Allison Bain, by Margaret Murray Robertson. 

________________________________________________________________________For many people this will be a very difficult book to read. In thefirst place most of the cast speak with a strong Scottish dialect, whichyou could find very difficult to get used to. In the second place thereis a strong brand of Scottish Protestantism colouring practically everyconversation. And in the third place the book could probably be placedfairly in the genre of "psychological novel, " in which people talk a lotbut don't do much else. 

You can certainly make an audiobook of it, but you will need yourstrongest concentration to follow what is happening. Don't listen to itwhile driving your car--it is far too demanding for that!

________________________________________________________________________ALLISON BAIN, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

 "Was she wrong? Is it wrong in the bird to escape from the snare of the fowler? Is it wrong in the hunted deer to flee to the screening thicket?"

Mr Hadden was standing at the open door of the manse, waitingpatiently, while his housekeeper adjusted his grey plaid on hisshoulders in preparation for a long ride over the hills. His faithfulBarbara was doing her part protesting, but she was doing it carefullyand well. 

"Such a day as it is!" said she. "Such a time of rain! Indeed, sir, Icanna think it right for you to go so far. Mightna ye just bide stillat home till they come to the kirkyard?"

But the minister shook his head. "I will need to go, Barbara. Think ofpoor Allison Bain on this sorrowful day. "

"Ay, poor Allie! I'm wae for her this sorrowful day, as ye say. Greatly she'll need a good word spoken to her. But in a' the rain--andat your age--"

"Ay! I am a good ten years older than the man we are to lay in thegrave. I might, as ye say, meet them at the kirkyard, but I must seethat desolate bairn. And I think it may be fair. "

It was June, but it looked more like November, so low lay the clouds, and so close hung the mist over all the valley. For a week the sun hadhidden his face, and either in downpour or in drizzle, the rain hadfallen unceasingly, till the burn which ran down between the hills hadoverflowed its banks and spread itself in shallow pools over the levelfields below. The roads would be "soft and deep, " as Barbara said, andthe way was long. But even as she spoke there was an opening in theclouds and the wind was "wearing round to the right airt, " for thepromise of a fair day, and it was early yet. 

"And rain or shine, I must go, Barbara, as ye see yourself. The powneyis sure-footed. And my son Alexander is going with me, so there isnothing to fear. "

And so the two men set out together. "My son Alexander, " whose name theminister spoke with such loving pride, was the youngest and best belovedof the many sons and daughters who had been born and bred in the manse, of whom some were "scattered far and wide" and some were resting besidetheir mother in the kirkyard close at hand. In his youth, Alexander hadgiven "some cause for anxiety to his father and mother, " as outside folkput it delicately, and he had gone away to America at last, to beginagain--to make a man of himself, or to perish out of sight of theirloving and longing eyes. That was more than fifteen years before thistime, and he had not perished out of sight, as so many wanderers fromloving homes have done. He had lived and struggled with varyingfortunes for a time, but he had never failed once to write hishalf-yearly letter to his father and mother at home. The folk of theolden time did not write nor expect so many letters as are written andsent nowadays, and the father and mother lived hopefully on one lettertill another came. And for a while the lad wrote that he was making aliving, and that was all, and then he wrote that he was doing well, andjust when he was almost ready to tell them that he was coming home toshow them his young wife, there came word to him that his mother wasdead. Then he had no heart to go home. For what would the manse bewithout his mother to welcome them there?

So he sent home to his father a gift of money for the poor of theparish, and stayed where he was, and did well still, with fair prospectsof some time being a rich man, and then--after more years--God touchedhim, not in anger, but in love, though He took from him his only son andbest beloved child. For then he remembered his father who had lovedhim, and borne with him, and forgiven him through his troubled youth, and had sent him away with his blessing at last, and a great longingcame upon him to see his father's face once more. And so he had madehaste to come, fearing all the way lest he might find the manse emptyand his father gone. It was a homecoming both sad and glad, and theweek of rain had been well filled with a history of all things joyfuland sorrowful which had come to them and theirs, in the years that weregone. And to-day father and son were taking their way over the hills, so familiar to both, yet so strange to one of them, on a sorrowfulerrand. 

They kept the high-road for a while, and then turned into a broken pathover the higher ground, the nearest way to the farm of Grassie, wherethe "goodman" who had ploughed and sowed and gathered the harvests forfifty years and more lay dead of a broken heart. 

Slowly and carefully they moved over the uneven ground which graduallyascended and grew less wet as they went on, the son keeping by hisfather's side where the roughness of the way permitted, in silence, oronly exchanging a word now and then. The clouds parted as they reachedthe hilltop, and they turned to look back on the wide stretch of lowland behind them, which "looked in the sunshine, " the minister said, "like a new-made world. " They lingered for a while. 

"We need not be in haste. It takes the folk long to gather at such atime, for they will come from far, and it is weary waiting. But I musthave time for a word with Allison, poor lassie, before they carry herfather away, " added he with a sigh. 

"But the sun may shine for Allison yet, though this is a dark day forher and a most sad occasion. Though her father's hearthstone be cold, let us hope that she may yet see good days in the home of her husband. "

But the minister shook his head. 

"She must see them there if she is ever to see good days again, but myfears are stronger than my hopes, Oh! man Alex! I'm wae for bonny AllieBain. "

"Is her husband such a wretch, then?"

"A wretch? By no means. I hope not. But he is a dour man of nearlytwice her years. An honest man? Well, I have never heard him accusedof dishonesty. A hard man he has been called, but he suits ourthriftless laird all the better for that. He has kept his place asfactor at Blackhills for fifteen years and more, and has grown rich, they say--as riches are counted among folk who for the most part arepoor. And he is respected--in a way. "

"Well, if I had been asked about it, I would have said that it was arise in the world for Allie Bain to be made the mistress of the factor'sfine house over yonder. I suppose he might have looked for a wife inalmost any of the better families of the countryside, without muchchance of being refused. "

"Yes, but he is said to have set his heart on Allison Bain years agowhen she was only a child--a strange-like thing for such a man to do. He went to work warily, and got her father and even her mother on hisside--or so it is said. But Allie herself would have naught to say tohim. She laughed at first, and then she scoffed at his advances, andWillie, her only brother, upheld her in her scorning--for a while. ButWillie went wrong--and from bad to worse; but now he is in the tollboothat Aberdeen, as you have heard. But I believe that even now the poorlassie would have a fairer chance of a peaceful life if they were to getaway to begin again together, when his time is over, than ever she canhope for in the house of her husband. And the lad would be stronger, and have a better chance with his sister's help. I fear--though I wouldsay it to none but you--I fear that Allison's consent was won at last byno fair means. "

"I mind Willie, a nice little lad, merry and frank and well-doing. Ishould never have thought of such a fate for him. "

"Yes, frank he was, and a fine lad in many ways; but he was not of astrong will, and was easily led away. Allison was far the stronger ofthe two, even when they were children. It breaks my heart to think whata woman she might have become in favourable circumstances, and now, Ifear, she has much suffering before her. Her mother's helplessness--shewas bedridden for years before she died--laid too much on Allison, andshe has grown changed, they say, and hard. She was ay more like herfather than her mother, except for her sweet looks. "

"And how came the marriage about at last? And where was her brother?"

"He had fallen into trouble by that time. He had got in with ill folkthat made use of him for their own purposes. There had been muchmeddling with the game on the Blackhills estate, and one night one ofthe gamekeepers got a sore hurt in a fight with some of those who hadbeen long suspected. His life was despaired of for a time, and it wason Willie Bain that the blame was laid. At any rate he kept out of theway. It was said afterward that Brownrig had wrought on his fearsthrough some of his companions, and in the meantime to save her brother, as she thought, Allison's consent was won. "

"It will be an ill day for Brownrig when Allison shall hear of that. "

"I doubt she has heard of it already. All I know is soon told. Brownrig came to me one night, saying that Allison Bain had promised tomarry him, and that the marriage must be in haste for this reason andfor that, and chiefly because the mother was near her end, and would diehappier knowing that her dear daughter was in good keeping. This wasfor me, it seemed--for I was told afterward that the mother was in nostate for days before that to know what was going on about her. 

"As for me, I had many doubts. But I had no opportunity to speak to heror her father till after their names had been cried in the kirk, and Ithought it was too late to speak then. But oh, man! I wish I had. Forwhen he brought her down to the manse with only two friends to witnessthe marriage, and I saw her face, my heart misgave me, and I had to saya word to her whatever might happen. So, when Brownrig's back wasturned for a minute, I took her by the hand, and we went into my studytogether; and I asked her, was she a willing bride? Then there came alook on her face like the shadow of death; but before she had power toutter a word, the door opened, and Brownrig came in. An angry man washe, and for a minute he looked as if he would strike me down, as I stoodholding her hands in mine. 

"`Allison, ' I said, `you must speak to me. Remember this thing whichyou are to do will be forever. When once the words are spoken there canbe no escape. May God help you. '

"She wrung her hands from mine, and cried out:--

"`There is no escape now. And God has forgotten us. ' And then shelooked round about her like a caged creature seeking for a way out of itall. When Brownrig would have put his hand on her, though he did itgently, she shrank from him as if she feared a blow. The man's eyeswere like coals of fire; but he was a strong man, and he put greatconstraint upon himself, and said calmly:--

"`I am at a loss to understand what you would be at, sir. You heard thebanns published. Was there any in the kirk that day who had a word tosay against it? I think you can hardly refuse to do your part. '

"I said, `Allie, where is your brother? What does he say to all this?What says he to his sister's marriage to a man old enough to be herfather?'

"Brownrig's face was an ill thing to see, but he said quietly enough, `Yes, Allie, my woman, tell him where your brother is, --if ye ken, andwhere he is like to be soon if he gets his deserts. Speak, lassie. Tell the minister if you are going to draw back from your word now. '

"A great wave of colour came over her face, and it was not till this hadpassed, leaving it as white as death, that she said hoarsely that it hadto be, and there was no use to struggle against it more. 

"`He has promised one thing, ' said she, `and he shall promise it now inyour presence. I am to go straight home to my father's house, and he isnot to trouble me nor come near me till my mother is safe in her grave. '

"And then she turned to him: `You hear? Now you are to repeat thepromise in the minister's hearing, before we go out of this room. '

"He would fain have refused, and said one thing and another, and hummedand hawed, and would have taken her hand to lead her away; but she puther hands behind her and said he must speak before she would go. 

"`And is not a promise to yourself enough? And will you draw back if Irefuse?' But he did not persist in his refusal to speak, for she lookedlike one who was fast losing hold of herself, and he must have beenafraid of what might happen next. For he said gently, always keeping agreat restraint upon himself, `Yes, I have promised. You shall stay inyour father's house while your mother needs you. I promise--though Ithink you might have trusted to what I said before. '

"Alex, my lad, I would give all I have in the world if I had but heldout another hour. For the words that made them man and wife, werehardly spoken, when that happened which might have saved to them both alifetime of misery. They had only passed through the gate on their wayhome, when down the hillside, like a madman, came Willie Bain. And farand hard he must have run, for he was spent and gasping for breath whenhe came and put his hand upon his sister. `Allie!' he said, `Allie!'and he could say no more. But oh! the face of his sister! May I neversee the like look on face of man or woman again. 

"`Willie, ' she said, `have you made what I have done vain? Why are youhere?'

"`What have you done, Allie? And why shouldna I be here? Stone is wellagain, even if it had been me that struck the blow--which it was not--though I might have had some risk of no' being just able to prove it. Allie, what have you done?'

"But she only laid her white face on his breast without a word. 

"`Allie, ' gasped her brother, as he caught sight of Brownrig, `youhavena given yourself to yon man--yon deevil, I should better say? Theytold me over yonder that it was to be, but I said you scorned him, andwould stand fast. '

"`Oh! Willie! Willie!' she cried, `I scorned him, but for your sake Icouldna stand fast. '

"Then Brownrig took up the word. `Young man, if you ken what is goodfor your ain safety, you'll disappear again, and keep out o' harm's way. But that may be as pleases you. Only mind, you'll have nothing to sayto my wife. '

"`Your wife! You black-hearted liar and villain!' and many a worse wordbesides did the angry lad give him, and when Brownrig lifted his whipand made as if he meant to strike him, Willie turned from his sister andflew at him like a madman, and--though I maybe shouldna say it--Brownriggot his deserts for once, and he will carry the marks the lad left onhim that day, to his grave. He was sore hurt. They put him into thegig in which he had brought Allison down to the manse, and carried himhome, and the brother and sister walked together to their father'shouse. 

"Their mother was nearer her end than had been supposed, for she diedthat night, and before she was laid in her grave there came an officerwith a warrant to arrest poor Willie on a charge of having done bodilyharm to one of Blackwell's keepers months before. Two of his cousinsstood surety for him till after his mother's burial. No evidence couldbe got against him in the matter and he was allowed to go free. Andthen like a daft man, Brownrig had him taken up again on a charge ofassault with intent to kill. It was a mad thing for him to do, if heever hoped to win the good-will of Allison, but it was said to me by onewho knew him well, that he was afraid of the lad, and that he had goodreason to fear, also, that as long as Allison was under the influence ofher brother, she would never come home to him as his wife. But he mighthave waited to try other plans first. 

"Poor John Bain, Allison's father, you ken, had had much to bear whatwith one trouble and another, for many a day, and the last one fellheavier than them all. On the day when his son was condemned to animprisonment for eighteen months, he had a stroke and he never looked upagain, though he lingered a while, and Allison refused to leave him. Brownrig is a man who cares little what may be his neighbours' opinionwith regard to him, but he could hardly venture to insist on his wife'scoming home while her father needed her, for there was no one else tocare for the poor old man. 

"He came to the house while Mr Bain lived, but one told me who saw himthere often, that since the day of their marriage Allison has neithergiven him good word nor bad, nor touched his hand, nor lifted her eyesto his face. Doubtless the man must have his misgivings about her andabout what is to happen now. It is a sad story thus far, with nopossible good ending as far as can be seen. "

"Ay! a most sad story. Poor Allie! There seems little hope for her, whatever may happen. As to her brother, I should like to see him, and Iassuredly shall if it be possible. I should like to take him home withme when I go, and give him another chance. "

"Ah! that is a good word of yours, my son. It would be well done indeedto help the poor lad who is not bad at heart. I never will believethat. But I fear he will do no good here, even if he can keep the land, which is doubtful now, for things have gone ill with them this while, and Brownrig, even for Allie's sake, would never forgive her brother. "

"And it is as likely that her brother would never forgive him. Allisonmay in time forgive her husband, and may end in loving him after all. Time and change work wonders. "

But the minister could not agree with his son. 

"Another woman might forgive and love him, but never Allison Bain. Shecan never honour him, unless he should greatly change, and then I doubtit might be too late for love. "

They were drawing near the house by this time, where many neighbours hadalready gathered to do honour to the dead. They stood about in groupsof two or three, speaking to one another gravely about their old friend, and the troubles which had fallen so heavily on him and on his of late. And doubtless, also, of other matters, that had to do with themselvesand their own affairs, and the times in which they lived; but it was allsaid and done with a decent and even solemn gravity suitable to theoccasion, and it ceased as the minister drew near. 

Another gleam of sunshine broke out between the clouds as the ponystopped of his own accord. The minister took off his hat and saidsolemnly:

"As a cloud is consumed and slowly vanishes away, so he that goeth downto the grave shall come up no more. 

"He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know himany more. "

At the first sound of his voice every "blue bonnet" was lifted and everyhead was bowed, and then, pausing for no greetings, the minister and hisson passed into the house. 

But the younger man saw there no "kenned face, " so he did not lingerwithin, but came out again to stand with the rest. 

The house was a long, low-roofed cottage, with a wide door and narrowwindows. The door opened on the side which faced the barns andoutbuildings, and the first glimpse of the place was dreary and sad. For the rain had left little pools here and there on the ground, and hadmade black mud of the rest of it, not pleasant to look upon. After aglance to ascertain whether there were any of his old friends among thewaiting people, Mr Hadden turned toward the garden, which lay on theother side of the house. 

There was a hawthorn hedge on two sides of it, and a beech-tree, andmany berry-bushes, and tall rose-trees covered with "drooket" roses, andthe ground beneath was strewn with their scattered petals. The gardenhad a dreary look also, but he was not left to it long. For though hehad recognised no one about the door, many a one had recognised him, andin a little time one man slowly followed another to the garden-gate, where he leaned, and hands "with a strong grip in them" were held outand grasped, and not one but said how glad they were to see him homeagain for his father's sake. And by and by as they waited, one afteranother had something to say and a question to ask. 

There was time enough. The minister had to rest awhile and refreshhimself, and the burial-bread had to be passed round, and that whichusually accompanied it as well. Besides, there was no haste, for theyhad given the day to do honour to the occasion; and if they got safelyhome before it was very late, it was all that they expected or desired. 

The questions were asked with lowered voices and in softened tones, butthey were asked eagerly and anxiously, and with a purpose. For one hada Jock, and another had a Tam, and a third had a Jock and a Tam and aSandy as well, who were all pushing up fast, and who had their own breadto win. And it was "whiles no' just that easy to get work the laddieswere fit for, or which was fit for them. "

"And you've done weel out there yourself, sir. "

"And was it land ye were on?"

"Oh, man! it's the land I would like. "

"And is the cold as bad as folk have whiles said: and the heat insummer?"

"And would there be a chance for the laddies out there? Would they bemade welcome if they were to pack their kists and go?"

Mr Hadden answered all questions kindly and fully, making no such rosypicture of life in America as some wandering lecturers on the subjecthad been doing of late through all the countryside. Yes, there was goodland, and there was plenty of it, and in some places it was cheap. Aman could get good land and time to pay it in, and when it was paid forit belonged to him and his forever. Yes, of course they would havetaxes to pay and roads to keep up, and all that. And they would have towork, hard at first, and they would _always_ have to work if they wereto succeed. They would be welcome there, no fear of that. Nowell-doing lad from Auld Scotland but would find work and friends, and ahome of his own after a while, in that free country. Would they likeit? Scotch folk mostly liked it. One that would do well at home wouldbe able to do far better for himself out there. And some who had failedto do anything at home, had succeeded there. It was not a country wheregold grew on the trees, as some would like; but no man need be afraid togo there if he had a will to work--and so on for a long time; and soclose grew the crowd and so eager the questioning, there was some dangerthat the solemnity of the occasion might be forgotten in the growinginterest, for more people were coming in by twos and threes, and not oneof them all but was glad of a word with the minister's son. 

In the meantime the minister was standing beside the dead master of thehouse, with his hand resting on the bowed head of poor Allison Bain. She had lifted her face once, when the first sound of his kind voice hadreached her ear--a face weary and worn, and utterly woebegone. But kindas voice and words were, they had no power to reach her in the darknessand solitariness of that hour. Her face was laid down again upon thecoffin-lid, and she took no heed of all that was going on around her. 

Now and then a friend or neighbour came and stood a while looking at theclosed coffin and the motionless figure of the desolate girl, but not aword was spoken in the room, till the minister rose and said:

"The time is come. "

Then there was a movement in the house, and those who were without cametoward the door. Two or three kinsmen of the dead man drew near andstood ready "to lift the body. " At the head, where the son of the houseshould have been, Allison still sat mute and motionless, with her facehidden on her arms, which rested upon the coffin. There was a minute'ssilence, so deep that the ticking of the clock seemed to smite with painupon the ear. The minister prayed, and then he touched the bowed headand said gently:

"Allison Bain, the time has come. "

The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself tothe waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her facewas so white and drawn--so little like the face of "bonny Allie Bain"--that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through thethrong. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks, and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back, might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers tolead her away. Then a voice said:

"This is my place, " and Brownrig's hand was laid upon the coffin whereAllison's head had lain. 

At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl's face. It grewhard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye orlip, acknowledge the men's presence or his intent. 

"Now, " said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with herface bowed down, but with a firm step, she "carried her father's head"out of the house which was "to know him no more. " In breathless silencethe friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood whiteand tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train haddisappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward thehouse. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going awayagain. But she did not. When her aunt--her mother's sister--put herhand on her shoulder, saying softly, "Allie, my woman, " she paused andput her arms round the old woman's neck and burst into bitter weeping. But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spoken to herwords which she knew must be said soon; but when she tried to do so, Allie held up her hand in entreaty. 

"Wait, auntie. Wait a wee while--for oh! I am so spent and weary. "

"Yes, my dearie; yes, I ken weel, and you shall rest--but not there!--surely not there!"

For Allie had opened the door of the room where her father died andwhere his coffin had stood, where her mother had also suffered and died. She would not turn back. "She was tired and must rest a while andthere was nowhere else. " And already, before she had ceased speaking, her head was on the pillow, and she had turned her face to the wall. 

In the early morning of the next day the minister's son, the returnedwanderer, stood leaning over the wall which separated the manse gardenfrom the kirkyard. He was looking at the spot where the grass wavedgreen over the graves of his mother and his two brothers who sleptbeside her. As he stood, a hand touched his, and Allison Bain'ssorrowful eyes looked down upon him. Looked _down_, because the manygenerations of the dead had filled up the place, and the wall which washigh on the side of the garden was low on the side of the kirkyard. 

"The minister is not up yet?" she asked without a pause. "Was heover-wearied? I had something to say to him, but I might say it to you, if you will hear me?"

"My father will be up soon, and he will see you almost immediately ifyou will come into the manse and wait a little while. "

"Yes, I could wait. But he is an old man and it might spare himtrouble--afterwards--not to know that I passed this way. Are ye MrAlex who once took our Willie out of the hole in the moss?"

"Yes; I mind poor Willie well. Poor laddie. "

"Poor laddie ye may well say, " said Allison, and the colour came to herpale face, and her eyes shone as she added eagerly: "You will be inAberdeen--will you go to see Willie? _I_ canna go to see him because--one might think o' looking for me there. You are a good man, I havealways heard, and he needs some one to speak a kind word to him, and Isore misdoubt that he's in ill company yonder. "

"I am going to see him soon. My father was speaking about himyesterday. I shall certainly go. "

"And you'll be kind to him, I'm sure, " said Allison, wistfully. "He isnot bad, though that has been said. He is only foolish and not wicked, as they tried to make him out. And ye'll surely go?"

