in a flash of time; and as he replaced his hatupon his head, he thought that he really was a very good-looking fellow, very well proportioned, and straight in the legs. He wondered if hisclothes were just the thing; they had not been worn much, but it was ayear since he had got them in England to bring out, and their stylemight be a little out of date! Then he thought with satisfaction thatRobert always dressed very well. Robert was very good-looking too. Theywere really a very fine pair of brothers! Their father had been a veryfine--He had got quite a bit further on the road since he met thecarriage, so lightly had he stepped to the tune of these thoughts, sobrightly had the sun shone upon them. Now he thought of that pile ofaprons he had in his portmanteau, and he saw them, not as they were now, freshly calendered in the tight folds of a year's disuse, but as he hadoften seen them, with splashes of blood and grease on them. He fanciedthe same stains upon his hands; he remembered the empty shop he hadjust passed near the general store, which for nearly a year back he hadcoveted as a business stand. He estimated instinctively the differencein the sort of bow the pretty Brown girls would be likely to give him ifhe carried his own purpose through. The day seemed duller. He felt moresorry for his brother than he had ever felt before. He looked about atthe rough fields, the rude log fences, at the road with its grossunevennesses and side strips of untrimmed weeds. He looked at it all, his man's eyes almost wistful as a girl's. Was it as hard in this newcrude condition of things to hew for oneself a new way through theinvisible barriers of the time-honoured judgments of men, as it would bewhere road and field had been smoothed by the passing of generations?

He had this contrast between English and Canadian scenery vividly in hismind, wondering what corresponding social differences, if any, could befound to make his own particular problem of the hour more easy, and allthe fine speculations he had had when he came down from the cemetery hadresolved themselves into--whether, _after all_, it would be better to goon being a butcher or not, when he came to the beginning of the Rexfordpaling. He noticed how battered and dingy it was. The former owner hadhad it painted at one time, but the paint was almost worn off. The frontfencing wanted new pales in many places, and the half acre's space ofgrass between the verandah and the road was wholly unkempt. It certainlydid not look like the abode of a family of any pretensions. It formed, indeed, such a contrast to any house he would have lived in, even hadpainting and fencing to be done with his own hand, that he felt a sortof wrath rising in him at Miss Rexford's father and brother, that theyshould suffer her to live in such a place. 

He had not come well in front before he observed that the women of thefamily were grouped at work on the green under a tree near the far endof the house. A moment more, and he saw the lady of the midnight walkcoming towards him over the grass. He never doubted that it was she, although he had not seen her before by daylight. She had purposelyavoided him on the Sunday; he had felt it natural she should do so. Nowwhen he saw her coming--evidently coming on purpose to waylay and speakto him, the excitement he felt was quite unaccountable, even to himself;not that he tried to account for it--he only knew that she was coming, that his heart seemed to beat against his throat, that she had come andlaid her hand upon the top of the paling, and looked over at him andsaid:

"Have they buried him? Did you--have you been there?"

"Yes, " said he. 

"We have only just heard a rumour that the funeral was taking place. Ithought when I saw you that perhaps you had been there. I am so glad youwent. " Her eyes looked upon him with kind approval. 

He fancied from her manner that she thought herself older than he--thatshe was treating him like a boy. Her face was bright with interest andhad the flush of some slight embarrassment upon it. 

He told her what had happened and where the grave was, and stood in thesweet evening air with quieted manner before her. She did not seem to bethinking of what he said. "There was something else that I--I ratherwanted to take the first opportunity of saying to you. "

All her face now was rosy with embarrassment, and he saw that, althoughshe went on bravely, she was shy--shy of him! He hardly took in what shewas saying, in the wonder, in the pleasure of it. Then he knew that shehad been saying that she feared she had talked to him while mistakinghim for his brother, that what she had said had doubtless appeared verywild, very foolish, as he did not know the conversation out of which itgrew; probably he had forgotten or had not paid heed at the time, but ifhe should chance to remember, and had not already repeated her words, would he be kind enough not to do so, and to forget them himself?

This was her request, and he guessed, from the tenor of it, that she didnot know how little he had heard in all or how much she had said to himand how much to his brother; that she would like to know, but was tooproud to ask or to hear; that, in fact, this proud lady had said wordsthat she was ashamed of. 

"I haven't said a word to Robert about it, and of course I won't now. "It was a very simple thing to say, yet some way he felt a better man inhis own eyes because she had asked him. He did not claim that he hadpaid no attention or forgotten, for he felt just now that all her wordswere so supremely worthy of deference that he only wished he couldremember more of what she had let fall when her heart was stirred. "Ofcourse, " he said, "I didn't know it had been Robert, or I would havegone back for him. "

He floundered on into the midst of excuses, and her embarrassment hadtime to pass away, with it the blush on her face, and he felt as if asun had somewhere set. 

"Thank you" (she was all sedateness now) "I fear that PrincipalTrenholme is suffering very much from his foot and will be kept in forsome time. If you had told me that you had repeated my unjust speeches Ishould have asked you to take some apology, to say that I am quitewilling to acknowledge my own--unreasonableness. "

He saw that this speech was intended to cover all the ground, and thathe was desired to impart as much of the apology as he believed to beneeded, and no more. He remembered now that he had intended to pleadRobert's cause, but could think of nothing to say except--

"Robert is--Robert really is an awfully good man. "

This he said so suddenly and so earnestly looking at her, that she wasbetrayed into an unintended answer. 

"Is he?" And then in a moment she smiled on him again, and said warmly, "He certainly is if you say that; a brother knows as no one else can. "

She was treating him like a boy again. He did not like it now becausehe had felt the sweetness of having her at an advantage. There are somemen who, when they see what they want, stretch out their hands to takeit with no more complexity of thought than a baby has when it reachesfor a toy. At other times Alec Trenholme might consider; just then heonly knew that he wanted to talk longer with this stately girl who wasnow retiring. He arrested her steps by making a random dash at the firstquestion that might detain her. 

There was much that, had he known his own mind clearly and how toexpress it, he would have liked to say to her. Deep down within him hewas questioning whether it was possible always to live under suchimpulse of fealty to Heaven as had befallen him under the excitinginfluence of Cameron's expectation, whether the power of such an hour tosift the good from the evil, the important from the unimportant in life, could in any wise be retained. But he would have been a wholly differentman from what he was had he thought this concisely, or said it aloud. All that he did was to express superficial curiosity concerning thesentiments of others, and to express it inanely enough. 

"Do you think, " he said, "that all those poor people--my brother'shousekeeper, for instance--do you think they really thought--reallyexpected--"

"I think--" she said. (She came back to the fence and clasped her handsupon it in her interest. ) "Don't you think, Mr. Trenholme, that a personwho is always seeking the Divine Presence, lives in it and has power tomake other people know that it is near? But then, you see, these othersfancy they must model their seeking upon the poor vagaries of theirteacher. We are certain that the treasure is found, but--we mix upthings so, things are really so mixed, that we suppose we must shape ourideas upon the earthen vessel that holds it. I don't know whether I havesaid what I mean, or if you understand--" she stopped. 

She was complaining that people will not distinguish between theessence of the heaven-sent message and the accident of form in which itcomes. He did not quite understand, because, if the truth must be told, he had not entirely listened; for although all the spiritual nature thatwas in him was stimulated by hers, a more outward sympathy asserteditself too; he became moved with admiration and liking for her, andfeeling struggled with thought. 

"Yes, " he said, dreaming of her alone, "if one could always be withpeople who are good, it would be easier to do something worth doing. "

Notwithstanding her interest in what she was saying, Sophia began now tosee the inclination of his heart for her as one might see a trivialdetail of landscape while looking at some absorbing thing, such as arace. She saw the homage he inwardly proffered more clearly than he sawit himself. She had seen the same thing before often enough to know it. 

"I think, " she continued, "if I had been very ignorant, and had seen agood deal of this old man, I would have followed him anywhere, because Iwould have thought the spiritual force of his life was based on hisopinions, which must therefore be considered true. Isn't that the way weare apt to argue about any phase of Church or Dissent that hasvitality?"

But the knowledge she had just come by was making its way to a foremostplace in her thought, and her open heart closed gently as a sensitiveplant closes its leaves. As he watched the animation of her face, he sawthe habitual reserve come over it again like a shadow. He felt that shewas withdrawing from him as truly as if she had been again walking away, although now she stood still where his renewal of talk had stopped her. He tried again to grasp at the moment of gracious chance, to claim herinterest, but failed. 

He went on down the road. He had not guessed the lady had seen hisheart, for he hardly saw it himself; yet he called himself a blunderingfool. He wondered that he had dared to talk with her so long, yet hewondered more that he had not dared to talk longer. In all this he neverthought of social grades, as he had done in connection with the smilesof the Miss Browns. Sophia Rexford had struck his fancy more as asuperior being; and to angels, or to the Madonna, we do not seek torecommend ourselves by position or pedigree. 

The strong, clear evening light, tinted with gold, was upon everything. He felt that if he could but live near the woman he had left, theproblem of living would become simple, and the light of life's besthours would shine for him always; but he entered into no finedistinction of ideal friendships. 

CHAPTER V. 

In the meantime the elder of the brothers Trenholme had not thesatisfaction of meeting with Sophia Rexford, or of going to see thestrange old man laid away in his last resting-place. 

Robert Trenholme lay in his house, suffering a good deal of physicalpain, suffering more from restlessness of nerve caused by his formertense activity, suffering most from the consideration of various thingswhich were grievous to him. 

He had been flouted by the woman he loved. The arrow she had let fly hadpierced his heart and, through that, his understanding. He never toldher, or anyone, how angry he had been at the first stab that wounded, nor that, when the familiar sound of his brother's voice came to him inthe midst of this anger, he had been dumb rather than claim kindred inthat place with the young man who, by his actions, had already taken upthe same reproach. No, he never told them that it was more in surly ragethan because he had slipped in the ditch that he had let them go onwithout him in the darkness; but he knew that this had been the case;and, although he was aware of no momentous consequences following onthis lapse, he loathed himself for it, asking by what gradual steps hehad descended to be capable of such a moment of childish and churlishtemper. He was a product of modern culture, and had the devil who hadovercome him been merely an unforgiving spirit, or the spirit ofsarcastic wit or of self-satisfied indifference, he might hardly havenoticed that he had fallen from the high estate of Christian manhood, even though the fiend jumped astride his back and ambled far on him; butwhen he found that he had been overcome by a natural impulse ofpassionate wrath he was appalled, and was philosopher enough to look forthe cause of such weakness prior to the moment of failure. Was it true, what Sophia had said, that he had sold his birthright for a littlepaltry prosperity? He thought more highly of her discrimination than anyone else would have done, because he loved her. What had she seen in himto make her use that form of accusation? And if it was true, was therefor him no place of repentance?

Then he remembered the purer air of the dark mountaintop. There he hadseen many from his own little cure of souls who were shaken by themadman's fervour as _he_ had never been able to move them by precept orexample. There he, too, had seen, with sight borrowed from the eyes ofthe enthusiast, the enthusiast's Lord, seen Him the more readily becausethere had been times in his life when he had not needed another to showhim the loveliness that exceeds all other loveliness. He was versed inthe chronicle of the days when the power of God wrought wonders bydevoted men, and he asked himself with whom this power had been workinghere of late--with him, the priest, or with this wandering fool, out ofwhose lips it would seem that praise was ordained. He looked back todivers hours when he had given himself wholly to the love of God, and tothe long reaches of time between them, in which he had not cast away themuck-rake, but had trailed it after him with one hand as he walkedforward, looking to the angel and the crown. He seemed to see St. Peterpointing to the life all which he had professed to devote while he hadkept back part; and St. Peter said, "Whiles it remained, was it notthine own? Thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God. "

There was for him the choice that is given to every man in this sort ofpain, the choice between dulling his mind to the pain, letting it passfrom him as he holds on his way (and God knows it passes easily), orclasping it as the higher good. Perhaps this man would not have beenwiser than many other men in his choice had he not looked at thegathering of his muck-rake and in that found no comfort. Since a womanhad called this prosperity paltry, it seemed less substantial in his owneyes; but, paltry or worthy, he believed that it was in the power of hisyounger brother to reverse that prosperity, and he felt neither braveenough to face this misfortune nor bad enough to tamper with thatbrother's crude ideals for the sake of his own gain. From the length ofhis own experience, from the present weariness of his soul, he lookedupon Alec more than ever as a boy to be shielded from the shock offurther disillusion with regard to himself. He had not had Alec's weal athorn in his conscience for ten months without coming to feel that, ifmerely for the sake of his own comfort, he would not shoulder thatburden again. Now this conception he had of Alec as a weaker man, and ofhis ideals as crude and yet needing tender dealing, was possibly amistaken one, yet, so curious is our life that, true or false, it wasthe thing that at this juncture made him spurn all thought of settingaside the reproach of his roused sense of loss as morbid or unreal. Helooked to his early realisation of the all-attractiveness of the love ofGod, not with the rational view that such phase of religion is ordainedto fade in the heat of life, but with passionate regret that by his ownfault he had turned away from the glory of life. He thought of thefoolish dreamer who had been struck dead in the full impulse ofadoration and longing love, and he would have given reason and lifeitself to have such gate of death open now for him. 

His spirit did not rest, but tossed constantly, as a fever patient uponhis bed, for rest requires more than the softest of beds; and as eventhose whose bodies are stretched on pillows of down may be too weak tofind bodily rest, so the soul that lies, as do all self-sick souls, inthe everlasting arms, too often lacks health to feel the up-bearing. 

A clever sailor, whose ship is sinking because of too much freight doesnot think long before he throws the treasure overboard; a wise man inpain makes quick vows of abstinence from the cause of pain. In Trenholmethere was little vestige of that low type of will which we see inlobsters and in many wilful men, who go on clutching whatever they haveclutched, whether it be useful or useless, till the claw is cut off. Hehad not realised that he had fallen from the height of his endeavoursbefore he began to look about eagerly for something that he mightsacrifice. But here he was met by the difficulty that proves that in thehigher stages of human development honest effort after righteousness isnot one whit easier than are man's first simple efforts to put down thebrute in him. Trenholme could find in himself no offending member thatwas not so full of good works toward others that he could hardly destroyit without defrauding them. He had sought nothing for himself that wasnot a legitimate object of desire. The world, the flesh, and the devilhad polished themselves to match all that was best in him, and blendedimpartially with it, so that in very truth he did not know where tocondemn. A brave man, when examined, will confess all that he honourablymay, but not more; so Trenholme confessed himself to be worldly, butagainst that he was forced to confess that a true son of the world wouldhave been insensible to the torture he was groaning under. He upbraidedhimself for not knowing right from wrong, and yet he knew that it wasonly a very superficial mind that imagined that without directinspiration from Heaven it could detect its sin and error truly. Cryingfor such inspiration, his cry seemed unanswered. 

Ah, well, each man must parley as best he may with the Angel whowithstands him in the narrow place where there is no way to turn to theright hand or the left. We desire at such times to be shown some suchclear portraiture of the ideal to which we must conform in our place andcircumstance as shall cause us no more to mistake good for evil. Possibly, if such image of all we ourselves ought to be were given toour gaze, we could not look in its eyes and live. Possibly, if Heavengranted us the knowledge of all thoughts and deeds that would make upthe ideal self, we should go on our way producing vile imitations of itand neglecting Heaven, as they do who seek only to imitate the DivineExample. At any rate, such perfection of self-ideal is not given us, except with the years that make up the sum of life. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Robert Trenholme had a lively wit, and it stood him many times in lieuof chapel walls for within it he could retire at all times and behidden. Of all that he experienced within his heart at this time not anypart was visible to the brother who was his idle visitor; or perhapsonly the least part, and that not until the moot point between them wastouched upon. 

There came a day, two days after the old preacher had been buried, whenthe elder brother called out:

"Come, my lad, I want to speak to you. "

Robert was lying on a long couch improvised for him in the corner of hisstudy. The time was that warm hour of the afternoon when the birds arequiet and even the flies buzz drowsily. Bees in the piebald petuniasthat grew straggling and sweet above the sill of the open window, dozedlong in each sticky chalice. Alec was taking off his boots in the lobby, and in reply to the condescending invitation he muttered some gracelesswords concerning his grandmother, but he came into the room and satwith his elbows on the table. He had an idea of what might be said, andfelt the awkwardness of it. 

"That fellow Bates, " he observed, "is devouring your book-caseindiscriminately. He seems to be in the sort of fever that needsdistraction every moment. I asked him what he'd have to read, and hesaid the next five on the shelf--he's read the first ten. "

"It's not of Bates I wish to speak; I want to know what you've decidedto do. Are you going to stick to your father's trade, or take to someother?"

Robert held one arm above his head, with his fingers through the leavesof the book he had been reading. He tried to speak in a casual way, butthey both had a disagreeable consciousness that the occasion wasmomentous. Alec's mind assumed the cautious attitude of a schoolboywhispering "_Cave_". He supposed that the other hoped now to achieve bygentleness what he had been unable to achieve by storm. 

"Of course, " he answered, "I won't set up here if you'd rather be quitof me. I'll go as far as British Columbia, if that's necessary to makeyou comfortable. "

"By that I understand that in these ten months your mind has notaltered. "

"No; but as I say, I won't bother you. "

"Have you reconsidered the question, or have you stuck to it because yousaid you would?"

"I have reconsidered it. "

"You feel quite satisfied that, as far as you are concerned, this is theright thing to do?"

"Yes. "

"Well then, as far as I am concerned, I don't want to drive you to theother side of the continent. You can take advantage of the opening hereif you want to. "

Alec looked down at the things on the table. He felt the embarrassmentof detecting his brother in some private religious exercise; nothing, hethought, but an excess of self-denial could have brought this about;yet he was gratified. 

"Look here! You'd better not say that--I might take you at your word. "

"Consider that settled. You set up shop, and I will take a fraternalinterest in the number of animals you kill, and always tell you withconscientious care when the beef you supply to me is tough. And in themeantime, tell me, like a good fellow, why you stick to this thing. Whenyou flung from me last time you gave me no explanation of what youthought. "

"At least, " cried Alec, wrath rising at the memory of that quarrel, "Igave you a fair hearing, and knew what you thought. "

When anger began he looked his brother full in the face, thus noticinghow thin that face was, too thin for a man in the prime of life, and theeye was too bright. As the brief feeling of annoyance subsided, thehabitual charm of the elder man's smile made him continue to look athim. 

"And yet, " continued Robert, "two wrongs do not make a right. That I ama snob does not excuse you for taking up any line of life short of thenoblest within your reach. "

The other again warned himself against hidden danger. "You're such aconfoundedly fascinating fellow, with your smiles and your suppressedreligion, I don't wonder the girls run after you. But you are aJesuit--I never called you a snob--you're giving yourself names to fetchme round to see things your way. "

It was an outburst, half of admiring affection, half of angry obstinacy, and the elder brother received it without resentment, albeit a littleabsently. He was thinking that if Alec held out, "the girls" would notrun after him much more. But then he thought that there was one amongthem who would not think less, who perhaps might think more of him, forthis sacrifice. He had not made it for her; it might never be his lot tomake any sacrifice for her; yet she perhaps would understand this oneand applaud it. The thought brought a sudden light to his face, andAlec watched the light and had no clue by which to understand it. Hebegan, however, defending himself. 

"Look here! You suggest I should take the noblest course, as if I hadnever thought of that before. I'm not lower in the scale of creationthan you, and I've had the same bringing up. I've never done anythinggreat, but I've tried not to do the other thing. I felt I should be asneak when I left school if I disappointed father for the sake of beingsomething fine, and I feel I should be a sneak now if I turned--"

"You acted like the dear fellow I always knew you were in the firstinstance, but why is it the same now? It's not for his sake, surely, for, for all you know, from where he is now, the sight of you going onwith that work may not give him pleasure, but pain. "

"No; I went into it to please him, but now he's gone that's ended. "

"Then it's _not_ the same now. Why do you say you'd feel like a sneak ifyou changed? There is, I think, no goddess or patron saint of the trade, who would be personally offended at your desertion. "

"You don't understand at all. I'm sick--just sick, of seeing men tryingto find something grand enough to do, instead of trying to do the firstthing they can grandly. "

"I haven't noticed that men are so set on rising. "

"No, not always; but when they're not ambitious enough to get somethingfine to do, they're not ambitious enough to do what they do well, unlessit's for the sake of money. Look at the fellows that went to school withus, half of them shopkeepers' sons. How many of them went in with theirfathers? Just those who were mean enough to care for nothing butmoney-making, and those who were too dull to do anything else. "

"The education they got was good enough to give them a taste for highercallings. "

"Yes"--with a sneer--"and how the masters gloried over such brilliantexamples as yourself, who felt themselves 'called higher, ' so to speak!You had left school by the time I came to it, but I had your shiningtracks pointed out to me all along the way, and old Thompson told methat Wolsey's father was 'in the same line as my papa, ' and heinstructed me about Kirke White's career; and I, greedy little pig thatI was, sucked it all in till I sickened. I've never been able to feed onany of that food since. "

In a moment the other continued, "Well, in spite of the fact that ourown father was too true and simple ever to be anything but a gentleman, it remains true that the choice of this trade and others on a level withit--"

"Such as hunting and shooting, or the cooking of meats that ladies areencouraged to devote themselves to. "

"I was saying--the choice of this trade, or of others on a level withit, be they whatever they are, implies something coarse in the grain ofthe average man who chooses it, and has a coarsening effect upon him. "

"If the old novels are any true picture of life, there was a time whenevery cleric was a place-hunter. Would you have advised good men to keepout of the church at that time? I'm told there's hardly an honourableman in United States politics: is that less reason, or more, for honestfellows to go into public life there?" (Impatience was waxing again. Thewords fell after one another in hot haste. ) "There's a time coming whenevery man will be taught to like to keep his hands clean and read thepoets; and will you preach to them all then that they mustn't be coarseenough to do necessary work, or do you imagine it will be well done ifthey all do an hour a day at it in amateur fashion? You're thoroughlyinconsistent, " he cried. 

"Do you imagine I'm trying to argue with you, boy?" cried the other, bitterly. "I could say a thousand things to the point, but I've nodesire to say them. I simply wish to state the thing fairly, to see howfar you have worked through it. "

"I've thought it out rather more thoroughly than you, it seems to me, for at least I'm consistent. "

They were both offended; the elder biting his lip over sarcastic words, the younger flushed with hasty indignation. Then, in a minute, the oneput away his anger, and the other, forgetting the greater part of his, talked on. 

"I'll tell you the sort of thing that's made me feel I should be a sneakto give it up. Just after I left school I went back to visit oldThompson, and he and his wife took me to a ball at the Assembly Rooms. It was quite a swell affair, and there weren't enough men. So oldThompson edged us up to a grand dame with a row of daughters, and Iheard him in plethoric whisper informing her, as in duty bound, just whoI was, 'but, ' added he, as a compensating fact, 'there isn't a finer ormore gentlemanly fellow in the room. ' So the old hen turned round andtook me in with one eye, all my features and proportions; but it wasn'ttill Thompson told her that father was about to retire, and that I, ofcourse, was looking to enter a higher walk, that she gave permission totrot me up. Do you think I went? They were pretty girls she had, and themusic--I'd have given something to dance that night; but if I was thesort of man she'd let dance with her girls, she needn't have takenanything else into account; and if I was decent enough for them, it wasbecause of something else in me other than what I did or didn't do. Iswore then, by all that's sweet--by music and pretty girls andeverything else--that I'd carve carcases for the rest of my days, and ifthe ladies didn't want me they might do without me. You know how it waswith father; all the professional men in the place were only too glad tohave a chat with him in the reading-rooms and the hotel. They knew hisworth, but they wouldn't have had him inside their own doors. Well, theworse for their wives and daughters, say I. They did without him; theycan do without me. The man that will only have me on condition his tradeis not mine can do without me too, and if it's the same in a newcountry, then the new country be damned!"