"That I will. Even if you hadn't asked me, I would have gone. And, afterwards, if he has a mind to cross the sea, he shall have a fairchance to begin a new life over there. I will be his friend. He shallbe like a young brother to me. "

Allison uttered a glad cry and covered her face with her hands. 

"I mauna greet. But oh! you have lightened my heavy heart. "

"I only wish you could come with him, " said Mr Hadden sadly. "It wouldbe well for you both. "

"But I cannot--for a while--because I am going to lose myself, and if Iwere with Willie I would be found again. But you will tell him that Iwill ay have him in my heart--and sometime I will come to him, maybe. I'll ay have that hope before me. "

"But, Allison--where are you going?--I hope--"

"I must tell no one where I am going. Somebody might ask you about me, and it is better that you should not ken even if I could tell you. EvenWillie mustna ken--for a while. "

There was time for no more words. A little bowed old woman with a greatmutch on her head, and a faded plaid upon her shoulders, came creepingthrough among the graves. 

"Allie, my woman, " she whispered, "ye'll need to lose no time. I haeseen the factor riding round the hill by the ither road. He lookit uncoangry-like, and his big dog was wi' him. Lie laich for a whilie tillhe's weel by, and then tak aff ye're hose and shoon and step into theburn and gae doon beyont the steppin'-stanes till ye get in to thehallow and ye'll bide safe in my bit hoosie till the first sough bepast. "

Allison took a bundle of papers from beneath her shawl. 

"They are for the minister. It is about the keepin' o' the place tillWillie comes home, " said she. 

But the little old woman interposed:

"You maun gie them to me. The minister maun hae nae questions to answerabout them, but just to say that auld Janet Mair gie'd them to him, andhe can send the factor to me. "

She took the papers and put them in her pocket and went her way. Allison looked after her for a moment, then drew nearer to the wall. 

"Sir, " said she in a whisper, "I have something to give your father. Hewill ken best what to do with it. I had something to say to him, butmaybe it is as well to say nothing. And what could I say? Tell him notto think ill of me for what I must do. "

"Allison, " said Mr Hadden gravely, "my father loves you dearly. Itwould break his heart to think of harm coming to you. I am afraid foryou, Allison. "

"Can anything worse come to me than has come already? Tell him I willay try to be good. And he will tell my mother, if he goes first whereshe has gone--" Her voice failed her. 

"Have you friends anywhere to whom you can go?"

"I'll go to Willie some time, if you take him home with you. Only itmust be a long, long time first, for _he_ will keep his eye on Willie, and he would find me. And Willie himself mustna ken where I am, for ifhe came to me he might be followed. I must just lose myself for awhile, for if _he_--_that man_--were to find me--"

Her colour had come back, and her eyes shone with feverish brightness. What could he say to her? He tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrotehis name and his American address upon it. 

"Come to me and you shall have a safe home with my wife and children. Come now, or when you feel that you can come safely, though it be tenyears hence. You shall have a welcome and a home. "

She gave him her hand, and thanked him, and prayed God to bless him, andthen she turned to do as Janet Mair had bidden her. But first she kneltdown beside the new-made grave, and, at the sight, Alexander Haddenbared and bowed his head. When he raised it again she was gone. 

When the minister opened the parcel which Allison Bain had sent him, hefound folded within it her marriage lines and a plain gold ring. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

 "Martinmas dowie did wind up the year. "

The little town of Nethermuir stands in the shire of "bonnie Aberdeen, "though not in the part of it which has been celebrated in song and storyfor beauty or for grandeur. But in summertime the "gowany braes" whichlie nearest to it, and the "heather braes" into which they graduallychange as they rise higher in the distance, have a certain beauty oftheir own. So have the clear brown burns which water its narrow fields, and the belts of wood which are planted here and there on the hillsides. 

In summertime, even the little town itself, as it was fifty years agoand more, might be called a pretty place, at least the lanes about itwere pretty. There were many lanes about it, some of them shaded bytall firs or spreading beeches, others shut in by grassy dikes whichinclosed the long, narrow "kail-yards" running back from the clusters ofdwellings which fronted the narrow streets. There were tall laburnumshere and there, and larch and rowan trees, and hedges of hawthorn orelder, everywhere, some of them shutting in gardens full of such fruitsand flowers as flourish in the north. 

Yes, in summer the place might have been called a pretty place; butunder low, leaden skies, when the reaches of sodden grass-land andrain-bleached stubble had to relieve their grey dreariness only a newlyploughed brown ridge, or the long turnip fields, green still under therain and sleet of the last November days, even the hills were notbeautiful, and the place itself had a look of unspeakable dreariness. 

On such a day the Reverend Robert Hume was leading his horse down theslope which looks on the town from the south, and though his eyes hadthe faculty of seeing something cheerful even in dismal things, heacknowledged that, to eyes looking on it for the first time, the placemight seem a little dreary. 

It did not look dreary to him, as he came into one of the two longstreets which, crossing each other at right angles, made the town. Though he bowed his high head to meet the bitter wind, and plashedthrough the muddy pools which the rain had left in the hollows here andthere, he was glad at heart to see the place, and to be at home; and hesmiled to himself as he came in sight of the corner, beyond which laythe house which held his treasures. 

All the town seemed like home to him. As he went slowly on, he had athought to give to many dwellers on the street. Was "auld Maggie's"thatch holding out the wet? And surely there was danger that the waterof that pool might find its way in beneath "Cripple Sandy's" door. There were friendly faces regarding him from some of the narrow windows, and "welcome hame, " came to him from more than one open door. The townpump was by no means a beautiful object in itself, but his eye restedwith great satisfaction upon it. It stood on the square where thehouses fell back a little, at the place where the two streets crossed, and it could be seen from the furthest end of either of them. It hadnot long stood there, and as it caught his eye, the pleasant thoughtcame freshly to him, how the comfort and cleanliness of the homes mightbe helped, and how much the labour of busy housewives must be lightenedby it. 

But it was no Nethermuir woman who so deftly plied the heavy handle, andlifted her full buckets as if they had been empty, and who walked beforehim down the street with a step which made him think of the heatherhills and the days of his youth. There was no woman of that height inNethermuir, nor one who carried herself so freely and so lightly. Itwas no one he had ever seen before. But some one crossed the way tospeak to him, and he lost sight of her, and a few steps brought him tohis own door. His house was close upon the street. It was of greystone, and only looked high because of the low thatched cottages nearit, on both sides of the way. On the left, a little back from thestreet, stood the kirk, hardly higher than the house. It had no specialfeatures, and was not unlike in appearance to the low outbuildings ofthe manse, which extended behind it. 

Its insignificance alone saved it from positive ugliness, but theminister gave it as he passed, a fond admiring glance. He knew everygrey stone in its walls, and every pane of glass in its narrow windows. He had not built it with his own hands but his heart had been in thelaying of every stone and the driving of every nail in it. And that wastrue of the house as well. He had only time for a glance. For throughthe close there came a shout, and his boys were upon him. 

"Steady, lads. Is all well? Where is your mother, and how is yoursister? Robert, you'll take good care of Bendie and rub her well down. She's quite done out, poor beast; and John, you'll help your brother. She must go to the smithy on Monday. There is something wrong with oneof her shoes. I've been leading her for the last miles. "

And so on. Not a spoken word of tenderness, but Davie leaned againsthis father in utter content, and little Norman clasped his arms roundhis knee. Jack eagerly helped to unsaddle the tired mare, not caring tospeak, though as a general thing he had plenty to say. And Robert hadenough to do with the lump that rose in his throat when he met hisfather's eye. The father ended as he began:

"Where is your mother?"

The mother was standing at the kitchen-door with a child in her arms. 

"Well, dearie?" said the one to the other--their eyes said the rest. Itwas the child that the minister stooped to kiss, but the touch of hishand on his wife's shoulder was better to her than a caress. Fond wordswere rare between these two, who were indeed one--and fond words werenot needed between them. 

Mrs Hume set down the child and helped her husband off with his wetcoat, and if he would have permitted it, she would have helped him offwith his boots also, since the wet and the chill had made him helpless. But it was not needed this time. For a woman with a step like aprincess crossed the floor and bent down to the work. 

"Thank you, my lassie. You have both strength and skill, and you have agood will to use them, though I may have no right to demand it at yourhands. It is perhaps your way of doing the Lord's bidding. `If I, yourLord and Master, have washed your feet!' Do you not mind?"

The smile which rose to Mrs Hume's face had a little surprise in it. For it was not the minister's way to meet strangers with a text likethat. 

"It is Allison Bain, " said she. 

"Oh! it is Allison Bain, is it? So you are come already. I have seenyour friend Dr Fleming, since you left. "

"Dr Fleming was kind to me when I sore needed kindness. "

Her eyes searched wistfully the minister's face, and it came into hismind that she was wondering how much of her story had been told to him. 

"Dr Fleming said many kind things about you, and I trust it may provefor the good of us all, that we have been brought together, " said he. 

In his esteem it was no small thing that this poor soul who had sufferedand perhaps sinned--though looking in her face he could not think it--should have been given into their care. But nothing more could be said. A soft, shrill voice came from a room on the other side of the house. 

"Are you coming, father? I am here, waiting for you. "

"Ah, yes! Ay waiting, my bonny dooie (little dove). "

When his wife entered the room, he was sitting in silence with the palecheek of his only daughter resting against his. A fair, fragile littlecreature she was, whose long, loose garments falling around her, showedthat she could not run and play like other children, whatever might bethe cause. It was a smile of perfect content which met her mother'slook. 

"Well, mother, " said she softly. 

"Well, my dear, you are happy now. But you are not surely going to keepyour father in his damp clothes? And tea will soon be ready. "

"Ah, no! I winna keep him. And he is only going up the stair thistime, " said the child, raising herself up and fondly stroking the graveface which was looking down upon her with love unutterable. He laid herupon the little couch by the fireside and went away without a word. 

"Come soon, father, " said the child. 

It was not long before he came. The lamp was lighted by that time, andthe fire was burning brightly. The boys had come in, and the motherwent to and fro, busy about the tea-table. The father's eyes werebright with thankful love as he looked in upon them. 

It was not a large room, and might have seemed crowded and uncomfortableto unaccustomed eyes. For all the six sons were there--the youngest inthe cradle, and the little daughter's couch took up the corner betweenthe window and the fire. The tea-table was spread with both the leavesup, and there was not much room certainly between it and the othertable, on which many books and papers were piled, or the corner wherethe minister's arm-chair stood. 

The chair was brought forward in a twinkling, and he was seated in itwith his little white dove again on his knee. This was the usualarrangement for this hour evidently. To-night the brothers stood beforethem in a half circle looking on. 

"Well, and how has my Marjorie been all this long time?"

"Oh! I have been fine and well, father, and the time has not been sovery long. Do you ken what Mrs Esselmont has sent me? A doll. A finedoll with joints in her knees, and she can sit down. And her clothescome off and on, just like anybody's. Jack has made a stool for her, and he said he would make me a table and a chair if you brought a knifeto him when you came home. Did you bring Jack a knife, father?"

"Well--I'm not just sure yet. I will need to hear how Jack has beenbehaving before we say anything about a knife, " said her father; but hissmile was reassuring, though his words were grave. 

"I think Jack has been good, father. And mother was here, ye ken, andshe would settle it all, and not leave anything over till you come home, unless it were something serious, " added the child gravely. 

Jack hung his head. 

"So I am to let bygones be bygones?" said his father. 

"And, father, " said the child again, her sweet, shrill voice breakingthrough the suppressed noise of her brothers--"Allie has come!" Andeven the introduction of the wonderful doll had brought no brighter lookto the little pale face. "Allie has come, and I like Allie. "

"Do you, love? That is well. "

"Yes, father. Eh! but she's bonny and strong! When she carried me upthe stair to my bed, I shut my een, and I thought it might be fatherhimself, Robin is strong, too, and so is Jack, but I'm not ay just sosure of them, " said Marjorie, looking deprecatingly at her brothers, "and I ay feel as if I must help mother when she carries me, becauseshe's whiles weary. But it is almost as good as having you, father, when Allie takes me in her arms. "

Marjorie was "whiles weary" also, it seemed. She had talked more thanall the rest of them put together, which was not her way in general; soshe laid her head down on her father's shoulder, and said no more tilltea was brought in. It was the new maid who brought in the brighttea-kettle at last, and set it on the side of the grate. Marjorieraised her head and put out a hand to detain her. 

"Father, this is Allison Bain. And, Allie, ye must tell father aboutthe lady. Father, Allie kenned a lady once, who was like me when shewas little, and hardly set her foot to the ground for many a year andday. I think she must have been even worse than me, for once they hadher grave-clothes made, " said the child in an awed voice, "and when shedidna die, they were hardly glad, for what was her life worth to her, they said. But she was patient and good, and there came a wise woman tosee her and whether it was the wise woman that helped her or just theLord himself, folk couldna agree, but by and by she grew strong and welland went about on her own feet like other folk and grew up to be awoman, and was the mother of sons before she died. "

Jack and his brothers laughed at the climax, but the child took nonotice of their mirth. 

"It might happen to me too, father, if a wise woman were to come, or ifthe Lord himself were to take me in hand. "

"Ay, my lammie, " said her father softly. 

"The mother of sons before she died, " repeated the child. "But she diddie at last, father. It ay comes to that. "

"Ay, dear, soon or late, it ay comes to that. "

"But, father, I wouldna like it to be soon with me. And if only a wisewoman would come here--But never mind, father, " added she, laying hersoft little hand on his as his kind eyes grew grave; "I can wait. I'monly little yet, and there's plenty of time, and now Allie has come, andshe is strong and kind. I like Allie, " she added, caressing the handwhich she had been holding fast all the time. "Allie says that maybethe best thing that could happen to me would be to die, but I would liketo live and go about like other folk a whilie first. "

"I am sure Allie will be good to you, " said her father. 

"Ay, that will I, " said Allie, looking gravely down upon the child. 

"Come, now, tea is ready, " said the mother's cheerful voice. And ratherquietly, considering their number, the boys took their places at thetable. 

There were five of them; the sixth was asleep in the cradle. Robert, the eldest, just fifteen, was a "good scholar, " and dux in the parishschool. He was ready for the university, and was going there when theway should be made clear for him. As a general thing, he had a book inhis hand while he munched the oaten bannocks, which formed the chiefpart of the boys' evening meal. But to-night he listened and put in hisword with the rest. And there were words in plenty, for their fatherhad been away ten whole days, and he had much to hear. 

The others were handsome, hardy boys, with dark eyes and sun-brownedfaces, and the fair hair of so many Scottish laddies, darkening a littlealready in the elder ones. They were seen at their best to-night, fortheir father had been expected, and clean hands and faces had been amatter of choice, and not, as was sometimes the case, of compulsion, and"the lint white locks, " longer and more abundant than we usually seethem on boyish heads nowadays, were in reasonable order. 

If a hundredth part of the pride and delight which filled their father'sheart, as he looked round on them, had been allowed to appear on hisface, it would have astonished them all not a little. His eyes metthose of their mother with a look in which was thankfulness as well aspride, but to the boys themselves he said quietly enough:

"I am glad to hear from your mother that you have been reasonably goodboys while I have been away. If there is anything that any of you thinkI ought to hear of, you'll tell me yourselves. "

A look was exchanged among the older lads. 

"The nicht, father?" said one of them. 

"Well, to-morrow may do, unless it be something more than usual. Is itJack?"

Of course it was Jack. He looked at his mother and hung his head, butsaid nothing. 

"Hoot, man! get it over the nicht, " whispered Robin. 

And so he did. But poor Jack's mischief need not be told. It was notreally very serious, though his father listened seriously, and kept hissmiles till he was alone with the boy's mother. _Mischief_ is a genericterm in the Scottish tongue, including some things bad enough, but alsosome things in which fun is one of the chief elements, and Jack's_mischief_ was mostly of this kind. Sometimes his father laughed inprivate, even when he found it necessary to show displeasure to theculprit. 

But he was reasonable in his punishments, which was not invariably thecase with even good men and good fathers, in that land, in those days. There were whispers among some of the frequenters of the little kirk, tothe effect that the minister's laddies needed sharper discipline thanthey were like to have at home, and there were prophecies that theywould be likely to get their share of discipline of one kind or anotherwhen they should be out of their father's hands. 

Jack got easily off, whatever his fault had been, and had his knifebesides. They all grew a little noisy over their father's gifts. As itwas Saturday night, his first thought had been that they should not bedistributed till Monday. But their mother said they might, perhaps, think all the more about them if they had not seen them. So each gothis gift, and their delight in them, seeing there was so little torejoice over, was in the eyes of the father and mother both amusing andpathetic. 

But little and great are comparative terms when applied to money's worthas to other things, and considering the amount which must be made tostand for all that was needed in the home, the presents were not sotrifling. Still, the minister was a rich man in the opinion of manyabout him, and it cannot be said that he was a poor man in his ownopinion. At any rate, between them, his wife and he had made theircomparative poverty answer a good many of the purposes of wealth, not totheir children only, but to many a "puir bodie" besides, since they cameto Nethermuir. 

"And now, my lads, we'll to worship and then you'll to your beds, for Ihave my morrow's sermon to look at yet, and I see your mother's work isnot done. "

So "the Books" were brought out and Allison Bain was called in from thekitchen. The minister asked God's blessing on the reading of the Wordand then he chose a Psalm instead of the chapter in Numbers which camein course. It was the thirty-fourth:

"I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be inmy mouth, " and so on to the end. 

"The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants, and none of them thattrust in Him shall be desolate. "

"He believes it all, " said Allison Bain to herself, lifting once againher sad eyes to his face. And then they sang:

 "Oh! God of Bethel, by whose hand Thy people still are fed--"

which was their family song of thanksgiving, as it was of many anotherfamily in those days, on all special occasions for rejoicing. It wasthe mother who led the singing with a voice which, in after years, whenher sons were scattered in many lands, they remembered as "the sweetestever heard. " The father sang too, but among the many good gifts whichGod had given to him, music had been denied. He did not know one tunefrom another, except as it might be associated with some particularPsalm or Hymn, and his voice, both powerful and flexible in speaking, had in singing only two unvarying tones. But he was never silent whenthe time came "to sing praises, " and truly his voice did not spoil themusic to those who loved him. The boys had their mother's gift and theyall sang with good will to-night. Allie's voice was mute, but her lipstrembled a little, and her head drooped low as they sang--

 "God of our fathers be the God Of their succeeding race. "

She was not forgotten in the prayer which followed. It was not as "thestranger within our gates" that she was remembered, but as one of thehousehold, and it was reverently asked that the casting in of her lotwith theirs might be for good to her and to them for all time and beyondit. But there was no brightening of her face when she rose and passedout from among them. 

The minister's sermon was not his first thought when he returned to theparlour, after carrying his little daughter up-stairs. By and by hiswife sat down with her stocking-basket by her side. They had manythings to speak about, after a ten days' separation, which had notoccurred more than twice before in all their married life, and soon theycame round to their new servant. 

"Well, what do you think of her?" said the minister. 

"I cannot say. I cannot quite make her out, " said Mrs Hume gravely. 

"You have not had much time yet. "

"No; I mean that I do not think she intends that I should make her out. "

"She says little?"

"She says nothing. She has passed through some sore trouble, I am quitesure. She looks, at times, as if she had lost all that she cared for, and had not the heart to begin again. "

"I think you have made her out fairly well, " said the minister smiling. 

"Why was Dr Fleming so anxious to send her here? Had he known herlong? And how did he come to know her?"

"He had not known her very long. This is the way he came to know her:She was brought to the infirmary, ill of fever. She had gone into acottage on the outskirts of the town `to rest herself, ' she said. Butshe was too ill to leave the place, and then she was sent to theinfirmary. She had a struggle for life, which none but a strong womancould have won through, and when she began to grow better, she madeherself useful among the other patients, and was so helpful, that whenone of the nurses went away, they kept her on in her place. Butevidently she had not been used with town life, or even indoor life, andshe grew dowie first, and then despairing, and he was glad at thethought of getting her away, for fear of what might happen. It waschange which she needed, and work such as she had been used with. "

"But it was a great risk to send her here. "

"Yes, in one way. And I hardly think he would have ventured to do so, but that, quite by accident, he had heard about her from an old collegefriend. It seems that this gentleman came to see Dr Fleming at theinfirmary, and getting a glimpse of the young woman's face, he betrayedby his manner that it was not for the first time. He was bound, hesaid, for her sake, not to seem to know her, nor would he say anythingabout her home or her station in life. But he said that he knew wellabout her, that she was an orphan who had suffered much, that she was agood woman, one to be trusted and honoured, and he begged his friend toask her no questions, but to get her out of the town into some quietcountry place where she might outlive the bitterness of the past. Andhis last words were, `Fortunate will they be who can have her as ahelper in the house. '"

"It is a pity for her sake that she should refuse to trust us. "

"Yes. There is one thing which you ought to know, though Dr Flemingrather betrayed it than expressed it openly. I think, from what hesaid, and also from what he did not say, that there had been some fearthat her mind might give way under the strain of her trouble, whateverit is. She seemed to have lost the power of turning her thoughts awayfrom it, and yet she had never uttered a word with regard to it. Shewas sometimes, he said, like one walking in her sleep, deaf and blind toall that was going on about her. She had a dazed look, painful to see. "

"I ken the look well. "

"She had been used with country life, he thought, for in the town shewas like a creature caged and wild to get out. Her best chance was, hesaid, an entire change of scene and of work, and he thought itprovidential that we were to lose our Kirstin at this time. Our house, he thought, would be a good place for her. She will have plenty to do, and will have every allowance made for her, and she will be kindly andfirmly dealt with. And then, there are the bairns, and our bonnyMaysie. I confess the glimpse I have gotten of her has already greatlyinterested me. "

"I acknowledge I have felt the same. But others will be interested inher also. Does she really think that she can keep a secret in a placelike this? What she will not tell, others will guess. Or worse, theywill imagine a story for her. "

"We must do what we can to guard her from ill or idle tongues. "

"Yes, and if she were just a commonplace servant-lass, like our Kirstin, it might be easy to do so. But with a face and eyes like hers, to saynothing of her way of carrying herself, every eye will be upon her. "

"She is a stately woman truly. But her dark, colourless face willhardly take the fancy of common folk. They will miss the lilies androses. She has wonderful een, " added the minister. 