The hot-headed speaker, striding about the room, stopped with the wordthat ended this tirade, and gave it out roundly. 

"The thing is, " said Robert, "can you do without _them_--all these menand women who won't have you on your own terms? They constitute all themen and women in the world for you and me, for we don't care for theother sort. Can you do without them? I couldn't. " He said the "Icouldn't" first as if looking back to the time when he had broken loosefrom the family tradition; he repeated it more steadfastly, and itseemed to press pathetically into present and future--"I couldn't. " Thebook that he had been idly swinging above his pillow was an old missal, and he lowered it now to shield his face somewhat from his brother'sdownward gaze. 

"No, you couldn't, " repeated Alec soberly. He stood with his hands inhis pockets, looking down half pityingly, perhaps with a touch ofsuperiority. "You couldn't; but I can, and I'll stand by my colours. Ishould be a coward if I didn't. "

Robert coloured under his look, under his words, so he turned away andstood by the window. After a minute Robert spoke. 

"You haven't given me the slightest reason for your repeated assertionthat you would be a coward. "

"Yes, I have. That's just what I've been saying. "

"You have only explained that you think so the more strongly for allopposition, and that may not be rational. Other men can do this work andbe thankful to get it; you can do higher work. " His words wereconstrainedly patient, but they only raised clamour. 

"I don't know what you profess and call yourself! What should I changefor? To pamper your pride and mine--is that a worthy end? To findsomething easier and more agreeable--is that manly, when this has beenput into my hand? How do I know I could do anything better? I know I cando this well. As for these fine folks you've been talking of, I'll seethey get good food, wherever I am; and that's not as easy as you think, nor as often done; and there's not one of them that would do all theirgrand employments if they weren't catered for; and as for the other menthat would do it" (he was incoherent in his heat), "they do it prettybadly, some of them, just because they're coarse in the grain; and youtell me it'll make them coarser; well then, I, who can do it withoutgetting coarse, will do it, till men and women stop eating butcher'smeat. You'd think it more pious if I put my religion into being amissionary to the Chinese, or into writing tracts? Well, I don't. "

He was enthusiastic; he was perhaps very foolish; but the brother whowas older had learned at least this, that it does not follow that a manis in the wrong because he can give no wiser reason for his course than"I take this way because I will take it. "

"Disarm yourself, old fellow, " he said. "I am not going to try todissuade you. I tried that last year, and I didn't succeed; and if I hadpromise of success now, I wouldn't try. Life's a fearful thing, justbecause, when we shut our eyes to what is right in the morning, at noonit's not given us to see the difference between black and white, unlessour eyes get washed with the right sort of tears. "

Alec leaned his head out of the window; he felt that his brother wasmaking a muff of himself, and did not like it. 

"If you see this thing clearly, " Robert continued, "I say, go ahead anddo it; but I want you just to see the whole of it. According to you, Iam on the wrong track; but I have got far along it, and now I have otherpeople to consider. It seems a pity, when there are only two of us inthe world, that we should have to put half the world between us. We usedto have the name, at least of being attached. " He stopped to find thethread, it was a disconnected speech for him to formulate. He had puthis arm under his head now, and was looking round at his brother. "Ihave never misrepresented anything. For the matter of that, the man whohad most to do with putting me in my berth here, knew all that there wasto be known about my father. He didn't publish the matter, for the sakeof the school; and when I had taken the school, I couldn't publish iteither. All the world was free to inquire, but as far as I know, no onehas done so; and I have let the sleeping dog lie. "

"I never said you ought to have been more talkative. It's not mybusiness. "

"The position you take makes it appear that I am in a false position. Give me time to get about again. I ought at least to be more frank withmy personal friends. Wait till I have opportunity to speak myself--thatis all I ask of you. After that do what you will; but I think it onlyright to tell you that if you set up shop here, or near here, I shouldresign my place in this college. "

"I'm not going to stay here. I told you I see that won't work. "

"Don't be hasty. As I said, it's hard lines if this must separate us. Ican keep the church. They can't be particular about my status there, because they can't pay me. "

"It's mad to think of such a thing; it would be worse for the collegethan for you. "

"If I knew it would be the worse for the college it might not be rightto do it" (he spoke as if this had cost him thought), "but there areplenty who can manage a concern like this, now it is fairly established, even if they could not have worked it up as I have. "

"I'd like to see them get another man like you!"--loudly--"H'n, if theyaccepted your resignation they'd find themselves on the wrong side ofthe hedge! They wouldn't do it, either; it isn't as if you were notknown now for what you are. They can't be such fools as to think thatwhere I am, or what I do, can alter you. "

"It is not with the more sensible men who are responsible for thecollege that the choice would ultimately lie, but with the boys'parents. If the numbers drop off--"

"Then the parents are the greatest idiots--"

There was a world of wrath in the words, but the principal of the NewCollege, who felt his position so insecure, laughed. 

"Yes, you may fairly count on that. A clever woman, who kept a girls'school, told me once that if she had to draw up rules for efficientschool-keeping they would begin:--'1st. Drown all the parents!'--My ownexperience has led me to think she was not far wrong. "

Alec stood looking out of the open window with a thunderous face. Forseveral reasons, some of which he hardly understood, he did not want toleave Chellaston; but he had no intention of ruining his brother. Itannoyed him that Robert should seriously propose to retire, and more, that he should let jokes and laughter fall on the heels of such aproposal. He did not know that there are hours to some men, coming notin the heat of party conflict, but in the quiet of daily life, whenmartyrdom would be easy, and any sacrifice short of martyrdom is mereplay. And because he did not know this, he did not believe in it, justas the average man does not. His cogitation, however, was not on suchabstruse matters, nor was it long, but its result was not insignificant. 

"Put your money into it, " he said, "and fight it out! Put part of mymoney into it, if you like, and let us fight it out together. "

Perhaps the sentiment that actuated the suggestion, even as concernedpart of his own inheritance, was nothing more than pugilistic; the idea, however, came to Robert Trenholme as entirely a new one. The proceeds ofhis father's successful trade lay temporarily invested, awaiting Alec'sdecision, and his own share would probably be ample to tide the collegeover any such shock to its income as might be feared from thecircumstances they had been contemplating, and until public confidencemight be laboriously regained. The plan was not one that would haveoccurred to his own mind--first, because the suggestions of his mindwere always prudent; secondly, because such a fight was shocking tothat part of his nature which was usually uppermost. It would be farmore agreeable to him to turn away from the averted eyes of correcttaste than to stand brazenly till he was again tolerated. Still, thisvery thing he disliked most might be the thing that he was meant to do, and also there is nothing more contagious than the passion for war. Alec's bellicose attitude aroused party spirit in him. He knew the powerof money; he knew the power of the prestige he had; he began to realisethat he could do this thing if he chose. 

"You are a piece of consummate conceit, " he mocked. "Do you imagine thatwith a little money, and a very few personal graces, we two canbrow-beat the good judgment of the public?"

"The fun of the fight would be worth the money _almost_, " observed Alecparenthetically. Then he jeered: "Brace up, and put on more style; putyour groom in livery; get a page to open your front door; agitate tillyou get some honorary degrees from American colleges! And as for me, I'll send out my bills on parchment paper, with a monogram and a crest. "

"Do you so despise your fellow men?" asked Robert sadly. 

CHAPTER VII. 

For a day or two previous to the conversation of the brothers aboutAlec's decision, Alec had been debating in his own mind what, after all, that decision had better be. Never had he come so near doubting theprinciple to which he adhered as at this time. A few days went a longway in Chellaston towards making a stranger, especially if he was ayoung man with good introduction, feel at home there, and the openfriendliness of Chellaston society, acting like the sun in Ćsop's fable, had almost made this traveller take off his coat. Had Robert been aperson who had formerly agreed with him, it is probable that when thesubject was opened, he would have confessed the dubious condition of hisheart, and they would together have very carefully considered theadvisability of change of plan. Whether the upshot in that case wouldhave been different or not, it is impossible to say, for Robert had notformerly agreed with him, and could not now be assumed to do so, andtherefore for Alec, as a part of militant humanity, there was noresource but to stand to his guns, forgetting for the time the weaknessin his own camp, because he had no thought of betraying it to the enemy. He who considers such incidents (they are the common sands of life), andyet looks upon the natural heart of man as a very noble thing, wouldappear to be an optimist. 

However that may be, the conversation ended, Alec's heart stood nolonger in the doubtful attitude. There are those who look uponconfessions and vows as of little importance; but even in the loweraffairs of life, when a healthy man has said out what he means, hecommonly means it more intensely. When Alec Trenholme had told hisbrother that he still intended to be a butcher, the thing for him waspractically done, and that, not because he would have been ashamed toretract, but because he had no further wish to retract. 

"And the mair fules ye are baith, " said Bates, having recourse to broadScotch to express his indignation when told what had passed. 

It was out of good nature that Alec had told the one invalid what hadbeen going on in the other's room, but Bates was only very much annoyed. 

"I thought, " said he, "that ye'd got that bee out of yer ain bonnet, butye're baith of ye daft now. "

"Come now, Bates; you wouldn't dare to say that to my 'brother, theclergyman. '"

"I know more what's due than to call a minister a fule to his face, butwhiles it's necessary to say it behind his back. "

"Now I call him a hero, after what he's said to-day. "

Alec was enjoying the humour of poking up the giant of conventionality. 

"Hoots, man; it's yourself ye regard as a hero! Set yerself up as aJuggernaut on a car and crush him under the wheels!"

"Oh, I'm going to British Columbia. I won't take him at his word; butI'm pleased he had pluck enough to think of taking the bull by thehorns. "

"But I'm thinking ye just will take him at his word, for it's theeasiest--standing there, patting him on the back, because he's given upto you!"

It was as odd a household this as well might be. Alec spent some of histime offering rough ministrations to his lame brother and asthmaticvisitor, but more often left them to the sad but conscientious care ofMrs. Martha, preferring to exercise his brother's horses; and he scouredthe country, escaping from social overtures he did not feel prepared tomeet. To all three men Mrs. Martha was at this time an object of silentwonder. Before the Adventist disturbance she had appeared a verycommonplace person; now, as they saw her going about her daily work, grim in her complete reserve, questions which could hardly be put intowords arose in their minds concerning her. She suggested to them suchpictorial ideas as one gleans in childhood about the end of the world, and this quite without any effort on their part, but just because shehad clothed herself to their eyes in such ideas. Bates, who had exactopinions on all points of theology, tackled her upon what he termed "hererrors"; but, perhaps because he had little breath to give to the cause, the other two inmates of the house could not learn that he had gainedany influence over her or any additional information as to her state ofmind. 

Bates himself was so incongruous an element in Principal Trenholme'shouse that it became evident he could not be induced to remain therelong. Sufficiently intelligent to appreciate thoroughly any tokens ofease or education, he was too proud not to resent them involuntarily asimplying inferiority on his own part. He had, to a certain degree, fineperception of what good manners involved, but he was not sufficientlysimple to act without self-conscious awkwardness when he supposed anydeviation from his ordinary habits to be called for. Had he not beenmiserable in mind and body he might have taken more kindly to carpetsand china; but as it was, he longed, as a homesick man for home, forbare floors and the unceremoniousness that comes with tin mugs and ascarcity of plates. 

For home as it existed for him--the desolate lake and hills, thechildish crone and rude hearth--for these he did not long. It was hishome, that place; for into it--into the splashing lake and lonely woods, into the contour of the hills, and into the very logs of which the housewas built--he had put as much of himself as can be absorbed by outsidethings; but just because to return there would be to return to hismind's external habitat, he could not now take comfort in returning. Allthe multiform solace it might have yielded him had been blasted by thegirl from the hotel, who had visited him in secret. Before he had seenSissy again his one constant longing had been to get done with necessarybusiness, financial and medical, and go back to his place, where sorrowand he could dwell at peace together. He would still go, for hecherished one of those nervous ideas common with sick men, that he couldbreathe there and nowhere else; but he hated the place that was now rifewith memories far more unrestful and galling than memories of the deadcan ever be. 

He hugged to himself no flattering delusion; in his judgment Sissy hadshown herself heartless and cruel; but he did not therefore argue, as aman of politer mind might have done, that the girl he had loved hadnever existed, that he had loved an idea and, finding it had noresemblance to the reality, he was justified in casting away both, andturning to luxurious disappointment or to a search for some more worthyrecipient of the riches of his heart. No such train of reasoningoccurred to him. He had thought Sissy was good and unfortunate; he hadfound her fortunate and guilty of an almost greater degree ofcallousness than he could forgive; but, nevertheless, Sissy was theperson he loved--his little girl, whom he had brought up, his big girl, in whom he centred all his hopes of happy home and of years of matureaffection. Sissy was still alive, and he could not endure to think ofher living on wholly separated from him. For this reason his mind had norest in the thought of remaining where he was, or of returning whence hehad come, or in the dream of seeking new places. He could think of nosatisfaction except that of being near to her and making her a bettergirl; yet he had promised to have no dealings with her; and not onlythat, but he now at length perceived the futility of all such care as hemight exercise over her. He had thought to shield her by his knowledgeof the world, and he had found that she, by natural common sense, had abetter knowledge of the world than he by experience; he had thought toprotect her by his strong arm, and he had found himself flung off, asshe might have flung a feeble thing that clung to her for protection. She was better able to take care of herself in the world than he hadbeen to take care of her, and she did not want his tenderness. Yet heloved her just as he had ever done, and perceived, in the deep well ofhis heart's love and pity, that she did, in sooth, need something--atenderer heart it might be--need it more terribly than he had everfancied need till now. He longed unspeakably to give her this--thiscrown of womanhood, which she lacked, and in the helplessness of thislonging his heart was pining. 

"A man isn't going to die because he has asthma, " had been the doctor'sfiat concerning Bates. He had come to Chellaston apparently so ill thatneither he nor his friends would have been much surprised had death beenthe order of the day, but as the programme was life, not death, he wasforced to plan accordingly. His plans were not elaborate; he would goback to the clearing; he would take his aunt back from Turrifs to bewith him; he would live as he had lived before. 

Would he not sell the land? they asked; for the price offered for it wasgood, and the lonely life seemed undesirable. 

No, he would not sell. It would, he said, be selling a bit of himself;and if there was value in it, it would increase, not diminish, byholding till the country was opened up. When he was dead, his heirs, bethey who they might (this he said mysteriously), could do as they would. As for him, he would take a man back from this part of the country towork in Alec's place. His cough, he said, had been worse since he hadbeen beguiled into leaving his wilderness to travel with Alec; the pureair of the solitude would be better than doctors for him. 

The journey into which Alec had beguiled him had already had threeresults: he had sold his lumber at a good price; had found out, bytalking with business men at Quebec, what the real value of his landprobably was, and would be; and had been put by Dr. Nash into a rightway of thinking concerning his disease and its treatment, that wouldstand him in good stead for years to come; but none of these goodlyresults did he mention when he summed up the evils and discomforts ofthe trip in Alec's hearing. If his irascible talk was the index to hismind, certainly any virtue Alec had exercised toward him would need tobe its own reward. 

He offered to pay Alec his wages up to the time of their arrival inChellaston, because he had looked after him in his feebleness, and hetalked of paying "The Principal" for his board during his sojourn there. When they treated these offers lightly, he sulked, mightily offended. Hewould have given his life, had it been necessary, for either of thebrothers, because of the succour they had lent him; nay more, had theycome to him in need a lifetime afterwards, when most men would have hadtime to forget their benefaction many times over, John Bates would havelaid himself, and all that he had, at their disposal; but he was tooproud to say "thank you" for what they had done for him, or to confessthat he had never been so well treated in his life before. 

During his first days in Chellaston he was hardly able to leave his ownroom; but all the time he talked constantly of leaving the place as soonas he was well enough to do so; and the only reason that he did notbring his will to bear upon his lagging health, and fix the day ofdeparture, was that he could not compel himself to leave the place whereSissy was. He knew he must go, yet he could not. One more interview withher he must have, one more at least before he left Chellaston. He couldnot devise any way to bring this about without breaking his promise toher, but his intention never faltered--see her he must, if only once, and so the days passed, his mental agitation acting as a drag on thewheels of his recovery. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

When Alec Trenholme had had the key of the Harmon house in hispossession some days, he went one evening, beguiled by the charm of theweather and by curiosity, for the first time into the Harmon garden. Hewished to look over the rooms that were of some interest to him becauseof one of their late inmates, and having procrastinated, he thought tocarry out his intention now, in the last hour before darkness came on, in order to return the key that night. 

The path up to the house was lightly barred by the wild vine, that, climbing on overgrown shrubs on either side, had more than once cast itstendrils across. A trodden path there was in and out the bushes, although not the straight original one, and by following it Alec gainedthe open space before the house. Here self-sown magenta petunias madebanks of colour against the old brick walls, and the evening light, just turning rosy, fell thereon. He could not see the river, although heheard it flowing behind a further mass of bushes. He stood alone withthe old house in the opening that was enclosed by shrubs and trees sofull of leaf that they looked like giant heaps of leaves, and it seemedto him that, if earth might have an enchanted place, he had surelyentered it. Then, remembering that the light would not last long, hefitted the key to the door and went in. 

Outside, nature had done her work, but inside the ugly wall-paper andturned bannisters of a modern villa had not been much beautified by dustand neglect. Still, there is something in the atmosphere of a longneglect that to the mind, if not to the eye, has softening effect. Aleclistened a moment, as it were, to the silence and loneliness of thehouse, and went into the first dark room. 

It was a large room, probably a parlour of some pretension, but the onlylight came through the door and lit it very faintly. All the windows ofthe house were shut with wooden shutters, and Alec, not being awarethat, except in the rooms Harkness had occupied, the shutters werenailed, went to a window to open it. He fumbled with the hasp, and, concluding that he did not understand its working, went on into the nextroom to see if the window there was to be more easily managed. In thisnext room he was in almost total darkness. He had not reached the windowbefore he heard some one moving in an adjoining room. Turning, he saw adoor outlined by cracks of lamplight, and as it was apparent that someone else was in the house, he made at once for this door. Before he hadreached it the cracks of light which guided him were gone; and when hehad opened it, the room on whose threshold he stood was dark and silent;yet, whether by some slight sounds, or by some subtler sense for whichwe have no name, he was convinced that there was some one in it. Indignant at the extinction of the light and at the silence, he turnedenergetically again in the direction of the window in order to wrenchit open, when, hearing a slight scratching sound, he looked back intothe inner room. There was light there again, but only a small vaporouscurl of light. Connecting this with the sound, he supposed that a poorsulphur match had been struck; but this supposition perhaps came to himlater, for at the moment he was dazed by seeing in this small light thesame face he had seen over old Cameron's coffin. The sight he had had ofit then had almost faded from his memory; he had put it from him as athing improbable, and therefore imaginary; now it came before his eyesdistinctly. A man's face it certainly was not, and, in the fleet momentin which he saw it now, he felt certain that it was a woman's. Thematch, if it was a match, went out before its wood was well kindled, andall he could see vanished from sight with its light. His only thoughtwas that whoever had escaped him before should not escape him again, andhe broke open the window shutters by main strength. 

The light poured in upon a set of empty rooms, faded and dusty. A glanceshowed him an open door at the back of the farthest room, and rushingthrough this, he opened the windows in that part of the house which hadevidently been lately inhabited. He next came into the hall by which hehad entered, and out again at the front door, with no doubt that he waschasing some one, but he did not gain in the pursuit. He went down thepath to the road, looking up and down it; he came back, in and out amongthe bushes, searching the cemetery and river bank, vexed beyond measureall the time to perceive how easy it would be for any one to go one waywhile he was searching in another, for the garden was large. 

He had good reason to feel that he was the victim of most annoyingcircumstances, and he naturally could not at once perceive how itbehoved him to act in relation to this new scene in the almost forgottendrama. Cameron was dead; the old preacher was dead; whether they wereone and the same or not, who was this person who now for the secondtime suddenly started up in mysterious fashion after the death? Alecassumed that it could be no one but Cameron's daughter, but when hetried to think how it might be possible that she should be in thedeserted house, upon the track of the old preacher, as it were, his mindfailed even to conjecture. 

The explanation was comparatively simple, if he had known it, but he didnot know it. Someone has said that the man most assured of his owntruthfulness is not usually truthful; and in the same sense it is truethat the man most positive in trusting his own senses is not usuallyreliable. Alec Trenholme flagged in his search; a most unpleasing doubtcame to him as to whether he had seen what he thought he saw and was notnow playing hide-and-seek with the rosy evening sunbeams among thesebushes, driven by a freak of diseased fancy. He was indeed provoked to adegree almost beyond control, when, in a last effort of search throughthe dense shrubbery, he skirted the fence of Captain Rexford's nearestfield, and there espied Sophia Rexford. 

Those people are happy who have found some person or thing on earth thatembodies their ideal of earthly solace. To some it is the strains ofmusic; to some it is the interior of church edifices; to the child it ishis mother; to the friend it is his friend. As soon as Alec Trenholmesaw this fair woman, whom he yet scarcely knew, all the fret of hisspirit found vent in the sudden desire to tell her what was vexing him, very much as a child desires to tell its troubles and be comforted. 

CHAPTER IX. 

That evening Mrs. Rexford and Sophia had been sitting sewing, as theyoften did, under a tree near the house. Sophia had mused and stitched. Then there came a time when her hands fell idle, and she looked off atthe scene before her. It was the hour when the sun has set, and thelight is not less than daylight but mellower. She observed with pleasurehow high the hops had grown that she had planted against the gables ofthe house and dairies. On this side the house there was no yard, onlythe big hay-fields from which the hay had been taken a month before; inthem were trees here and there, and beyond she saw the running river. She had seen it all every day that summer, yet--

"I think I never saw the place look so nice, " she said to herstep-mother. 

Dottie came walking unsteadily over the thick grass. She had found anox-daisy and a four-o'clock. 

"Here! take my pretties, " she said imperiously. 

Sophia took them. 

"They's to be blowed, " said Dottie, not yet distinguishing duly thedifferent uses of flowers or of words. 

Sophia obediently blew, and the down of the four-o'clock was scatteredinto space; but the daisy, impervious to the blast, remained in theslender hand that held it. Dottie looked at it with indignation. 

"Blow again!" was her mandate, and Sophia, to please her, plucked thewhite petals one by one, so that they might be scattered. It was notwonderful that, as she did so, the foolish old charm of her school-daysshould say itself over in her mind, and the lot fell upon "He loves me. ""Who, I wonder?" thought Sophia, lightly fanciful; and she did not careto think of the wealthy suitor she had cast aside. Her mind glanced toRobert Trenholme. "No, " she thought, "he loves me not. " She meditated onhim a little. Such thoughts, however transient, in a woman oftwenty-eight, are different from the same thoughts when they come to herat eighteen. If she be good, they are deeper, as the river is deeperthan the rivulet; better, as the poem of the poet is better than thesongs of his youth. Then for some reason--the mischief of idleness, perhaps--Sophia thought of Trenholme's young brother--how he had lookedwhen he spoke to her over the fence. She rose to move away from suchsilly thoughts. 