"Yes, like those of a dumb creature in pain. Whiles I feel, looking ather, that I must put my arms about her and let her greet (weep) herheart out on my breast. But she has hardly given me a chance to say akind word to her yet. That may come in time, however. "

"It will be sure to come, " said the minister heartily. "What sorrowfulsoul ever withstood you long? And you have reason to trust her? Shehas done well thus far?"

"I have had no cause to distrust her. Yes, she has done wonderfullywell. Though I doubt whether she has ever occupied a servant's placebefore. And she gets on well with the lads. Jack has once felt theweight of her hand, I believe. I do not think he will be in a hurryagain to vex her with his nonsense. "

"I must have a word with Jack, and with them all. "

"As for our Marjorie, her heart is taken captive quite. "

"My precious darling! She may do Allison good. And we must all try tohelp the poor soul as we may, for I fear she is in an evil case. "

CHAPTER THREE. 

 "For the highest and the humblest work had been given them to do. "

Yes, Allison Bain was in an evil case, but if an entire change of sceneand manner of life, and hard work and plenty of it, were likely to havea beneficial effect upon her, she had come to the right place to findthem. And she had come also to the right place to get faithful, patient, and kindly oversight, which she needed as much as change. 

When she had been longing to get away--anywhere--out of the great town, which was like a prison to her, Dr Fleming had spoken to her abouttaking service at the manse of Nethermuir, and she had said that shewould go gladly, and at once. 

The only manse which she knew much about was in her mind when she madethe promise, --a house apart, in a sheltered, sunny spot, having a highwalled fruit garden behind it, and before, a broad, sloping lawn, with abrown burn running at the foot. Yes, she would like to go. She wouldget away from the din and closeness of the town. In a place like thatin which the old minister lived alone among his books, with only hischildren or his grandchildren coming home to see him now and then, shewould be at peace. She would be away from the curious eyes that were aystriving, she thought, to read her sorrowful secret in her face. Yes, she would be glad to go. 

But it was a very different place in which she found herself when shereached Nethermuir. Anything more unlike the ideal Scottish manse thanthe house to which she had come could not well be imagined. There wasno walled garden or lawn, or "wimplin burn" to see. If it had even aright to be called "The Manse, " might be doubted. 

For it was only the house of the "Missioner Minister, " a humble abode, indeed, in comparison with the parish manse. It was a narrow, two-storied house, with but the causey (pavement) between it and thestreet. Across the close, which separated it from a still humblerdwelling, came the "clack, clack" of a hand-loom, and the same sound, though the night was falling, came from other houses near. 

"A poor place, indeed, " was Allison Bain's first thought, as she stoodregarding it from the darkening street, with a conscious, dull sinkingof the heart, which had already fallen so low. Not that the placemattered much, she added, as she stood looking at the lights moving hereand there in the house. She was too weary to care for anything verymuch that night. The morning stars had lighted her way the first twohours of her journey, and there had been little time for rest during theshort November day. Footsore and exhausted after her thirty miles oftravel, she went slowly and heavily in. She could only listen insilence to the kindly welcome of her new mistress, and then go silentlyto the rest and quiet of her bed. 

Morning came. Rest and quiet! These were not here, it seemed. Thesound of many voices was filling the house when Allie, having longoverslept herself, awoke at last and lifted her heavy head from thepillow. There were shrill, boyish voices, laughing, shouting, wrangling, without pause. There was racket on the stairs, and wrestlingin the passage, and half-stifled cries of expostulation or triumpheverywhere, till a door opened, and closed again, and shut it all out. 

And so Allison's new life began. She had not come to seek an easy time. And as for quiet, if she had but known it, the noise and bustle andboyish clamour, the pleasant confusion of coming and going about thehomely little manse, and the many claims upon her attention and patienceand care, were just what she needed to help her. Whether she knew it ornot, she set herself to her work with a will, and grew as content withit, after a while, as she could have been anywhere at this time of herlife. 

Mr Hume belonged to the little band of remarkable men, to whom, ontheir first coming North, was given the name of "Missioners. " Somepeople say the name was given because these men were among the first toadvocate the scheme of sending missionaries to the heathen. Others saythey were so named because they themselves came, or were sent, to preachthe Gospel of Christ to those who were becoming content to hear what thenew-comers believed and declared to be "another Gospel. " In course oftime the name given to the leaders fell also to those who followed--anhonourable name surely, but in those days it was spoken contemptuouslyenough sometimes, by both the wise and the foolish, and Mr Hume, duringthe first years of his ministry in Nethermuir, had his share ofcontumely to meet or to ignore as well as the rest. 

But all that had been long past before Allison Bain came with herspoiled life, and her heavy heart, to seek shelter under his roof. Bythat time, to no minister--to no man in all the countryside--was a truerrespect, a fuller confidence given, by those whose good word was of anyvalue. 

He had not been over-eager to win the good word of any one. The courageand hopefulness of youth and an enthusiastic devotion to the work towhich he had been set apart, carried him happily through the firsttroubled years, and when youthful courage and hopefulness had abatedsomewhat, then natural patience, and strength daily renewed, stood himin good stead. He loved his work not less, but more as time went on, and it prospered in his hands. His flock was only "a little flock"still; but the gathering in of these wanderers to the fold had givenhim, as one by one they came, a taste of such perfect satisfaction, asfew of the great ones of the world--be they heroes or sages--haveclaimed to be theirs, even in the moment of their highest triumphs. 

This kind of success and his satisfaction in it might not be appreciatedby those who looked on from the outside of his circle of influence; butthere was another kind, both of success and of satisfaction in it, whichthey could appreciate, and at which they might well wonder. 

By means of the pennies and sixpences and shillings slowly gatheredamong themselves, though few among them had many pennies to spare, andwith the help of occasional pounds, which by one hand and another foundtheir way into the treasury from abroad, first the kirk had been builtand then the manse. They were humble structures enough, but sufficientfor their purpose, and indeed admirable in all respects in the eyes ofthose who had a part in them. 

Then out of a low stretch of barren clay, which was a slimy pool, with agreen, unhealthy margin for some months of the year, the minister hadmade such a garden as few in the town could boast. The hawthorn hedgearound it, as well as every tree and bush in it, was planted by theminister's own hand, or under his own eye. It might not have seemed avery fine garden to some people. There were only common flowers andfruits in it, and still more common vegetables; but the courage, theskill, the patience which had made it out of nothing, must have beenappreciated anywhere. To the moderately intelligent and immoderatelycritical community of Nethermuir, the visible facts of kirk and manse, of glebe and garden, appealed more clearly and directly than did thebuilding up of "lively stones into a spiritual house, " which was histrue work, or the flourishing of "trees of righteousness" in theirmidst, which was his true joy. 

And, perhaps, this was not so much to be wondered at, considering allthings. For some of the "trees" looked to be little other than "crookedsticks" to their eyes; and of some of the "stones" it might well besaid, that they "caused many to stumble. " And since it was halting, andshortcoming, and inconsistency that some of their critical neighbourswere looking for among "folk that set themselves up to be better thantheir neebors, " it is not surprising that it was these that they shouldmost readily see. 

Even the minister himself saw these things only too often. But then, hesaw more. He saw the frequent struggle and resistance, as well as therare yielding to temptation, and he saw also, sometimes, the soul'shumiliation, the repentance, the return. 

And even the "crooked sticks" were now and then acknowledged to be notaltogether without life. Saunners Crombie might be sour and dour andcrabbed whiles, readier with reproof and rebuke than with consolation orthe mantle of charity. But even Saunners, judged by deeds rather thanby words, did not altogether fall short of fruit-bearing, as many a poorsoul, to whose wants, both temporal and spiritual, he ministered insecret, could gladly testify. 

And on many of the folk who had "ta'en up wi' the little kirk, " a changehad passed, a change which might be questioned and cavilled at, butwhich could not be denied. In more than one household, where strife anddiscontent had once ruled, the fear of God and peace and good-will hadcome to dwell. To another, long wretched with the poverty which comesof ill-doing, and the neglect which follows hopeless struggle, had comecomfort, and at most times plenty, or contentment with little whenplenty failed. 

There were lads and lassies among them, of whom in former days, evilthings had been prophesied, who were now growing into men and women, earnest, patient, aspiring--into such men and women as have made thename of Scotland known and honoured in all lands. They were not spareda sneer now and then. They were laughed at, or railed at, as "uncogude, " or as "prood, upsettin' creatures, with their meetings, andclasses, and library books, " and the names which in the Scotch of thattime and place stood for "prig" and "prude, " were freely bestowed uponthem. But, all the same, it could not be denied that they were not"living to themselves, " that they were doing their duty in all therelations of life, and of some of them it was said that "they might beheard o' yet" in wider spheres than their native town afforded. 

Neither could it be denied that some who had set out with them in life, with far fairer promise than they, had "gaen the wrang gait, " with anever-lessening chance of turning back again. And what made thedifference?

Was it just the minister's personal influence teaching, guiding, restraining, encouraging? Or was it that a change had really passedupon them--the change in which, at least, the minister believed, andwhich he preached--which, according to him, must pass on each man forhimself, before true safety or happiness, either in this world or thenext, could be assured--the change which can be wrought by the Power ofGod alone?

Converted! The word had long been a scoff on the lips of some inNethermuir, but even the scoffers had to confess that, to some of themissioners at least, something had happened. 

There was Peter Gilchrist. If an entire change of heart, and mind, andmanner of life meant conversion, then Peter was converted. And that notthrough the slow process of reading the Bible on the Sabbath-day, or bylearning the catechism, or by a decent attendance upon appointedordinances--not even "under the rod"--the chastising hand of Him whosmites the sinner for his good--which would have been reasonable enough. It had happened to others. 

But Peter had been converted by one sermon, it was said, a sermonpreached at the house-end of Langbarns in the next parish. No greatsermon, either. At least many a one had heard it without heeding it. But it had "done" for Peter. 

The very last thing that Peter had been thinking about was listening tothe sermon. He, with some of his chosen friends, had gone to themeeting--held out of doors, because there was no other place in which tohold it--for the help and encouragement of the constable, who, it wassaid, had a warrant to seize and carry before a magistrate "themissioner minister" for a breach of the law, in holding a preachingmeeting at Langbarns without the consent of the parish minister. Thepresumption was that the sight of the constable, and the announcement ofhis errand, would be enough to silence the minister and disperse themeeting. But that did not follow. If he were to be meddled with, "itshould not be for nothing, " the minister declared to a rather timidfriend and adviser. And his courage stood him in good stead. He gavethe folk assembled such a sermon as probably few of them had ever heardbefore. The constable had not, he acknowledged, nor Peter; and theworst of it--or the best of it--for Peter was, that having heard it, hecould not forget it. 

When the meeting was over, Mr Hume went silently and swiftly away withthe departing crowd, and he never would have been quite sure thatanything serious had been intended if he had not afterward had Peter'sword for it. 

Returning home from a similar meeting, held in another direction, a weekor two afterward, he was waylaid by that unhappy man, and in a ratherunexpected manner called to account for his sermon, and for the miseryit had caused. They went home to the manse together, and spent a goodpart of the night in the minister's study, and more nights than onebefore Peter "came to himself" and "went to his Father, " and so was madeready to begin a new life indeed. 

It _was_ a new life. There was no gainsaying that. He had been areckless character, a drunkard, a swearer, an ill husband and a worsefather, in the sight of all men. But from the day when at last he cameout of the minister's study with a face which shone, though there weretears upon it, all that was over. 

For days and months his wife watched him and wondered, and rejoiced withtrembling, never sure how it all might end. His children, withsomething of the dogged indifference with which in former days they hadcome to bear the effects of his drunken anger, took the good of hischanged ways "while they lasted, " they said to one another, hardlydaring to hope that they would last "for ay. "

But though he had had a stumble or two since then he had, on the whole, during thirteen years walked warily and wisely, even in the unwillingjudgment of those who had watched for his halting. Even they werecompelled to allow that "to be converted" meant something to thepurpose, at least in the case of Peter Gilchrist. 

There were many besides him whose lives illustrated the power of theGospel as held forth by Mr Hume, and there were but a few in the placewho went beyond a grumble of dissent or disapproval of him and hisdoings now. Even the most inveterate of the grumblers, or the mostcaptious of the fault-finders, could not withstand the persistentfriendliness which never resented an injury nor forgot a favour, andwhich was as ready, it seemed, with a good turn for those who wished himill as for those who wished him well. 

According to some folk, the minister ought to have been "sour, and dour, and ill-conditioned, " considering the belief he held and the doctrineshe preached. These were the folk who never went to hear him. But eventhey acknowledged that he was friendly and kindly, cheerful andforbearing, even when vexation or indignation on his part might havebeen excusable. And they also acknowledged that "he wasna a man whokeepit a calm sough, and slippet oot o' things just to save himselftrouble. " He could be angry--and show it, too--where cruelty, ordishonesty, or treachery came under his eye, or where blasphemous wordswere uttered in his hearing. And there were two or three of theevildoers of the place who had been made to feel the weight of hiswords, and the weight of his hand also on occasion, and who were in theway now of slipping down the lanes, rather than meet the minister in thelight of day. 

And he was "a weel learnt man, " and fair in an argument, and willing tolook at all the sides of a subject. This was Weaver Sim's opinion ofthe minister, and he was an oracle in a small way among his neighbours. 

"He has his ain notions and opinions, as is to be expectet o' the likeo' him. But he's a weel learnt man, and on the whole fair and liberal. And whiles he has a twinkle in his e'e that tells that he sees somethings that ither folk canna see, and that he enjoys them. "

All this had been conceded during the early years of the minister's lifein Nethermuir. He had made his own place among the town's folk sincethen, and so had his wife. It was a good place, and they were worthy ofit. And it is possible that, in all Scotland, poor Allison Bain couldhave found no safer refuge than she was likely to find with them. 

She filled her place well--was indeed invaluable in it. But when weeksand months had passed, her master and mistress knew nothing more of herheart or her history than on the day when she first came among them. But they had patience with her, and watched her with constant and kindlyoversight, and they trusted her entirely at last. 

"Her trust in us will come in time, " said her mistress; "and in themeanwhile I can only be thankful that she has been sent to us, both forher sake and ours. "

It was indeed "a great relief and comfort" for Mrs Hume to know that awise head and capable hands were between her and many of her householdcares. For what with her husband, and her six sons, and her fraillittle daughter, and the making, and mending, and thinking for them all, her days were sometimes over-full. 

To the minister his wife was hands, and eyes, and sometimes head. Shehad to keep her heart light and her face bright, and now and then shehad to "set it as a flint" for his sake. She had to entertain many awearisome visitor, and to listen to many a tale of care or trouble orcomplaint, that the quiet of his study need not be broken in upon. Shestood between him and some vexations which he might have takenseriously, and from which he might have suffered, but which yieldedunder the influence of her smiles and soft words, or disappeared in thepresence of her indifference or her anger, as the case might be. 

She had slow, dull natures to stir up, and natures hard and crabbed tosoften and soothe, and in numberless other ways to hold up her husband'shands, and maintain his honour in the little community to which he stoodas God's overseer. 

There were "puir bodies" in every street, into whose dim little roomsthe face of the minister's wife came like sunshine. She was a kind ofProvidence to some of them, having made herself responsible to them forcups of tea, or basins of soup, or jugs of milk in their time of need. And for better help still. To the suffering and sorrowful she came withwords of comfort and consolation, and with words of chiding or of cheerto the "thraward" and the erring, who had helped to make their owntrouble. She was mindful of all and kind to all as they had need andshe had power. 

She had other uses for her time also, duties and pleasures which shecould not neglect. A new book found its way to the manse sometimes, andshe had the _Evangelical Magazine_ to read--it would be thought dryreading nowadays--and the weekly paper as well, for great interest wastaken in public affairs at that time. These books and papers were to bethought over, and considered, and then discussed with her husband, andsometimes with the two or three hard-handed farmers or artisans of theirflock, who had, under their teaching, learned to care for books, andeven for "poyms, " and for all that the great world in the distance wastrying to say and to do. 

It was well for her that she had learned to do two things at once, oreven three, --that she could enjoy her book quite as well with herknitting-needles glancing busily in her skilful fingers, and her foot onher boy's cradle, and withal never forget to meet and answer the smileof her patient little daughter, or by glance or word or touch to keepher restless lads in order. 

Her brown eyes seldom looked troubled or weary, and her voice, though attimes imperative enough, never grew sharp or fretful. Her steps wentlightly up and down the stair, and through the streets of the town, andher smile was like sunshine at home and abroad. 

And the help that Allison's willing and efficient service was to hermistress cannot be told. It would have helped her more if the girl hadbeen happier in the giving of it. 

"But, " said her hopeful mistress, "that will come in time. "

CHAPTER FOUR. 

 "She crept a' day about the house Slow fitted and heart-sair. "

Truly there was enough to do in the house. Allison's day began longbefore the dawn of the winter morning, and ended when there was nothingmore to do, and night had come by that time. All was done deftly andthoroughly, as even the faithful Kirstin had not always done it, butsilently and mechanically. She took no satisfaction, that her mistresscould see, in a difficult or tiresome piece of work well ended--in agreat washing or ironing got through in good time, or in a kitchen madeperfect in neatness. When the lads came home from school to put it allin disorder, with bats and balls, and sticks and stones, she made noremonstrance, but set to work to put it in order again. It made nodifference, her downcast face seemed to say. 

With the lads themselves--tiresome and vexatious often--she was, for themost part, patient and forbearing, but it was not a loving patience, ora considerate forbearance, as old Kirstin's had been. Kirstin had beenvexed often, and had sometimes complained of their thoughtlessness andfoolishness. But nothing seemed to make much difference to the silentruler of the kitchen. Everything but the work of the moment was allowedto pass unheeded. 

The lads, cautioned by their father, and kept in mind by their mother, did not often go beyond the bounds of reasonable liberty in the use theymade of her domain. When they did so, a sharp word, like a sudden shot, brought them to their proper place again and set matters right betweenthem. The lads bore no malice. They never complained to their motherat such times, and if they had, she would have paid little attention tosuch complaints. That "laddies must be kept in order, " she very wellknew. 

And thus the early weeks of winter passed, doing for Allison some of thegood which work well done is sure to do for the heavy-hearted. But thegood which the busy days wrought, the nights, for a time, seemed todestroy. 

In the long evenings, when Marjorie and the younger brothers wereasleep, and the elder lads were at their books, there came a time ofquiet to all the house, when Allison had the kitchen to herself and shecould sit in silence, undisturbed, but not at rest. Then her troublecame back upon her, and night after night she sat gazing into the firetill it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of thepainful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! theanguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers, was as sharp and "ill to bide" as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in asense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, thecoming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soulagainst it gives a sort of courage for the time. 

But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallenon her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all thefuture, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness. 

It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it allover. She saw again the home she had left forever--the low house, withthe sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of abeautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, wasever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow--aface with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse thandeath. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbingsighs between. 

"O! Willie, Willie!" the broken voice says. "Where are ye, Willie?Mind, Allison, ye hae promised--to watch for his soul as ane that maungie account. And the Lord deal--wi' you, as--ye shall deal wi' Him. "

And in her heart she answers:

"Father, be at peace about him. I'll be more mindfu' o' him than theLord himself has been. "

She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, andsitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair. Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, andthe prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are everbefore her, their voices in her ears. 

She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does noteven care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dreadlies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, shethinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Williecould die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If theycould only pass out of all men's minds, as though they had never been!But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in theirlives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten. 

And having got thus far, it all begins again, and she lives over thehappy days when, bairns together, they played among the heather, orfollowed the sheep on the hills; when their father was like God to them, ay loving them, and being kind to them; but not ay seeming just somindful of them as their mother was. Their mother was ill whiles, andtook less heed of things, and needed much done for her, but they lovedtheir mother best. At least they never feared her, as they sometimesfeared their father, who yet loved them both--Willie best, as did allwho ever saw his face. 

And thus on through all the weary way, her thoughts would travel throughdays of still content, through doubt, and fear, and anguish, to the end, only to begin again. 

If Dr Fleming had known what good reason there was for the fears whichhe had unconsciously betrayed to the minister, he would hardly haveventured to send Allison Bain to the house of his friend. But he couldhave done nothing better for her. A change was what she needed--something to take her out of herself, to make her forget, even for alittle while, now and then, what the last year had brought her. Withnew scenes and faces around her, new duties and interests to fill up hertime and thoughts, she had the best chance of recovering from thestrokes which had fallen upon her, and of "coming to herself" again. 

For nothing had happened to her that is not happening to some one everyday of the year. Sin and sorrow and terrible suffering had touched herand hers. One had sinned, all had suffered, and she was left alone tobear the burden of her changed life, and she must bear it for herbrother's sake. And she had no refuge. 

For her faith in God had been no stronger than her faith in her brother, and her brother had failed her. And God had not put out a hand to helphim--to save him from his sin and its consequences, and nothing could bechanged now. 

Yet the first months of winter did something for her, though hermistress hardly discovered it, and though she did not know it herself. Her day's work tired her in a natural, healthy way, so that after a timeher sleep at night was unbroken, and she had less time for theindulgence of unhappy thoughts. But she did not, for a good while afterthree months were over, take much conscious pleasure in anything thatwas happening around her. 

She had much to do. The short days of winter were made long to her. For hours before the slow coming dawn she was going softly about thekitchen in the darkness, which the oil-lamp that hung high above thehearth hardly dispelled. When she had done what could be done at thathour within the house, there was something to do outside. For crippleSandy, whose duty it was to care for the creatures, did not hurryhimself in the winter mornings; and Allison, who knew their wants andtheir ways, and who all her life had had to do with the gentle creaturesat home, would not let them suffer from neglect. By the dim light ofthe lantern hung from the roof, she milked the cows and fed them, andlet in the welcome light upon the cocks and hens; and went to allcorners of the place, seeing at a glance where a touch of her hand wasneeded. And she was conscious of a certain pleasure in it after a time. 

Then there was the house "to redd up, " and the porridge to make, for theelder lads had to set out early to their school, and their breakfastmust be over when their father came down to have worship before theywent away. Then came the parlour breakfast, and then the things were tobe put away, and dinner-time was at hand, and so on till the day wasover. Truly there was enough to do, washing and ironing, cleaning andcooking, coming and going--the constant woman's work which is neverdone. 

As for the cooking, there was no time for the making of dainty dishes inthe manse, even if there had been no better reason for dispensing withthem. Oatmeal was the staple of the house, of course--the food whichhas made bone and muscle for so many who stand in high places on bothsides of the sea. There was the invariable porridge in the morning, supplemented by the equally invariable cakes. Not the sweet morselswhich the name may suggest to some folk--but, broad discs of meal andwater, cut into quarters for the sake of convenience, and baked on agriddle--solid but wholesome. 

There was a variety of them. There were soft cakes, and crisp cakes, and thick bannocks, and sometimes there were "scones" of barley-meal. The "loaf-bread" came from the baker's; so did the rare buns and baps, and the rarer short-bread for great and special occasions. Beef andmutton were not for everyday use. They had fowls and they had fish ofthe best, for in those days the London market did not devour all thatthe sea produced, and the fishwives tramped inland many miles, withtheir creels on their backs, glad to sell their fish to the countryfolk. They had soup often, and always potatoes and some othervegetables; but milk and oatmeal, prepared in various ways, was theprincipal food for the bairns of the manse, and for all other bairns aswell. 

Were they to be commiserated, the lads and lassies, who in manse andfarmhouse and cottage had to content themselves with such simple, unvarying fare? They did not think so, for except in books, they knewnothing of any other way of life. I do not think so, because I haveseen other ways and their results. Besides, luxury is a comparativeterm, like wealth, or a competence; and the occasional slice ofloaf-bread, with jelly or even treacle on it, probably gave greatersatisfaction to the children of that country, and that time, than theunlimited indulgence in cakes and pastry, or creams and ices can give tothe experienced young people of the present day, in some othercountries, who, taking the usual comprehensive survey of the luxuriesprepared for the frequenters of city hotels or watering-places, aresometimes obliged to confess themselves "disappointed in the fare!"

One thing is sure, plain food made strong men and women of most of them;and no lingering dyspepsia of childhood spoiled the pleasure of those ofthem who won their way to the right to live as they pleased inafter-life. 

During Allison's reign in the manse kitchen, the bairns wereexceptionally fortunate in their daily fare. For though she seemed togo about in a maze, like the man in the ballad, as Robin said, "whosethoughts were other-where, " she never burned the porridge, nor singedthe broth, nor put off the weekly baking of "cakes, " till they wereobliged to content themselves, now and then, with less than the usualportion. 

It was wonderful how well the work was done, considering how little herheart seemed to be in the doing of it, her mistress sometimes thought. She would have been better pleased had an opening been left now and thenfor the "putting in mind, " which had been necessary sometimes, even inthe case of the much-valued Kirstin. She would have liked to seewhether a sharp word or two would have moved the silent Allison for amoment out of the dull, mechanical performance of her duty. 

Praise did not do it, and she had been lavish of praise at first. Allison heard it, as she heard all else, without heeding, as thoughdoing well were a matter of course, needing no words about it. She didnot respond, by ever so little, to her mistress' kindly attempts to makefriends, till something else had moved her. 

The tact and patience of her mistress in dealing with her were helped bythe belief which gradually came to her, that this silent withdrawal ofherself from all approaches of kindliness or sympathy was hardlyvoluntary on Allison's part. It was not so much that she refused helpas that she had ceased to expect it. Under some terrible strain ofcircumstances her courage had been broken, and her hope. She was likeone who believed that for her, help was impossible. 

Of course she was wrong in this, her mistress thought. She was youngand time brings healing. If her trouble had come through death, healingwould come soon. If it were a living sorrow, there might still be moreto suffer; but her strong spirit would rise above it at last--of thatshe was sure. 

All this she had said to the minister one night. He listened in silencea while, then he said:

"And what if sin, or the love of it, makes her trouble? There are somethings which cannot be outlived. "

"Tell me what trouble touches any of us with which sin--our own, or thatof other folk--has not to do. Yes, there has been sin where there issuffering such as hers, but I cannot think that she has been the sinner. Allison is an honest woman, pure and true, or my judgment is at fault. It is the sin of some one else which has brought such gloom andsolitariness upon her. Whether she is a real Christian, getting all thegood of it, is another matter. I have my doubts. "

All this time the minister's "new lass" had not been overlooked by thosewho worshipped in the little kirk, nor by some who did not. The usualadvances had been made toward acquaintance--friendly, curious, orcondescending, as the case might be, but no one had made much progresswith the stranger. Her response to each and all alike was alwaysperfectly civil, but always also of the briefest, and on a secondmeeting the advances had to be made all over again. 

When business or pleasure brought any of the cottage wives to the mansekitchen, as happened frequently, their "gude-day t'ye" was alwayspromptly and quietly answered, but it never got much beyond that withany of them. Allison went about her work in the house or out of it, and"heeded them as little as the stools they sat on, " some of them said, and their husbands and brothers could say no more. 

When she was discussed, as of course she was at all suitable times andoccasions, the reports which were given of her were curiously alike. Friendliness, curiosity, condescension--the one had sped no better thanthe other. The next-door neighbours to the manse had no more to tellthan the rest. There was no lingering at the kitchen-door, or at themouth of the close in the long gloaming, as there used to be inKirstin's time. 

"Ceevil! ay, if ye can ca' it civeelity. She maistly just says naethingand gaes by as gin she didna see ye, " said the weaver's wife. 

"For my pairt, I hae nae feast o' sic civeelity, " said Mrs Coats fromthe other side of the street. "I should like to ken mair aboot her ereI hae muckle to say to her. "

"It winna trouble her though you sae naething, " said the weaver. "She'svalued in the manse, that's weel seen. "

"Ay, she is that, " said his wife. "I never thought they would soon getone to step so readily into auld Kirstin's shoon. She gets through farmair than ever Kirstin did in the course of the day, and the hoose islike a new preen (pin). "

"I daursay. New besoms sweep clean, " said Mrs Coats with a sniff. 

"There's a differ in besoms, however, be they auld or new, " said theweaver. 

"She's the kin' o' lass to please the men it seems. We'll need to keepa calm sough the lave o' us, " said Mrs Coats. 

"It's ay safe to keep a calm sough, " said the weaver. "Gin she suitsthe minister's wife that's the chief thing. The warst we ken o' her yetis that she's no' heedin' ony o' us, and she micht hae waur fauts. "

"That may be. But something must ail a young lass like yon when she issae slow to open her lips, and goes by a body--even a young lad, as ginthere was naebody there. "

"That's her loss, " said the weaver with a laugh. 

That she went about "without heeding" was a more serious matter in thecase of the new lass than might at first be supposed. If she had notlived at the manse, which was so much frequented by all sorts of people, or if she had been plain, or crooked, or even little, it would havemattered less that she was so preoccupied and so difficult to approach. 

Fewer people, in that case, might have noticed her. As it was, manyeyes were on her when she went down the street with her water-buckets, or sat in the kirk in a dream. She would have been called a beautifulwoman anywhere. In the street of this dull little town, where men hadeyes as well as in larger places, it was not surprising that she shouldbe watched and wondered at. 

Her face was beautiful, but it wanted the colour and brightness whichmade "a bonny face" to the eyes of most of the folk of Nethermuir. Itwas thin and sallow when she first came there, and the gloom upon it, and "the dazed look" which came when she was suddenly spoken to, didmuch to mar and shadow its beauty. And so did the great mutch, with itsdouble "set-up" border of thick muslin, which was tied close around it, covering the ears, and the round throat, and hiding all the beautifulhair, which after the fever was beginning to grow again. But nothingcould disguise the firm, erect form, which might have been thought tootall, perhaps, if it had not been round and full in proportion; and theshort gown confined at the waist by the long strings of her apron, andthe rather scant petticoat of dark winsey that fell beneath it, are notsuch unbecoming garments as might be supposed by those accustomed togarments of a more elaborate fashion. 

Her strength was quite as highly appreciated by the stooping weavers andshoemakers of Nethermuir as was her beauty, and the evidences which sheunconsciously gave of it were much admired and often recounted amongthem. When "Auld Maggie" fell on the slide which the town laddies hadmade in the street, and tailor Coats ran to get some one to help tocarry her home, "the minister's lass" lifted her in her arms, and hadher in her bed with a hot-water bottle at her feet before he came backagain. And while every other woman in the street needed to take atleast one rest, at a neighbour's door, between the pump and her own, "the minister's lass, " turning neither head nor eye, moved on without apause, till she disappeared round the close that led to herkitchen-door. 

"And, for that matter, except for the way her face is turned, ye wudnever ken whether her buckets were fou or toom" (full or empty), said anadmiring observer, as he watched her steady and rapid steps along thestreet. 

So poor Allison, for one reason and another, could not be overlooked. Her name--or rather the name which her place gave her--"the minister'slass, " was on many lips for a time. Absolutely nothing was known abouther except what the kindly and guarded letter of Dr Fleming hadconveyed; yet much was supposed and said concerning her, and some thingswere repeated till they were believed, which she might have resented hadshe heard of them. They might have angered her, and so have helped toshake her out of the heaviness and dulness that had fallen upon her. But she "never heeded. " She saw neither the hand which was held out toher in friendliness nor the face that turned away in indifference oranger. 

And perhaps, on the whole, it was as well that she heeded nothing. Foras weeks and months passed on, and other folk came or went, and newevents--which would have hardly deserved the name elsewhere--happened togive subject-matter for discussion at proper times and places, Allisonbecame just "the minister's lass, " tolerated, if not altogetherapproved, among the censors of morals and manners in the town, and shestill went her way, for the most part, unconscious of them all. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

"He wales a portion with judicious care, And `Let us worship God, ' hesays with solemn air. "

In the minister's home on Sabbath morning, the custom was for the twoeldest lads to take turns with the "lass" in keeping the house, whileall the rest, except Marjorie and the two youngest, went to the kirk. It cannot be said that this was felt to be a hardship by the lads--rather the contrary, I am afraid--when the weather and the season of theyear permitted them to spend the time in the garden, or when a new book, not in the "Index expurgatorious" of Sabbath reading was at hand, oreven a beloved old one. 

Of course there were Sabbath-day tasks to learn. But the big boys wereby this time as familiar with the catechism as with the multiplicationtable, and a psalm, or a paraphrase, or a chapter in the New Testament, hardly was accounted by them as a task. Frequent reading, and constanthearing at family worship, and at the school, had made the words of manyparts of the book so familiar to them that only a glance was needed tomake them sure of their ground. It needed, perhaps, a second glance ifanother repetition was suddenly required. It was "licht come, licht go"with them--easily learned, easily forgotten--in the way of tasks. Butin another way it was not so. The Word thus learned "in the house andby the way, " and so associated with all else which their young, gladlives held, could never be quite forgotten; nay more, could never--intheory and opinion at least--cease to be authoritative as the law bywhich, wherever they might wander, their steps were to be guided. Butthe chief thing to them at present was, that even with "tasks" to learn, there was still time to enjoy their books. 

The lads had the firmest belief in their father's power as a preacher. But it must be remembered that those were the days when a full two hourswere not considered, either by preacher or hearers, too long to give toa discourse. And the minister's sons were expected so to listen thatthey should be able to give to their mother, at evening worship, all the"heads and particulars"--and they were usually many--and a good dealbesides of the sermon. In those circumstances it is not surprising thattheir turn in the summer garden, or even at the kitchen fireside, shouldsometimes be preferred to going to the kirk. 

So when it began to be noticed that Allison quietly made herarrangements to be in the house every second Sabbath, instead of everythird, as would have been fair, Robin remonstrated. 

"It's my turn at home to-day, Allie. No, Maysie, you mustna grumble. It's but fair that Allie should have her turn at the kirk as weel as therest of us. You must just content yourself with me. I'm to bideto-day. "

"I'm no' carin' to go to the kirk to-day, " said Allison. 

"But that's no' the question. I'm carin' to bide at home, " and as hismother had already gone, and no appeal could be made to her, bide hedid, and so did Allison. 

When this had happened two or three times, it was considered necessaryto take notice of it, and Mrs Hume did so, telling her, quietly butfirmly, how necessary it was that the minister's household should set agood example in the place. And, beyond that, she sought to make itclear that it was the duty of all to avail themselves of the privilegeof worshipping with God's people on His day, in His house. If Allison--being the daughter of one who had been in his lifetime an elder in theestablished kirk, as Dr Fleming had informed them--had any doubts ofthe propriety of worshipping with dissenters, that was another matter. But she should go to her own kirk, if she could not take pleasure incoming to theirs. 

"It's a' ane to me, " said Allison. 

But on the next fine Sabbath morning she availed herself of thepermission, and took her way to the parish kirk. She would like thewalk, at any rate, she told herself, and she did enjoy the walk down thelanes, in her own sad fashion; but the lanes took her out of the way alittle, and made her late. 

That night, at worship-time, when Allison's turn came to be questionedas to what she had heard at the kirk, she could tell the text. But shedid not tell that she had learned it by overhearing it repeated by anold man to his neighbour, as they came after her up the road. Nor didshe tell that, being late at the kirk door, and shrinking from thethought of going in alone among so many strange folk, she had passed thetime occupied by the preaching sitting on a broken headstone in thekirkyard. 

She never went there again. It was truly "a' ane" to one whose mind, the moment her hands and her head were no longer occupied with the roundof daily work, went back to brood over the days and joys that couldnever return, or over the sorrow which could never be outlived. 

"I see no difference. It's a' ane to me, " repeated she when Mrs Hume, not wishing to seem to influence her against her will, again suggestedthat, if she preferred it, she should go to the kirk. 

"Difference!" There was all the difference between truth only dimlyperceived and truth clearly uttered, in what she would be likely to hearin the two kirks, in the opinion of the minister's wife. And if thatmight be not altogether a charitable judgment, it might at least be saidthat it would be but a cold exposition of the Gospel that old Mr Geddeswould be likely to give, either in the pulpit or out of it. But she didnot enter into the discussion of the matter with Allison. She was wellpleased that she should decide the matter for herself. 

"For though she sits in the kirk like a person in a dream, surely sometrue, good word will reach her heart after a time, " said her kindlymistress. She had a good while to wait before it came to that withAllison. But it came at last. 

"Allison, " said Mrs Hume, coming into the kitchen one afternoon, "we'lldo without the scones at tea to-night, in case the baking them shouldmake you late with other things. You mind you did not get to themeeting at all last time, and the minister wishes all his own family tobe present when it is possible. "

Allison raised herself up from the work which was occupying her at themoment, and for once gave her mistress a long look out of her sad browneyes. 

"It was not that I hadna time. I wasna carin'. "

"I am sorry to hear you say that. The meetings are a means of gracewhich have been blessed to many; and though there may be some thingssaid now and then which--are not just for edification, yet--"

Allison shook her head. 

"I didna hear them. I mean I wasna heedin'. "

"Well, I will not say that my own attention does not wander sometimes. Some things are more important than others, " said the minister's wife, aname or two passing through her mind, which it would not have been wiseto utter even to the silent Allison; "but, " added she, "we can all joinin the Psalms and in the prayers. "

Allison's answer was a slow movement of her head from side to side, anda look sadder than words. A pang of sympathy smote through the softheart of her mistress. 

"Allie, " said she, laying her hand on her arm, "you pray also?"

"Lang syne--I used to pray--maybe. I'm no' sure. "

She had left her work and was standing erect, with her hands, looselyclasped, hanging down before her. Her eyes, with the same hopeless lookin them, were turned toward the window, through which the relenting sunwas sending one bright gleam before he went away, after a day of mistand rain. 

"I do not understand you, Allison, " said Mrs Hume. 

"It could not have been right prayer, ye ken, since it wasna answered. "

"But the answer may be to come yet. It may come in God's way, not inyours. "

"Can the dead live again?" said Allison with dilating eyes. 

"Surely, they will live again. Is it your father, Allie? or yourmother? They served the Lord, you said yourself, and they are now inHis presence. Death is not a dreadful thing to come to such as they, that you should grudge it. "

Allison had sunk down on a low stool, and laid her face on her arm, butshe raised it now as she answered:

"But they didna just die. They were killed. Their hearts were brokenby the one they loved best in the world. _That_ cannot be changed. Even the Lord himself cannot blot out that and make it as if it hadnever been. "

"The Lord himself! Was there sin in it, Allie? But do you not mind?`The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin. ' It _can_be blotted out. It is never too late for that. "

But Allison made no answer. Rising with a cry she turned and went outwithout a word. 

Mrs Hume was greatly moved, wishing earnestly that she had not spoken. If the minister had been in his study, she would have gone to him withher trouble. But he was out. So she went into the parlour, where shehad only little Marjorie for company. She had not even Marjorie for themoment, for the child had fallen asleep in her absence. As she thoughtabout it, she was not so sure that she had made a mistake, or that therewas anything to regret. Better to be moved to anguish by sorrowfulmemories, or even by remorse, than to live on in the dull heaviness ofheart, which had been Allison's state since she came to them, shethought at last, and she was sure of it when, after a little, the dooropened, and Allison said, without showing her face:

"I think, mem, if ye please, I will hae time for the scones I promisedwee Marjorie. "

"Very well, Allison, " said her mistress quietly and with a suddenlightening of the heart, she bent down and kissed the lips of her littlesleeping daughter. She was greatly relieved. She could not bear thethought that she had hurt that sore heart without having helped it byever so little. When the time came for the meeting, Allison was in herplace with the rest. 

The kirk, which could not be heated, and only with difficulty lighted, was altogether too dismal a place for evening meetings in thewinter-time. So the usual sitting-room of the family was on one eveningof the week given up to the use of those who came to the prayer-meeting. This brought some trouble both to the mistress and the maid, for thefurniture of the room had to be disarranged, and a good deal of itcarried into the bedroom beyond; and the carpet, which covered only themiddle of the room, had to be lifted and put aside till morning. 

The boys, or it might be some early meeting-goer, helped to move thetables and the chairs, and to bring in the forms on which the folk wereto sit, and sometimes they carried them away again when the meeting wasover. All the rest fell on Allison. And truly, when morning came, thefloor and the whole place needed special care before it was made fit forthe occupation of the mother and Marjorie. 

But to do all that and more was not so hard for Allison as just to sitstill through the two hours during which the meeting lasted. It was atsuch times, when she could not fill her hands and her thoughts withother things, that her trouble, whatever it might be, came back uponher, and her mistress saw the gloom and heaviness of heart fall on herlike a cloud. It was quite true, as she had said, at such times sheheard nothing of what was going on about her, because "she wasnaheedin'. " But to-night she heeded. 

She had Marjorie on her lap for one thing, for the child's sleep hadrested her, and her mother had yielded to her entreaty to be allowed tosit up to the meeting. Allison could not fall into her usual dullbrooding, with the soft little hand touching her cheek now and then, andthe hushed voice whispering a word in her ear. So for the first timeher attention was arrested by what was going on in the room, and some ofthe folk got their first good look at her sad eyes that night. 

And if Allison had but known it, it was well worth her while both tolook and to listen. The minister was the leader of the meeting, but itwas open to all who had anything to say. 

It was something else besides a prayer-meeting on most nights. Therewas usually a short exposition of some passage of Scripture by theminister, and frequently a conversational turn was given to this part ofthe exercise. The minister had "the knack" of putting questionsjudiciously, to the great help and comfort of those who had something tosay, but who did not well know how to say it. And though it must beacknowledged, as Mrs Hume had admitted to Allison, that there were nowand then things said which were not altogether for edification, on thewhole, this method, in the minister's hands, answered well. It kept upthe interest of the meeting to some who would hardly have cared tolisten to a sermon out of the kirk, or on a week night. A few who wereonly occasional hearers on the Sabbath liked these informal discussionsof precept and doctrine, as they would have liked the discussion of anyother matter, for the mere intellectual pleasure to be enjoyed, and, asmay be supposed, opportunities for this kind of enjoyment did not oftenoccur in Nethermuir. 

And there were a few men of another stamp among them--men to whom MrHume and "his new doctrines, " as they were called, had come, as sunlightcomes into a day of darkness. Even in that time which was alreadypassing away when these men were children, the time which its friendshave called "the dark days of the kirk of Scotland, " the Bible had beenread and reverenced in all well-ordered households, and it was as truethen as in the day when our Lord himself had said it: "The words which Ispeak unto you, they are spirit and they are life. " And so, throughmuch reading of the Word, had come a sense of sinfulness and ill-desertwhich a vain striving to work out a righteousness for themselves couldnot quiet or banish, a longing for pardon from Him whom they hadoffended, and for a sense of acceptance and friendship with Him who hadpromised to save. 

With regard to all this, it was but "an uncertain sound" which wasuttered by the greater number of the teachers of the day; and so whenmen like Mr Hume came preaching a free and full salvation through JesusChrist, not only from the consequences of sin, but from the power andthe love of it, there were many through all the land who "heard the wordgladly. "

There were some in Nethermuir who had heard and heeded, and found thepeace they sought, and who showed by their new lives that a real changehad been wrought in them. These were the men who rejoiced theminister's heart and strengthened his hands both in the meeting andelsewhere; and though some of them were slow of speech, and not so readywith their word as others who spoke to less purpose, yet it was fromthem that the tone of the meeting was taken. 

It cannot be said that this privilege of speech was often abused. Asfor the sisters, they rarely went beyond a question, or a token ofassent or approval, given in one word, when something which recommendeditself to their taste and judgment had been well said. Mr Hume refusedto acknowledge that he did not sufficiently encourage them to do theirpart for mutual edification in the semi-privacy of these meetings in themanse parlour, and he did acknowledge that two or three whom he couldname among them had all the right which a high intelligence, deepspirituality, and sound common sense could give, to lift their voiceswhen the right time came, to "reprove, rebuke, exhort, with alllong-suffering and doctrine. " But his observation had taught him thatthese qualifications did not make a woman more ready or willing, butrather less, to put in her word at such times. 

The teaching of the kirk by law established had been in past years vagueand indefinite enough on several points of importance, it was trulysaid. But in the pulpit and out of it, on one point it had been full, clear, and definite. A man must rule (well) his own household. "Thehusband is the head of the wife, " who is not suffered "to usurpauthority over the man, " but who is to listen in silence, being "theweaker vessel"--and so on. 

All this had been taught by word and deed for many a year and day--notalways, it was to be feared, in the way or in the spirit that Saint Paulwould have approved. But it was still true that the best women and thewisest had best learned the lesson. So when the "missioners" came withnew light on the matter--no longer insisting upon silence where a few ofthe brethren and sisters were met to edify one another--it was not, asthe minister said, those who were best fitted for it who were thereadiest to claim the right or the privilege, whichever it might becalled; and as for him, he was not urgent about the matter, either toencourage or restrain. 