Dottie possessed herself of two fingers and pulled hard toward theriver. Dearly did she love the river-side, and mamma, who was verycruel, would not allow her to go there without a grown-up companion. 

When she and her big sister reached the river they differed as to thenext step, Dottie desiring to go on into the water, and Sophia deemingit expedient to go back over the field. As each was in an indolent mood, they both gave way a little and split the difference by wandering alongthe waterside, conversing softly about many things--as to how long itwould take the seed of the four-o'clock to "sail away, away, over theriver, " and why a nice brown frog that they came across was not gettingready for bed like the birdies. There is no such sweet distraction as anexcursion into Children's Land, and Sophia wandered quite away with thistalkative baby, until she found herself suddenly cast out of Dottie'smagic province as she stood beyond the trees that edged the first fieldnot far from the fence of the Harmon garden. And that which had brokenthe spell was the appearance of Alec Trenholme. He came right up to her, as if he had something of importance to say, but either shyness or adifficulty in introducing his subject made him hesitate. Something inhis look caused her to ask lightly:

"Have you seen a ghost?"

"Yes. "

"Are you in earnest?"

"I am in earnest, and, " added he, somewhat dubiously, "I think I am inmy right mind. "

He did not say more just then, but looked up and down the road in hissearch for someone. In a moment he turned to her, and a current ofamusement seemed to cross his mind and gleamed out of his blue eyes ashe lifted them to hers. "I believe when I saw you I came to you forprotection. "

The light from pink tracts of sunset fell brightly upon field andriver, but this couple did not notice it at all. 

"There is no bogie so fearful as the unknown, " she cried. "Youfrightened me, Mr. Trenholme. "

"There is no bogie in the case, " he said, "nor ghost I suppose; but Isaw someone. I don't know how to tell you; it begins so far back, and Imay alarm you when I tell you that there must be someone in thisneighbourhood of yours who has no right to be here. " Then to her eagerlistening he told the story that he had once written to his brother, andadded to it the unlooked for experience of the last half-hour. Hisrelation lacked clearness of construction. Sophia had to make it lucidby short quick questions here and there. 

"I'm no good, " he concluded, deprecating his own recital. "Robert hasall the language that's in our family; but do you know, miss, what it isto see a face, and know that you know it again, though you can't saywhat it was like? Have you the least notion how you would feel on beingfooled a second time like that?"

The word of address that he had let fall struck her ear as somethinginexplicable which she had not then time to investigate; she was aware, too, that, as he spoke fast and warmly, his voice dropped into somevulgarity of accent that she had not noticed in it before. Thesethoughts glanced through her mind, but found no room to stay, for thereare few things that can so absorb for the time a mind alive to itssurroundings as a bit of genuine romance, a fragment of a life, orlives, that does not seem to bear explanation by the ordinary rules ofour experience. 

That mind is dulled, not ripened, by time that does not enter with zestinto a strange story, and the more if it is true. If we could only learnit, the most trivial action of personality is more worthy of ourattention than the most magnificent of impersonal phenomena, and, inhealthy people, this truth, all unknown, probably underlies thatexcitement of interest which the affairs of neighbours create themoment they become in any way surprising. 

Sophia certainly did not stop to seek an excuse for her interest. Sheplied Alec with questions; she moved with him nearer the Harmon fence toget a better look at the house; she assured him that Chellaston was thelast place in the world to harbour an adventurer. 

He was a little loth, for the sake of all the pathos of Bates's story, to suggest the suspicion that had recurred. 

"I saw the face twice. It was first at Turrifs Station, far enough awayfrom here; and I saw it again in this house. As sure as I'm alive, Ibelieve it was a woman. "

They stood on the verge of the field where the grass sloped back fromthe river. Sophia held the little child's hand in hers. The dusk wasgathering, and still they talked on, she questioning and exclaiming withanimation, he eager to enter the house again, a mutual interest holdingtheir minds as one. 

He began to move again impatiently. He wanted a candle with which tosearch the rooms more carefully, and if nothing was found, he said, hewould go to the village and make what inquiries he could; he would leaveno stone unturned. 

Sophia would not let him go alone. She was already on perfectly familiarterms with him. He seemed to her a delightful mixture of the ardent boyand the man who, as she understood it, was roughened by lumberman'slife. She lifted Dottie on her shoulder and turned homeward. "I willonly be a few minutes getting Harold and some candles; don't go withoutus, I beg of you, " she pleaded. 

He never thought of offering to carry the child, or call her brother forher; his ideas of gallantry were submerged in the confusion of histhoughts. He watched her tripping lightly with the child on hershoulder. He saw her choose a path by the back of the white dairybuildings, and then he heard her clear voice calling, "Harold! Harold!"All up the yard's length to windows of house and stable he heard hercalling, till at length came the answering shout. In the silence thatfollowed he remembered, with a feeling of wonder, the shudder ofdistaste that had come over him when he found that the other creaturewith whom he had been dealing bore a woman's form. He could not endureto think of her in the same moment in which he longed to hear MissRexford's voice again and to see her come back. In the one case he couldnot believe that evil was not the foundation of such eccentricity ofmystery; in the other he thought nothing, realised nothing, he onlylonged for Sophia's return, as at times one longs for cool air upon thetemples, for balm of nature's distilling. He never thought that becauseSophia was a woman she would be sure to keep him waiting and forget thecandle. He felt satisfied she would do just what she said, and even tohis impatience the minutes did not seem long before he saw her returnround the same corner of the outbuildings, her brother beside her, lantern in hand. 

So in the waning daylight the three went together to the Harmon house, and found torn bits of letters scattered on floor and window-sill nearthe spot where Alec had last seen the unlooked-for apparition. Theletters, to all appearance, had belonged to the dentist, but they weretorn very small. The three searched the house all through by the lightof more than one candle, and came out again into the darkness of thesummer night, for the time nothing wiser concerning the mystery, butfeeling entirely at home with one another. 

CHAPTER X. 

Although Mrs. Rexford had been without an indoor servant for severalmonths of the winter, she had been fortunate enough to secure one forthe summer. Her dairy had not yet reached the point of producingmarketable wares, but it supplied the family and farm hands with milkand butter, and, since the cows had been bought in spring, the oneserving girl had accomplished this amount of dairy work satisfactorily. The day after Sophia and Harold had made their evening excursion throughthe Harmon house, this maid by reason of some ailment was laid up, andthe cows became for the first time a difficulty to the household, forthe art of milking was not to be learnt in an hour, and it had not yetbeen acquired by any member of the Rexford family. 

Harold was of course in the fields. Sophia went to the village to see ifshe could induce anyone to come to their aid; but, hard as it was toobtain service at any time, in the weeks of harvest it was animpossibility. When she returned, she went in by the lane, the yard, andthe kitchen door. All the family had fallen into the habit of using thisdoor more than any other. Such habits speak for themselves. 

"Mamma!"--she took off her gloves energetically as she spoke--"there isnothing for it but to ask Louise to get up and do the milking--the meremilking--and I will carry the pails. "

Louise was the pale-faced Canadian servant. She often told them shepreferred to be called "Loulou, " but in this she was not indulged. 

Mrs. Rexford stirred Dottie's porridge in a small saucepan. Said she, "When Gertrude Bennett is forced to milk her cows, she waits till afterdark; her mother told me so in confidence. Yes, child, yes"--this was toDottie who, beginning to whimper, put an end to the conversation. 

Sophia did not wait till after dark: it might be an excellent way forMiss Bennett, but it was not her way. Neither did she ask her youngersisters to help her, for she knew that if caught in the act by anyacquaintance the girls were at an age to feel an acute distress. Shesucceeded, by the administration of tea and tonic, in coaxing theservant to perform her part. Having slightly caught up her skirts andtaken the empty pails on her arms, Sophia started ahead down the lane. 

Just then some one turned in from the road. It was Eliza, and she wasin too much haste to take heed of the milking gear. 

"Oh, Miss Sophia. I'm so glad I've met you, and alone. We've been sobusy at the hotel with a cheap excursion, I've been trying all day toget a word to you. Look here!" (she thrust some crumpled letters intoSophia's hand) "I thought you'd better see those, and say something tothe girls. They'll get themselves into trouble if they go on as silly asthis. It seems it's some silly 'post office' they've had in a treebetween them and that Harkness. I've had that letter from him, andcertainly, Miss Sophia, if he's as much to blame as them, he's actedcivil enough now. He had a better heart than most men, I believe, forall he bragged about it. He forgot where he had thrown their letters aswaste paper, and you'll see by that letter of his he took some troubleto write to me to go and get them, for fear they should be found and thegirls talked about. "

Sophia stood still in dismay. 

"There!" said Eliza, "I knew you'd feel hurt, but I thought you'd betterknow for all that. There's no harm done, only they'd better have a goodsetting down about it. " She began to turn back again. "I must go, " shesaid, "the dining-room girls are rushed off their feet; but if I wereyou, Miss Sophia, I wouldn't say a word to anyone else about it. Someone came in while I was getting these letters, but it was dark and Idodged round and made off without being seen, so that I needn't explain. It wouldn't do for the girls, you know--"

Sophia turned the letters about in her hand. One was from Cyril Harknessto Eliza; the others were poor, foolish little notes, written by Blueand Red. Louise came out of the yard and passed them into the field, andSophia thrust the letters into her dress. 

That Eliza should naďvely give her advice concerning the training of hersisters was a circumstance so in keeping with the girl's force ofcharacter that her late mistress hardly gave it a thought, nor had shetime at that moment to wonder where the letters had been left and found. It was the thought that the family reputation for sense and sobriety hadapparently been in the hands of an unprincipled stranger, and had beenpreserved only by his easy good-nature and by Eliza's energy, thatstruck her with depressing and irritating force. Had the girls come inher way just then, the words she would have addressed to them would havebeen more trenchant than wise, but as Eliza was by her side, retreatingtowards the road, she felt no desire to discuss the matter with her. 

She observed now that Eliza looked worn and miserable as she had neverseen her look before, unless, indeed, it had been in the first few daysshe ever saw her. The crowded state of the hotel could hardly accountfor this. "I hope, Eliza, that having despised that suitor of yours whenhe was here, you are not repenting now he is gone. "

The girl looked at her dully, not understanding at first. 

"Speaking of Cyril Harkness?" she cried; "good gracious, no, MissSophia. " But the response was not given in a sprightly manner, and didnot convey any conviction of its truth. 

"You must be working too hard. "

"Well, I needn't. I'll tell you a bit of good fortune that's come to me. Mrs. Glass--one of our boarders--you know her?"

"The stout person that comes to church in red satin?"

"Yes; and she's rich too. Well, she's asked me to go and visit her inMontreal in the slack time this next winter; and she's such a goodboarder every summer, you know, Mr. Hutchins is quite set on me going. She's promised to take me to parties and concerts, and the big rink, andwhat not. Ah, Miss Sophia, you never thought I could come that sort ofthing so soon, did you?"

"And are you not going?"

Sophia's question arose from a certain ring of mockery in Eliza'srelation of her triumph. 

"No, I'm not going a step. D'you think I'm going to be beholden to her, vulgar old thing! And besides, she talks about getting me married. Ithink there's nothing so miserable in the world as to be married. "

"Most women are much happier married. " Sophia said this with orthodoxpropriety, although she did not altogether believe it. 

"Yes, when they can't fend for themselves, poor things. But to be forever tied to a house and a man, never to do just what one liked! I'mgoing to take pattern by you, Miss Sophia, and not get married. "

Eliza went back to the village, and Sophia turned toward the pasture andthe college. The first breath of autumn wind was sweeping down the roadto meet her. All about the first sparks of the great autumnal fire ofcolour were kindling. In the nearer wood she noticed stray boughs ofyellow or pink foliage displayed hanging over the dark tops of youngspruce trees, or waving against the blue of the unclouded sky. It was anair to make the heavy heart jocund in spite of itself, and the sweetinfluences of this blithe evening in the pasture field were not lostupon Sophia, although she had not the spirit now to wish mischievously, as before, that Mrs. And Miss Bennett, or some of their friends, wouldpass to see her carry the milk in daylight. It was a happy pride thathad been at the root of her defiance of public opinion, and her pridewas depressed now, smarting under the sharp renewal of the convictionthat her sisters were naughty and silly, and that their present trainingwas largely to blame. 

The Bennetts did not come by, neither did Mrs. Brown's carriage pass, nor a brake from the hotel. Sophia had carried home the milk of two cowsand returned before anyone of the slightest consequence passed by. Shewas just starting with two more pails when Alec Trenholme came along ata fast trot on his brother's handsome cob. He was close by her beforeshe had time to see who it was, and when he drew up his horse she feltstrangely annoyed. Instinct told her that, while others might havecriticised, this simple-hearted fellow would only compassionate hertoil. Their mutual adventure of the previous evening had so farestablished a sense of comradeship with him that she did not take refugein indifference, but felt her vanity hurt at his pity. 

At that moment the simple iron semi-circle which the milk maid used tohold her pails off her skirts, became, with Sophia's handling, the mostcomplex thing, and would in no wise adjust itself. Alec jumped from hishorse, hung his bridle-rein over the gate-post as he entered thepasture, and made as if to take the pails as a matter of course. 

Pride, vanity, conceit, whatever it may be that makes people dislikekindness when their need is obvious, produced in her an awkward gaiety. "Nay, " said she, refusing; "why should you carry my milk for me?"

"Well, for one thing, we live too near not to know you don't do itusually. "

"Still, it may be my special pleasure to carry it to-night; and if not, why should you help me with this any more than, for instance, in cookingthe dinner to-morrow? I assure you my present pastoral occupation ismuch more romantic and picturesque than that. "

But he took the half-filled pails (she had not attempted to carry fullones), and, pouring the contents of one into the other, proceeded tocarry it. 

"Since it is you who command, " she cried, "shall I hold your horse inthe meantime?"

With provoking literalism he gave a critical glance at the bridle. "He'sall right, " he said, not caring much, in truth, whether the cob brokeloose or not. 

So she followed him across the road into the lane, because it hardlyseemed civil to let him go alone, and because he would not know what todo with the milk when he got to the yard. She did not, however, likethis position. 

"Do you know, " she began again, "that I am very angry with you, Mr. Trenholme?"

He wished for several reasons that she would cease her banter, and hehad another subject to advance, which he now brought forward abruptly. "I don't know, Miss Rexford, what right I have to think you will takeany interest in what interests me, but, after what happened last night, I can't help telling you that I've got to the bottom of that puzzle, andI'm afraid it will prove a very serious matter for my poor friendBates. "

"What is it?" she cried, his latest audacity forgotten. 

"Just now, as I came out of the village, I met the person I saw in theHarmon house, and the same I saw before, the time I told you of. It wasa woman--a young woman dressed in silk. I don't know what she may bedoing here, but I know now _who_ she must be. She must be Sissy Cameron. No other girl could have been at Turrifs Station the night I saw herthere. She _is_ Sissy Cameron. " (His voice grew fiercer. ) "She must haveturned her father's hearse into a vehicle for her own tricks; and what'smore, she must, with the most deliberate cruelty, have kept theknowledge of her safety from poor Bates all these months. "

"Stay, stay!" cried Sophia, for his voice had grown so full of angeragainst the girl that he could hardly pour out the tale of her guiltfast enough. "Where did you meet her? What was she like?"

"I met her ten minutes ago, walking on this road. She was a great bigbuxom girl, with a white face and red hair; perhaps people might callher handsome. I pulled up and stared at her, but she went on as if shedidn't see me. Now I'm going in to tell Bates, and then I shall go backand bring her to book. I don't know what she may be up to in Chellaston, but she must be found. "

"Many people do think her handsome, Mr. Trenholme, " said Sophia, for sheknew now who it was; "and she is certainly not--the sort of--"

"Do you mean to say you know her?"

"Yes, I know her quite well. I had something to do with bringing her toChellaston. I never knew till this moment that she was the girl you andMr. Bates have been seeking, and indeed--" She stopped, confused, for, although it had flashed on her for the first time that what she knew ofEliza's history tallied with his story, she could not make it all match, and then she perceived that no doubt it was in the Harmon house thatEliza had so faithfully sought the letters now held in her own hand. "Really, " she continued, "you mustn't go to work with this girl in thesummary manner you suggest. I know her too well to think anything couldbe gained by that. She is, in a sense, a friend of mine. "

"Don't say she is a _friend_ of yours--_don't!_" he said, with almostdisgust in his tone. 

They had halted in the lane just outside the yard gate, and now he putdown the pail and turned his back on the still shut gate to speak withmore freedom. As he talked, the brisk air dashed about the boughs of thespindling lilac hedge, shaking slant sunbeams upon the unpainted gateand upon the young man and woman in front of it. 

Then, but in a way that was graphic because of strong feeling, AlecTrenholme told the more real part of the story which he had outlined thenight before; told of the melancholy solitude in which Bates had beenleft with the helpless old woman in a house that was bewitched in theeyes of all, so that no servant or labourer would come near it. In talkthat was a loose mosaic of detail and generalisation, he told of thewoman's work to which the proud Scotchman had been reduced in care ofthe aunt who in his infancy had cared for him, and how he strove to keepthe house tidy for her because she fretted when she saw houseworkill-done. He explained that Bates would have been reduced to hardstraits for want of the yearly income from his lumber had not he himself"chanced" to go and help him. He said that Bates had gone through allthis without complaint, without even counting it hard, because of thegrief he counted so much worse--the loss of the girl, and the beliefthat she had perished because of his unkindness. 

"For he _loved_ her, Miss Rexford. He had never had anyone else to carefor, and he had just centred his whole heart on her. He cared for her asif she had been his daughter and sister, and--and he cared for her inanother way that was more than all. It was a lonely enough place; no onecould blame a woman for wanting to leave it; but to leave a man to thinkher dead when he loved her!"

Sophia was touched by the story and touched nearly also by the heart ofthe man who told it, for in such telling the hearts of speaker andlistener beat against one another through finer medium than that whichwe call space. But just because she was touched it was characteristic inher to find a point that she could assail. 

"I don't see that a woman is specially beholden to a man because heloves her against her will. "

"Do you mean to say"--fiercely--"that she was not beholden to himbecause he taught her everything she knew, and was willing to work tosupport her?"

"Yes, certainly, she was under obligation for all his kindness, but hisbeing in love with her--that is different. "

But Alec Trenholme, like many people, could not see a fine point in theheat of discussion. Afterwards, on reflection he saw what she had meant, but now he only acted in the most unreasonable of ways. 

"Well, I don't see it as you do, " he said; and then, the picture ofsuppressed indignation, he took up the pail to go inside and dispose ofit. 

"I don't know how it can all be, " said Sophia considering, "but I'm surethere's a great deal of good in her. "

At this, further silence, even out of deference to her, seemed to himinadequate. "I don't pretend to know how it can be; how she got here, orwhat she has been doing here, dressed in silk finery, or what she mayhave been masquerading with matches in the old house over there for. AllI know is, a girl who treated Bates as she did--"

"No, you don't know any of these things. You have only heard one sideof the story. It is not fair to judge. "

"She has ruined his life, done as good as killed him. Why should youtake her part?"

"Because there are always two sides to everything. I don't know much ofher story, but I have heard some of it, and it didn't sound like whatyou have said. As to her being in the Harmon house--" Sophia stopped. 

"Do you mean to say, " asked Alec, "that she has been living here all thetime quite openly?"

"Yes--that is, she has given a false name, it seems, but, Mr. Trenholme--"

"If she has lied about her name, depend upon it she has lied abouteverything else. I wouldn't want you to go within ten feet of her. "

Although the fallacy of such argument as Alec's too often remainsundetected when no stubborn fact arises to support justice, Sophia, withher knowledge of Eliza, could not fail to see the absurdity of it. Hermind was dismayed at the thought of what the girl had apparently doneand concealed, but nothing could make her doubt that the Eliza she knewwas different from the Sissy Cameron he was depicting. She did notdoubt, either, that if anything would bring out all the worst in her andmake her a thousand times more unkind to Bates, it would be the attackAlec Trenholme meditated. She decided that she ought herself to act asgo-between. She remembered the scorn with which the patronage of avulgar woman had that evening been discarded, and whether Eliza herselfknew it or not, Sophia knew that this nicety of taste was due chiefly toher own influence. The subtle flattery of this pleaded with her now onthe girl's behalf: and perceiving that Alec Trenholme was not amenableto reason, she, like a good woman, condescended to coax him for reason'ssake. To a woman the art of managing men is much like the art of skatingor swimming, however long it may lie in disuse, the trick, once learnt, is there to command. The milk, it seemed, must be taken down the cellarsteps and poured into pans. Then a draught of milk off the ice was givento him. Then, it appeared, she must return to the pasture, and on theirway she pointed out the flowers that she had planted, and let him breakone that he admired. 

When they reached the field Sophia proffered her request, which was, that he would leave his discovery in her hands for one day, for one dayonly, she pleaded. She added that he might come to see her the nextafternoon, and she would tell him what explanation Eliza had to give, and in what mood she would meet her unfortunate guardian. 

And Sophia's request was granted, granted with that whole-heartedallegiance and entire docility, with a tenderness of eye andlightsomeness of demeanour, that made her perceive that this young manhad not been so obdurate as he appeared, and that her efforts to appeasehim had been out of proportion to what was required. 

When he mounted his horse and rode off unmindful of the last pail ofmilk, for indeed his head was a little turned, Sophia was left standingby the pasture gate feeling unpleasantly conscious of her own handsomeface and accomplished manner. If she felt amused that he should showhimself so susceptible, she also felt ashamed, she hardly knew why. Sheremembered that in his eyes on a previous occasion which she had takenas a signal for alarm on her part, and wondered why she had notremembered it sooner. The thing was done now: she had petted and cajoledhim, and she felt no doubt that masculine conceit would render him blindto her true motive. Henceforth he would suppose that she encouraged hisfancy. Sophia, who liked to have all things her own way, feltdisconcerted. 

CHAPTER XI. 

After tea Sophia took Blue and Red apart into their little bedroom. Anold cotton blind was pulled down to shield the low window from passersin the yard. The pane was open and the blind flapped. The room hadlittle ornament and was unattractive. 

"How could you write letters to that Mr. Harkness?" asked Sophia, tryingto be patient. 

"We didn't--exactly, " said Blue, "but how did you know?"

"At least--we did, " said Red, "but only notes. What have you heard, Sister Sophia? Has he"--anxiously--"written to papa?"

"Written to papa!" repeated Sophia in scorn. "What should he do thatfor?"

"I don't know, " said Red, more dejected. "It's"--a little pause--"it'sthe sort of thing they do. "

Sophia drew in her breath with an effort not to laugh, and managed tosigh instead. "I think you are the silliest girls of your age!"

"Well, I don't care, " cried Blue, falling from bashfulness into a pout, and from a pout into tears. "I _don't_ care, so now. I think he was muchnicer--much nicer than--" She sat upon a chair and kicked her littletoes upon the ground. Red's dimpled face was flushing with ominouscolour about the eyes. 

"Really!" cried Sophia, and then she stopped, arrested by her own word. How was it possible to present reality to eyes that looked out throughsuch maze of ignorance and folly; it seemed easier to take up a sternertheme and comment upon the wickedness of disobedience and secrecy. Yetall the time her words missed the mark, because the true sin of thesetwo pretty criminals was utter folly. Surely if the world, and theirfragment of it, had been what they thought--the youth a hero, and theirparents wrongly proud--their action had not been so wholly evil! But howcould she trim all the thoughts of their silly heads into trueproportion?

"I shall have to tell papa, you know; I couldn't take the responsibilityof not telling him; but I won't speak till this press of work is over, because he is so tired, so you can be thinking how you will apologise tohim. "

Both Blue and Red were weeping now, and Sophia, feeling that she hadmade adequate impression, was glad to pause. 

Red was the first to withdraw her handkerchief from dewy eyes. Her toneand attitude seemed penitent, and Sophia looked at her encouragingly. 

"Sister Sophia"--meekly--"does he say in his letter where he is, or--or"--the voice trembled--"if he's ever coming back?"

For such disconsolate affection Sophia felt that the letter referred towas perhaps the best medicine. "I will read you all that he says. " Andshe read it slowly and distinctly, as one reads a lesson to children. 

 "Dear Eliza. "

"He didn't think she was 'dear'" pouted Blue. "He told us she was 'realhorrid. '"

Sophia read on from the crumpled sheet with merciless distinctness. 

 "Come to think of it, when I was coming off I threw all my bills and letters and things down in a heap in the back kitchen at Harmon's; and there were some letters there that those 'cute little Rexford girls wrote to me. They were real spoony on me, but I wasn't spoony on them one bit, Eliza, at least, not in my heart, which having been given to you, remained yours intact; but I sort of feel a qualm to think how their respected pa would jaw them if those _billets-doux_ were found and handed over. You can get in at the kitchen window quite easy by slipping the bolt with a knife; so as I know you have a hankering after the Rexfords, I give you this chance to crib those letters if you like. They are folded small because they had to be put in a nick in a tree, called by those amiable young ladies, a post-office. "

 "I'm real sorry I made you cry, Eliza. It's as well I didn't remain or I might have begun admiring of you again, which might have ended in breaking my vow to be--Only your ex-admirer, CYRIL, P. H----. "

"Oh!" cried Blue, her tears dried by the fire of injury, "we nevertalked to him except when he talked to us--never!"

"There's a postscript, " said Sophia, and then she read it. 

 "P. S. They used to cock their eyes at me when they saw me over the fence. You had better tell them not to do it; I could not bear to think of them doing it to anyone else. "

"Oh!" cried Red, "Oh--h! he never said to us that we cocked our eyes. Hesaid once to Blue that the way she curled her eyelashes at him was_real_ captivating. "

Sophia rose delivering her final word: "Nothing could be more utterlyvulgar than to flirt with a young man who is beneath you in station justbecause he happens to be thrown in your way. "

CHAPTER XII. 

When Sophia went to the hotel next morning, Eliza was not to be found. She was not in, and no one knew where she was. Mr. Hutchins was inclinedto grumble at her absence as an act of high-handed liberty, but MissRexford was not interested in his comments. She went back to her work athome, and felt in dread of the visit which she had arranged for AlecTrenholme to make that day. She began to be afraid that, having noinformation of importance with which to absorb his attention, he mightto some extent make a fool of himself. Having seen incipient signs ofthis state of things, she took for granted it would grow. 

When the expected caller did come, Sophia, because the servant couldstill do but little, was at work in the dairy, and she sent one of thechildren to ask him to come into the yard. The dairy was a pleasantplace; it was a long low stone room, with two doors opening on the greenyard. The roof of it was shaded by a tree planted for that purpose, andnot many feet from its end wall the cool blue river ran. A queen couldnot have had a sweeter place for an audience chamber, albeit there wasneed of paint and repairs, and the wooden doorstep was almost worn away. 

Sophia, churn-handle in hand, greeted her visitor without apology. Shehad expected that this churn-handle, the evidence of work to be done, would act as a check upon feeling, but she saw with little more than aglance that such check was superfluous; there was no sign ofintoxication from the wine of graciousness which she had held to hislips when last she saw him. As he talked to her he stood on the shortwhite clover outside the door's decaying lintel. He had a good deal tosay about Bates, and more about Sissy Cameron, and Sophia found that shehad a good deal to say in answer. 

The churn was a hideous American patent, but light and very convenient. They talked to the monotonous splash of the milk within, and as work wasnot being interrupted, Alec was at length asked to sit down on the worndoorstep, and he remained there until the butter "came. " He had gone upin Sophia's esteem many degrees, because she saw now that any escape ofwarmer sentiment had been involuntary on his part. She blessed him inher heart for being at once so susceptible and so strong. She fanciedthat there was a shade of sadness in his coolness which lent itattraction. With that shadow of the epicurean which is apt to be foundupon all civilised hearts, she felt that it did her good to realise hownice he was, just as a fresh flower or a strong wind would have done hergood. She said to him that she supposed he would not be staying muchlonger in Chellaston, and he replied that as soon as Bates would go andhis brother was on his feet again he intended to leave for the West. Then he begged her to lose no time in seeing Eliza, for Bates had takento hobbling about the roads, and he thought a sudden and accidentalmeeting with the girl might be the death of him. 

Now this assertion of Alec's, that Bates had taken to walking out ofdoors, was based on the fact told him by Mrs. Martha and his brother, that the day before Bates had wilfully walked forth, and after somehours came back much exhausted. "Where did you go?" Alec had asked himfiercely, almost suspecting, from his abject looks, that he had seen thegirl. He could, however, learn nothing but that the invalid had walked"down the road and rested a while and come back. " Nothing important hadhappened, Alec thought; and yet this conclusion was not true. 

That which had happened had been this. John Bates, after lying for aweek trying to devise some cunning plan for seeing Sissy withoutcompromising her, and having failed in this, rose up in the suddenenergy of a climax of impatience, and, by dint of short stages and manyrests by the roadside, found his way through the town, up the steps ofthe hotel, and into its bar-room. No one could hinder him from goingthere, thought he, and perchance he might see the lassie. 

Years of solitude, his great trouble, and, lastly, the complaint whichrendered him so obviously feeble, had engendered in his heart a shynessthat made it terrible to him to go alone across the hotel verandah, where men and women were idling. In truth, though he was obviously ill, the people noticed him much less than he supposed, for strangers oftencame there; but egotism is a knife which shyness uses to wound itselfwith. When he got into the shaded and comparatively empty bar-room, hewould have felt more at home, had it not been for the disconsolatebelief that there was one at home in that house to whom his presencewould be terribly unwelcome. It was with a nightmare of pain anddesolation on his heart that he laid trembling arms upon the bar, andbegan to chat with the landlord. 

"I'm on the look-out for a young man and a young woman, " said he, "who'll come and work on my clearing;" and so he opened talk with thehotel-keeper. He looked often through the door into the big passage, butSissy did not pass. 

Now Mr. Hutchins did not know of anyone to suit Bates's requirements, and he did know that the neighbourhood of Chellaston was the mostunlikely to produce such servants, but, having that which wasdisappointing to say, he said it by degrees. Bates ordered a glass ofcooling summer drink, and had his pipe filled while they discussed. Theone tasted to him like gall, and the fumes of the other were powerlessto allay his growing trepidation, and yet, in desperate adventure, hestayed on. 

Hutchins, soon perceiving that he was a man of some education, andfinding out that he was the oft-talked-of guest of "The Principal, "continued to entertain him cheerfully enough. "Now, " said he, "talkingof people to help, I've got a girl in my house now--well, I may say Ifell on my feet when I got her. " Then followed a history of his dealingswith Eliza, including an account of his own astuteness in perceivingwhat she was, and his cleverness in securing her services. Bateslistened hungrily, but with a pang in his heart. 

"Aye, " said he outwardly, "you'll be keeping a very quiet house here. "

"You may almost call it a religious house, " said Hutchins, taking themeasure of his man. "Family prayer every Sunday in the dining-room forall who likes. Yes, " he added, rubbing his hand on his lame knee, "Canadians are pious for the most part, Mr. Bates, and I have the illeetof two cities on _my_ balconies. "

Other men came in and went out of the room. Women in summer gowns passedthe door. Still Bates and Hutchins talked. 

At last, because Bates waited long enough, Eliza passed the door, andcatching sight of him, she turned, suddenly staring as if she knew notexactly what she was doing. There were two men at the bar drinking. Hutchins, from his high swivel chair, was waiting upon them. They bothlooked at Eliza; and now Bates, trembling in every nerve, felt only aweak fear lest she should turn upon him in wrath for being unfaithful, and summoned all his strength to show her that by the promise with whichhe had bound himself he would abide. He looked at her as though in verytruth he had never seen her before. And the girl took his stony look asif he had struck her, and fell away from the door, so that they saw herno longer. 

"Looked as if she'd seen someone she knew in here, " remarked Hutchins, complacently. He was always pleased when people noticed Eliza, for heconsidered her a credit to the house. 

The others made no remark, and Bates felt absurdly glad that he had seenher, not that it advanced his desire, but yet he was glad; and he hadshown her, too, that she need not fear him. 

And Eliza--she went on past the door to the verandah, and stood in sightof the boarders, who were there, in sight of the open street; but shedid not see anyone or anything. She was too common a figure at that doorto be much noticed, but if anyone had observed her it would have beenseen that she was standing stolidly, not taking part in what was beforeher, but that her white face, which never coloured prettily like otherwomen's, bore now a deepening tint, as if some pale torturing flame werelapping about her; there was something on her face that suggested thequivering of flames. 

In a few minutes she went back into the bar-room. 

"Mr. Hutchins, " she said, and here followed a request, that was almost acommand, that he should attend to something needing his oversight in thestable-yard. 

Hutchins grumbled, apologised to Bates; but Eliza stood still, and hewent. She continued to stand, and her attitude, her forbidding air, thewhole atmosphere of her presence, was such that the two men who were onthe eve of departure went some minutes before they otherwise would havedone, though perhaps they hardly knew why they went. 

"Mr. Bates! You're awfully angry with me, Mr. Bates, I'm afraid. "

He got up out of his chair, in his petty vanity trying to stand beforeher as if he were a strong man. "Angry!" he echoed, for he did not knowwhat he said. 

"Yes, you're angry; I know by the way you looked at me, " she complainedsullenly. "You think I'm not fit to look at, or to speak to, and--"

They stood together in the common bar-room. Except for the gay array ofbottles behind the bar the place was perfectly bare, and it was open onall sides. She did not look out of door or windows to see who might bestaring at them, but he did. He had it so fixed in his faithful heartthat he must not compromise her, that he was in a tremor lest she shouldbetray herself. He leaned on the back of his chair, breathing hard, andstriving to appear easy. 

"No, but I'm thinking, Sissy--"

"You're dreadfully ill, Mr. Bates, I'm afraid. "

"No, but I was thinking, Sissy, I must see ye again before I go. I'vethat to say to ye that must be said before I go home. "

"Home!" She repeated the word like the word of a familiar language shehad not heard for long. "Are you going home?"

"Where will ye see me?" he urged. 

"Anywhere you like, " she said listlessly, and then added with suddendetermination, "I'll come. "

"Hoots!" he said, "_where_ will ye come?"

"Where?" she said, looking at him keenly as if to gauge his strength orweakness. "You're not fit to be much on your feet. "

"Can you come in the bush at the back of the college? It would belittle harm for you to speak to me there. When can ye come?"

"To-morrow morning. "

"How can ye come of a morning? Your time's not your own. "

"I say I'll come. " She enunciated the words emphatically as Hutchins'scrutches were heard coming near the door. Then she left the room. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The wood behind the college grounds and Captain Rexford's pasture hadappeared to Bates to be a place possessed only by the winds of heavenand by such sunshine and shadow as might fall to its share. He hadformed this estimate of it while he had lain for many days watching thewaving of its boughs from out his window, and therefore he had named itto Eliza as a place where he could talk to her. Eliza well knew thatthis wood was no secluded spot in the season of summer visitors, but shewas in too reckless a mood to care for this, any more than she cared forthe fact that she had no right to leave the hotel in the morning. Sheleft that busy house, not caring whether it suffered in her absence ornot, and went to the appointed place, heedless of the knowledge that shewas as likely as not to meet with some of her acquaintances there. Yet, as she walked, no one seeing her would have thought that this youngwoman had a heart rendered miserable by her own acts and theirlegitimate outcome. In her large comeliness she suggested less offeeling than of force, just as the gown she wore had more pretension tofashion than to grace. 

When she entered the wood it was yet early morning. Bates was not there. She had come thus early because she feared hindrance to her coming, notbecause she cared when he came. She went into the young spruce fringesof the wood near the Rexford pasture, and sat down where she had beforesat to watch Principal Trenholme's house. The leaves of the elm aboveher were turning yellow; the sun-laden wind that came between the spruceshades seemed chill to her; she felt cold, an unusual thing for her, andthe time seemed terribly long. When she saw Bates coming she went to themore frequented aisles of the trees to meet him. 

Bates had never been a tall man, but now, thin and weak, he seemed asmall one, although he still strove to hold himself up manfully. Hisface this day was grey with the weariness of a sleepless night, and hisenemy, asthma, was hard upon him--a man's asthma, that is a fierce thingbecause it is not yielded to gracefully, but is struggled against. 

"Oh, but you're ill, Mr. Bates, " she said, relapsing into that repeatedexpression of yesterday. 

"I'm no so ill as I--I seem, " he panted, "but that's neither here--northere. "

This was their greeting. Round them the grass was littered by old picnicpapers, and this vulgar marring of the woodland glade was curiously akinto the character of this crucial interview between them, for the beautyof its inner import was overlaid with much that was common and garish. Arude bench had been knocked together by some picnicker of the past, andon this Bates was fain to sit down to regain his breath. Sissy stoodnear him, plucking at some coloured leaves she had picked up in herrestlessness. 

"You think of going back to the old place, " she said, because he couldnot speak. 

"Aye. "

"Miss Bates is keeping pretty well?"--this in conventional tone that wasoddly mortised into the passionate working of her mind. 

"Oh, aye. "

"Why wouldn't you sell it and live in a town?"

"It's the only air there I can be breathing, " said he; the confessionwas wrung from him by his present struggle for breath. "I'm not fit fora town. "

"I hear them saying down at the hotel that you're awfully ill. "

"It's not mortal, the doctor says. "

"You'll need someone to take care of you, Mr. Bates. "

"Oh, I'll get that. "

He spoke as if setting aside the subject of his welfare with impatience, and she let it drop; but because he was yet too breathless to speak hismind, she began again:

"I don't mind if you don't sell, for I don't want to get any money. "

"Oh, but ye can sell when I'm gone; it'll be worth more then than now. I'm just keeping a place I can breathe in, ye understand, as long as Igo on breathing. "

She pulled the leaves in her hand, tearing them lengthwise andcrosswise. 

"What I want--to ask of ye now is--what I want to ask ye first is asolemn question. Do ye know where your father's corpse--is laid?"

"Yes, I know, " she said. "He didn't care anything about cemeteries, father didn't. "

He looked at her keenly, and there was a certain stern setting of hisstrong lower jaw. His words were quick: "Tell on. "

"'Twas you that made me do it, " said she, sullenly. 

"Do what? What did ye do?"

"I buried my father. "

"Did ye set Saul to do it?"

"No; what should I have to do asking a man like Saul?"

"Lassie, lassie! it's no for me to condemn ye, nor maybe for the deadeither, for he was whiles a hard father to you, but I wonder your ownwoman's heart didn't misgive ye. "

Perhaps, for all he knew, it had misgiven her often, but she did not sayso now. 

"In the clearin's all round Turrifs they buried on their own lands, "she said, still sullen. 

"Ye buried him on his own land!" he exclaimed, the wonder of it growingupon him. "When? Where? Out with it! Make a clean breast of it. "

"I buried him that night. The coffin slipped easy enough out of thewindow and on the dry leaves when I dragged it. I laid him between therocks at the side, just under where the bank was going to fall, and thenI went up and pushed the bank down upon him. " She looked up and crieddefiantly: "Father'd as soon lie there as in a cemetery!" Although itwas as if she was crushing beneath her heel that worship ofconventionality which had made Bates try to send the body so far to abetter grave, there was still in her last words a tone of pathos whichsurprised even herself. Something in the softening influences which hadbeen about her since that crisis of her young life made her feel moreruth at the recital of the deed than she had felt at its doing. "I madea bed of moss and leaves, " she said, "and I shut up the ledge he lay inwith bits of rock, so that naught could touch him. "

"But--but I dug there, " cried Bates. (In his surprise the nervousaffection of his breath had largely left him. ) "I dug where the bank hadfallen; for I had strange thoughts o' what ye might have been driven towhen I was long alone, and I dug, but his body wasna' there. "

It was curious that, even after her confession, he should feel need toexcuse himself for his suspicion. 

"There was a sort of cleft sideways in the rock at the side of thestream; you'd never have seen it, for I only saw it myself by hangingover, holding by a tree. No one would ever have thought o' digging therewhen I'd closed up the opening with stones; I thought o' that when I puthim in. "

He got up and took a step or two about, but he gave no gesture or prayeror word of pain. "The sin lies at my door, " he said. 

"Well, yes, Mr. Bates, you drove me to it, but--"

Her tone, so different from his, he interrupted. "Don't say 'but, 'making it out less black. Tell what ye did more. "

Then she told him, coolly enough, how she had arranged the bedclothes tolook as though, she slept under them: how she had got into the boxbecause, by reason of the knot-hole in the lid, she had been able todraw it over her, and set the few nails that were hanging in it in theirplaces. She told him how she had laughed to herself when he took herwith such speed and care across the lake that was her prison wall. Shetold him that, being afraid to encounter Saul alone, she had lain quiet, intending to get out at Turrifs, but that when she found herself in alonely house with a strange man, she was frightened and ran out into thebirch woods, where her winding-sheet had been her concealment as she ranfor miles among the white trees; how she then met a squaw who helped herto stop the coming railway train. 

"We lit a fire, " she said, "and the Indian woman and the children stoodin the light of it and brandished; and further on, where it was quitedark, we had got a biggish log or two and dragged them across the track, so when the train stopped the men came and found them there; and I wentround to the back and got on the cars when all the men were off and theydidn't come near me till morning. I thought they'd find me, and I'd gotmoney to pay, but I got mixed up with the people that were asleep. Igave the squaw one of your aunt's gold pieces for helping, but"--with asneer--"the passengers gave her money too. I made sure she'd not tell onme, for if she had she'd have got in jail for stopping the train. "

"Puir body, " said he; "like enough all she had seen o' men would makeher think, too, she had no call to say anything, though she must haveknown of the hue and cry in the place. "

"More like she wanted to save herself from suspicion of what she haddone, " said Eliza, practically. 

She still stood before him on the path, the strong firm muscles of herframe holding her erect and still without effort of her will. Thestillness of her pose, the fashionableness of gown and hat, and thebroad display of her radiant hair, made a painful impression on Bates ashe looked, but the impression on two other men who went by just then wasapparently otherwise. They were a pair of young tourists who stared asthey passed. 

"By Jove, what a magnificent girl!" said one to the other just beforethey were out of hearing. There was that of consciousness in his tonewhich betrayed that he thought his own accents and choice words werewell worthy her attention. 

Eliza turned her back to the direction in which the strangers had gone, thus covering the spare man to whom she was talking from their backwardglances. Bates, who was looking up at her face with his heart-hunger inhis eyes, saw a look of contempt for the passing remark flit across herface, and because of the fond craving of his own heart, his sympathy, strangely enough, went out to the young man who had spoken, rather thanto her sentiment of contempt. The angel of human loves alone could tellwhy John Bates loved this girl after all that had passed, but he didlove her. 

And perceiving now that she had told what she had to tell, he turned hismind to that something that lay on his mind to say to her. With theburden of the thought he rose up again from his rude seat, and he heldup his head to look at her as with effort; she was so tall, that hestill must needs look up. 

"All's said that need be said, Sissy, between us two. " His voice wasalmost hard because he would not betray his wistfulness. "Ye have chosenyour own way o' life, and I willna raise a cry to alter it; I'm no fitfor that. If I could shape ye to my pleasure, I see now I'd make a poorthing of it. Ye can do better for yourself if--if"--his square jawseemed almost to tremble--"if ye'll have a heart in ye, lassie. Forgiveme if I seem to instruct ye, for I've no thought in me now that I couldmake ye better if I tried. "

He stopped again, and she saw his weak frame moving nervously; shethought it was for want of breath. 

"You're awfully ill, Mr. Bates, " she said, in dulness repeating wordsthat she seemed to have got by heart. 

Her stupid pity stung him into further speech. 

"Oh, lassie, it's not because I'm fond of ye that I say it, for whatdoes it matter about me, but because of all the men in the world thatlove women. It's God's voice through them to you; and (although I can'trightly frame it into words) because God set men and women in families, and gave them to have affections, I tell ye the soul in which the prideo' life, or pleasure, or the like o' that, takes the place of theaffections is a lost soul. " Again his harsh mouth trembled, and thewords came with effort. "Sissy Cameron, ye've not known a mother nor asister, and your father was hard, and I who loved ye was worse than abrute, and I can't rightly say what I would; but when I'm gone, lookround ye; lassie, at the best women ye know that are wives and mothers, and if ye can't greet at the things they greet at, and if ye laugh atthings they don't laugh at, and if ye don't fear to do the things theyfear, then, even if your cleverness should make ye queen o' the wholeworld, God pity ye!"

"Yes, Mr. Bates, " she said, just as she used to when she said thecatechism to him and he admonished her. She had listened to him withthat dull half-attention which we give to good-sounding words when ourheart is only alert for something for which we yet wait. She had itfirmly in her mind that he was going to say something on which wouldhang her future fate, that he would either still ask her, in spite ofall she had said, to go back with him, or would tell her that he wouldnot have her now, as the American had done. All her sensibilities lay, as it were, numb with waiting; she had no purpose concerning the answershe would make him; her mind was still full of invective and complaint;it was also full of a dull remorse that might melt into contrition;either or both must break forth if he said that which appealed to wordsin her. 

When Bates saw, however, that the little sermon which he had wrung fromhis heart with so much pain had not impressed her much, he felt as if hehad never known until then the sharpest pain of sorrow, for although hedid not know what he had hoped for, there had been hope in proportion toeffort, and disappointment, the acutest form of sorrow, cut him to theheart. He did not moan or bewail, that was not his way. He stood holdinghimself stiffly, as was his wont, and pain laid emphasis on the severeand resolute lines upon his face, for a face that has long been lent asa vehicle for stern thoughts does not express a milder influence, although the depths of the heart are broken up. 

She looked at his face, and the main drift of what he had said wasinterpreted by his look; she had expected censure and took for grantedthat all this was reproof. 

"I don't see, Mr. Bates"--her tone was full of bitterness--"that you'vegot any call to stand there handing me over as if I was a leper. "

To which he answered angrily, "Bairn, haven't I told you once and againthat take your sin on my own soul?"

"Well then"--still in angry complaint--"what right have you to belooking and talking of me as if nothing was to be expected of me butill?"