The brethren, as a rule, were ready enough to fill up the time withexhortation or discussion, and might have been in danger sometimes ofbecoming too eager and energetic in their utterances if Mr Hume hadnot, with equal gentleness and firmness, exercised his right to ruleamong them. To-night the folk had their Testaments open at one of thechapters of Galatians, and when Allison's attention was first caught, the word was being passed backward and forward between Peter Gilchrist, one of the staunchest supporters of the little kirk, and old SaunnersCrombie, staunch, too, in his way. Peter had grown both in knowledgeand in grace since the day when he had become a friend of the minister, and he could take his part with the rest. He had "grown mair in gressthan in knowledge, if sic a thing were possible, " his friendly opponent, Saunners, declared. 

And in Saunners' sense it was perhaps true. For "hair-splitting" andthe art of finding and formulating distinctions where no real differenceexists, to be learned well, must be learned young, and Peter'ssimplicity and common sense, which did him good service at other times, were rather apt to be at fault when "tackled by auld Saunners and hismeta_pheesics_. "

The subject under discussion to-night was the "old law" (la, like thesixth musical note), and its relation to the life and duty of those whohad the privilege of living under the new dispensation of grace, and ithad fallen, for the most part, to these two to discuss it. Theminister's turn would come next; but in the meantime auld Saunners, withhis elbows on his knees, and his Bible held faraway from his tooyouthful horn spectacles, laid down the law in a high, monotonous voice, never for a moment suffering himself to be disturbed by the frequent buttimid interruptions of Peter, till his own say should be said. Peterfidgeted on his seat and appealed to the minister with his eyes. Butthe minister only smiled and nodded and bided his time. 

How earnest they were, Allie thought. It was a great matter to them, apparently. Yes, and to the rest as well. For all the folk werelooking and listening, and some nodded an approval of the sentiments ofone, and some of the other. Even Robert sat with a smile on his faceand his eye on the speakers, as though he were enjoying it all--asindeed he was--and waiting till a few words from his father shouldreconcile common sense and metaphysics again. 

What did it all mean? And what did it matter what it might mean? Andwhere was the use of so many words about it? Allison looked from oneface to another in amaze. Then Marjorie's little hand touched hercheek. 

"Which side do you take, Allie?" said she softly. 

But Allie shook her head, and the ghost of a smile parted her lips foran instant. 

"I ken naething about it, " said she. 

"Well, I'm no' just sure about it myself to-night. But wait you, tillmy father takes them in hand. He'll put them both right and bring themto see the same way. At least they'll say nae mair about it _this_time, " said Marjorie, and then she added gravely, a little anxiousbecause of her friend's indifference. "It's very important, Allie, ifwe could understand it all. "

"Oh! ay, I daur say, " said Allie with a sigh, coming back to her own sadthoughts again. 

But the gloom had lightened a little, Mrs Hume thought, for she had notlost one of the changes on Allison's face, as she looked and listened, nor the smile, nor the doubtful lock with which she had answered thechild. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

 "Do thy duty, that is best, Leave unto the Lord the rest. "

That year there was through all the North an open winter, and the "greenyule, " which is said to make "a full kirkyard. " The weather was mildand moist, with heavy fogs in the morning, which sometimes stayed allday, and all night as well. There was serious illness in many houses, and much discomfort in others, even where there was not danger. 

Poor old folk who had sat by the door, or "daundered" about the streetsand lanes in comfort during the summertime, now sat coughing andwheezing in the chimney-corner, or went, bowed and stiff, about the workwhich must not be neglected, though pain made movement difficult. Somewho had lingered beyond the usual term of life "dropped away, " and theirplace knew them no more. And death, the Reaper, not content with the"bearded grain, " gathered a flower or two as well. 

Measles came first among the bairns, and whooping-cough followed, andMrs Hume would have liked to wrap up her little daughter and carry heraway from the danger which threatened her. For, that the child shouldescape these troubles, or live through them, the mother, usuallycheerful and hopeful in such times, could not believe. "And herfather!" thought she, with a sinking heart, while the father was sayingto himself, "Alas for her poor mother;" and out of all their anxiousthoughts, nothing better could come than this; "We must submit to God'swill, whatever it may be. "

As for wrapping her up and carrying her away, that was out of thequestion. If it had been summertime they might have sent her to afriend of theirs, who would have cared for the child tenderly andfaithfully. But on the whole it seemed wiser to keep her at home. 

"We must just leave her in God's hand, " they said to one another, andthey did so entirely. Mrs Hume was kept away from no sick or sufferinghousehold by the thought of possible danger to her little daughter. Many needed both help and comfort who could not come to the manse tofind them, and to them the minister and his wife went gladly. But thestrain of all she had to do told on Mrs Hume. She also had her turn ofillness, which kept her in the house for a while, and then a part of herduties to the sick poor in the neighbourhood fell to Allison. 

"It is not always that the Lord lets us see at once the good which Hehas promised to bring out of what seems to be evil to us; but He hasdone so this time, " said Mrs Hume, after a little. 

For what she had lost in being laid aside from helping others, Allisonhad gained in taking her place. It was at some cost to herself, becauseof her shyness, and because of other folk's curiosity, not always keptwithin bounds when a chance to gratify it came in the way. But on thewhole she held her own among the neighbours, whom she had kept atarm's-length so long, and won the good opinion of many, and their goodwords also, which were, however, oftener spoken behind her back thanbefore her face, because she would not stay to listen. Her way was tobring the medicine, or the broth, or the jug of tea, and set it downwithout a word, and then go at once, if there was no more needed fromher. But occasionally she put her strong, expert hands to the doing ofsome good turn--the firm and gentle lifting of some weary, pain-worncreature, while the bed was put right, or to the setting in order of theconfusion which soon befalls in a sickroom, where nurses areunaccustomed, and have besides other cares to fill their time. 

Whatever she did was done in silence. No one in telling of the help shegave, could tell a word that she had uttered beyond the message whichher mistress had sent. But though she had few words for any one, shehad many thoughts about other people's troubles, which helped her toturn from the constant brooding over her own. So she got more good thanshe gave, which is oftener the case with the doers of kindly deeds thanis always known. 

It was in this way that her acquaintance began with Mrs Beaton, wholived in a house at the end of the street, close by the green. Allisonhad sometimes seen her in the kirk, and had noticed her at first for nobetter reason than that she wore a bonnet. Of course there were otherbonnets in the kirk--many of them. The times were changing for theworse, it was thought, and even the servant-lassies were getting to wearbonnets. But of the elderly women who came there, not many had so farchanged the fashion of their youth as to cover the white "mutch" withanything but a handkerchief in the summertime, or with a shawl, or withthe hood of the mantle of scarlet or grey duffel, when the weather wascold. 

Mrs Beaton wore a bonnet always at the kirk, and when she went to otherplaces, also, as if she had been used with it all her life. And she hadsome other fashions, as well, which made her seem different from herneighbours in Allison's eyes. She was small and fair, and over her greyhair she wore a widow's cap which was not at all like the thick mutchesof the other women, and her shawls and gowns were of a texture and formwhich told of better days long past. She "kept herself to herself, " theneighbours said, which meant that her door did not always stand open forall comers, though she was neighbourly enough in other ways when therewas occasion. But though Allison had seen her, she had never spokenwith her till the night when the minister, hearing from one of theneighbours that Mrs Beaton was but poorly, sent her over to inquireabout her. 

"Just go down and see if you can do anything for her. I cannot haveyour mistress disturbed to-night. You will know what to do. MrsBeaton is not just like the rest of them, as you will see yourself. "

So, Allison went down the dark street, thinking a little about the sickwoman, but quite indifferent as to the welcome she might receive. Thehouse stood by itself, a little back from the road, and a wooden palingenclosed a piece of garden ground before it. The gate yielded to herhand, and so did the door. Allison felt her way to the inner door inthe dim light, and then she spoke:

"I'm the minister's lass. Mistress Hume is no' weel, or she would havecome herself. Will I licht your lamp?"

"Ay, might ye, if there is fire enough left, " said a voice from thedarkness. 

The lamp was lighted, and holding it high above her head, Allison turnedtoward the bed. Mrs Beaton raised herself up, and regarded her for amoment. 

"And so you are wee Marjorie's bonny Allie! I am glad to see you. "

"You're not weel. The minister said I was to do what ye needed done. "

"It was kind of him to send you, and it is kind in you to come. I'm notjust very well. I was trying to settle myself for the night, sincethere seemed nothing better to be done. Maybe ye might make my bed awee bit easier for me, if ye were to try. "

"I'll do that, " said Allison. 

"Mrs Coats would have come in, I suppose; but her bairns are not well, and she has enough to do. And Annie, the lassie that comes in to makemy fire and do other things, has gone to see her brother, who has justcome home from a long voyage. I'm more than glad to see you. It'seerie being quite alone. "

"I'm glad I came. Will I make you some gruel or a cup of tea? When hadyou your dinner?"

"If you have the time to spare--"

There was time enough. In a minute or two the fire was burningbrightly. Allison knew what to do, and where to find what was neededwithout a question; and Mrs Beaton lay, following her movements withgreat interest. 

"I was once young and strong like you, " said she, with a sigh. 

Allison said nothing, but went on with the making of the gruel. 

"You have done that before, " said Mrs Beaton. 

"Ay, many a time. "

She left the gruel to simmer by the fire, and taking the coverlid fromthe bed, spread it over the arm-chair, then she lifted the sick woman asif she had been a child, and placed her in it. Then she put a pillowbehind her, and wrapped her warmly round. 

"And you have done this before. "

Allison answered nothing. 

"Was it your mother, my dear?" said Mrs Beaton, laying her small, wrinkled hand on hers. 

Allison turned toward her with startled eyes. 

"Yes, it was my mother, " said she. 

"Ah! what a thing it must be to have a daughter!" went on Mrs Beaton;and it was on her lips to ask if her mother were living still, but thelook on Allison's face arrested the words. There was silence betweenthem till Mrs Beaton was laid in her bed again. Allison washed thedishes she had used, and put the room in order. Then she swept thehearth and covered the fire, and then she said good-night. After shehad shut the door, she opened it again and said:

"I might look in on you in the morning, but it would need to be early, and I might disturb you. "

"You wouldna disturb me. But I doubt you would have ill leaving. "

"Oh! I can come, but I canna bide long. "

She went next day and for several days, and their friendship grew in asilent way. And then Mrs Beaton was better, and the little lass whocame in the mornings to make the fire and do what else was to be donereturned, and Allison's visits ceased for a while. 

Indeed she had little time for anything but the work of the house, andthe care of the bairns as the winter wore on. The little boys andMarjorie had their turn of the cough, but happily much less severelythan had been feared for them. Still there was enough to do for them, and as their mother was not very strong, Allison took Marjorie in chargeby night as well as by day, and the child got bravely through it all. Allison made a couch of her high kitchen-dresser, when it could be donewithout interfering with the work of the moment, and Marjorie lay therefor hours among her pillows, as content as if she had been with hermother in the parlour. 

It was good for the child to have such constant and loving care, and itwas good for Allison to give it. For many a word of childish wisdom didshe get to think about, and sometimes foolish words to smile at, and inlistening to Marjorie, and caring for her comfort at all times, sheforgot for a while to think of her own cares. 

In the long evenings, when the rain or the darkness prevented the usualrun, after the next day's lessons had been prepared, the elder boys usedto betake themselves to the kitchen fireside, and on most such nightssome of their companions found their way there also. Then there wasstory-telling, or the singing of songs and ballads, or endlessdiscussions about all things under the sun. Now and then there was aturn of rather rough play, but it never went very far, for the sound oftheir father's step, or a glimpse of their mother's face at the door, made all quiet again, at least for a time. 

They were rather rough lads some of those who came, but they were mostly"laddies weel brocht up, " and rarely was there a word uttered among themwhich it would have harmed the youngest child to hear. There was Scotchof the broadest in their songs and in their talk, and the manse boys, who were expected to speak English in the presence of their father andmother, among their companions made the most of their opportunities forthe use of their own more expressive tongue. But there was no vulgarityor coarseness in their talk. 

As silent here as elsewhere, the presence of "the new lass, " as thevisitors, long accustomed to old Kirstin, called her, did not interferein the least with the order of things. She might have been blind ordeaf for all the difference it made to them, and, except on the rareoccasions when little Marjorie was permitted to be there, for all thedifference their coming made to her. When Marjorie was there, Allison'swheel, or the stocking she was knitting, was put aside, and the childrested at ease and content in her arms. No one of them all took morepleasure at such times than Marjorie. She liked the stories and thesongs and the quaint old ballads, of which Robin and some of the othershad a store, and she was a sympathetic little creature, and could not behappy unless Allie enjoyed them also, so her attention was never allowedto wander when the child's hand could touch her cheek. 

But better than either song or story, Marjorie liked to hear about allthat was going on in the town. Nothing came amiss to her that any onehad to tell. She liked to hear about their neighbours, and the bairns, their goings and comings, their sickness and recovery. Even their newgowns and their visits to one another interested the friendly littlechild, who could not visit herself, nor wear new gowns, and the lad whohad the most to say about them all was the one who pleased her best. All they used to tell her made her a little sad sometimes, for she couldnot come and go, or run and play, as those happy children could, and herchief desire was to be strong and well and "to go about on her own feetlike other folk. "

January was nearly over before there came any frost to speak of, and thefirst bright, sharp weather, it was said, did much good to the sick folkin the town. Then they had snow--not just a shower to excite firstexpectation and then disappointment among the lads and lassies whorejoiced in its coming, as they mostly delighted in any change thatcame--but a heavy fall, and then a high wind which drifted it here andthere between the hills and made some of the roads impassable for thetime. Many of the lanes were filled full, and some of the folk had tobe dug out, because the snow had covered their doors. 

There was no end to the great balls which were rolled along the streets. A strong fort was built on the square beside the pump, which wasfiercely attacked and bravely defended, and battles were fought throughall the streets before the snow was trodden into black slush beneath thefeet of the combatants. Even the dreaded "kink-hoast" (whooping-cough)failed to keep some of the bolder spirits out of the fray, and those ofthem who took the fun in moderation were none the worse, but rather thebetter for the rally. 

But Marjorie saw none of this, and she longed to see it all; and thoughshe had been less ill with the cough than some of the others had been, she lost ground now, refused her food, and grew fretful and listless asAllison had never seen her before. 

It was hard for the eager little creature to listen quietly to all herbrothers had to tell of what was going on among the young folk of thetown. They boasted of Robin's strength and skill, and of Jack'sunequalled prowess when "snawba'ing" was the order of the day, and shewanted to see it all. And she longed to see the rush of the full burnand the whiteness of all the hills. Allison looked at her with a greatlonging to comfort her, but what could she say? Even the mother thoughtit wisest to listen in silence to the child's murmurs. 

"But it's no' just the snawba'ing and the white hills I am thinkingabout, mother. This is the way it will ay be, all my life long. I mustjust sit still and hear the sound of things, and never be in the midstof them like other folk. All my life, mother! Think of it!"

"My dear, " said her mother gravely, "all your life may not be a verylong time. "

"But, mother, I would like it to be long. There is Robin going to be agreat scholar and astonish the whole world; and Jack is going in searchof adventures; and Davie's going to America to have a farm of a thousandacres, all his own. And why should I have to stay here, and not evensee the snawba'ing, nor the full burn, nor the castle that the boysmade?"

As a general thing Mrs Hume left her little daughter's "why"unanswered, only trying to beguile her from such thoughts to theenjoyment of what was left to her in her quiet life. To-day her heartwas sore for the child, knowing well that her lot would not seem moreeasy to bear as the years went on. 

"My darling, " said she, "it is God's will. "

"Yes, mother; but why should it be God's will just with me? Surely whenHe can do _anything_, He might give me a chance with the rest. Or elseHe should just make me content as I am. "

"And so He will, dear, in time. You must ask Him, and leave all in Hishand. "

"Oh! yes. I must just leave it. There is nothing else to do. As toasking--I ay ask to be made strong, and to walk about on my ain feet. And then--wouldna I just serve Him!"

The last words were spoken to Allison, whose kind, sad eyes had beenresting on her all the time. And Allison answered:

"But surely it may be His will that you should see the full burn and thesnawy braes, if it be your mother's will! A' the bairns are bettersince the frost came, and I might carry wee Marjorie as far as the fito' the Wind Hill for a change. "

"Oh! mother! mother! Let me go. Allie carries me so strong and easy. And I might have Mrs Esselmont's warm shawl round me, and the softlittle hat, and I would never feel the cold. Oh! mother! mother!"

"I might at least take her to the end o' the lane; and if she should becauld, or weary, or if the cough came on, I could be hame with her in aminute. "

Though only half convinced of the wisdom of such a plan, her motherconsented; and by and by the happy child, wrapped warmly, her pale facelooking very bright and sweet in the soft little hat, laid herself backin Allison's arms with a sigh of content. 

"Yes, I'm going to heed what Robin says, and fall into raptures andweary myself. I'm just going to be quiet and see it all, and then Iwill have it all to think about afterward. "

The snow was all trodden down in the street through which they passedfirst, to see the snow castle which the boys had made, and the castleitself was a disappointment. It was "past its best, " Allison said. Itwas battered and bulging, and the walls had lost their whiteness; andthe snow about it was trampled and soiled, and little pools of dirtywater had collected at its base. But even "at its best, " it must havefallen far short of the beauty of the castle which the child'simagination had built, as she lay in the dark, wishing so eagerly to belike the rest. 

But the rush of the full burn did not disappoint her, nor the long levelfields, nor the hills beyond. The only blink of sunshine which camethat day rested on them as they crossed the foot-bridge and came intothe broken path which led to the farm of Wind Hill. A hedge borderedthe near fields, and a few trees rose up bare and black on the hillside;and all the rest of the land, as far as they could see, lay in unsulliedwhiteness. 

"A clean, clean world!" said Marjorie. "It looks like a strangecountry. It's bonny; but I think I like the green grass best, and thegowans. "

"Weel, ye may take a good look o' it this day, for it winna lie longclean and white like this, " said Allison, as a soft warm wind met themas they turned. They went up and down where the snow lay lightest, andthen crossed the burn at the end of the green. 

"Are you sure ye're nae cauld?" said Allison. 

"That I am not. And, Allie, I havena given a cough since I came out. "

"But we'll need to gae hame now. If we dinna make your mother anxiousthis time, she will be the readier to let us take another turn some fineday. "

Marjorie's face fell for an instant. 

"No, Allie, I'm no' going to be fractious. But we might just look inand ask for Mrs Beaton, as we are so near. And Robin says John iscoming home, and we might ask about it. "

But Allison shook her head. 

"We got no leave to go and see anybody. And if we take the street we'llhae twa or three idle folk glowerin' an' speerin' this and that at us. I like the bonny quiet lane best. "

Marjorie's shrill laugh rang out at that. 

"Are ye feared at the folk, Allie? They ay mean it for kindness. But Ilike the lane, too. And maybe my mother will let us come and see MrsBeaton next time. "

The end of Mrs Beaton's house skirted the green, and so did the narrowstrip of garden which was behind it. The road home was as short the oneway as the other. If they crossed the green toward the right it tookthem to the street, and if they turned the other way they took the pathbehind the gardens, or rather the kail-yards of the houses on thestreet. Before they entered this path they turned to take a last lookof the long, snowy slope of the hills with the sunshine on them. 

"The snow is pleasanter just to look at than to wade about in, " saidAllison. 

"But, Allison, that is because ye dinna ken. O! I would like weel towade about in it, as the other bairns do. "

"O! I ken fine what it is like. I have been in far deeper snaw whiles, following the sheep--"

"Have ye, Allie? But ye dinna ken what it would be like never to haveput your foot in the snaw all your life. Think of that, Allie. Butnever mind. Tell me about following the sheep through the drifts. "

But the shadow, which the child had learned to know, had fallen onAllison's face, and she answered nothing. 

"Never mind, Allie dear, I'll tell you something. Do ye ken what thatlittle housie is? It has neither door nor window. There is a hole onthis side that is shut with a board. But it is a nice place. I havebeen in it whiles. That is the place where John Beaton makes headstoneswhen he's no' away building houses on the other side of Aberdeen. "

"Do ye mean stanes for the kirkyard?"

"Just that. He's a clever lad, John. He can do many things, Robinsays. He's Robin's friend. "

"It maun be dreary wark. "

"But that wouldna trouble John. He's strong and cheerful, and I likehim weel. He's wise, and he's kind. He tells me about folk that he hasseen, and places and things. And whiles he sings to me, and I like himbest after my father and mother and my brothers--and you, " addedMarjorie, glancing up at Allison. "I'm no' sure which o' the two I likebest. I'll ken better when I see you together. Ye're the bonniestfar!" said the child, fondly patting the cheek, to which the soft windblowing upon it had brought a splendid colour. "Did Mrs Beaton nevertell you about `My John'?"

"Oh! ay. But I dinna mind about it. I wasna heedin'. "

"But ye'll like him when ye see him, " said Marjorie. 

The mother was watching for them when they reached home, and Robin wasthere too. It was Robin who took the child from Allison and carried herin. 

"Oh, mother! I have been over the burn, and I've seen the hills allcovered with snow and the sun shining on them, and it was beautiful. And I'm not just so very tired. Are ye tired, Allie?"

"What would tire me? I would like to carry ye ilka (every) day to thetop o' Win'hill. It might do ye good. "

Robin had never heard Allison say so many words at a time before. 

"It has done Allie good, at any rate, " said he as he seated himself bythe parlour fire and began to take off his little sister's wraps. Thenhe took off her shoes and stockings "to warm her bonny wee footies, " ashe said. 

"Has it done her good? I'm glad o' that, " said Marjorie, "for Allie hashad sore trouble, I'm nearly sure. She forgets me whiles, even when shehas me in her arms, and her face changes, and her een look as if shewere seein' things no' there. "

"My dear!" said her mother. "It might vex Allie for you to be watchingher face, and speaking about it, since she has never said a word abouther troubles to you. "

"Oh, mother! It is only to you and Robin. Do you think I would speakabout my Allie to other folk?" and the tears came into the child's eyes. 