So he believed that it was worse than useless to speak to her. He drewhis hand over his heavy eyebrows. He thought to himself that he would gohome now, that he would start that day or the next and never see heragain, and in the decision he began walking away, forgetting the word"good-bye" and all its courtesy, because oblivious of everything exceptthat thought that he was unfit for anything but to go and live out histime in the desolate home. But when he had got about twenty paces fromher he remembered that he had said no farewell, and turned, looked back, and came to her again, his heart beating like a boy's. 

She stood where he had left her, sullen, with head slightly bent, andtearing the same leaves. Bates recognised her beauty to the full, asmuch as any other man could have done, but it only hurt him and made himafraid. He looked at her, timid as a child, yet manfully ignoring histimidity, he tried to smile to her as he said, "Bairn, I may never see ye in this world again; give your old teacher akiss. "

Eliza stared, then lent her face to be kissed. She was surprised at thegentleness of his sparing caress, so surprised that when she lifted herhead she stood stock still and watched him till he was out of sight, for, driven by the scourge of his feeling, he went away from her withquick, upright gait, never looking back. 

She watched him till he disappeared into Trenholme's house. When shewalked home she did not sob or wipe her eyes or cover her face, yet whenshe got to the hotel her eyes were swollen and red, and she went abouther work heedless that anyone who looked at her must see thedisfigurement of tears. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

In the latter part of that day Bates suffered a fierce attack of hismalady. Everyone in Trenholme's house, including the master himself oncrutches, became agile in their desire to alleviate the suffering, andhe received their ministrations with that civility which denoted that, had conventionality allowed, he would not have received them; for tofling all that is given him at the heads of the givers is undoubtedlythe conduct that nature suggests to a man in pain. Having need, however, of some help, Bates showed now, as before, an evident preference forAlec as an attendant, a preference due probably to the fact that Alecnever did anything for him that was not absolutely necessary, and didthat only in the most cursory way. When Alec entered his room thatnight to see, as he cheerfully remarked, whether he was alive or not, Bates turned his face from the wall. 

"I think it right to tell ye, " he began, and his tone and manner were sostiff that the other knew something painful was coming, "I think itright to tell ye that Eliza Cameron is alive and well. I have seen her. "

In his annoyance to think a meeting had occurred Alec made anexclamation that served very well for the surprise that Bates expected. 

"Her father, " continued Bates, "was decently buried, unknown to me, onhis own land, as is the custom in those parts of the country. The girlwas the person ye saw get up from the coffin--the one that ye were sofrightened of. "

This last word of explanation was apparently added that he might beassured Alec followed him, and the listener, standing still in thehalf-darkened room, did not just then feel resentment for theunnecessary insult. He made some sound to show that he heard. 

"Then"--stiffly--"she took the train, and she has been living here eversince, a very respectable young woman, and much thought of. I'm glad tohave seen her. "

"Well?"

"I thought it right to tell ye, and I'm going home to-morrow or nextday. "

That was evidently all that was to be told him, and Alec refrained fromall such words as he would like to have emitted. But when he was goingdumbly out of the room, Bates spoke again. 

"Ye're young yet; when ye feel inclined to give your heart to any youngthing that you've a caring for, gie it as on the altar of God, and notfor what ye'll get in return, and if ye get in answer what ye'rewanting, thank God for a free gift. "

Then Alec knew that Sissy had been unkind to Bates. 

The night being yet early, he willingly recognised an obligation to goand tell Miss Rexford that their mutual solicitude had in some way beenrendered needless. It was easy for him to find the lady he desired tosee, for while the weather was still warm it was the habit in Chellastonto spend leisure hours outside the house walls rather than in, and AlecTrenholme had already learned that at evening in the Rexford householdthe father and brother were often exhausted by their day's work andasleep, and the mother occupied by the cribs of her little ones. Hefound the house, as usual, all open to the warm dry autumn evening, doors and windows wide. The dusk was all within and without, exceptthat, with notes of a mother's lullaby, rays of candle light fell fromthe nursery window. As his feet brushed the nearer grass, he dimly sawMiss Rexford rise from a hammock swung on the verandah, where she hadbeen lounging with Winifred. She stood behind the verandah railing, andhe in the grass below, and they talked together on this subject that hadgrown, without the intention of either, to be so strong a bond ofinterest between them. Here it was that Alec could give vent to the pityand indignation which he could not express to the man whose sufferingsexcited these emotions. 

In spite of this visit Sophia sought Eliza again the next day. As sheentered the hotel Mr. Hutchins begged a word with her in his littleslate-painted office, saying that the young housekeeper had not beenlike herself for some time, and that he was uneasy, for she made afriend of no one. 

"Are you afraid of losing her?" asked Miss Rexford coldly, with slightarching of her brows. 

He replied candidly that he had no interest in Eliza's joys or sorrows, except as they might tend to unsettle her in her place. Having, by theuse of his own wits, discovered her ability, he felt that he had now aright to it. 

Sophia went upstairs, as she was directed, to Eliza's bedroom on thehighest storey, and found her there, looking over piles of freshlycalendered house linen. The room was large enough, and pleasant--abetter bedroom than Sophia or her sisters at present possessed. Elizawas apparently in high spirits. She received her guest with almost loudgaiety. 

"What do you think's happened now, Miss Sophia?" cried she. "Youremember what I told you about Mrs. Glass? Well, there's two younggentlemen come to the house here yesterday morning, and she'sentertained them before at her house in town, so they struck up greatfriends with her here, and yesterday she had her supper served in theupstairs parlour, and had them, and me, and nobody else. She says one ofthem saw me out yesterday morning, and was 'smitten'--that's what shecalls it. "

Eliza gave an affected laugh as she repeated the vulgar word, andcoloured a little. "She says if I'll come to see her in town she's nodoubt but that he'll 'propose. '". 

"But I thought you were not going?"

"I don't care for her, " said Eliza, as if ingratitude were a virtue, "but I rather like the young gentleman. That makes a difference. Lookhere! She says he's getting on in business, and would give me acarriage. How do you think I should look driving in a carriage, likeMrs. Brown? Should I look as grand as she does?"

"Much grander, I daresay, and much handsomer. "

"They all give dinner parties at Montreal. " Eliza said thisreflectively, speaking the name of that city just as an English countrygirl would speak of "London. " "Don't you think I could go to dinnerparties as grand as any one? And, look here, they showed me all sorts ofphotographs the Montreal ladies get taken of themselves, and one wastaken with her hair down and her side face turned. And Mrs. Glass hasbeen up here this afternoon, saying that her gentlemen friends say Imust be taken in the same way. She was fixing me for it. Look, I'll showyou how it is. "

Her great masses of hair, left loose apparently from this last visit, were thrown down her back in a moment, and Eliza, looking-glass in hand, sat herself sideways on a chair, and disposed her hair so that it hungwith shining copper glow like a curtain behind her pale profile. "Whatdo I look like, Miss Sophia?"

"Like what you are, Eliza--a handsome girl. "

"Then why shouldn't I marry a rich man? It would be easier than drudginghere, and yet I thought it was grand to be here last year. It's easyenough to get up in the world. "

"Yes, when anyone has the right qualities for it. "

"I have the right qualities. "

"Unscrupulousness?" interrogated Sophia; and then she charged the girlwith the falsehood of her name. 

Eliza put down her looking-glass and rolled up her hair. There wassomething almost leonine in her attitude, in her silence, as shefastened the red masses. Sophia felt the influence of strong feelingupon her; she almost felt fear. Then Eliza came and stood in front ofher. 

"Is he _very_ ill, do you think, Miss Sophia?"

"Not dangerously. " Sophia had no doubt as to who was meant. "If he wouldonly take reasonable care he'd be pretty well. "

"But he won't, " she cried. "On the clearin', when he used to take cold, he'd do all the wrong things. He'll just go and kill himself doing likethat now, when he goes back there alone--and winter coming on. "

"Do you think you could persuade him not to go?"

"He's just that sort of a man he'd never be happy anywhere else. Hehones for the place. No, he'll go back and kill himself. I'm sorry, butit can't be helped. I'm _not_ sorry I came away from him; I'm not sorryI changed my name, and did all the things I s'pose he's told you I did, and that I s'pose you think are so wicked. I'd do it again if I was asfrightened and as angry. Was he to make me his slave-wife? _That's_ whathe wanted of me! I know the man!"--scornfully--"he said it was for mygood, but it was his own way he wanted. " All the forced quiescence ofher manner had changed to fire. "And if you think that I'm unnatural, and wicked to pretend I had a different name, and to do what I did toget quit of him, then I'll go among people who will think it was cleverand a fine joke, and will think more about my fine appearance than aboutbeing good all day long. "

Sophia was terribly roused by the torrent of feeling that was nowpouring forth, not more in words than in silent force, from the youngwoman who stood over her. 

"Go!" she cried, "go to such people. Marry the man who cares for yourhair and your good looks. Urge him on to make money, and buy yourselfclothes and carriages and houses. I have no doubt you can do it! I tellyou, Eliza Cameron, such things are not much worth picking up at a gift, let alone selling the nicer part of yourself for them!"

The two had suddenly clashed, with word and feeling, the one against theother. 

The window of Eliza's room was open, and the prospect from it had thatfar-off peace that the prospect from high windows is apt to have. Theperfect weather breathed calm over the distant land, over the nearervillage; but inside, the full light fell upon the two women aglow withtheir quarrel. 

Sophia, feeling some instinctive link to the vain, ambitious girl beforeher, struck with words as one strikes in the dark, aiming at a depth andtenderness that she dimly felt to be there. 

She believed in, and yet doubted, the strength in the better part ofEliza's heart; believed, but spoke hurriedly, because she felt that achilly doubt was coming over her as to whether, after all, there was anycomprehension, any answering thrill, for the words she said. 

Her own stately beauty was at its height, at its loveliest hour, whenshe spoke. She had been, in girlhood, what is called a beauty; she haddazzled men's eyes and turned their heads; and when the first bloom waspast, she had gone out of the glare, having neither satisfied the worldnor been satisfied with it, because of the higher craving that isworldly disability. She had turned into the common paths of life andlooked upon her beauty and her triumph as past. And yet, ten yearsafter the triumphs of her girlhood, this day, this hour, found her morebeautiful than she had ever been before. The stimulus of a new and moreperfect climate, the daily labour for which others pitied her, had donetheir part. The angels who watch over prayer and effort and failure; andfailure and effort and prayer, had laid their hands upon her brow, bestowing graces. As she sat now, speaking out of a full heart, therecame a colour and light that gave an ethereal charm to her handsomeface. There was no one there to see it; Eliza Cameron was notsusceptible to beauty. God, who created beauty in flowers and women, andknew to the full the uses thereof, did not set flowers in gardeners'shows nor women in ball-rooms. 

Sophia had spoken strongly, vividly, of the vanity of what men callsuccess, and the emptiness of what they call wealth, but Eliza, self-centred, did not enter into this wide theme. 

"You despise me, " she repeated sullenly, "because of what I have done. "

"What makes you think I despise you?"

She did not intend to draw a confession on the false supposition thatBates had already told all the story, but this was the result. Eliza, with arms folded defiantly, stated such details of her conduct as shesupposed, would render her repulsive, stated them badly, and evoked thatfeeling of repulsion that she was defying. 

Sophia was too much roused to need time for thought. "I cannot condemnyou, for I have done as bad a thing as you have done, and for the samereason, " she cried. 

Eliza looked at her, and faltered in her self-righteousness. "I don'tbelieve it, " she said rudely. She fell back a pace or two, and took tosorting the piles of white coverlets mechanically. 

"You did what you did because of everything in the world that you wantedthat you thought you could get that way; and, for the same reason, Ionce agreed to marry a man I didn't like. If you come to think of it, that was as horrid and unnatural; it is a worse thing to desecrate thelife of a living man than the death of a dead one. I stand condemned asmuch as you, Eliza; but don't you go on now to add to one unnatural deedanother as bad. "

"Why did you do it?" asked Eliza, drawn, wondering, from the thought ofherself. 

"I thought I could not bear poverty and the crowd of children at home, and that fortune and rank would give me all I wanted; and the reason Ididn't go through with it was that through his generosity I tasted allthe advantages in gifts and social distinction before the wedding day, and I found it wasn't worth what I was giving for it, just as you willfind some day that all you can gain in the way you are going now is notworth the disagreeableness, let alone the wrong, of the wrong-doing. "

"You think that because you are high-minded, " said Eliza, beginningagain in a nervous way to sort the linen. 

"So are you, Eliza. " Miss Rexford wondered whether she was true or falsein saying it, whether it was the merest flattery to gain an end or thegenerous conviction of her heart. She did not know. The most nobletruths that we utter often seem to us doubtfully true. 

Now Sophia felt that what Eliza had said was only the fact--that it wasvery sad that Mr. Bates should go ill and alone to his lonely home, butthat it could not be helped. To whatever degree of repentance and newresolution Eliza might be brought, Sophia saw no way whatever ofmaterially helping Bates; but she urged the girl to go and visit him, and say such kind and penitent things as might be in her power to say, before he set forth on his melancholy journey. 

"No, " said Eliza, "I won't go"; and this was all that could be obtainedfrom her. 

The visit was at an end. Sophia felt that it had been futile, and shedid not overlook the rebuff to herself. With this personal affrontrankling, and indignation that Eliza should still feel so resentfulafter all that had been urged on behalf of Bates, she made her way intothe street. 

She was feeling that life was a weary thing when she chanced, near theend of the village, to look back, and saw Alec Trenholme some waybehind, but coming in the same direction. Having her report to give, shewaited and brought him to her side. 

Sophia told all that had just passed, speaking with a restful feeling ofconfidence in him. She had never felt just this confidence in a manbefore; it sprang up from somewhere, she knew not where; probably fromthe union of her sense of failure and his strength. She even told himthe analogy she had drawn between Eliza's conduct and the mistake of herown life, alluding only to what all her little public knew of her deeds;but it seemed to him that she was telling what was sacred to herself-knowledge. He glanced at her often, and drank in all the pleasureof her beauty. He even noticed the simplicity of the cotton gown andleather belt, and the hat that was trimmed only with dried everlastingflowers, such as grew in every field. As she talked his cane strucksometimes a sharp passionate blow among plumes of golden-rod that grewby their path, and snapped many a one. 

The roadside grass was ragged. The wild plum shrubs by the fences werebronzed by September. In the fields the stubble was yellow and brown. The scattered white houses were all agleam in the clear, cool sunshine. 

As he listened, Alec Trenholme's feeling was not now wrought upon at allby what he was hearing of the girl who had stumbled in and out of hislife in ghostly fashion. Her masquerade, with all its consequences, hadbrought him within near touch of another woman, whose personality atthis hour overshadowed his mind to the exclusion of every otherinterest. He was capable only of thinking that Sophia was treating himas a well-known friend. The compunction suppressed within him culminatedwhen, at her father's gate, Miss Rexford held out her hand for thegood-bye grasp of his. The idea that he was playing a false part becameintolerable. Impulsively he showed reluctance to take the hand. 

"Miss Rexford, I--I'm afraid you think--"

Then he remembered the promise by which he was bound to let Robert tellhis own story. Confused, he seemed to know nothing but that he mustfinish his sentence to satisfy the interrogation in her eyes. 

"You think I am a gentleman like Robert. I am only a--"

"What?" she asked, looking upon him good-humouredly, as she would havelooked upon a blundering boy. 

"I am only a--a--cad, you know. "

His face had an uncomfortable look, hot and red. She was puzzled, butthe meaning that was in his thought did not enter hers. In a moment thatromantic didacticism which was one of the strongest elements in hercharacter had struck his strange words into its own music. 

"Oh, Mr. Trenholme!" she cried; "do not so far outdo us all in the graceof confession. We are all willing to own ourselves sinners; but toconfess to vulgarity, to be willing to admit that in us personally thereis a vein of something vulgar, that, to our shame, we sometimes strikeupon! Ah, people must be far nobler than they are before that clause canbe added to the General Confession!"

He looked at her, and hardly heard her words; but went on his way witheyes dazzled and heart tumultuous. 

When at home he turned into the study, where his brother was still aprisoner. The autumn breeze and sunshine entered even into this domainof books and papers. The little garden was so brimful of bloom that itoverflowed within the window-sill. 

When he had loitered long enough to make believe that he had not comein for the sake of this speech, Alec said, "I'm going to the West--atleast, when Bates is gone, I'll go; and, look here, I don't know thatI'd say anything to these people if I were in your case. Don't feel anyobligation to say anything on my account. "

Principal Trenholme was at his writing-table. "Ah?" said he, prolongingthe interrogation with benign inflection. 

"Have you come to doubt the righteousness of your own conclusions?" Buthe did not discuss the subject further. 

He was busy, for the students and masters of the college were toassemble in a few days; yet he found time in a minute or two to askidly, "Where have you been?"

"For one thing, I walked out from the village with Miss Rexford. "

"And"--with eyes bent upon his writing--"what do you think of MissRexford?"

Never was question put with less suspicion; it was interesting to Robertonly for the pleasure it gave him to pronounce her name, not at all forany weight that he attached to the answer. And Alec answered himindifferently. 

"She has a pretty face, " said he, nearing the door. 

"Yes, " the other answered musingly, "yes; 'her face is one of GodAlmighty's wonders in a little compass. '"

But Alec had gone out, and did not hear the words nor see the dream oflove that they brought into the other's eyes. There was still hope inthat dream, the sort of hope that springs up again unawares from theground where it has been slain. 

CHAPTER XV. 

It had not been continued resentment against Bates that had made Elizarefuse Miss Rexford's request; it was the memory of the kiss with whichhe had bade her good-bye. For two days she had been haunted by thismemory, yet disregarded it, but when that night came, disturbed bySophia's words, she locked out the world and took the thing to her heartto see of what stuff it was made. 

Eliza lived her last interview with Bates over and over again, until sheput out her light, and sat by her bedside alone in the darkness, andwondered at herself and at all things, for his farewell was like a lensthrough which she looked and the proportion of her world was changed. 

There is strange fascination in looking at familiar scenes inunfamiliar aspect. Even little children know this when, from someswinging branch, they turn their heads downwards, and see, not their ownfield, but fairyland. 

Eliza glanced at her past while her sight was yet distorted, it mightbe, or quickened to clearer vision, by a new pulse of feeling; and, arrested, glanced again and again until she looked clearly, steadily, atthe retrospect. The lonely farm in the hills was again present to hereyes, the old woman, the father now dead, and this man. Bates, stern andopinionated, who had so constantly tutored her. Her mind went back, dwelling on details of that home-life; how Bates had ruled, commanded, praised, and chidden, and she had been indifferent to his rule until anhour of fear had turned indifference into hate. It was very strange tolook at it all now, to lay it side by side with a lover's kiss and thissame man her lover. 

Perhaps it was a sense of new power that thrilled her so strangely. Itneeded no course of reasoning to tell her that she was mistress now, andhe slave. His words had never conveyed it to her, but by this sign sheknew it with the same sort of certainty we have that there is life inbreath. She had sought power, but not this power. Of this dominion shehad never dreamed, but she was not so paltry at heart but that ithumbled her. She whispered to herself that she wished this had not been;and yet she knew that to herself she lied, for she would rather haveobliterated all else in the universe than the moment in which Bates hadsaid farewell. The universe held for her, as for everyone, just so muchof the high and holy as she had opened her heart to; and, poor girl, herheart had been shut so that this caress of the man whose life had beennearly wrecked by her deed was the highest, holiest thing that had yetfound entrance there, and it brought with it into the darkness of herheart, unrecognised but none the less there, the Heaven which is beyondall selfless love, the God who is its source. Other men might haveproffered lavish affection in vain, but in this man's kiss, coming outof his humiliation and resignation, there breathed the power that movesthe world. 

She did not consider now whether Bates's suffering had been of his ownmaking or hers. She was not now engaged in an exercise of repentance;compunction, if she felt it, came to her in a nervous tremor, a sob, atear, not in intelligible thought. Her memory gave her pictures, and therest was feeling--dumb, even within. She crouched upon the floor andleaned her head against the bedside. Dry, trembling sobs came atintervals, passing over her as if some outside force had shaken and lefther again; and sometimes, in the quiet of the interval, her lips smiled, but the darkness was around. Then, at length, came tranquillity. Herimagination, which had been strained to work at the bidding of memory, in weariness released itself from hard reality, and in a waking dream, touched, no doubt, into greater vividness by hovering hands of Sleep, she found temporary rest. Dreams partake of reality in that that whichis and that which might be, are combined in their semblance of life. Eliza saw the home she had so long hated and lived its life once more, but with this difference, that she, her new present self, was there, andinto the old life she brought perforce what knowledge of the world'srefinements she had gained in her year of freedom. The knowledge seemedto her much more important than it was, but such as it was, she saw itutilised in the log house, and the old way of life thereby changed, butchanged the more because she, she the child Sissy, reigned there now asa queen. It was this idea of reigning, of power, that surely now madethis dream--wild, impossible as she still felt it to be--pleasant. But, as she pondered, arranging small details as a stimulated imagination iswont to do, she became gradually conscious that if love were to reignlong, the queen of love would be not only queen but slave, and, as bythe inevitable action of a true balance, the slave of love would be aruler too. This new conception, as it at first emerged, was notdisagreeable. Her imagination worked on, mapping out days and months toher fascinated heart. Then Sleep came nearer, and turned theself-ordered dream into that which the dreamer mistook for reality. Inthat far-off home she saw all the bareness and roughness of the lonelylife which, do what she would, she could not greatly alter; and thereagain Bates kissed her; she felt his touch in all its reality, and inher dream she measured the barrenness of the place against the knowledgethat her love was his life. 

The soul that lay dreaming in this way was the soul of a heavy-limbed, ungracious woman. She lay now on the floor in ungainly attitude, and allthe things that were about her in the darkness were of that commonesttype with which ignorance with limited resource has essayed to imitatesome false ideal of finery, and produced such articles as furnituredaubed with painted flowers, jute carpets, and gowns beflounced andgaudy. Yet this soul, shut off from the world now by the curtain ofsleep, was spoken to by an angel who blended his own being intorecollections of the day, and treated with her concerning the life thatis worthy and the life that is vain. 

Eliza awoke with a start. She raised herself up stiff and chilly. Shelooked back upon her dream, at first with confusion and then withcontempt. She lit her lamp and the present was around her again. 

"No, I will not go, " she said to herself. The words had been conned inher fit of rudeness to Sophia Rexford that day, but now they had a widermeaning. 

All sweet influences sent out from Heaven to plead with human heartswithdrew for the time, for--such an awful thing is life--we have powerto repulse God. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Robert Trenholme was still obliged to rest his sprained ankle, and wasnot yet going out, but an opportunity was afforded him of meeting hisfriendly neighbours, at least the feminine portion of them, in company, sooner than he anticipated. 

The day before the college reassembled it happened that thesewing-circle connected with the church met at Mrs. Rexford's house. Theweather was unusually warm for the season; the workers still preferredto sit out of doors, and the grass under the tree at the front of thehouse was their place of meeting. About a dozen were there, among whomMrs. And Miss Bennett were conspicuous, when Mrs. Brown and her daughterdrove up, a little belated, but full of an interesting project. 

"Oh, Mrs. Rexford, " they cried, "we have just thought of such a charmingplan! Why not send our carriage on to the college, and beg PrincipalTrenholme to drive back here and sit an hour or two with us? It's sonear that, now he is so much better, the motion cannot hurt him; thischarming air and the change cannot fail to do him good, so confined ashe has been, and we shall all work with the more zeal in his presence. "

The plan was approved by all. If there were others there who, withSophia Rexford, doubted whether greater zeal with the needle would bethe result of this addition to their party, they made no objections. They could not but feel that it would be a good thing for the invalid'ssolitude to be thus broken in upon, for, for some reason or other, Trenholme had been in solitude lately; he had neither invited visitorsnor embraced such opportunity as he had of driving out. 

Trenholme answered this invitation in person. The motherly members ofthe party attended him at the carriage door when he drove up, and, withalmost affectionate kindness, conducted his limping steps to a recliningchair that had been provided. His crutch, and a certain pensive palloron his countenance, certainly added to his attractions. Even SophiaRexford was almost humble in the attentions she offered him, and theother maidens were demonstrative. In spite of such protestations as hemade, he was enthroned, as it were, in the most comfortable manner. Fursleigh robes were spread on the grass for a carpet, and the best of themwas used as a rug about his feet. 

The majority of women are best pleased by the company of a man whomother men admire. Trenholme had never descended to being, even inleisure hours, a mere "ladies' man"; if he had been that he would nothave had his present place in this company. Yet he was not bored byfinding himself the only man among so many women; he knew most of thesewomen, their faults and their worthiness, far too well not to be at easewith them, even if he had troubled to give a second thought to theirlargess of kindliness. He had responded to their unexpected call to meetthem together because he had something to say to them, and he said itthat afternoon in his own time and in his own way. Had he needed toborrow dignity to sustain their jubilant welcome, his purpose would havelent it to him, and, for the rest, all his heart was overshadowed andfilled with the consciousness of Sophia Rexford's presence. He had notseen her since the night in which they had walked through midnight hourstogether. He could not touch her hand without feeling his own tremble. He did not look at her again. 

It was a pretty scene. The women, on their carpet of faded ox andbuffalo skins, were grouped on chairs and cushions. The foliage of themaple tree above them was turning pink and crimson, shedding a glow asof red curtains, and some of its leaves were already scattered upon theragged grass or on the shelving verandah roof of the wooden farmhouse. The words that fell in small talk from the women were not unlike thecolour of these fading leaves--useless, but lending softness to thehour. 

"And _your_ sewing-party will quite bear the palm for this season, Mrs. Rexford, quite the palm; for no other has been honoured by the presenceof the Principal. "

It was Mrs. Bennett who spoke; her upright carriage, thin nose, andclear even voice, carried always the suggestion of mild but obstinateself-importance. 

The birdlike little hostess, confused by the misapplied praise, remonstrated. "'Tis Mrs. Brown, " cried she, "who bears the palm. "

Here the younger ladies, to whom nature had kindly given the savingsense of humour, laughed a little--not too obviously--in concert withthe man thus lauded. 

Then they all fell to talking upon the latest news that Chellaston couldafford, which was, that a gentleman, a minister from the south of Maine, had arrived, and by various explanations had identified the old preacherwho had been called Cameron as his father. It seemed that the old manhad long ago partially lost his wits--senses and brain having beenimpaired through an accident--but this son had always succeeded inkeeping him in a quiet neighbourhood where his condition was understood, until, in the beginning of the previous winter, the poor wanderer hadescaped the vigilance of his friends. It was partly on account of thefalse name which had been given him that they had failed to trace himuntil the circumstances of his tragic death were advertised. 

"The son is culpable. Mad people should be shut up where they can do nomischief. " About half the ladies present joined in this comment. 

Mrs. Rexford looked round uneasily to see that her young daughterWinifred had not joined the party. Indiscreet usually, she waswonderfully tender in these days of Winifred. 

"I am not sure that if he had been my father I would have shut him up. "Trenholme spoke and sighed. 

"If he had been my father, " Sophia cried vehemently, "I would have gonewith him from village to village and door to door; I would rather havebegged my bread than kept him from preaching. I would have told thepeople he was a _little_ mad, but not much, and saner than any of_them_. "

There was enough sympathy with Sophia's vivacity among her friends tomake it easy to express herself naturally. 

"What is one false opinion more or less?" she cried. "Do any of usimagine that _our_ opinions are just those held in heaven? This old manhad all his treasure in heaven, and that is, after all, the bestsecurity that heart or mind will not go far astray. "

The youngest Miss Brown was sitting on the fur rugs, not very far fromTrenholme. She looked up at him, pretty herself in the prettiness ofgenuine admiration. 

"It is such a pity that Miss Rexford is sitting just out of your sight. You would be lenient to the heresy if you could see how becoming it isto the heretic. "

But Trenholme was not seen to look round. He was found to be saying thatthe son of the late preacher evidently held his father in reverence; itseemed that the old man had in his youth been a disciple and preacherunder Miller, the founder of the Adventist sect; it was natural that, ashis faculties failed, his mind should revert to the excitements of theformer time. 

Mrs. Bennett had already launched forth an answer to Sophia'senthusiasm. She continued, in spite of Trenholme's intervening remarks. "When I was a girl papa always warned us against talking on serioussubjects. He thought we could not understand them. "

"I think it was good advice, " said Sophia with hardihood. 

"Oh yes, naturally--papa being a dean--"

Trenholme encouraged the conversation about the dean. It occurred to himto ask if there was a portrait extant of that worthy. "We are suchrepetitions of our ancestors, " said he, "that I think it is a pity whenfamily portraits are lacking. "

Mrs. Bennett regretted that her father's modesty, the fortunes of thefamily, etc. ; but she said there was a very good portrait of her uncle, the admiral, in his son's house in London. 

"I do not feel that I represent my ancestors in the least, " said MissBennett, "and I should be very sorry if I did. "

She certainly did not look very like her mother, as she sat withaffectionate nearness to Sophia Rexford, accomplishing more work in anhour with her toil-reddened hands than her mother was likely to do intwo. 

"Ah, ladies' feelings!" Trenholme rallied her openly. "But whatever youmay _feel_, you assuredly do represent them, and owe to them all youare. "

"Very true, " said the mother approvingly. "Papa had black hair, Principal Trenholme; and although my daughter's hair is brown, I oftennotice in it just that gloss and curl that was so beautiful in his. "

"Yes, like and unlike are oddly blended. My father was a butcher bytrade, and although my work in life has been widely different from his, I often notice in myself something of just those qualities which enabledhim to succeed so markedly, and I know that they are my chief reliance. My brother, who has determined to follow my father's trade, is not solike him in many ways as I am. "

If he had said that his father had had red hair, he would not have saidit with less emphasis. No one present would have doubted histruthfulness on the one point, nor did they now doubt it on this other;but no one mastered the sense and force of what he had said untilminutes, more or less in each case, had flown past, and in the meantimehe had talked on, and his talk had drifted to other points in thesubject of heredity. Sophia answered him; the discussion became general. 

Blue and Red came offering cups of tea. 

"Aren't they pretty?" said the youngest Miss Brown, again lifting hereyes to Trenholme for sympathy in her admiration. 

"Sh--sh--, " said the elder ladies, as if it were possible that Blue andRed could be kept in ignorance of their own charms. 

A man nervously tired can feel acute disappointment at the smallest, silliest thing. Trenholme had expected that Sophia would pour out histea; he thought it would have refreshed him then to the very soul, evenif she had given it indifferently. The cup he took seemed like somebitter draught he was swallowing for politeness' sake. When it, and allthe necessary talk concerning it, were finished, together with othermatters belonging to the hour, he got himself out of his big chair, andMrs. Brown's horses, that had been switching their tails in the lane, drove him home. 

The carriage gone, Mrs. Brown's curiosity was at hand directly. She andMrs. Rexford were standing apart where with motherly kindness they hadbeen bidding him good-bye. 

"I suppose, Mrs. Rexford, you know--you have always known--this factconcerning Principal Trenholme's origin. I mean what he alluded to justnow. " Mrs. Brown spoke, not observing Mrs. Rexford but the group inwhich her daughters were prominent figures. 

Nothing ever impressed Mrs. Rexford's imagination vividly that did notconcern her own family. 

"I do not think it has been named to me, " said she, "but no doubt myhusband and Sophia--"

"You think they have known it?" It was of importance to Mrs. Brown toknow whether Captain Rexford and Sophia had known or not; for if theyknew and made no difference--"If Miss Rexford has not objected. She issurely a judge in such matters!"

"Sophia! Yes, to be sure, Sophia is very highly connected on hermother's side. I often say to my husband that I am a mere nobodycompared with his first wife. But Sophia is not proud. Sophia would bekind to the lowest, Mrs. Brown. " (This praise was used with vaguestapplication. ) "She has such a good heart! Really, what she has done forme and my children--"

A light broke in upon Mrs. Brown's mind. She heard nothing concerningMrs. Rexford and her children. She knew now, or felt sure she knew, whyMiss Rexford had always seemed a little stiff when Trenholme waspraised. Her attitude towards him, it appeared, had always been that ofmere "kindness. " Now, up to this moment, Mrs. Brown, although not adesigning woman, had entertained comfortable motherly hopes thatTrenholme might ultimately espouse one of her daughters, and it hadcertainly advanced him somewhat in her favour that his earlyacquaintance with Miss Rexford was an undisputed fact; but in the lightof what Mrs. Rexford had just said of her daughter's good-heartednessall assumed a different aspect. Mrs. Brown was in no way "highlyconnected, " belonging merely to the prosperous middle class, but, withthe true colonial spirit that recognises only distance below, noneabove, she began to consider whether, in the future, her rôle should notbe that of mere kindness also. To do her justice, she did not decide thequestion just then. 

The voice of her youngest daughter was heard laughing ratherimmoderately. "Indeed, Mrs. Bennett, " she laughed, "we all heard him sayit, and, unlike you, we believed our ears. We'll draw up a statement tothat effect and sign our names, if that is necessary to assure you. "

Her mother, approaching, detected, as no one else did, a strain ofhysterical excitement in her laughter, and bid her rise to come home, but she did not heed the summons. 

"Yes, he _did_ say it. That handsome brother of his, to whom I lost myheart two weeks ago, does really--well, to put it plainly, knock animalson the head, you know, and sell them in chops, and--what do you call it, mamma?--the sirloin and brisket. 'How do you do, Mr. Trenholme? I wantsome meat for dinner--chops, I think. ' Oh, how I should love to go andbuy chops!"

Sophia was kneeling over a pile of work, folding it. She asked theboisterous girl for the cloth she had been sewing, and her voice washard and impatient, as if she wished the talk at an end. 

Mrs. Bennett arose and wrapped her cape about her thin shoulders, notwithout some air of majesty. There was a bitter angry expression uponher delicate face. 

"All that I wish to say in this matter is, that _I_ never knew thisbefore; others may have been in possession of these facts, but I wasnot. "

"If you had been, of course you would have honoured him the more fortriumphing over difficulties, " answered the elder Miss Brown, withsmooth sarcasm. 

"Yes, certainly _that_, of course; but I should have thought him veryunsuitably placed as an instructor of youth and--"

The right adjustment of the cape seemed to interrupt the speech, butothers mentally supplied the ending with reference to Miss Bennett. 

"Miss Rexford, being one of Principal Trenholme's oldest friends, is nottaken by surprise. " Some one said this; Sophia hardly knew who it was. She knelt upright by the packing basket and threw back her head. 

"I met him often at my own uncle's house. My uncle knew him_thoroughly_, and liked him well. "

Most of the women there were sensibly commenting on the amount of workdone, and allotting shares for the ensuing week. It would take a week atleast to rouse them to the state of interest at which others had alreadyarrived. 

Her cape adjusted, Mrs. Bennett found something else to say. "Of course, personally, it makes no difference to me, for I have always felt therewas _something_ about Principal Trenholme--that is, that he was not--Itis a little hard to express; one feels, rather than speaks, thesethings. "

It was a lie, but what was remarkable about it was that its author didnot know it for one. In the last half-hour she had convinced herselfthat she had always suffered in Trenholme's presence from his lack ofrefinement, and there was little hope that an imagination that couldmake such strides would not soon discover in him positive coarseness. As the party dispersed she was able to speak aside to Sophia. 

"I see how you look upon it, " she said. "There is no difference betweenone trade and another, or between a man who deals in cargoes of cattleand one who sells meat in a shop. "--She was weakly excited; her voicetrembled. "Looking down from a higher class, we must see that, althoughall trades are in a sense praiseworthy, one is as bad as another. "

"They seem to me very much on a level, " said Sophia. There was still ahard ring in her voice. She looked straight before her. 

"Of course in this country"--Mrs. Bennett murmured somethinghalf-audible about the Browns. "One cannot afford to be too particularwhom one meets, but I certainly should have thought that in ourpulpits--in our schools--"

She did not finish. Her thin mouth was settling into curves that bespokethat relentless cruelty which in the minds of certain people, issynonymous with justice. 

It was a rickety, weather-stained chaise in which Mrs. Bennett and herdaughter were to drive home. As Miss Bennett untied the horse herself, there was a bright red spot on either of her cheeks. She had made noremark on the subject on which her mother was talking, nor did she speaknow. She was in love with Trenholme, that is, as much in love as apractical woman can be with a man from whom she has little hope of areturn. She was not as pretty as many girls are, nor had she theadvantages of dress and leisure by which to make herself attractive. Shehad hoped little, but in an honest, humble-minded, quiet way she hadpreferred this man to any other. Now, although she was as different fromher mother as nature could make her, precepts with which her mind hadbeen plied from infancy had formed her thought. She was incapable ofself-deception, she knew that he had been her ideal man; but she wasalso incapable of seeing him in the same light now as heretofore. 

Miss Bennett held the reins tight and gave her horse smart strokes ofthe whip. The spiritless animal took such driving passively, as itjogged down the quiet road by the enclosure of the New College. 

Unconscious that her words were inconsistent with what she had so latelysaid, Mrs. Bennett complained again. "My nerves have received quite ashock; I am all in a tremble. " It was true; she was even wiping awaygenuine tears. "Oh, my dear, it's a terribly low occupation. Oh, mydear, the things I have heard they do--the atrocities they commit!"

"I daresay what you heard was true, " retorted Miss Bennett, "but it doesnot follow that they are all alike. " Without perceiving clearly theextent of the fallacy, she felt called upon to oppose thegeneralisations of a superficial mind. 

So they passed out of sight of Trenholme's house. Inside he sat at hisdesk, plunged again in the work of writing business letters. We seldomrealise in what way we give out the force that is within us, or in whatproportion it flows into this act or that. Trenholme was under theimpression that what he had done that afternoon had been done withouteffort? The effort, as he realised it, had come days and weeks before. Yet, as he worked through the hours that were left of that day's light, he felt a weariness of body and mind that was almost equivalent to adesire for death. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Sophia Rexford stood and watched the last of the afternoon's company as, some driving and some on foot, they passed in different directions alongthe level road. It was a very peaceful scene. The neighbourhood laysunning itself in the last warmth of the summer, and the neighbours, toall appearance, were moving homeward in utmost tranquillity. Sophia wasnot at peace; she was holding stern rule over her mind, saying, "Be atpeace; who hath disturbed thee?" This rule lasted not many minutes; thensuddenly mutiny. "Good Heavens!" she cried within herself, "howindiscreet I have been, making friends with these men. Shall I neverlearn wisdom--I who have sought to direct others?" The recollectionsthat came caused her, in the sting of mortified pride, to strike herhand with painful force against a chair near her. The bruise recalledher to calm. The chair she had struck was that large one in which RobertTrenholme had reclined. It aided her to ponder upon the man who had solately been seen on its cushions, and, in truth, her ponderingbewildered her. Why had he not said as much to her years before, and whyhad he now said what he did, as he did? She thought she had known thisman, had fathomed him as to faults and virtues, though at some times sherated their combination more reverently than at others. Truth to tell, she had known him well; her judgment, impelled by the suggestion of hispossible love, had scanned him patiently. Yet now she owned herself atfault, unable to construe the manner of this action or assign aparticular motive with which it was in harmony. It is by manner that theindividual is revealed (for many men may do the same deed), and a friendwho perforce must know a friend only by faith and the guessing of theunseen by the seen, fastens instinctively upon signs too slight to bewritten in the minutest history. At this moment, as Sophia stood amongthe vacant seats, the scene of the conversation which had just takenplace, she felt that her insight into Robert Trenholme failed her. Sherecalled a certain peace and contentment that, in spite of fatigue, waswritten on his face. She set it by what he had said, and gained from itan unreasoning belief that he was a nobler man than she had latelysupposed him to be; in the same breath her heart blamed him bitterly fornot having told her this before, and for telling it now as if, forsooth, it was a matter of no importance. "How dare he?" Again herself withinherself was rampant, talking wildly. "How dare he?" asked Anger. ThenScorn, demanded peace again, for, "It is not of importance to me, " saidScorn. 

Blue and Red and Winifred and the little boys came out to carry in thechairs and rugs. A cool breeze came with the reddening of the sunlight, and stirred the maple tree into its evening whispering. 

As Sophia worked with the children the turmoil of her thought went on. Something constantly stung her pride like the lash of a whip; she turnedand shifted her mind to avoid it, and could not. 

She had deliberately deceived her friends when she had asserted that heruncle had known all Trenholme's affairs. She had not the slightest doubtnow, looking back, that he had known--a thousand small things testifiedto it; but he had not made a confidante of her, his niece, and she knewthat that would be the inference drawn from her assertion. She knew, too, that the reason her uncle, who had died soon after, had not toldher was that he never dreamed that then or afterwards she would comeinto intimate relationship with his protégé. To give the impression thathe, and she also, knowing Trenholme's origin, had overlooked it, wastotally false. Yet she did not regret this falsehood. Who with a sparkof chivalry would not have dealt as hard a blow as strength might permitin return for so mean an attack on the absent man? But none the less didher heart upbraid the man she had defended. 

Sophia stood, as in a place where two seas met, between her indignationagainst the spirit Mrs. Bennett had displayed (and which she knew waslying latent ready to be fanned into flame in the hearts of only toomany of Trenholme's so-called friends) and her indignation againstTrenholme and his history. But it was neither the one current of emotionnor the other that caused that dagger-like pain that stabbed her prideto the quick. It was not Robert Trenholme's concerns that touched herself-love. 

She had gained her own room to be alone. "Heaven help me, " she cried(her ejaculation had perhaps no meaning except that she had need ofexpletive), "what a fool I have been!"

She rehearsed each meeting she had had with Alec Trenholme. How she haddallied with him in fields and on the road, seeing now clearly, as neverbefore, how she had smiled upon him, how she had bewitched him. Whatmischance had led her on? She sprang up again from the seat into whichshe had sunk. "Mercy!" she cried in an agony of shame, "was ever womanso foolish as I? I have treated him as a friend, and he is--!"

Then for some reason, she ceased to think of herself and thought of him. She considered: had he made no effort? had he felt no pain? She saw howhe had waveringly tried to avoid her at first, and how, at last, he hadtried to warn her. She thought upon the epithet he had applied tohimself when trying to explain himself to her: she lifted her headagain, and, in a glow of generous thought, she felt that this was afriend of whom no one need be ashamed. 

The bell for the evening meal rang. There are hours in which wetranscend ourselves, but a little thing brings us back to the level onwhich we live. As Sophia hastily brushed her dark hair, mortified pridestabbed her again, and scorn again came to the rescue. "What does itmatter? It would have been better, truly, if I had had less to do withhim, but what has passed is of no importance to anyone, least of all tome!"

As she had begun at first to rule her heart, so did she rule it all thatevening. But when she was again within her room alone she lingered, looking out of her small casement at the fields where she had met AlecTrenholme, at the road where she walked with him: all was white and coldnow in the moonlight. And soon she leaned her head against the pane andwept. 

Those are often the bitterest tears for which we can furnish no definitecause; when courage fails, we see earth only through our tears, and allform is out of proportion, all colour crude, all music discord, andevery heart a well of evil, and we bewail, not our own woes only, butthe woe of the world. So this proud woman wept, and prayed God wildly tosave the world out of its evil into His good--and did not, could not, tell herself what was the exciting cause of her tears. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Just as that day had turned rosy at the close and then white with thelesser light of night, so did the summer now fade away in a blaze ofcolour, giving one last display of what life could do before leaving theland to the shroud of the winter's snow. Cool bracing winds, of whichthere had already been foretaste, now swept the land. The sun seemedbrighter because the air was clearer. The college boys had returned, andwere heard daily shouting at their games. A few days made all thisoutward difference. No other difference had as yet come about. 

Now that harvest was over and Captain Rexford was more at leisure, Sophia felt that she must no longer postpone the disagreeable duty ofspeaking to him seriously about his younger daughters. She chose an houron Sunday when he and she were walking together to a distant point onthe farm. She told the story of the flirtation of poor little Blue andRed slightly, for she felt that to slight it as much as possible was toput it in its true proportion. 

"Yes, " said Captain Rexford. He took off his hat and brushed back hishair nervously. He had many difficulties in his life. "Yes, and thenthere is Winifred. "

"Girls here are not kept always under the eye of older people, as isusually considered necessary in England; but then they learn from theirinfancy to be more self-reliant. We have taken the safeguards ofgoverness and schoolroom suddenly from children almost grown-up, and setthem where no one has had time to look after them. They would need tohave been miraculously wise if, with time on their hands, they had notspent some of it absurdly. "

"Yes, " he said again unhappily, "what must we do about it, my dear? Yourhands are already full. " He always leaned on Sophia. 

"I fear there is only one thing to do. We cannot give them society; wecannot give them further education; they must have the poor woman'sprotection--work--to take up their time and thoughts. We have saved themfrom hard work until now, and it has not been true kindness. "

He did not answer. He believed what she said, but the truth was verydisagreeable to him. When he spoke again he had left that subject. 

"I am sorry for this affair about the Trenholmes. I like Trenholme, and, of course, he has shown himself able to rise. The younger fellow isplain and bluff, like enough to what he is. "

"His manners are perfectly simple, but I--I certainly never imagined--"

"Oh, certainly not; otherwise, you would hardly have received him as youdid. For us men, of course, in this country--" He gave a dignified waveof his hand. 

"Are you sure of that, papa, --that I would not have received him?" Itwas exactly what she had been saying to herself for days; but, now thatanother said it, the sentiment involved seemed weak. 

"I am aware"--his tone was resigned--"that your opinions are always moreradical than I can approve. The extreme always seems to have, shall Isay, some attraction for you; but still, my daughter, I believe you arenot lacking in proper pride. "

"I am too proud to think that for a good many days I have liked a manwho was not fit for my liking. I prefer to believe that he is fit untilI can have more conclusive proof to the contrary. "

Captain Rexford walked some minutes in sterner silence. He had longceased to regard Sophia as under his authority. 

"Still I hope, my dear, the next time you see this young man--rudeness, of course, being impossible to you, and unnecessary--still I hope youwill allow your manner to indicate that a certain distance must bepreserved. "

Her own sense of expediency had been urging this course upon her, butshe had not been able to bring her mind to it. 

"I should show myself his inferior if I could deliberately hurt him, "she cried, with feeling. The trouble of a long debate she had beenhaving with herself, her uncertainty what to feel or think, gave moreemotion to her voice than she supposed. 