"Now, Maysie, " said her brother, "when ye begin to look like that, I ayken that ye're tired and likely to grow fractious and ill to do with. So you must just lie still in my arms, and I'll sing ye to sleep. Whatshall I sing? The _Lass o' Glenshee_? or _The Lord's my Shepherd_?"

It was not long before the child was sleeping sweetly on her littlecouch, nor did the flush which her mother so dreaded to see, and whichtoo often followed any unusual excitement, come to her cheeks as sheslept. She slept well at night also, and nothing could be clearer thanthat the long walk had done her no harm, but good. 

So, a precedent being established, Marjorie had many a walk after that. 

Sometimes she was allowed to spend an hour with Mrs Beaton, or auldMaggie, or some other friend, and at such times Allison would leave herand return for her again. It cannot be said that her limbs grew muchstronger, or that the dull pain in the weary little back troubled her nomore. But the change gave her new thoughts and new interests, andrested her when she grew weary of her doll, and her books, and of thequiet of the parlour, and sometimes even of her mother's company. 

But when the days grew long and warm, there were even better things instore for her, and for Allison also, through her tender care of thechild. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

 "The spring cam' o'er the Westlin hill, And the frost it fled awa', And the green grass lookit smilin' up Nane the waur for a' the snaw. "

The winter had been so long in coming and so moist and mild when itcame, that weatherwise folk foretold a spring late and cold as sure tofollow. But for once they were all mistaken. Whatever might comelater, there came, when April had fairly set in, several days whichwould have done credit to June itself, and on one of these days theschoolmistress made up her mind that she would go down to the manse andspeak to the minister's wife about the bairns. 

She was standing at her own door, looking out over the hills, which wereshowing some signs of coming summer. So were the birch-trees in thedistance, and the one laburnum which stood in a corner of MistressBeaton's garden. She sighed as she gazed. 

"The simmer will soon be here, and it'll soon be over again. It's but ablink noo, " she said to herself, "but if the morn is like this day, we'll mak' the best o' it. I'se hae the bairns up to the Stanin'Stanes. The wind there will blaw awa' what's left o' the kink-hoastamong them. They'll be a' keen eneuch to get there for the sake o' theploy, and if they're weel eneuch for the like o' that, their mitherswill hardly hae the face to keep them langer frae the school. And it ishigh time they were comin' back again, " added she, thinking less, perhaps, of their loss of lore than of the additional penny a week whicheach returning one would bring to her limited housekeeping. 

She was a tall, gaunt woman, with a wrinkled, unhappy-looking face andweary eyes. Her grey hair showed a little under the mob cap, closelybound round her head with a broad, black ribbon, and her spectacles, tied with a string for safety, rested high on her furrowed forehead. She wore the usual petticoat of dark winsey, and her short gown of somedark-striped print fell a little below the knee. A large cottonkerchief was spread over her shoulders and fastened snugly across herbreast. Her garments were worn and faded, but perfectly neat and clean, and she looked, as she was, a decent, but not very cheery old woman. She had an uncertain temper, her friends allowed, and even those whowere not so friendly acknowledged that "her lang warstle wi' the bairnso' twa generations, to say nothing of other troubles that had fallen toher lot, might weel account for, and even excuse that. "

She turned into the house at last, and began gathering together thedog-eared Bibles and Testaments, and the tattered catechisms, and"Proverbs of Solomon, " which were the only books approved or used in herschool, and placed them in a wooden tray by the door. She gave a briefexamination to the stockings which the lassies had been knitting in theafternoon, muttering and shaking her head as she held them up to thelight. The mistakes in some of them she set right, and from some ofthem she pulled out the "wires, " sticking them into the balls ofworsted, with some anticipatory pleasure at the thought of theconsternation of the "careless hizzies" to whom they belonged. 

Then the forms were set back, and "the tawse, " a firm belt of leather, cut into strips at one end--by no means the least important of theeducational helps of the time and place--was hung in its usualconspicuous position, and then the school-room, which was also the wholehouse, was supposed to be in order for the night. 

It was a dismal little place, having a small window on the side next thestreet, and a still smaller one on the other. There was the inevitablebox-bed on the side opposite the fireplace, and the equally inevitablebig brown chest for clothing, and bedding, and all other householdvaluables that needed a touch of "the smith's fingers" for safety. There was the meal-chest, and a tiny cupboard for dishes and food, andon a high dresser, suggestive of more extensive housekeeping operationsthan the mistress had needed for many a year and day, were piled anumber of chairs and other articles not needed in the school. 

A dismal place, but it was her own, till morning should bring the bairnsagain. So she mended the peat fire into a brighter glow, and seatedherself beside it, to take the solace of her pipe, after the worries andweariness of the day. 

A pleasant sound put an end to her meditations. From under the chairwhich stood near the little window at the head of the box-bed, came, with stately step, a big, black hen, announcing, with triumphant cackle, that _her_ duty was done for the day also. The mistress rose and tookthe warm egg from the nest. 

"Weel dane, Tappie! Ye'se get your supper as ye deserve, and then Imaun awa' to the manse. " So she scattered her scanty supply of crumbsabout the door, and then prepared herself for her visit. 

If she had been going to the manse by special invitation, she would haveput on her Sabbath-day's gown and shawl, and all the folk would haveknown it as she went up the street. But as she was going on business, she only changed her mutch, and her kerchief and apron, and putting herkey in its accustomed hole in the thatch, she went slowly down thestreet, knitting, or, as she would have called it, "weaving, " as shewent. 

She had not very far to go, but two or three greetings she got andreturned as she passed. "Mistress Jamieson, " the neighbours called herto her face, but she knew quite well that behind her back she was justcalled Bell Cummin, her maiden name, as was the way among the humblerclass of folk in these parts. They all paid her a certain measure ofrespect, but she was not a favourite among them, for she was silent andsour, and sometimes over-ready to take offence, and her manner was notover-friendly at the best of times. 

At the entrance of the close which led to the back door of the mansestood the weaver's wife from next door, and with her a woman with whomthe mistress was not always on speaking terms. This was the wife oftailor Coats, who spent, as the schoolmistress had once told her, moretime on the causey (pavement) than was good either for herself or herbairns. She would fain have passed her now without speaking, but thatwas not the intention of Mistress Coats. 

"The minister's nae at hame, nor the mistress, " said she, "and since yehae lost your journey, ye micht as weel come in and hae a crack (talk)with Mistress Sim and me, and gie's o' your news. "

"I dinna deal in news, and I hae nae time for cracks and clavers. "

"Dear me! and sae few bairns as ye hae noo at the schule. Gin ye couldbut learn them their samplers noo, or even just plain sewing, ye mightkeep the lassies thegither for a whilie langer. But their mithers manhae them taucht to use their needles, and it canna be wonnered at. "

This was a sore subject with the mistress, who was no needle-woman, andshe turned, ready with a sharp answer. But the smile on the woman'sface, and the look of expectation on the more friendly face of MistressSim, served as a warning, and calling her discretion to her help, sheturned at once into the manse. 

It was peaceful enough there. No one was in the kitchen, and after amoment's hesitation she crossed the little passage and knocked at theparlour-door. No response being given, she pushed it gently open andlooked into the room. The two youngest boys were amusing themselveswith their playthings in a corner, and Marjorie lay on her couch withher doll and her doll's wardrobe, and a book or two within reach of herhand. The tiny little face brightened at the sight of the mistress. 

"Come away in, Mistress Jamieson. I am very glad to see you, " said she, with a tone and manner so exactly like what her mother's might havebeen, that the mistress could not but smile a little with amusement aswell as with pleasure. "My father and mother are both away from hometo-day; but they will soon be back now, and you'll just bide till theycome, will you not?"

Mistress Jamieson acknowledged herself to be in no special haste, andsitting down, she made advances toward an interchange of greetings withthe little boys. Wee Wattie, not quite four years old, came forwardboldly enough, and submitted to be lifted to her knee. But Norman, agedfive, had been once or twice sent to the school, with his brothers, whenhis absence was convenient at home, and certain unpleasant recollectionsof such times made him a little shy of meeting her friendly advances. Even Robin and Jack had been in their day afraid of the mistress and hertawse. But Marjorie had never been at the school, and had always seenher in her best mood in the manse parlour. She had had rather a dullafternoon with but her little brothers for company, for Allie was busy, and had only looked in now and then to see that the little ones had gotinto no mischief. So the child was truly pleased to see the mistress, and showed it; and so Mistress Jamieson was pleased, also, and in thebest of humour for the afternoon. 

And this was a fortunate thing for Marjorie. For she had many questionsin her mind which no one could answer so well as the mistress--questionsabout the reading of one child and of the "weaving" of another, and ofthe well-doing or ill-doing of many besides. For though she did not seethe bairns of the town very often, she knew them all, and took greatinterest in all that concerned them. 

She knew some things about the bairns of the school which the mistressdid not know herself, and which, on the whole, it was as well she shouldnot know. So when, in the case of one of them, they seemed to beapproaching dangerous ground, and Mrs Jamieson's face began to lengthenand to take the set, which to Marjorie, who had only heard about it, looked ominous of trouble to some one, the child turned the talk towardother matters. 

"I must show you my stocking, " said she, opening a basket which stoodwithin reach of her hand. "It is not done so ill for a beginner, mymother says. But it is slow work. I like the flowering of muslinbetter, but mother says too much of it is no' good for the een. And itis quite proper that every one should ken how to make stockings, especially one with so many brothers as I have. "

The stocking was duly examined and admired. It had been the work ofmonths, done in "stents" of six or eight times round in a day, and itwas well done "for a beginner. " There were no mended botches, and notraces of "hanging hairs and holey pies, " which so often vexed the veryheart of the mistress in the work of some of the "careless hizzies" whomshe was trying to teach. She praised it highly, but she looked at thechild and wondered whether she would live to finish it. There was nosuch thought in the mind of Marjorie. 

"Mother says that making stockings becomes a pleasant and easy kind ofwork when one grows old. And though I canna just say that I like itvery well. I must try and get on with it, for it is one of the thingsthat must be learned young, ye ken. "

"Ay, that's true. And what folk can do weel, they ay come to like to doin course o' time, " said the mistress encouragingly. "I only wish thatAnnie Cairns and Jeannie Robb could show work as weel done. "

"Oh! but they are different, " said the child, a sudden shadow falling onher face. "If I could run about as they can, I would maybe no' careabout other things. "

"Puir wee lammie!" said the mistress. 

"Oh! but I'm better than I used to be, " said Marjorie, eagerly; "a greatdeal better. And I'll maybe be well and strong some day, our Alliesays. "

"God grant it, my dear, " said the mistress reverently. 

"And I have some things to enjoy that the other bairns havena. See, Ihave gotten a fine new book here, " said Marjorie, mindful of hermother's warning about speaking much of her trouble to other folk. "It's a book my father brought home to my mother the last time he wasaway. I might read a bit of it to you. "

"Ay, do ye that. I will like weel to hear you. "

It was "The Course of Time, " a comparatively new book in those days, andone would think a dreary enough one for a child. It was a grand book tolisten to, when her mother read it to her father, Marjorie thought, andshe liked the sound of some of it even when she read it to herself. Andit was the sound of it that the mistress liked as she listened, at leastshe was not thinking of the sense, but of the ease and readiness withwhich the long words glided from the child's lips. It was about "thesceptic" that she was reading--the man who had striven to make this fairand lovely earth. 

"A cold and fatherless, forsaken thing that wandered on forlorn, undestined, unaccompanied, unupheld"; and the mistress had a secret fearthat if the child should stumble among the long words and ask for help, she might not be able to give it without consideration. 

"Ay, it has a fine sound, " said she, as Marjorie made a pause. "But Iwad ken better how ye're comin' on wi' your readin' gin ye were to tak'the New Testament. "

There was a tradition among the old scholars that, in the early days ofher experience as a teacher, the mistress used to make a little pausebefore committing herself in the utterance of some of the long words inthe Bible; if it were so, that time was long past. But before Marjoriehad opened the book, Allison came in, to mend the fire and put things torights; and as the books had only been intended as a diversion fromunpleasant possibilities, they were gladly and quickly put aside. 

"This is our Allie, mistress, " said Marjorie, putting out her hand todetain her friend as she passed. 

"Ay, ay. I ken that. I hae seen her at the kirk and elsewhere, " saidthe mistress, rather stiffly. 

"And she is so strong and kind, " said the child, laying her cheek on thehand that had been put forth to smooth her pillow, which had fallenaside. 

Mistress Jamieson had seen "the new lass" often, but she had never seenon her face the look that came on it at the loving movement of thechild. 

"Are ye wearyin' for your tea, dear? It's late, and I doubt they neededto go on all the way to Slapp, as they thought they might, and maybethey winna be home this while. "

A shadow fell on the face of the child. Allison regarded her gravely. 

"Never heed, my lammie. I'll take the wee laddies into the kitchen, andye can make tea for the mistress and your brothers if they come in. You'll like that, dear. "

Marjorie brightened wonderfully. She ay liked what made her think shewas able to do as other folk did. The mistress rose, excusing herselffor having been beguiled into staying so long. 

"And what would my mistress say if we were to let ye away without yourtea?" asked Allison, with great respect and gravity. 

Then Robin came in, and he added his word, and to tell the truth themistress was well pleased to be persuaded. She and Robin were on thefriendliest terms now, though there had been "many a tulzie" betweenthem in the old days. For Robin, though quieter than Jack, and havingthe reputation of being "a douce and sensible laddie" elsewhere, hadbeen, during the last days of his subjection to Mistress Jamieson, "asfou o' mischief as an egg is fou o' meat, " and she had been glad enoughto see the last of him as a scholar. But all that had been longforgotten and forgiven. Robin behaved to her with the greatest respectand consideration, "now that he had gotten some sense, " and doubtlesswhen he should distinguish himself in college, as he meant to do, themistress would take some of the credit of his success to herself, andwould hold him up as an example to his brothers as persistently as shehad once held him up as a warning. 

To-night they were more than friendly, and did not fall out ofconversation of the most edifying sort, Marjorie putting in her word nowand then. All went well till wee Wattie took a fit of coughing, andNorman followed in turn; and then Mistress Jamieson told them of herproposed expedition to the Stanin' Stanes, for the benefit of all thebairns, if the day should prove fine. 

Marjorie leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands and looking at herbrother with eager entreaty in her eyes. But Robin would not meet herlook. For Marjorie had a way of taking encouragement to hope for theattainment of impossible things when no encouragement was intended, andthen when nothing came of it, her disappointment was as deep as herhopes had been high. 

Then she turned her eyes to the mistress, but resisted the impulse tospeak. She knew that her words would be sympathetic and encouraging, but that it must end in words as far as she was concerned. 

"And it's ay best to go straight to my mother, " said Marjorie toherself, remembering past experiences; "and there will be time enough tospeak in the morning if the day should be fine. "

So she wisely put the thought of the morrow away, and took the good ofthe present. And she had her reward. Warned by Robin, Allie said not aword of what awaited the school bairns next day, though the little boysdiscussed it eagerly in the kitchen. So, when the mother came home, shefound her little daughter quietly asleep, which was not often the casewhen anything had happened to detain her father and mother from homelater than was expected. 

But though Allison said nothing, she thought all the more about thepleasure which the child so longed to enjoy with the rest. Before sheslept, she startled her mistress not a little, entering of her own freewill into an account of the schoolmistress' plan to take the bairns tothe hills for the sake of their health, and ending by asking leave totake little Marjorie to "the Stanin' Stanes" with the rest. She spokeas quietly as if she had been asking a question about the morning'sbreakfast, and waited patiently for her answer. Mrs Hume listeneddoubtfully. 

"I hope she has not been setting her heart upon it. It will be a saddisappointment to her. "

"If it must be a disappointment. No, we have had no words about it. But she heard it from the mistress. It wad be as good for her as forthe other bairns. "

"I fear it would not be wise to try it. And she can hardly have set herheart upon going, or she would not be sleeping so quietly. "

"It would do her good, " persisted Allison. 

"And you could trust her with Allison, and Robin might meet them andcarry the child home, " said the minister. 

Mrs Hume turned to him in surprise. When the minister sat down in theparlour to take a half-hour's recreation with a book, he became, as faras could be observed, quite unconscious of all that might be going onaround him, which was a fortunate circumstance for all concerned, considering the dimensions of the house, and the number of people in it. But never a word, which touched his little daughter, escaped him, however much his book might interest him. 

"You would take good care of her, Allison?" repeated he. 

"Ay, that I would. "

"If it were a possible thing that she could go I would not be afraid totrust her with Allison. But the risk of harm would be greater than thegood she could get, or the pleasure. "

"It is a long road, and I doubt ye might weary, Allison, " said theminister. 

"I hae carried hame lost lammies, two, and whiles three o' them, alanger road over the hills than the road to the Stanin' Stanes. Ay, whiles I grew weary, but what of that?" said Allison, with an animationof face and voice that astonished them both. 

"Well! We'll sleep on it. A wise plan at most times when doubtfulquestions are being considered. "

And who could measure the delight of the child when it was told her thatshe was to go to the hills with the rest? If her mother were still onlyhalf convinced of the wisdom of the measure, she did not suffer heranxiety to appear in a way to spoil her little daughter's pleasure. AndMarjorie moderated her raptures and was wonderfully quiet and unexcitedwhile all preparations were going on. Nor did she show impatience whenshe had still some time to wait after her little brothers had set out tojoin the other bairns at the school. 

The mistress was to have the help of some of the elder girls inmarshalling the little lads and lassies, and in encouraging them throughthe rather long, tramp up the hills. Allison, who had been busy fromearly morning, and had still something to do, assured the child that itwould only be a weariness for them both if she were obliged to measureher steps by those of the bairns, and that they would reach the Stanin'Stanes before them; though they gave them a whiles start. 

"They are doing one another good, " said the minister, as they stood atthe door, following with their eyes the stately figure of Allison as shewent steadily down the street, looking neither to the right hand nor theleft. But it was "lanesome like" to go back into the parlour and lookat Marjorie's empty couch. 

And Marjorie was moving on, as she sometimes did in her dreams, down thestreet, and past the well on the green, and over the burn, and up thebrae, first between hedges that would soon be green, and then betweendikes of turf or grey stone, till at last Allison paused to rest, andthen they turned to look at the town, lying in a soft haze of smoke inthe valley below. 

They could see the manse and the kirk and the trees about the garden, and all the town. They could see the winding course of the burn for along way, and Burney's Pot, as they called the pond into which the burnspread itself before it fell over the dam at Burney's mill. A widestretch of farming land rose gradually on the other side of the valleybeyond. Some of the fields were growing green, and there were menploughing in other fields, and everywhere it looked peaceful and bright, "a happy world, " Marjorie said. They could see Fir Hill, the housewhere Mrs Esselmont lived in summertime--at least they could see thedark belt of firs that sheltered it from the east and half hid it fromthe town. 

"It's bonny over yonder. I was there once, and there is such a prettygarden, " said Marjorie. 

Then they went on their way. It was the loveliest of spring days. Thesun did not shine quite all the time, because there were soft whiteclouds slowly moving over the sky which hid his face now and then. Butthe clouds were beautiful and so was their slow movement over the blue, and the child lay in Allison's arms, and looked up in perfect content. 

Spring does not bring all its pleasant things at once in that northernland. The hedges had begun to show their buds a good while ago, butthey had only buds to show still, and the trees had no more. The grasswas springing by the roadside, and here and there a pale little flowerwas seen among it, and the tender green of the young grain began toappear in sheltered and sunny spots. Oh! how fair and sweet it all wasto Marjorie's unaccustomed eyes!

"Oh, Allie!" said she, "can it be true that I am here?"

She could not free her arms from the enveloping shawl to clasp Allie'sneck, but she raised herself a little and laid her cheek against hers, and then she whispered:

"I prayed the Lord to let me come. " Then they went on in the soft warmair their pleasant way. By and by they left the road and went over therougher ground that lay between them and the end of their journey. In ahollow where there was standing water, Allison took the wrong turning, and so going a little out of the way, came suddenly on the mistress andher noisy crowd of bairns, who were looking for them in anotherdirection. 

It was a day to be remembered. But it was not all pleasure to everyone, though every moment was full of delight to Marjorie. The bairnswere wild and not easily managed, and the mistress "had her ain adoesamong them. " Of course the tawse had been left at home, and thesternness of countenance which was the right and proper thing in theschool, the mistress felt would be out of place among the hills, evensupposing the bairns would heed it, which was doubtful. As for settinglimits beyond which they were not to wander, that was easily done, butwith all the treasures of the hills awaiting discovery, was it likelythat these limits would be kept in mind?

The mistress strode after the first wandering group, and called afterthe second, and then she declared that "they maun gang their ain gait, and tak' their chance o' being lost on the hills, " and she said thiswith such solemnity of countenance as to convince the little ones whoremained that they at least had best bide where they were. It was notlikely, after all, that anything more serious than wet feet or perhapstorn clothes would happen to them--serious enough troubles in their ownway, and likely to be followed by appropriate pains and penaltieswithout the intervention of the mistress. At any rate they must justtake their chance. 

So, she "put them off her mind, " and with the other bairns, and Allisoncarrying Marjorie in her arms, wandered for a while among "the Stanes. "

Seven great stones there were, arranged around another greater still;and they might well wonder, as many had wondered before them, how theyhad been brought there, and by whom, and for what purpose. That is, Marjorie wondered, and told them what her father thought, and Robin; andAllison listened and smiled, and wondered too, since she was called tothink about it at all. 

As for the mistress, the "Stanin' Stanes" were just the Stanin' Stanesto her. She accepted them as she did the hills themselves, and theheather, and the distant mountains; and she objected decidedly to theminister's opinion as announced by his little daughter. 

"We are maybe standing in a temple where, hundreds and hundreds of yearsago, the folk worshipped an unknown God, " said Marjorie. 

The mistress vehemently dissented. 

"What should put the like o' that in the minister's head? It's an illthing for ane to try to be wise aboon what's written. "

"But it's all in a book, " said the child eagerly. "Robin read it to mymother and me. And in the Bible ye ken there were folk seeking Him, `ifhaply they might feel after Him and find Him. ' And maybe they weredoing that here. "

But the mistress would not hear such a thing said. 

"Think ye the Lord wad hae letten stan' a' these years in a Christianland like Scotland sic monuments o' will worship and idolatry? Na, na, lassie, I couldna believe that, though your father should preach it outo' the poopit. "

"But, Mistress Jamieson, the Lord lets ill men (evil men) live inScotland, and has patience with them, and whiles saves them from theirsins. And maybe the folk were `feeling after Him' in those farawaydays. "

"John Beaton told my father that these muckle stanes are quite differentfrom the rest o' the stanes upon the hills hereaboot, " said AnnieCairns. 

"John Beaton nae less!" said the mistress scornfully. "As gin the Lordcouldna put what kin' o' stanes He liket wherever it was His will to putthem. And what kens John Beaton mair than the lave?"

"Grannie thinks it was the fairies that brocht them up the brae. ButJohn kens weel about stanes. "

It was Annie Cairns, one of the older lassies, who had made the last twoventures. It was certainly a bold thing for a lassie, who was every dayconvicted in the school of lost loops in her stocking, to put in herword with her betters on such a matter. The mistress answered her witha look which she knew well, and heeded little. But it startledMarjorie, who had only heard about such looks from her brothers. Herface warned Allison that enough had been said. 

"Ye're growing tired, my lammie, and ye'll need to lie down and rest fora while. "

"Yes, I'm tired, now that I think about it, " said the child, lying backin her kind arms again. 

The wind had grown a little sharp by this time, and they found asheltered spot on which the sunshine fell, on the south side of one ofthe great stones; here Allie made a couch, and the child rested on it inperfect content. Some of the little ones were tired also, and fellasleep, and were well happed by Allison and the mistress, and the restwent away to amuse themselves for a while. 

Marjorie did not mean to go to sleep. She could see a wide stretch ofsky, over which the white clouds were wandering still, and the tops ofthe faraway hills, and she thought she could see the sea. But she wasasleep and dreaming when it came to that. 

In the meantime, soothed by a whiff of her pipe, Mistress Jamieson wasgetting on quite friendly terms with Allison, who had her good word fromthat day forth. For with the most respectful attention she satlistening to the all-embracing and rather dismal monologue of the oldwoman, as few were accustomed to do. Did she listen? She certainly didnot understand all that was said, and she could not afterward haverepeated a word of it. But she saw a face, wrinkled and grey, and notvery happy--an old, tired face. And if she was thinking of troublesthat had made deep lines in other faces, rather than of the cares andvexations which had saddened the lot and soured the temper of theschoolmistress, her silence and the softening look in her beautiful, sadeyes, and the grave "ay" or "no" that came in response to some moredirect appeal, pleased and soothed the heart of the lonely old woman toa sense of comfort which came seldom enough to her. 

And though Allison's answers were of the briefest, when the mistressbegan to question her about herself and her life before she came toNethermuir, they were civil, and they were quietly and readily given, and fortunately there was not much time for questions; for the bairnscame straggling back by twos and threes as they had gone away. Eachbrought some treasure found in their wanderings, and Marjorie would havebeen buried beneath the offerings of flowers, and tender green bracken, and "bonny stanies" that were brought to her, if Annie Cairns had nottaken possession of them all, promising to carry them safe to the manse. 

There were still some stragglers for whom they must wait. There wouldhave been little good in going to search for them, and there was no needto hurry home, for the afternoon was not far over--at least there wouldhave been no need if the bairns had not been all so ravenously hungry. The "piece" which each had brought from home had been made away with bythe greater number, before even the "Stanes" were in sight, and theadditional supply which Allison had provided did not go very far amongso many. 

In these circumstances, imagine the shout of welcome which greeted theappearance of Robin with a bag upon his back--Robin's bag, the bairnscalled it; but the treat of baps and buns was John Beaton's, who tookthis way to celebrate his homecoming. And it is to be doubted whetherhe ever in all his life spent many other crown-pieces to better purpose, as far as the giving or the getting or pleasure was concerned. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

 "Love sought is good, but love unsought is better. "

John Beaton came slowly up the height which hid for the moment the spotwhere the bairns had gathered, and Robin followed with his bag on hisshoulder. Confusion reigned triumphant. Some of the little ones hadbecome tired and fretful, and the elder girls were doing what they couldto comfort and encourage them. But by far the greater number were aslively as when they set out in the morning, and by no means in haste toend their day of pleasure. Up the shelving side of one of the greatgrey stones they were clambering, and then, with shrill shrieks andlaughter, springing over the other side to the turf below. Not theslightest heed was given to the voice of the mistress, heard amid thedin, expostulating, warning, threatening "broken banes and bluidy noses, ere a' was dane. " This was what Robin saw, and it was "a sight worthseeing. "

What John Beaton saw was Allison Bain standing apart, with Marjorie inher arms, and he saw nothing else for a while. Even Robin, with his bagon his shoulder, stopped a moment to gaze at "our lass, " as he calledher in a whisper to his friend. She looked a very different lass from"our Allie" in the manse kitchen, with her downcast eyes, and hersilence, and her utter engrossment with the work of the moment. Her bigmutch had fallen off, and a mass of bright hair lay over the arm whichthe child had clasped about her neck. The air had brought a wonderfulsoft colour to her cheeks, and her lips were smiling, and so were hereyes, as she watched the wild play of the bairns, and her darling'sdelight in it. There was not a sign of stooping or weariness. 

"Though Davie says she carried Maysie every step of the way, " saidRobert to his friend. "Man! John! It might be Diana herself!"

But John said nothing, and Robin had no time for more, for the bairnshad descried him and his bag, and were down on him, as he said, like apack of hungry wolves. 

So John shook hands with the mistress, "in a dazed-like way, " she saidafterward, and at the first moment had scarce a word for Marjorie, whogreeted him with delight. 

"John, this is my Allie, " said she, laying her hand on her friend'sglowing cheek, "and, Allie, this is Mrs Beaton's John, ye ken. "

Allie glanced round at the new-comer, but she was too busy gatheringback the wisp of hair that the wind was blowing about her face to seethe hand which he held out to her, and the smile had gone quite out ofher eyes when she raised them to his face. 

"They minded me o' Crummie's een, " John told his mother long afterward. 

The schoolmistress sat down upon a stone, thankful that her labours wereover, and that the guiding home of the bairns had fallen into strongerhands than hers. And as she watched the struggle for the booty whichcame tumbling out of the bag, she was saying to herself:

"I hae heard it said o' John Beaton that he never, a' his days, lookettwice in the face o' a bonny lass as gin there were onything to be seenin it mair than ordinar. But I doot, after this day, _that_ can neverbe said o' him again. His time is come or I'm mista'en, " added she withgrim satisfaction. "Noo we'll see what's in him. "

"And now, Maysie, " said Robin, coming back when the "battle of the baps"was over, "I'm to have the charge o' you all the way home, my mothersaid. Allie has had enough o' ye by this time. And we have PeterGilchrist's cart, full o' clean straw, where ye can sit like a wee queenamong her courtiers. So come awa', my bonny May. "

But Allison had something to say to that proposal. 

"No, no! I'll not lippen her to you and your cairt; your mother couldnever expect such a thing o' me, " said she, clasping the child. 

"Well, all I can say is, these were my orders, and ye maun take theresponsibility of disobedience. What say ye, Maysie?"

"Oh! Allie, it would be fine to go with the ither bairns in the cairt. "

"But, my dearie, your mother never could have meant anything like that. It would never, never do. Tired! No, I'm no' tired yet. And if I wereever so tired--"

"Will ye lippen her to me? I have carried Marjorie many a time, " saidJohn Beaton, coming forward and holding out his arms. 

Allison raised her eyes to his for an instant, and then--not with asmile, but with a sudden faint brightening of the whole face, better tosee than any smile, John thought--she put the child in his arms. 

"Ay, I think I may lippen her to you, since ye have carried her before. "

So the child was wrapped warmly, and was well content. 

"And as ye have the cairt, and I'm not needed with the bairns, I'll awa'hame, where my work is waiting me, " said Allison to Robin, and she lostno time. 

They saw her appearing and disappearing, as she kept her way among theheather for a while; and then John Beaton said, with a long breath, thatthey would need to go. So the mistress was made comfortable in the cartwith as many of the little ones as could be packed into it, and Robintook the reins. The rest of them went down the hill in a body, and allgot safely home at last. And the happiest of them all was Marjorie whenJohn laid her tired, but smiling and content, upon her little couch. 

"Oh, mother! it's fine to be like the other bairns. I have had such ahappy day. And, mother, " she whispered, as her mother bent over her, undoing her wraps, "you'll need to ask John to stay to tea. "

But John would not stay. He must take tea with his mother this firstnight, he said, which Marjorie owned was but right. So he went away. He came back again to worship, however, after Marjorie was in bed. 

Peter Gilchrist was there too, and Saunners Crombie. It was a way thefolk o' the little kirk had, to time their business at the smithy or themill, so as to be able to drop in at the usual hour for family worshipat the manse. At such times there was rather apt to be "lang worship, "not always so welcome to the tired lads as to the visitors, and to-nightJack and Davie murmured audibly to their mother when the chapter wasgiven out. 

For the chapter was about Jacob seeking for his father's blessing, andthe lads felt that Peter and Saunners might keep on to any length abouthim. And so it proved. Decided opinions were expressed and maintainedas eagerly as though each one present had a personal interest in thematter. Peter Gilchrist had his misgivings about Jacob. He was "apawkie lad" in Peter's estimation--"nae just fair forth the gait in hisdealings with his brother, and even waur (worse) with his old blindfather, to whom he should have thought shame to tell lees in thatgraceless way. "

Saunners, on the other hand, was inclined to take Jacob's part, and tomake excuses for him as being the one who was to inherit the promise, and the blame was by him laid at the door "of the deceiving auld wife, Rebekah, by whom he had evidently been ill brocht up"; and so they"summered and wintered" the matter, as Jack said they would be sure todo, and for a while there seemed little prospect of coming to the end ofit. But it mattered less to Jack or to Davie either, as they soon werefast asleep. 

The minister put in a word now and then, and kept them to the point whenthey were inclined to wander, but the two had the weight of thediscussion to themselves. As for John Beaton, he never opened his lipstill it was time to raise the psalm; and whether he had got the good ofthe discussion, or whether he had heard a word of it, might well bedoubted, judging by the look of his face when Mrs Hume put thepsalm-book into his hand. 

It was time to draw to an end, for there were several sleepers amongthem before the chapter was done. Allison had made a place for Davie'ssleepy head upon her lap, and then after a little her Bible slipped fromher hand, and she was asleep herself. It had been a long day to her, and her walk and the keen air of the hills had tired her, and she slepton amid the murmur of voices--not the uneasy slumber of one who sleepsagainst her will; there was no struggle against the power that held her, no bowing or nodding, or sudden waking up to a sense of the situation, so amusing to those who are looking on. Sitting erect, with the back ofher mutch just touching the angle made by the wall and the half-opendoor, she slumbered on peacefully, no one taking heed of her, or ratherno one giving token of the same. 

After a time her mistress noticed her, and thought, "Allison hasover-wearied herself and ought to be in her bed, " and she wishedheartily that the interest of the two friends in Jacob and his misdeedsmight speedily come to an end, at least for the present. And then, struck by the change which slumber had made on the beautiful face of thegirl, she forgot the talk that was going on, and thought only ofAllison. The gloom which so often shadowed her face was no longerthere, nor the startled look, half fear and half defiance, to which thegloom sometimes gave place when she perceived herself to be observed. Her lips, slightly apart, had lost the set look which seemed to tell ofsilence that must be kept, whatever befell. The whole expression of theface was changed and softened. It looked very youthful, almostchildlike, in its repose. 

"That is the way she must have looked before her trouble came upon her, whatever it may have been, " thought Mrs Hume with a sigh. And then shesaid softly to the minister: "I doubt it is growing late, and the bairnsare very weary. "

"Yes, it is time to draw to a close. " So he ended the discussion with afew judicious words, and then read the remaining verses of the chapterand gave out the psalm. 

Sometimes, on receiving such a hint from the mother, it was his way to"omit the singing for a night. " But this was John Beaton's first nightamong them, and the lads and their mother would, he thought, like thesinging. And so he read the psalm and waited in silence for John tobegin, and then Mrs Hume turned toward him. 

A little withdrawn from the rest, John sat with his head upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on the face of Allison Bain. His own face was pale, with a strange look upon it, as though he had forgotten where he was, and had lost himself in a dream. Mrs Hume was startled. 

"John, " said she softly, putting the book into his hand. 

And then, instead of the strong, full tones which were naturally to beexpected when John Beaton opened his lips, his voice rose, full, butsoft and clear, and instinctively the tones of Robin and his mother weremodulated to his. As for the others, they did not sing at all. ForJohn was not singing the psalm which the minister had read, nor was heeven looking at the book. But softly, as a mother might sing to herchild, the words came:

 "Jehovah hear thee in the day When trouble He doth send, And let the name of Jacob's God Thee from all ill defend. 

 "Oh! let Him help send from above Out of His sanctuary, From Sion His own holy hill, Let Him give strength to thee. "

Allison's eyes were open by this time. She seemed to be seeingsomething which no one else saw, and a look of peace was on her face, which Mrs Hume had never seen on it before. "She must have beendreaming. " Then the singing went on:

 "Let Him remember all thy gifts, Accept thy sacrifice, Grant thee thy heart's wish, and fulfil Thy thoughts and counsels wise. "

And then John's voice rose full and clear, and so did the voices of theothers, each carrying a part, in a way which made even the ministerwonder:

 "In thy salvation we will joy, In our God's name we will Lift up our banner, and the Lord Thy prayers all fulfil. "

Then the books were closed, and the minister prayed, and without a wordor a look to any one, except only sleepy Davie, Allison rose and wentaway. But in her heart she was repeating:

 "Grant thee thy heart's wish and fulfil Thy thoughts and counsels wise. In thy salvation we will joy--"

"Maybe the Lord has minded on me, and sent me this word. I will take itfor a sign. "

The two friends went out into the dark, as Saunners said, "strengthenedby the occasion, " but it was not of Jacob, nor his blessing nor hisbanishment that they "discoorsed" together as they jogged along, sittingamong the straw in Peter's cart. Peter was inclined to be sleepy afterthe long day, and had he been alone he would have committed himself tothe sense and judgment of his mare Tibbie, and slept all the way home. But his friend "wasna ane o' the sleepy kind, " as he said, and he hadsomething to say. 

"What ailed John Beaton the nicht, think ye? He's ready eneuch to putin his word for ordinar, but he never opened his mouth through a' theexerceese, and was awa' like a shot ere ever we were off our knees, withnot a word to onybody, though he's but just hame. "

"Ay, that was just it. He would be thinkin' o' his mither, puir bodie, at hame her lane. "

"Ay, that micht account for his haste, and it micht weel hae keepit himat hame a'thegither, to my thinkin'. But that needna hae keepit hismouth shut since he was there. It's no' his way to hide his lichtaneath a bushel as a general thing. "

"It wad be a peety gin he did that. Licht is needed among us, " saidPeter, who admired in his friend the gift of easy speaking, which he didnot possess himself. 

"Oh! ay, that's what I'm sayin'. And what for had he naething to saythe nicht? I doot it's nae just as it should be with him, or he wad haebeen readier with his word. "

"There's sic a thing as being ower-ready wi' ane's word. There's a timeto keep silence an' a time to speak, according to Solomon. But word orno word I'm no' feart for John Beaton. "

"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'; and as ye say, he's maybe whiles ower-ready to put in his word wi' aulder folk. Butgaein' here and there among a kind o' folk, he has need to be watchfu'and to use his privileges when he has the opportunity. "

"We a' need to be watchful. "

"Ay, do we, as ye say. But there are folk for whom ower-muckleprosperity's nae benefit. "

"There's few o' us been tried wi' ower-muckle prosperity of late, I'mthinkin'. And as for John, if a' tales be true, he has had his share o'the ither thing in his day. "

"Weel, I hae been hearin' that John Beaton has had a measure o'prosperity since he was here afore, and if it's good for him it willbide wi' him. He kens Him that sent it, and who has His e'e on him. "

"Ay, ay; it's as ye say. But prosperity or no prosperity, I'm no' feartfor John. "

"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'. Gin he is ane o'His ain, the Lord will keep a grip o' him, dootless. It's no' that I'mfeart, but he has never taken the richt stand among us, as ye ken. Andye ken also wha says, `Come oot from among them and be ye separate. ' Heay comes to the kirk when he's here. But we've nae richt hold on him. And where he gaes, or what he does at ither places, wha kens? I hae ayfear o' folk that are `neither cauld nor het. '"

Fortunately the friends had reached the spot where their ways parted, and Peter, being slow of speech, had not his answer ready, so Saunnerswent home content at having said his say, and more content still athaving had the last word. 

All this time John Beaton was striding about the lanes in the darkness, as much at a loss as his friend, Saunners Crombie, as to what hadhappened to him. He had not got the length of thinking about it yet. He was just "dazed-like, " as the schoolmistress would have said--confused, perplexed, bewildered, getting only a glimpse of what might bethe cause of it all, and the consequences. 

If he had known--if it had come into his mind, that the sorrowful eyeswhich were looking at him out of the darkness--the soft, brown eyes, like Crummie's, which had met his first on the hilltop, might have powerover him to make or to undo, as other eyes had wrought good or evil inthe lives of other men, he would have laughed at the thought and scornedit. 

He had had a long day of it. Since three in the morning he had walkedthe thirty miles that lay between Nethermuir and Aberdeen, to saynothing of the rumble in Peter Gilchrist's cart to the Stanin' Stanes, and the walk home again with little Marjorie in his arms. No wonderthat he was a little upset, he told himself. He was tired, and it wastime he was in his bed. So with a glance at the moon which was showingher face from behind a cloud--she had a queer look, he thought--heturned homeward. 

He stepped lightly, and opened the door softly, lest his mother shouldbe disturbed so late. A foolish thought of his, since he knew that "hisvery step had music in't" to her ears. 

"Well, John?" said she, as he paused a moment at her door. And when hedid not answer at once, she asked, "Is it well with you, John?"

"Surely, mother. Why should you ask?"

"And they were glad to see you at the manse?"

"Oh! yes, mother. They're ay kind, as ye ken. "

"Ay, they're ay kind. And did you see--Allison Bain?"

"Allison Bain!" repeated John, dazed-like still. "Ay, I saw her--at theStanin' Stanes, as I told you. "

"Yes, you told me. And all's well with you, John?"

"Surely, mother, " repeated John, a little impatiently. "What should ailme?" And then he added, "I'm tired with my long tramp, and I'll away tomy bed. Good-night, mother. "

He touched with his strong, young fingers the wrinkled hand that lay onthe coverlid, and the touch said more to her than a kiss or a caresswould have said to some mothers. 

"Sleep sound!" said she. 

But the charm did not work, for when daylight came he had not closed hiseyes. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

 "The honest man, howe'er so poor, Is king of men for a' that. "

John Beaton's father had been John Beaton also, and so had _his_ fatherbefore him. The first John had farmed a three-cornered nook of land, which had found a place among the grey stones scattered closely over acertain part of the high coast that looks down upon one of the narrowbays setting in from the North Sea. 

He must have been a strong man, this John, for on this bit of land helived and laboured for sixty years and more, and on it he brought up, and then sent out, to make a place for themselves, in their own, or inother land's, five strong sons and four fair daughters. And he had sobrought them up that never, as long as he lived, did he, or any oneelse, hear aught of son or daughter to cause him to bow his good greyhead before the face of man. 

One son, neither the eldest nor the youngest, stayed near home. Firsthe had broken stones on one of the great highways which they werestretching through Scotland about that time. Then he learned to cut anddress the grey granite of his native hills, and then to build it intohouses, under another man's eye, and at another man's bidding. After atime he took his turn, first as overseer, and then as master-builder, and succeeded, and men began to speak of him as a rising man, and onewell-to-do in the world. All this was before he had got beyond middlelife. 

Then he married a woman "much above him, " it was said, but that was amistake. For though Marion Sinclair came of a good stock, and had allher life lived in a home well placed and well plenished, among folk whomight have thought themselves, and whom others might have thought to beJohn Beaton's superiors, yet no man or woman of them all had a right tolook down on John Beaton. He stood firm on his own feet, in a placewhich his own hand had won. No step had he ever taken which he hadneeded to go back upon, nor had he ever had cause to cast down his eyesbefore the face of man because of any doubtful deed done, or false wordspoken. 

And Marion Sinclair, no longer in her first youth, might well go a proudand happy bride to the home of a man wise and strong, far-seeing, honest, and successful--one who loved her dearly, as a man of middle agemay love, who in his youth has told himself that he had neither will nortime for such sweet folly. 

With all his strong and sterling qualities he was regarded by the worldin general, as, perhaps, a little hard and self-opinioned. But he wasnever hard to her, or to the one son who was born to them. He exactedwhat was his due from the rest of the world, but he was always soft andyielding to them in all things. He was proud of his success and of hisgood name in the countryside, and he offended some of those who cameinto contact with him by letting his pride in all this be too plainlyseen. But he was prouder far of his wife, and his happy home, and ofhis young son, with whom, to his thought, no prince in all the landcould compare. 

And so it went well with him, till one day the end came suddenly. Abroken bank, a dishonoured name, scathe and scorn to some--to him amongthe rest--who was, God knows, neither in deed nor in thought guilty ofthe sin which had brought ruin upon thousands. 

He made a gallant stand for his good name and his well-earned fortune, and for his fellow-sufferers; but he was an old man by this time, and hedied of it. 

Mrs Beaton had never all her life been a strong woman, and had neverneeded to think and act for herself in trying circumstances. She hadnot the skill to plan nor the strength to execute, and it was too lateto begin now. But she could endure, and she did so, with long patience;and though her face grew thin and white, she gave no sign of anger, ordiscontent, or of breaking down under her troubles, as all her littleworld had believed she would surely do. 

Amid the din and dulness of the great town in which they first tookrefuge for a while, she made a home for her son, and waited patiently tosee what his young strength might do for them both, and never, by wordor look, made his struggle for standing room in the crowd harder forhim, or his daily disappointment worse to bear. 

He fought his way to standing room at last--standing room at a high deskin a dark office, at work which he had still to learn, and which, thoughhe loathed it, he might have learned to do in time if it had not"floored him" first. 