"My dear daughter!" cried the father, with evident agitation. 

Sophia instantly knew on what suspicion this sudden sympathy wasbestowed. She was too indignant to deny the charge. 

"Well, papa?"

"He is, no doubt, a worthy man; but"--he got no help from his daughter;she was walking beside him with imperious mien--"in short, my dear, Ihope--indeed, if I could think that, under false pretences, he couldhave won--"

"He is the last man to seek to win anything under a false pretence. " Thecoldness of her manner but thinly veiled her vehemence; but even in thatvehemence she perceived that what proofs of her assertion she couldbring would savour of too particular a recollection. She let it standunproved. 

"My dear child!" he cried, in affectionate distress, "I know that youwill not forget that rank, birth--" He looked at her, and, seeing thatshe appeared intractable, exclaimed further, "It's no new thing thatladies should, in a fit of madness, demean themselves--young ladiesfrequently marry grooms; but, believe me, my dear Sophia"--earnestly--"nohappiness ever came of such a thing--only misery, and vice, and squalor. "

But here she laughed with irresistible mirth. "Young women who elopewith grooms are not likely to have much basis of happiness inthemselves. And you think me capable of fancying love for a man withouteducation or refinement, a man with whom I could have nothing in commonthat would last beyond a day! What have I ever done, papa, that youshould bring such, an accusation?"

"I certainly beg your pardon, my daughter, if I have maligned you. "

"You _have_ maligned me; there is no 'if' about it. "

"My dear, I certainly apologise. I thought, from the way in which youspoke--"

"You thought I was expressing too warm a regard for Mr. Alec Trenholme;but that has nothing whatever to do with what you have just been talkingabout; for, if he were a groom, if he chose to sweep the streets, hewould be as far removed from the kind of man you have just had in yourmind as you and I are; and, if he were not I could take no interest inhim. "

The gloom on Captain Rexford's brow, which had been dispelled by herlaughter, gathered again. 

"Separate the character of the man from his occupation, " she cried. "Grant that he is what we would all like in a friend. Separate him, too, from any idea that I would marry him, for I was not thinking of such athing. Is there not enough left to distress me? Do you think I underratethe evil of the occupation, even though I believe it has not taintedhim? Having owned him as a friend, isn't it difficult to know whatdegree of friendship I can continue to own for him?"

"My dear, I think you hardly realise how unwise it is to think offriendship between yourself and any such man; recognition of worth theremay be, but nothing more. "

"Oh, papa!"--impatiently--"think of it as you will, but listen to what Ihave to say; for I am in trouble. You were sorry for me just now whenyou imagined I was in love; try and understand what I say now, for I amin distress. I cannot see through this question--what is the right andwhat is the wrong. "

"I do not think I understand you my dear, " he said. 

She had stopped, and leaned back on the roadside fence. He stood beforeher. All around them the yellow golden-rod and mullein were waving inthe wind, and lithe young trees bent with their coloured leaves. CaptainRexford looked at his daughter, and wondered, in his slow way, that shewas not content to be as fair and stately as the flowers withoutperplexing herself thus. 

"Papa, pray listen. You know that night when I went to seekWinifred--you do not know, because I have not told you--but just beforethe old man died. When he stood there, looking up and praying that ourSaviour would come again, there was not one of us who was not carriedaway with the thought of that coming--the thought that when it comes alltime will be _present, _ not _past;_ and, papa, the clouds parted just alittle, and we saw through, beyond all the damp, dark gloom of the placewe were in, into a place of such perfect clearness and beauty beyond--Ican't explain it, but it seemed like an emblem of the difference thatwould be between our muddy ways of thinking of things and the way thatwe should think if we lived always for the sake of the time when He willcome--and it is very easy to talk of that difference in a large generalway, and it does no good--but to bring each particular thing to thattest is practical. Here, for instance, you and I ought to reconsider ourbeliefs and prejudices as they regard this man we are talking about, andfind out what part of them, in God's sight, is pure and strong and to bemaintained, and what part is unworthy and to be cast away. Is it easy, even in such a small matter as this?"

Captain Rexford took off his hat in tribute to his theme, and stoodbareheaded. He looked what he was--a military man of the past and moreformal generation, who with difficulty had adapted himself to the dressand habits of a farmer. He was now honestly doing his utmost to bringhimself to something still more foreign to his former experience. 

"To put it in a practical way, papa: if our Lord were coming to-morrow, how would you advise me to meet Alec Trenholme to-day?"

"Of course, " began Captain Rexford, "in sight of the Almighty all menare equal. "

"No, no, " she pleaded, "by all that is true, men are not equal nor areoccupations equal. Everything has its advantages and disadvantages. Itis not as well to be stupid as to be wise, to be untaught as to betaught, to be ugly as to be beautiful; it is not as good to kill cattleas to till the soil, and it is not as good to be a farmer as to be apoet. It is just because moralists go too far, and say what is not true, that they fail. External things are of more importance to their Creatorthan they are even to us. "

Captain Rexford brushed his hat with his sleeve. The thing that he wasmost anxious to do at that moment was to pacify his daughter. 

"But if you feel this difference so keenly, Sophia, what then perplexesyou?"

"I want to know how to deal with these differences, for the way we havebeen accustomed to deal with them is false. This case, where one brotheris at the top of our little society and the other at the bottom, showsit. Not all false--there comes the difficulty" (her face was full ofdistress), "but largely false. If we have any spiritual life in us it isbecause we have heard the call that Lazarus heard in the tomb, but theopinions we will not let God transform are the graveclothes that arebinding us hand and foot. "

"My dear, I certainly think it right that we should live as much aspossible as we should wish to have lived when we come to die, but I donot know that for that it is necessary to make a radical change in ourviews. "

"Look you, dear father, if we were willing to step out of our ownthoughts about everything as out of a hindering garment, and go forth inthe thoughts in which God is willing to clothe us, we should see a newheaven and a new earth; but--but--" she sought her word. 

"There may be truth in what you say" (his words showed how far he hadbeen able to follow her), "but your views would lead to veryrevolutionary practices. "

"Revolution! Ah, that takes place when men take some new idea of theirown, like the bit, between their teeth, and run. But I said to live inHis ideas--His, without Whom nothing was made that was made; Who causedcreation to revolve slowly out of chaos" (she looked around at themanifold life of tree and flower and bird as she spoke); "Who will notbreak the reed of our customs as long as there is any true substanceleft in it to make music with. "

"It sounds very beautiful, my dear, but is it practicable?"

"As practicable as is any holy life!" she cried. "We believe; if we donot live by a miracle we have no sort or manner of right to preach tothose who do not believe. "

Captain Rexford would have died for his belief in miracles, but he onlybelieved in them at the distance of some eighteen hundred years or more. 

"How would you apply this?" he asked, mildly indulgent. 

"To the question of each hour as it comes. What, for instance, is theright way to act to Alec Trenholme?"

When she came to his name for some reason she left her standing-place, and they were now walking on side by side. 

"Well, Sophia, you bring an instance, and you say, 'put it practically. 'I will do so. This village is badly in need of such a tradesman. Eventhe hotel, and other houses that can afford it, grumble at having toobtain their supplies by rail, and we are badly enough served, as youknow. I have no idea that this young man has any notion of settlinghere, but, _suppose he did_" (Captain Rexford said his last words as ifthey capped a climax), "you will see at a glance that in that case anyrecognition of equality such as you seem to be proposing, would beimpossible. It would be mere confusion. "

"And why should he not settle here? Are we, a Christian community, unable to devise a way of treating him and his brother that wouldneither hurt their feelings nor our welfare, that would be equallyconsonant with our duty to God and our own dignity? Or must he go, because our dignity is such a fragile thing that it would need to besupported by actions that we could not offer to God?"

"You know, my dear, if you will excuse my saying so, I think you arepushing this point a little too far. If it were possible to live up tosuch a high ideal--"

"I would rather die to-night than think that it was _impossible_. "

"My dear" (he was manifestly annoyed now), "you really express yourselftoo strongly. "

"But what use would it be to live?" She was going on but she stopped. What use was it to talk? None. 

She let the subject pass and they conversed on other things. 

She felt strange loneliness. "Am I, in truth, fantastical?" she sighed, "or, if Heaven is witness to the sober truth of that which I conceive, am I so weak as to need other sympathy?" This was the tenor, not thewords, of her thought. Yet all the way home, as they talked and walkedthrough the glowing autumn land, her heart was aching. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The day came on which Bates was to go home. He had had a week's petulantstruggle with his malady since he last passed through the door ofTrenholme's house, but now he had conquered it for the hour, and evenhis host perceived that it was necessary for him to make his journeybefore the weather grew colder. 

His small belongings packed, his morose good-byes said, Alec Trenholmedrove him to the railway station. 

Both the brothers knew why it was that, in taking leave of them, Bateshardly seemed to notice that he did so; they knew that, in leaving theplace, he was all-engrossed in the thought that he was leaving the girl, Eliza Cameron, for ever; but he seemed to have no thought of saying toher a second farewell. 

The stern reserve which Bates had maintained on this subject had sowrought on Alec's sympathy that he had consulted his brother as to theadvisability of himself making some personal appeal to Eliza, and theday before Bates started he had actually gone on this mission. If it wasnot successful, hardly deserved that it should be; for when he stood infront of the girl, he could not conceal the great dislike he felt forher, nor could he bring himself to plead on behalf of a man who he feltwas worth a thousand such as she. He said briefly that Bates was tostart for home the next day, and by such a train, and that he hadthought it might concern her to know it. 

"Did he tell you to tell me?" asked Eliza, without expression. 

"No, he didn't; and what's more, he never told me how you came here. Youthink he's been telling tales about you! You can know now that he neverdid; he's not that sort. I saw you at Turrifs, and when I saw you againhere I knew you. All I've got to say about _that_ is, that I, for one, don't like that kind of conduct. You've half killed Bates, and thiswinter will finish him off. "

"That's not my fault, " said Eliza. 

"Oh? Well, that's for you to settle with yourself. I thought I'd comeand tell you what I thought about it, and that he was going. That's allI've got to say. "

"But I've something more to say, and you'll stay and hear it. " Shefolded her arms upon her breast, and looked at him, a contemptuous, indignant Amazon. "You think Mr. Bates would thank you if you got me togo away with him because I was afraid he'd die. You think"--growingsarcastic--"that Mr. Bates wants me to go with him because _I'm sorryfor him_. I tell you, if I did what you're asking, Mr. Bates would bethe first to tell you to mind your own business and to send me aboutmine. "

She relapsed into cold silence for a minute, and then added, "If youthink Mr. Bates can't do his own love-making, you're vastly mistaken. "

It did not help to soothe Alec that, when he went home, his brotherlaughed at his recital. 

"She is a coarse-minded person, " he said. "I shall never speak to heragain. "

This had happened the day before he drove Bates to the station. 

It was a midday train. The railway platform was comparatively empty, forthe season of summer visitors was past. The sun glared with unsoftenedlight on the painted station building, on the bare boards of theplatform, upon the varnished exterior of the passenger cars, and in, through their windows, upon the long rows of red velvet seats. Alecdisposed Bates and his bundles on a seat near the stove at the end ofone of the almost empty cars. Then he stood, without much idea what tosay in the few minutes before the train started. 

"Well, " said he, "you'll be at Quebec before dark. "

As they both knew this, Bates did not consider it worth an answer. Hisonly desire was that the train should be gone, so that he might be leftalone. He was a good deal oppressed by the idea of his indebtedness toAlec, but he had already said all on that head that was in him to say;it had not been much. 

An urchin came by, bawling oranges. They looked small and sour, but, forsheer lack of anything better to do, Alec went out of the car to buy acouple. He was just stepping in again to present them when, to hissurprise, he became aware that one of the various people on the platformwas Eliza Cameron. When he caught sight of her she was coming runningfrom the other end of the train, her face red with exertion and herdress disordered. She looked in at the windows, saw Bates, and enteredwhere Alec had intended to enter, he drawing aside, and she not evenseeing him. 

The impetus of his intention carried Alec on to the outer porch of thecar, but his consideration for Bates caused him then to turn his back tothe door, and gaze down the long level track, waiting until Eliza shouldcome out again. 

The prospect that met his gaze was one in which two parallel straightlines met visibly in the region of somewhere. He remembered learningthat such two lines do, in truth, always meet in infinity. He wondereddrearily if this were a parable. As he saw his life, all that he desiredand all that was right seemed to lie in two tracks, side by side, butfor ever apart. 

The advent of Eliza had sunk into less significance in his mind by thetime he heard the engine's warning bell. He turned and looked into thecar. There sat the man whom he had left, but not the same man; a newexistence seemed to have started into life in his thin sinewy frame, andto be looking out through the weather-beaten visage. This man, fond andhappy, was actually addressing a glance of arch amusement at the girlwho, flushed and disconcerted, sought to busy herself by rearranging hispossessions. So quickly did it seem that Bates had travelled from oneextreme of life to another that Alec felt no doubt as to the kindlytriumph in the eye. Explanation he had none. He stepped off the joltingcar. 

"Is she coming out?" he asked the conductor. 

"No, she ain't, " said a Chellaston man who stood near at hand. "She'sgot her trunk in the baggage car, and she's got her ticket for Quebec, she has. She's left the hotel, and left old Hutchins in thelurch--that's what she's done. "

The train was moving quicker. The conductor had jumped aboard. Alec wasjust aware that all who were left on the platform were gossiping aboutEliza's departure when he was suddenly spurred into violent movement bythe recollection that he had absently retained in his possession Bates'sticket and the change of the note given him to buy it with. To run andswing himself on to the last car was a piece of vigorous action, butonce again upon the small rear porch and bound perforce for the nextstation, he gave only one uncomfortable glance through the glass doorand turned once more to the prospect of the long level track. Who couldmention a railway ticket and small change to a man so recentlybeatified?

The awkwardness of his position, a shyness that came over him at thethought that they must soon see him and wonder why he was there, suggested the wonder why he had desired that Bates should be happy; nowthat he saw him opulent in happiness, as it appeared, above all othermen, he felt only irritation--first, at the sort of happiness that couldbe derived from such a woman, and secondly, at the contrast between thisman's fulness and his own lack. What had Bates done that he was to haveall that he wanted?

It is an easier and less angelic thing to feel sympathy with sorrow thanwith joy. 

In a minute or two it was evident they had seen him, for he heard thedoor slide and Bates came out on the little platform. He had gone intothe car feebly; he came out with so easy a step and holding himself soerect, with even a consequential pose, that a gleam of derision shotthrough the younger man's mind, even though he knew with the quickknowledge of envy that it was for the sake of the woman behind the doorthat the other was now making the most of himself. 

Alec gave what he had to give; it was not his place to make comment. 

Bates counted the change with a care that perhaps was feigned. If hestood very straight, his hard hand trembled. 

"I'm sorry ye were forced to come on with the cars; it's another addedto all the good deeds you've done by me. " He had found a tongue now inwhich he could be gracious. 

"Oh, I shall soon get back, " said Alec. 

"I suppose ye've seen"--with attempted coolness--"that my young friendhere, Eliza Cameron, is going back with me. "

"So I see. " If his life had depended upon it, Alec could not haverefrained from a smile which he felt might be offensive, but it passedunseen. 

"When she saw ye out here, she asked me just to step out, for perhapsye'd be so kind as to take a message to a young lady she has a greatcaring for--a Miss Rexford, as I understand. "

"All right. " Alec looked at the rails flying behind them, and strokedhis yellow moustache, and sighed in spite of himself. 

"I'd like ye to tell Miss Rexford from me that we intend to be marriedto-morrow--in the city of Quebec; but Sissy, she would like ye to saythat she'd have gone to say good-bye if she'd known her own mind sooner, and that she prefairred to come" (he rolled the r in this "preferred"with emphasis not too obvious) "--ye understand?"--this last a littlesharply, as if afraid that the word might be challenged. 

Still looking upon the flying track, Alec nodded to show that hechallenged nothing. 

"And she wishes it to be said, " continued the stiff, formal Scot (therewas a consequential air about him now that was almost insufferable), "that for all I've the intention in my mind to spend my life in the oldplace, she thinks she'll very likely break me of it, and bring me tolive in more frequented parts in a year or two, when she'll hope to comeand see her friends again. 'Tis what she says, Mr. Trenholme" (and Alecknew, from his tone, that Bates, even in speaking to him, had smiledagain that gloriously happy smile), "and of course I humour her bygiving her words. As to how that will be, I can't say, but"--withcondescension--"ye'd be surprised, Mr. Trenholme, at the hold a womancan get on a man. "

"Really--yes, I suppose so, " Alec muttered inanely; but within he laidcontrol on himself, lest he should kick this man. Surely it would onlymake the scales of fortune balance if Bates should have a few of hislimbs broken to pay for his luxury!

Alec turned, throwing a trifle of patronage into his farewell. Naturehad turned him out such a good-looking fellow that he might have sparedthe other, but he was not conscious of his good looks just then. 

"Well, Bates, upon my word I wish you joy. It's certainly a relief to_me_ to think you will have someone to look after that cough ofyours, and see after you a bit when you have the asthma. I didn't thinkyou'd get through this winter alone, 'pon my word, I didn't; but I hopethat--Mrs. Bates will take good care of you. "

It was only less brutal to hurl the man's weakness at him than it wouldhave been to hurl him off the train. Yet Alec did it, then jumped fromthe car when the speed lessened. 

He found himself left at a junction which had no interest for him, andas there was a goods train going further on to that village where he hadstopped with Bates on their first arrival in these parts, he followed awhim and went thither, in order to walk home by the road on which he hadfirst heard Sophia's voice in the darkness. 

Ah, that voice--how clear and sweet and ringing it was! It was notwords, but tones, of which he was now cherishing remembrance. And hethought of the face he now knew so well, hugged the thought of her tohis heart, and knew that he ought not to think of her. 

Everywhere the trees hung out red and yellow, as flags upon a gala day. He saw the maples on the mountain rise tier above tier, in featheryscarlet and gold. About his feet the flowering weeds were blowing in onelast desperate effort of riotous bloom. The indigo birds, like flakesfrom the sky above, were flitting, calling, everywhere, as they tarriedon their southward journey. Alec walked by the rushing river, almostdazzled by its glitter, and felt himself to be, not only an unhappy, butan ill-disposed man. 

"And yet--and yet--" thought he, "if Heaven might grant her to me--":and the heaven above him seemed like brass, and the wish like a prayergone mad. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Sophia had lived on through a few more quiet days; and now she knew thatthe problem to which she had set herself was not that one pleasantlyremote from her inmost self, as to where her duty lay in helping on anideal social state, but another question, that beside the first seemedwholly common and vulgar, one that tore from her all glamours ofromantic conception, so that she sat, as it were, in a chamber denudedof all softness and beauty, face to face with her own pride. And solusty was this pride she had deemed half-dead that beside it all herformer enthusiasms seemed to fade into ghostly nothings. 

At first she only determined, by all the chivalrous blood that ran inher veins, to continue her kindness to the Trenholmes. She foresaw agust of unpopularity against them, and she saw herself defending theirinterests and defying criticism. In this bright prospect the brotherswere humbly grateful and she herself not a little picturesque ingenerous patronage. It was a delightful vision--for an hour; but becauseshe was nearer thirty than twenty it passed quickly. She touched it withher knowledge of the world and it vanished. No; social life could not bechanged in a day; it would not be well that it should be. Much of thecriticism that would come in this case would be just; and the harsherblows that would be dealt could not be stayed nor the unkindness defied;even in the smaller affairs of life, he who would stand by the wrongedmust be willing to suffer wrong. Was she ready for that? The longer shemeditated, the more surely she knew that Alec Trenholme loved her. Andwhen she had meditated a little longer--in spite of the indignation shehad felt at the bare suggestion--she knew that she loved him. 

The fine theories of universal conduct in which she had been indulgingnarrowed themselves down to her own life and to sternest, commonestreality. Christianity is never a quality that can be abstracted from theindividual and looked upon as having duties of its own. 

She fought against the knowledge that she liked him so well; the thoughtof being his wife was the thought of a sacrifice that appalled her. Aconvent cell would not have appeared to her half so far removed from allthat belongs to the pride of life; and lives there anyone who has sowholly turned from that hydra-headed delight as not to shrink, as fromsome touch of death, from fresh relinquishment? Her pulses stirred tothose strains of life's music that call to emulation and the manifoldpomps of honour; and, whatever might be the reality, in her judgment thewife of Alec Trenholme must renounce all that element of interest in theworld for ever. Our sense of distinction poises its wings on the opinionof men; and, as far as she had learnt this opinion, a saint or a nun(she knew it now, although before she had not thought it) had honourablepart in life's pageantry, but not the wife of such as he. The prospectin her eyes was barren of the hope that she might ever again have thepower to say to anyone, "I am better than thou. "

It did not help her that at her initiation into the Christian life shehad formally made just this renunciation, or that she had thought thatbefore now she had ratified the vow. The meaninglessness of suchformulas when spoken is only revealed when deepening life reveals theirdepths of meaning. She asked, in dismay, if duty was calling her to thissacrifice by the voice of love in her heart. For that Love who carriesthe crown of earthly happiness in his hand was standing on the thresholdof her heart like a beggar, and so terrible did his demand seem to herthat she felt it would be easy to turn him away. 

"I, " she said to herself, "I, who have preached to others, who havediscoursed on the vanity of ambition--this has come to teach me whatstuff my glib enthusiasm is made of. I would rather perjure myself, rather die, rather choose any life of penance and labour, than yield tomy own happiness and his, and give up my pride. "

She arrayed before her all possible arguments for maintaining theexisting social order; but conscience answered, "You are not asked todisturb it very much. " Conscience used an uncomfortable phrase--"You areonly asked to make yourself of no reputation. " She cowered beforeConscience. "You are not even asked to make yourself unhappy, " continuedConscience; and so the inward monitor talked, on till, all wearied, herwill held out a flag of truce. 

Most women would have thought of a compromise, would have, said, "Yes, Iwill stoop to the man, but I will raise him to some more desirableestate"; but such a woman was not Sophia Rexford. She scorned love thatwould make conditions as much as she scorned a religion that could setits own limits to service. For her there was but one question--DidHeaven demand that she should acknowledge this love? If so, then theall-ruling Will of Heaven must be the only will that should set boundsto its demand. 

In the distress of her mind, however, she did catch at one idea thatwas, in kind, a compromise. She thought with relief that she could takeno initiative. If Alec Trenholme asked her to be his wife--then sheknew, at last she knew, that she would not dare to deny the voice at herheart--in the light of righteousness and judgment to come, she would notdare to deny it. But--ah, surely he would not ask! She caught at thisbelief as an exhausted swimmer might catch at a floating spar, andrested herself upon it. She would deal honourably with her conscience;she would not abate her kindliness; she would give him all fairopportunity; and if he asked, she would give up all--but she clung toher spar of hope. 

She did not realise the extent of her weakness, nor even suspect thegreatness of her strength. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Robert Trenholme had not told his brother that he had made hisconfession when he took tea with all the women. He knew that in suchcases difference and separation are often first fancied and thencreated, by the self-conscious pride of the person who expects to beslighted. He refrained from making this possible on Alec's part, and sethimself to watch the difference that would be made; and the interest ofall side-issues was summed up for him in solicitude to know what MissRexford would do, for on that he felt his own hopes of her pardon todepend. 

When he found, the day after Bates's departure, that Alec must seek MissRexford to give Eliza's message, he put aside work to go with him tocall upon her. He would hold to his brother; it remained to be seen howshe would receive them together. 

That same afternoon Sophia went forth with Winifred and the little boysto gather autumn leaves. When the two brothers came out of the collegegate they saw her, not twenty yards away, at the head of her littletroop. Down the broad road the cool wind was rushing, and they saw herwalking against it, outwardly sedate, with roses on her cheeks, her eyeslit with the sunshine. The three stopped, and greeted each other afterthe manner of civilised people. 

Trenholme knew that the change that any member of the Rexford familywould put into their demeanour could not be rudely perceptible. He setno store by her greeting, but he put his hand upon his brother'sshoulder and he said:

"This fellow has news that will surprise you, and a message to give. Perhaps, if it is not asking too much, we may walk as far as may benecessary to tell it, or, " and he looked at her questioningly, "wouldyou like him to go and help you to bring down the high boughs?--theyhave the brightest leaves. "

"Will you come and help us gather red leaves?" said Sophia to Alec. 

She did not see the gratitude in the elder brother's eyes, because itdid not interest her to look for it. 

"And you?" she said to him. 

"Ah, I" (he held up the cane with which he still eased the weight on onefoot), "I cannot walk so far, but perhaps I will come and meet you onyour return, " and he pleased himself with the idea that she cared thathe should come. 

He went into his house again. His heart, which had lately been learningthe habit of peace, just now learned a new lesson of what joy might be. His future before him looked troublous, but the worst of his fears wasallayed. He had loved Sophia long; to-day his love seemed multiplied athousandfold. Hope crept to his heart like a darling child that had beenin disgrace and now was forgiven. 

The others went on down the road. 

Alec told his news about Eliza as drily as facts could be told. If hetouched his story at all with feeling, it was something akin to a sneer. 

"She'll get him on to the track of prosperity now she's taken hold, MissRexford, " said he. "Mr. And Mrs. Bates will be having a piano beforelong, and they will drive in a 'buggy. ' That's the romance of asettler's life in Canada. "

When they had left that subject Sophia said, "Now he is gone, are yougoing away?"

"Yes; in a day or two. I've fixed nothing yet, because Robert seems tohave some unaccountable objection to getting rid of me just at present;but I shall go. "

"It is very fine weather, " she said. 

"There is too much glare, " said he. 

"You are surely hard to please. "

"What I call fine weather is something a man has something in commonwith. If one were a little chap again, just leaving school for aholiday, this would be a glorious day, but--what _man_ has spirits equalto" (he looked above) "this sort of thing. "

His words came home to Sophia with overwhelming force, for, as they wenton, touching many subjects one after another, she knew with absolutecertainty that her companion had not the slightest intention of beingher suitor. If the sunny land through which she was walking had been awaste place, in which storm winds sighed, over which storm cloudsmuttered, it would have been a fitter home for her heart just then. Shesaw that she was to be called to no sacrifice, but she experienced nobuoyant relief. He was going away; and she was to be left. She had notknown herself when she thought she wanted him to go--she was miserable. Well, she deserved her misery, for would she not be more miserable ifshe married him? Had she not cried and complained? And now the door ofthis renunciation was not opened to her--he was going away, and she wasto be left. 

Very dull and prosaic was the talk of these two as they walked up theroad to that pine grove where the river curved in, and they turned backthrough that strip of wilderness between road and river where it waseasy to be seen that the brightest leaf posies were to be had. 

Nearest the pines was a group of young, stalwart maple trees, each of adifferent dye--gold, bronze, or red. It was here that they lingered, andAlec gathered boughs for the children till their hands were full. Thenoise of the golden-winged woodpecker was in the air, and the call ofthe indigo bird. 

Sophia wandered under the branches; her mind was moving always. She wasunhappy. Yes, she deserved that; but he--he was unhappy too; did hedeserve it? Then she asked herself suddenly if she had no further dutytoward him than to come or go at his call. Did she dare, by all thatwas true, to wreck his life and her own because she would not stoop tocompel the call that she had feared?

Humility does not demand that we should think ill of ourselves, but thatwe should not think of ourselves at all. When Sophia lost sight ofherself she saw the gate of Paradise. After that she was at one againwith the sunshine and the breeze and the birds, with the rapture of theday and the land, and she ceased to think why she acted, or whether itwas right or wrong. The best and worst hours of life are in themselvesirresponsible, the will hurled headlong forward by an impulse that hasgathered force before. 

And what did she do? The first thing that entered her mind--it matterednot what to her. The man was in her power, and she knew it. 

When the children's arms were full and they had gone on homeward down apathway among lower sumac thickets, Alec turned and saw Sophia, just asstately, just as quiet, as he had ever seen her. So they two began tofollow. 

Her hand had been cut the day before, and the handkerchief that bound ithad come off. Demurely she gave it to him to be fastened. Now the handhad been badly cut, and when he saw that he could not repress thetenderness of his sympathy. 

"How could you have done it?" he asked, filled with pain, awed, wondering. 

She laughed, though she did not mean to; she was so light-hearted, andit was very funny to see how quickly he softened at her will. 

"Do not ask me to tell you how low we Rexfords have descended!" shecried, "and yet I will confess I did it with the meat axe. I ought notto touch such a thing, you think! Nay, what can I do when the loin isnot jointed and the servant has not so steady a hand as I? Would youhave me let papa grumble all dinner-time--the way that you men do, youknow?"

The little horror that she had painted for him so vividly did its work. With almost a groan he touched the hand with kisses, not knowing what hedid; and looking up, frightened of her as far as he could be consciousof fear, he saw, not anger, but a face that fain would hide itself, andhe hid it in his embrace. 

"Oh, " cried he, "what have I done?"

Stepping backward, he stood a few paces from her, his arms crossed, theglow on his face suddenly transcended by the look with which a man mightregard a crime he had committed. 

"What is it?" she cried, wickedly curious. The maple tree over her was agolden flame and her feet were on a carpet of gold. All around them theearth was heaped with palm-like sumac shrubs, scarlet, crimson, purple--dyed as it were, with blood. 

"What have I done?" He held out his hands as if they had been stained. "I have loved you, I have dared, without a thought, _without a thoughtfor you_, to walk straight into all the--the--heaven of it. "

Then he told her, in a word, that about himself which he thought shewould despise; and she saw that he thought she heard it for the firsttime. 

Lifting her eyebrows in pretty incredulity. "Not really?" she said. 

"It is true, " he cried with fierce emphasis. 

At that she looked grave. 

He had been trying to make her serious; but no sooner did he see herlook of light and joy pass into a look of thought than he was filledwith that sort of acute misery which differs from other sorrows as acutepain differs from duller aches. 

"My darling, " he said, his heart was wrung with the words--"my darling, if I have hurt you, I have almost killed myself. " (Man that he was, hebelieved that his life must ebb in this pain. )

"Why?" she asked. "How?"

He went a step nearer her, but as it came to him every moment moreclearly that he had deceived her, as he realised what he had gained andwhat he now thought to forego, his voice forsook him in his effort tospeak. Words that he tried to say died on his lips. 

But she saw that he had tried to say that because of it she should notmarry him. 

He tried again to speak and made better work of it. "This that has cometo us--this love that has taken us both--you will say it is not enoughto--to--"

She lifted up her face to him. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes werefull of light. "This that has come to us, Alec--" (At his name he camenearer yet) "this that has taken us both" (she faltered) "is enough. "

He came near to her again; he took her hands into his; and all that hefelt and all that she felt, passed from his eyes to hers, from hers tohis. 

He said, "It seems like talking in church, but common things must besaid and answered, and--Sophie--what will your father say?"

"I don't know, " she said; but happiness made her playful; she strokedthe sleeve of his coat, as if to touch it were of more interest to her. "I will give him my fortune to make up, and come to you penniless. "

"He won't consent, " he urged. 

There was still a honeyed carelessness in her voice and look. "At thegreat age to which I have attained, " said she, "fathers don'tinterfere. "

"What can I do or say, " he said, "to make you consider?" for it seemedto him that her thoughts and voice came from her spellbound in somestrange delight, as the murmur comes from a running stream, withoutmeaning, except the meaning of all beautiful and happy things in God'sworld. 

"What must I consider?"

"The shop--the trade. "

"When you were a very young butcher, and first took to it, did you likeit?"

"I wasn't squeamish, " he said; and then he told her about his father. After that he philosophised a little, telling something of the best thathe conceived might be if men sought the highest ideal in lowly walks oflife, instead of seeking to perform imperfectly some nobler business. Itwas wonderful how much better he could speak to her than to his brother, but Sophia listened with such perfect assent that his sense of honouragain smote him. 

"Art thinking of it all, love?" he said. 

"I was wondering what colour of aprons you wore, and if I must makethem. "

They began to walk home, passing now under the sumac's palm-like canopy, and they saw the blue gleam of the singing river through red thickets. Soon they came to a bit of open ground, all overgrown with bronzedbracken, and maidenhair sere and pink, and blue-eyed asters andgolden-rod. So high and thick were the breeze-blown weeds that the onlyplace to set the feet was a very narrow path. Here Sophia walked first, for they could not walk abreast, and as Alec watched her threading herway with light elastic step, he became afraid once more, and tried tobreak through her happy tranquillity. 

"Dear love, " he said, "I hope--"

"What now?" said she, for his tone was unrestful. 

He trampled down flowers and ferns as he awkwardly tried to gain herside. 

"You know, dear, I have a sort of feeling that I've perhaps justfascinated and entranced you--so that you are under a spell and don'tconsider, you know. "

It was exactly what he meant, and he said it; but how merrily shelaughed! Her happy laughter rang; the river laughed in answer, and thewoodpecker clapped applause. 

But Alec blushed very much and stumbled upon the tangled weeds. 

"I only meant--I--I didn't mean--That is the way I feel fascinated byyou, you know; and I suppose it might be the same--"

They walked on, she still advancing a few paces because she had thepath, he retarded because, in his attempt to come up with her, he wasknee-deep in flowers. But after a minute, observing that he was hurt inhis mind because of her laughter, she mocked him, laughing again, butturned the sunshine of her loving face full upon him as she did so. 

"Most fascinating and entrancing of butchers!" quoth she. 

With that as she entered another thicket of sumac trees, he caught andkissed her in its shade. 

 * * * * *

And there was one man who heard her words and saw his act, one who tookin the full meaning of it even more clearly than they could, becausethey in their transport had not his clearness of vision. RobertTrenholme, coming to seek them, chanced in crossing this place, thickset with shrubs, to come near them unawares, and seeing them, and havingat the sight no power in him to advance another step or speak a word, helet them pass joyously on their way towards home. It was not manymoments before they had passed off the scene, and he was left the onlyhuman actor in that happy wilderness where flower and leaf and bird, theblue firmament on high and the sparkling river, rejoiced together in theglory of light and colour. 

Trenholme crossed the path and strode through flowery tangle and woodythicket like a giant in sudden strength, snapping all that offered todetain his feet. He sought, he knew not why, the murmur and the motionof the river; and where young trees stood thickest, as spearsmen toguard the loneliness of its bank, he sat down upon a rock and coveredhis face, as if even from the spirits of solitude and from his ownconsciousness he must hide. He thought of nothing: his soul within himwas mad. 

He had come out of his school not half an hour before, rejoicing morethan any schoolboy going to play in the glorious weather. For him therewas not too much light on the lovely autumn landscape; it was all a partof the peace that was within him and without, of the God he knew to bewithin him and without--for, out of his struggle for righteousness insmall things, he had come back into that light which most men cannot seeor believe. Just in so far as a man comes into that light he ceases toknow himself as separate, but knows that he is a part of all men and allthings, that his joy is the joy of all men, that their pain is his;therefore, as Trenholme desired the fulfilment of his own hopes, hedesired that all hope in the world might find fruition. And because thisday he saw--what is always true if we could but see it--that joy is athousandfold greater than pain, the glory of the autumn seemed to himlike a psalm of praise, and he gave thanks for all men. 

Thus Trenholme had walked across the fields, into these groves--but now, as he sat by the river, all that, for the time, had passed away, exceptas some indistinct memory of it maddened him. His heart was full of rageagainst his brother, rage too against the woman he loved; and with thisrage warred most bitterly a self-loathing because he knew that his angeragainst them was unjust. She did not know, she had no cause to know, that she had darkened his whole life; but--what a _fool_ she was! Whatcompanionship could that thoughtless fellow give her? How he would dragher down! And _he_, too, could not know that he had better have killedhis brother than done this thing. But any woman would have done forAlec; for himself there was only this one--only this one in the wholeworld. He judged his brother; any girl with a pretty face and a goodheart would have done for that boisterous fellow--while for himself--"OhGod, " he said, "it is hard. "

Thus accusing and excusing these lovers, excusing and again accusinghimself for his rage against them, he descended slowly into the depth ofhis trouble--for man, in his weakness, is so made that he can come athis worst suffering only by degrees. Yet when he had made this descent, the hope he had cherished for months and years lay utterly overthrown;it could not have been more dead had it been a hundred years in dying. He had not known before how dear it was, yet he had known that it wasdearer than all else, except that other hope with which we do notcompare our desires for earthly good because we think it may existbeside them and grow thereby. 

There are times when, to a man, time is not, when the life of years isgathered into indefinite moments; and after, when outward things claimagain the exhausted mind, he wonders that the day is not further spent. And Trenholme wondered at the length of that afternoon, when he observedit again and saw that the sun had not yet sunk low, and as he measuredthe shadows that the bright trees cast athwart the moving water, he wasled away to think the thoughts that had been his when he had so lightlycome into those gay autumn bowers. A swallow skimmed the wave withburnished wing; again he heard the breeze and the rapid current. Theywere the same; the movement and music were the same; God was still withhim; was he so base as to withhold the thanksgiving that had beenchecked half uttered in his heart by the spring of that couchant sorrow?_Then_ in the sum of life's blessings he had numbered that hope of his, and _now_ he had seen the perfect fruition of that hope in joy. It wasnot his own, --but was it not much to know that God had made such joy, had given it to man? Had he in love of God no honest praise to give forother men's mercies? none for the joy of this man who was his brother?Across the murmur of the river he spoke words so familiar that they cameto clothe the thought--

"We do give Thee most humble and hearty thanks for all Thy goodnessand--loving kindness--to us--and to _all men_. "

And although, as he said them, his hand was clenched so that his fingerscut the palm, yet, because he gave thanks, Robert Trenholme was nearerthan he knew to being a holy man. 

THE END. 

THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 

A NOVEL. By L. B. Walford

Author of "Mr. Smith, " "The Baby's Grandmother, " ETC. , ETC. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1. 00. 

"It is a delightful picture of life at an English estate, which ispresided over by a young 'Squire' and his young sister. Theirexperiences are cleverly told, and the complications which arise areamusing and interesting. There are many humorous touches, too, which addno slight strength to the story. "--BOSTON TIMES. 

"A charming little social comedy, permeated with a refinement ofspontaneous humor and brilliant with touches of shrewd and searchingsatire. "--BOSTON BEACON. 

"The story is bright, amusing, full of interest and incident, and thecharacters are admirably drawn. Every reader will recognize a friend oracquaintance in some of the people here portrayed. Every one will wishhe could have been a guest at Duckhill Manor, and will hope that theauthor has more stories to tell. "--PUBLIC OPINION. 

"A natural, amusing, kindly tale, told with great skill. The charactersare delightfully human, the individuality well caught and preserved, thequaint humor lightens every page, and a simple delicacy and tendernesscomplete an excellent specimen of story telling. "--PROVIDENCE JOURNAL. 

"For neat little excursions into English social life, and that of thebest, commend us to the writer of 'The One Good Guest, '"--N. Y. TIMES. 

"The story is bright, amusing, full of interest and incident, and thecharacters are admirably drawn. Every reader will recognize a friend oracquaintance in some of the people here portrayed. Every one will wishhe could have been a guest at Duckhill Manor, and will hope that theauthor has more stories to tell. "--PORTLAND OREGONIAN. 

BEGGARS ALL. 

A NOVEL. By Miss L. Dougall. 

Sixth Edition. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1. 00. 

"This is one of the strongest as well as most original romances of theyear. . . . The plot is extraordinary. . . . The close of the story ispowerful and natural. . . . A masterpiece of restrained and legitimatedramatic fiction. "--LITERARY WORLD. 

"To say that 'Beggars All' is a remarkable novel is to put the casemildly indeed, for it is one of the most original, discerning, andthoroughly philosophical presentations of character that has appeared inEnglish for many a day. . . . Emphatically a novel that thoughtful peopleought to read . . . The perusal of it will by many be reckoned among theintellectual experiences that are not easily forgotten. "--BOSTON BEACON. 

"A story of thrilling interest. "--HOME JOURNAL. 

"A very unusual quality of novel. It is written with ability; it tells astrong story with elaborate analysis of character and motive . . . It isof decided interest and worth reading. "--COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y. 

"It is more than a story for mere summer reading, but deserves apermanent place among the best works of modern fiction. The author hasstruck a vein of originality purely her own. . . . It is tragic, pathetic, humerous by turns. . . . Miss Dougall has, in fact, scored a great success. Her book is artistic, realistic, intensely dramatic--in fact, one of thenovels of the year. "--BOSTON TRAVELLER. 

"'Beggars-All' is a noble work of art, but is also something more andsomething better. It is a book with a soul in it, and in a sense, therefore, it may be described as an inspired work. The inspiration ofgenius may or may not he lacking to it, but the inspiration of a pureand beautiful spirituality pervades it completely . . . The characters aretruthfully and powerfully drawn, the situations finely imagined, and thestory profoundly interesting. "--CHICAGO TRIBUNE. 

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. , 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK. 

KEITH DERAMORE. 

A NOVEL. By the Author of "Miss Molly. "

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1. 00. 

"One of the strongest novels for the year. . . . A book of absorbing andsustained interest, full of those touches of pathos, gusts of passion, and quick glimpses into the very hearts of men and women which are anecessary equipment of any great writer of fiction. "--STAR. 

"A story with originality of plot and a number of interesting andskillfully drawn characters. . . . Well worthy of a carefulperusal. "--BOSTON BEACON. 

"The few important characters introduced are very clearly and welldrawn; one is a quite unusual type and reveals a good deal of power inthe author. It is a live story of more than ordinary interest. "--REVIEWOF REVIEWS. 

"A novel of quiet but distinct force and of marked refinement in manner. The few characters in 'Keith Deramore' are clearly and delicately drawn, and the slight plot is well sustained. "--CHRISTIAN UNION. 

"The author of 'Miss Molly' shall have her reward in the reception of'Keith Deramore. ' If it is not popular there is no value inprophecy. "--SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. 

"The story is strong and interesting, worthy of a high place infiction. "--PUBLIC OPINION. 

"Its development can be followed with great interest. It is well writtenand entertaining throughout. "--THE CRITIC. 

"An exceptionally interesting novel. It is an admirable addition to anadmirable series. "-BOSTON TRAVELLER. 

"It contains character-drawing which places it much above the averagelove story, and makes the reading of it worth while. It is a fine studyof a normally-selfish man. There is humor in it, and sustainedinterest. "--BUFFALO EXPRESS. 

A MORAL DILEMMA. By Annie M. Thompson. 

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1. 00. 

"We have in this most delightful volume . . . A new novel by a new author. The title is happily chosen, the plot is thrillingly interesting, itsdevelopment is unusually artistic, the style is exceptionally pure, thedescriptions are graphic. In short we have one of the best of recentnovels, and the author gives great promise. "--BOSTON TRAVELLER. 

"A novel of rare beauty and absorbing interest. Its plot, which isconstructed with great skill, is decidedly unconventional in itsdevelopment, and its denouement, although unanticipated until near itsclimax, really comes as an agreeable surprise. . . . As a literary work, 'AMoral Dilemma' will take high rank. "--BOSTON HOME JOURNAL. 

"The story is well written and gives promise of the development of awriter who will take place among the ranks of those of her sex who aresupplying what is much needed at this time--entertaining, wholesomeliterature. "--YALE COURANT. 

"The author writes with vigor and earnestness, and the book is one ofinterest and power. "--PUBLIC OPINION. 

"The story is strongly told. "--INDEPENDENT. 

"A strong story which leaves the reader better for the perusal. Atouchlight as Barrie's carries one through the successive scenes, whichare fraught with deep interest. "--PUBLIC LEDGER. 

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. , 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK. 

SWEETHEART GWEN. 

A WELSH IDYLL. By William Tirebuck, Author of "Dorrie, " "St. Margaret, " ETC. 

Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1. 00. 

"Very charming in its depiction of a simple country life giving severalpiquant studies of quaint and attractive character, and not wanting inthe flavor of that romance which all good novels must possess--theromance of love. . . . The book is written with knowledge and power, andhas the idyllic flavor. "--BOSTON BEACON. 

"It is an idyll, a lovely one, conceived by some one whose childhood hasbeen happily impressed on him. . . . The reader lives amid the pastures andthe orchards of Ty-Cremed, and eats the brown bread and drinks the milkthere, and Auntie Gwen, with her white teeth, cracks filberts for him. This sweet, impulsive woman, with her blue eyes and her russet hair, bewitches you, as she does her little nephew, Martin. Mr. Tirebuck'sliterary faculties are of an exceptional kind. Those who love to read ofchild life will find here a perfect picture. There is, however, muchmore than this. "--N. Y. TIMES. 

"It is a vigorously told story of rural and child-life in Wales, andmost tenderly, imaginatively, simply, it is done . . . Has humor, pathos, fancy, courage, deep human feeling, and admirable descriptivepower. "--PROVIDENCE JOURNAL. 

"This is a delightful romance . . . A charming description of Welshcountry life, with quaint and picturesque studies. "--BOSTON TRAVELLER. 

DORRIE. By William Tirebuck, Author of "St. Margaret, " "Sweetheart Gwen, " ETC. 

Second Edition. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1. 50O. 

"A really notable novel. Dramatic and profoundly pathetic. Apsychological study of great value. "--GRAPHIC. 

"Mr. Tirebuck is a novelist of undoubted courage and fertility ofimagination. The story is interesting beyond all question. Heunquestionably knows how to draw a picture. "--ATHENĆUM. 

"'Dorrie' is an extremely touching and realistic picture of Liverpoollife. Mr. Tirebuck writes vigorously, and his story is certainly one ofprofound human interest. "--G. BARNETT SMITH, in _The Academy_. 

"Mr. Tirebuck has the root of the matter in him. 'Dorrie' is really astrong piece of work--a decidedly interesting story. "--SPECTATOR. 

"Mr. Tirebuck has a real gift of story-telling to begin with. And he hasother greater qualities than that. . . . His latest novel possesses a broadhuman interest as a really imaginative study of life. "--RICHARD LEGALLIENNE, in _The Star_. 

"This story possesses unusual powers of attraction, and givesunmistakable evidence of genius. "--MANCHESTER EXAMINER. 

"She (Dorrie) seems to myself the most absolutely original, and, in herway, the most taking figure in recent fiction. She is unique. To onereader at least she remains among the friends of fiction, the beloved ofdreams. "--ANDREW LANG, _At the Sign of the Ship_.