"Mother, " he cried one night in despair, "let us get away from thisplace--anywhere, where there is room to breathe. I will work with myhands as my father did before me. There are still surely stones tobreak somewhere up there in the north. We'll get fresh air at least. "

So, without a word of doubt or of expostulation, she made haste to getready, while they had yet the means of going, and they went northtogether, where they found, indeed, fresh air, and for a time they foundnothing else. But fresh air was something to rejoice in, since itbrought back the colour to the lad's cheeks and lightened the heart ofthe mother, and they kept up one another's courage as well as might be. 

A chance to earn their bread, that was all John wanted, and it came atlast; but it was dry bread only for a while. 

"What can you do? And what are you willing to do?" said a man who wasthe overseer of other men, and whom John had seen several times at theplace where his work was done. John answered:

"I am willing to do anything. And I think I could break stones. "

"I think I see you!" said the man with a shrug. 

"I only wish I had a chance to show you. I think I might even chip awa'at cutting them, to as good purpose as some of those lads yonder. "

"Here, Sandy, " said the overseer. "Gie this lad your hammer, and lethim try his hand, for the fun o' the thing. "

The man laughed, but John Beaton was in earnest. In a minute his coatwas off, and he set to work with a will. He needed a hint or two, andhe got them, with a little banter thrown in. The lad stuck to his work, and could, as his friend said, "do no' that ill. " He had perhapsinherited the power to do the work, since he could do it, he thought, and he asked leave to come again in the morning. 

"Ye hae earned your shilling, " said the overseer, when it was time togo, and he held one out to John. He hardly expected the lad to take it, but he took it gladly, and looked at it, the man thought, in a curiousway. 

"Is it the first shilling ye ever earned?" said he. 

"The very first! May I come back to-morrow?"

"O, ay! gin ye like; but I should think that this is hardly the kind o'work ye're best fitted for. "

"One must take what one can get, " said John. 

That was the beginning. He went again, and as hands happened to bescarce at the time, he was kept on, and his wages were raised as hisskill and his strength increased. By and by he was offered permanentwork on a mill that was to be built in a country place at some distance. It would take months to build, and he would be sure of work for thattime; so he took his mother with him, and what household stuff they hadleft, and lived in a tiny room in a cottage for a while. 

Not very far from the new mill was Nethermuir, a quiet place, out of theway, where they might live, they said to one another, unknown andforgotten. And here, after many thoughts about it, they resolved tomake themselves a home. 

At the end of the street on which stood the missionary kirk and manse, was a small house which had once been of the better sort, but which hadbeen vacant for some time, and had fallen into disrepair. The thatchwas rotten and the roof had partly fallen in, but the foundation wasfirm, and the walls were thick and strong. This house John leased forseven years, at a very small rent, and by his own strength, and skill, and will, with some help from his fellow-workmen, he made of it such ahouse as was not unworthy of being a home for his mother; and in it, while her son went here and there as his work called him, she livedcontent. 

Terrible as the blow was which took from them husband and father andhome, it might have been worse in the end had John Beaton died a richman. So said some of the lookers-on, who long before that time haddeclared that his son, having all his life long got more of his own willthan was good for him, was in a fair way to become a "spoiled laddie" atlast. 

Some said it who envied the lad, and others said it who loved him well, and it is possible that they were not far wrong in the belief. John theyounger was a "bonny lad, " tall and strong, sweet-tempered andlight-hearted, a favourite with all. But he was open to temptation likethe rest of his kind, even more so than many, and not all of those whogathered round him in his prosperous days were of the sort likely toinfluence him for good. He went through the first years at theuniversity without getting much good from it, it was said. He haddisappointed his father greatly, as well as his teachers; but though hehad been foolish and idle, he had not disgraced himself by anythingbeyond idleness and folly. Whether he would have gone through thecourse without doing worse, might be questioned. 

The chance was not given him. His father died, and instead ofinheriting what would have been called wealth among those who were hisfriends, he found himself penniless, having his own bread, and possiblyhis mother's also, to win. And seeing there was good stuff in the lad, his mother's helplessness and desolation might be the saving of him, said one of his mother's humble friends. 

They had friends--yes, many of them--but some of them had suffered lossas they themselves had suffered, and had no power to help except withkind words. Others who had the power to help had not the will, or onlythe will to help in their own way. Others added to their offers advicethat could not be followed, or they hurt the sore hearts of the lad andhis mother with words which implied censure on the dead, because he hadnot foreseen and provided against the coming of evil days. And so, seeing no help among "kenned folk, " the two went out, "not knowingwhither they went. "

They had gone away bravely enough, and even through the dark days whichcame first, it cannot be said that they quite lost heart or hope. Aslong as his mother was content, John told himself, he did not care whatfell to him to do or to endure; and as long as John was well, and withinreach of hand or voice, it was well with the mother. It was not tillthe first months were over that John's heart seemed to fail. When themill was finished, instead of going with the men to other work inanother direction, he remained in Nethermuir, hoping to find somethingto do in the neighbourhood, so that he might be near his mother. Hefound enough to do for a time in making the little house a comfortableand even beautiful home for her. Then he prepared the neglected bit ofground around it for a garden and took pleasure in doing it. It waswork which he liked, and which he knew how to do, but it put nothinginto the family purse, which was getting low, and something must be doneto replenish it. 

He worked for a few weeks in harvest in the narrow fields of PeterGilchrist, and to good purpose, though the work was new to him; and hemade friends with Peter himself, which was something. But the harvestwore over and winter was coming on, and then he wrote to Jamie Dunn, hisfirst friend, saying he was now ready and willing to go wherever heshould be sent. 

But in his heart he knew that for the only work which was left to him todo, he was neither ready nor willing, nor for the kind of life which hesaw stretching a long, weary way before him. 

He could do as his father had done before him, he told his mothercheerfully, and who had done better than he? But to himself he ownedthat this was to be doubted. He could never do as his father had done;he was not the man his father had been, or he could never have playedthe fool, wasting his time and losing his opportunities, as he had done. He had been spoiled with softness, with idle days, and the pleasantthings of life, which he could not forget, and which, like a weakling, he was in his secret heart longing for still. And even his father hadnot won what men called success, and a firm footing among his fellows, till the best part of his life was over. 

But his father had been content through all his days as they came, andwith his day's work and his day's wages. And his father had known hisown strength and could bide his time. As for his son, John told himselfthat he was neither strong nor wise. He knew, or he feared at thistime, that only the thought of his mother and her need of him kept himfrom despair. 

He called it despair, poor lad, not knowing what he said. The depths ofdespair came to him with the thought of enlisting as a common soldier, to go away and live his life with as little exercise of his own will asthe musket he carried, and to death and a nameless grave. Or it meantto sail away before the mast, a slave to some tyrant who held the powerof life and death, because he held the power of the lash. And it mighthave come to one or other of these possibilities with him, if it had notbeen for his mother and her need of him. 

For the dead level of the life which he saw stretching out before himseemed even worse to him than that--the life of ceaseless, ill-remunerated labour, the companionship of men grown dull through achangeless routine of toilsome days, or debased through ignorance orself-indulgence, a life and a companionship with which he might at lastgrow content, being no stronger or wiser than other men. 

These were dark days for the young man. At last he took his mother'sgently spoken words of counsel to heart, and opened the box in which shehad secretly packed his college-books, and where they had lain hiddenall this time. But the sight of them, and the associations they calledup, made him heartsick and ashamed, and it was only by the exercise ofstrong self-restraint that he made himself pretend to take some interestin them for his mother's sake. After this he fell into the way oftaking long walks in all directions, and did a turn of work here andthere as he could get it, and generally came home hungry, and tired, andready for his bed, so that no reading could be expected of him. 

But the days were growing short, and the dark hours many and long, andthe mother's heart "grew wae" for her son many a time. By and bysomething happened. 

It was a good thing for the minister's Davie that John Beaton was withinsound of the voices of the lad's terrified companions the day that hefell into "Burney's Pot, " and it was a good thing also for John. Thelittle lad was nearly gone when he was pulled out of the water, andhaving no knowledge of his home or name, since his young companions hadtaken to their heels as soon as they saw Davie safe, John took him hometo his mother, and together they did what could be done for his help. 

This was the beginning. Davie was allowed to fall asleep in MrsBeaton's bed, and in the gloaming John carried him home wrapped in ablanket, and then he saw the minister and his wife and Marjorie. It wasthe beginning for John of more than can well be told. 

His manner of life from that time was changed. Not that he went oftento the manse at first, though the door was always open to him, and awelcome awaiting him. But the life he saw there, the words he heard, and the spirit that showed in all that was done, or said, or planned, ingreat things and in small, came like a new revelation to him; and themore he saw and thought of it all, the less he thought about his ownloss and his changed life and his unhopeful prospects. 

He had more days of leisure that winter than well pleased him, but notone of them was spent in wandering aimlessly about the dreary hills. Hehad company, most days, wherever he went. If he had not Robin or Jack, there was always Davie, who seemed to think he had a special claim uponhim. Davie had not yet been promoted to a seat in the parish school, but was beginning to think himself, at eight, too big a boy for MistressJamieson's rule, since he could say the Catechism from end to end, proofs and petitions and all. With Davie trotting along at his side, John had little chance for brooding. Besides, he had taken to his booksagain, and meant to employ his leisure and make up for lost time if sucha thing might be. It was not likely that he would have much use forLatin or Logic in the life that lay before him, he told himself; but hemight as well make the most of the idle days, and keep his mind fromstagnation. 

And he had less of leisure after a while. It was about this time thathe began to try his hand at the making of "headstones" for the kirkyard. Chance put such work in his way, and being ready of hand and quick ofeye, and having long patience and much need of a job, he set to workwith a will. He did not succeed in pleasing himself, but he pleased hisemployer, which answered the purpose; and he did more at the work, atodd times, when he could get nothing else to do. 

The life which he saw lived in the manse did something for him, and theWord as it was held forth in the little kirk did more; but that camelong afterward. The minister was the busiest of men, either among hisbooks or among his people, or in his garden or his land; but he wasnever too busy for a cheery word to John, or for help or counsel to anyone who needed them. And the same might be said of the minister's wife. She was active and had enough to do at home, but she was glad to helpthose who needed help anywhere. She had good sense and good judgment, and was ready with sweet words or sharp words, as the case presentedseemed to demand. She was firm where firmness seemed to be required, but had long patience and unfailing gentleness in her dealings with theweak and even with the wilful; and as the days passed, John took heed ofher words and ways with ever-growing interest. 

She had not an easy life, but she had usually firm health and she had acheerful nature, and the peace of God was in her heart. So she "stoodin her lot" strong and unafraid, whatever might befall. 

She was a loving mother to her sons, but her rule was firm as well asgentle. There was no need in that house to appeal to the father'sstronger will where obedience was not promptly given. It was a seriousmatter indeed that needed an appeal to their father. To the lads theirmother's word was law. Not that the law was not forgotten sometimes, oreven wilfully broken in times of strong temptation. But confession ofsins, though not always prompt, was, in course of time, quite certain. She had their confidence entirely. It was an unhappy boy, indeed, whocarried about, for even a few days, a sinful or sorrowful secret hiddenfrom his mother. 

In among these lads John came as another brother, and Mrs Hume was kindand gracious in her intercourse with him. She was faithful also, andtold him of faults and failings which his own mother never acknowledged, and helped him to correct them, as, even had she seen them, his ownmother might have hesitated to do. It was, indeed, a good day for Johnwhen the door of the manse was opened to him. 

And then there was Marjorie, poor little soul, who was nearly nine, andwho looked like six, a fair, weak little creature, who could only walk astep or two at a time, and who was yet as eager to know, and to do, andto be in the midst of things as the strongest of them all. "Anotherbrother, " she called their new friend, who had more sense and patiencethan Robin or Jack, and who could carry her so easily and stronglywithout being tired. It was a happy day for Marjorie when John came into see her. It was better than a new book, she thought, to hear himtalk. 

"And a new book is so soon done with, " said Marjorie, who did not seevery many new books, and who had usually learned them by heart beforeshe had had them many days. But John had always something to tell her. He told her about new places and new people, and he had seen the sea, and had sailed on it. He had been in London and had seen the king andthe queen, "like the travelled cat, " as Robin said. And there was noend to the stories he could tell her that she had never heard before. She was never tired of listening to him, and hailed his coming withdelight, and long before he had come to feel quite at ease with themother, John had learned to love dearly the eager, gentle littlecreature, from whose eyes the joy at his coming chased the look of painand weariness. 

As for the friendship which grew more slowly, but quite as surely, between John and the elder boys of the manse, it cannot be said whetherhe or they benefited most by it. To Robin and Jack, John seemed a farwiser and stronger man than he knew himself to be--a man of widerexperience, higher aims, and firmer purpose. And their belief in him, their silent yet evident admiration of all his words and ways, theirperfect trust in his discretion and sympathy, did as much for him as forthem, and helped him to strive for the attainment of all the good giftswhich they believed him to possess. 

He helped them in many ways. He helped them at their work and kept themback from taking part in many a "ploy, " which, though only foolish, andnot so very wrong, were still both foolish and wrong to them, because inengaging in them they would waste their time, and--being the minister'ssons--set a bad example to the rest of the lads, and, worst of all, vextheir father and their mother. And they could bear to be restrained byhim, because, in the carrying out of all harmless fun, they profited bymany a hint from John, and sometimes even by his help. But they allagreed that the less said about this matter among the neighbours thebetter for all concerned. 

John had been in Nethermuir several months before he saw the inside ofthe little kirk. He knew little about the folk who worshipped there, except that they were said to be "a queer kin' o' folk, who setthemselves up as better than their neebors, and wiser than a' theirteachers. " Differing, as they seemed to do, both in preaching and inpractice, from the kirk of the nation, they were doubtless wrong, thought John. But whatever they were, they were folk in whom he took nointerest, and with whom he had nothing at all to do. So when he hadgone to the kirk at all, he had gone to the parish kirk to please hismother, who was not always able to go so far herself. Sometimes he hadpermitted himself to go even farther than the kirk, coming back when theservice was half over to sit for a while on a fallen headstone, asAllison did afterward when her turn came. 

On fine days his mother went with him, and then it was different. Hesat with the rest and listened to what the minister had to say, with noinclination to find fault. Indeed there was no fault to be found fromJohn's point of view or from the minister's. It cannot be averred thatin what was said there was either "food or physic for the soul of man. "But not knowing himself to be in especial need of either the one or theother, John missed nothing to which he had been accustomed all his daysto listen in the kirk. 

"We had a good discourse, " his mother would say, as they went slowlyhome together, and John always assented. "Yes, mother, we had a gooddiscourse. "

So John went most days to please his mother. But there came a day ofrain, and sleet, and bitter east wind, when, if her conscience wouldhave permitted, Mrs Beaton would have refrained from making her usualsuggestion about the propriety of honouring the Sabbath-day by going tothe kirk. As for John, he was no more afraid of the rain, and thesleet, and the east wind than he was afraid of the summer sunshine; butwhen he proposed to go to hear Mr Hume, the sound of the sleet and therain on the windows silenced any objection she might have had to hisgoing "once in a way, the day being wild and wintry, " and she even addeda hope that he might "hear something to do him good. "

This was at the very beginning of his acquaintance with the minister andhis family. If he had waited for a while, till the charm of theirfriendliness and genuine kindness had wrought, till the time came whenhe had seen with his own eyes, and heard with his own ears that whichproved his new friend to be different in some ways from the most ofthose to whom he had all his life looked up as leaders and teachers, yetnot unworthy also to teach and to lead, John might have been betterprepared to get the good which his mother hoped for him. And yet hemight not. At any rate, it was to that dark day in the little kirkthat, in the years which came afterward, he looked back as the beginningof "good" to him. 

"A dismal hole, " he called it, as he went in among the first and satdown in a corner. It was scarcely barer or more dingy and dim than therest of the kirks in country places were in those days; but it was verysmall, and it had windows only on one side. On that dark day it wasdismal, and it could not have been beautiful at any time. The chill ofthe sleet and the wild east wind had got into it, and John wondered atthe folk who should choose, of their own free will, to pass two hours, or even three, in the damp and gloom and dreariness. "There will be fewhere to-day, " thought he. 

But they came one after another, and by twos and threes, and there wasthe stamping of wet shoes, and the shaking out of wet plaids, and many asneeze, and many a "hoast" (cough). And still more came, some of themwith familiar faces from the neighbouring streets, and some from beyondthe hills, miles away. Peter Gilchrist was there, of course, andSaunners Crombie, and an old woman or two, who would better have keptthe house, John thought, on such a day. And by and by the kirk was wellfilled. John would have liked to see the minister's seat. It was closeto the door, and so was the one in which he sat; but a little porch, which protected the door, came between. He heard the clatter of theboys' feet as they came in, and once he heard their mother's "quietly, boys, " gently but firmly uttered, and by that time the minister was inthe pulpit, and the service began. 

It was just to be like other services in other kirks, John thought atfirst. There was a psalm read, and a remark was made on a verse hereand there, and then they sang. He had a certain enjoyment in thesinging, because he had never heard anything like it before. The sleetor something else had kept the usual precentor at home, and SaunnersCrombie filled the office for the time. He had the singing mostly tohimself for the first verse, because no one knew what tune he meant tosing, and some of those who joined, trying to do their best, "went outof it a'thegither, " as Saunners said angrily afterward. The secondverse went better. The minister's boys took it up and their mother, andwere joined by "the discordant crowd, " as John called them while helistened; and though he might have done good service on the occasion, henever opened his lips. 

Then came the "long prayer, " in which John certainly did not join. Buthe listened, and after a little he wondered. It was "like all theprayers, " he said to himself at first--confession, petition, thanksgiving. Yet it was a little different. The words came with acertain power. It was as if he who prayed saw the face of Him whom headdressed, a living Person whom he knew and had proved, and not an awfulunknown Being hidden in light unapproachable, or in dimness or darkness. He was speaking to One whose promise had been given, and many timesmade good unto those who trusted Him. And to him who was asking, evidently the promise was sure, the Word unchangeable. 

"All good things! Why, a man who believed that need be afraid ofnothing, " said John to himself. 

Then a chapter from the New Testament was read. It was the one inCorinthians about charity, from every verse of which a sermon might bepreached, the minister said; but he only lingered a minute on the versewhich speaks of the charity "which thinketh no evil, " and by the littlestir that went through the congregation, John thought that perhaps aword on that subject might be specially needed. 

Then came the sermon, and John listened intently. But he did not likeit. He told his mother, when he went home, that he had heard the folksaying about the kirk door that they had had a grand sermon. "And theyshould ken, " said John with a shrug. 

"The text? Oh! it was a fine text: `Christ the power of God, and thewisdom of God unto salvation. ' It was like no sermon I ever heardbefore, " said John, "and I am not sure that I ever wish to hear anotherof the same kind. "

John did not go to the manse that week, and he had no intention of goingto the kirk on Sunday, but when Sunday came he changed his mind and wasthere with the rest. He sat in his corner and listened, and wondered, and grew angry by turns. 

"Is not my Word like as a fire? saith the Lord, and like a hammer thatbreaketh the rock in pieces?"

That was the text and that was the way in which the Word came to JohnBeaton, and he would have none of it--for a time. 

To his mother, who went to the kirk with him after a while, it came inanother way. It was not new to her. It was just what she had beenhearing all her life, she said, only the minister made it clearer andplainer than ever it had been made to her before. Or it might be thather heart was more open to receive the Word than it used to be in formerdays, when both heart and hands were full of the good things of thislife, which, she said, had contented her to the forgetting of theGiver's greater gifts. 

She had never been a woman of many words, and even to her son she rarelyspoke of these things. But as time went on she grew sweeter and gentlerday by day, he thought. He left her with less anxiety when he wentaway, and he found her always when he came home peaceful and content. For the peace of God was with her. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

 "O! love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; O! love will venture in where wisdom ance has been. "

Saunners Crombie had not been mistaken when he told his friend that "ameasure of prosperity" had, of late, come to John Beaton. A debt longdue to his father had been paid to him, and the story which the debtorhad to tell was worth many times the money to John and his mother. 

It was not the first good deed done in secret by the father which hadsince his death come to the knowledge of the son. Other stories hadbeen told by friends and neighbours, and even by comparative strangers, of kind words spoken by him, and generous help given, which had healedsick hearts, and opened the way out of depths of despair to some whowere sinners, and to some who were only sufferers. And now this mancame to tell how he also had been helped--saved, he called it, and hetold it with tears in his eyes, though more than a generation had passedsince then. 

David Cunningham was the son of the minister of the parish where thefirst of the three Johns had lived, and where the second John and hisbrothers and sisters had been born. He had fallen into foolish waysfirst, and then into evil ways, and through some act of inexcusablefolly, or worse, had, it seemed, shut upon himself the last door of hopefor a life of well-doing. An offer of a clerkship in an East Indianhouse had been given him by a friend of his family, and a sum sufficientfor his outfit had been advanced. This sum he had lost, or rather ithad been claimed for the payment of a debt which he could not haveconfessed to his father without breaking the old man's heart. It wouldhave been utter ruin to the lad if John Beaton had not come to therescue. 

This was before John was a rich man, or even had a prospect of riches, but he gave the money willingly, even gladly, to save the son of hisfather's friend. 

"When you come home a rich man you can pay me, if I be living; and if Ibe dead, you can pay it to them who may come after me, " said he. Andnow David Cunningham had come home to pay his debt. 

"Every month from the very first, " he told John, "I put something awaytoward it, and a good many months passed before the full sum was saved. Then, when I wrote to your father that it was ready for him, he told meto invest it for him, and let it grow till I should come home again. That was five-and-thirty years ago, and it has grown well since then. It is yours now, and much pleasure and profit may you get out of it. "

"There is no fear of that, " said John. 

"And I have a better wish than that for you, " said Mr Cunninghamgravely. "May you have the chance and the heart to help to save somepoor fellow as your father saved me. "

"Thank you for the good wish. I will try to follow in my father'ssteps, " said John. "But the money is my mother's, and the pleasure ofdoing good with it will be hers. "

"And if all I have heard of her be true, her pleasure will be to givepleasure to her son, " said his friend. 

"Yes; that is true, too, " said John. 

But as the money was well invested, it was to be allowed to remain whereit was for the present. The income from it would secure to his mother ahome more like that to which she was born than the one in which she hadlived since her husband's death, "though, God bless her, she has nevermurmured, " said her son. 

And John was triumphing in his heart. He saw, or he thought he saw, hisway clear to the carrying out of several plans, which he had beendreaming about, but which he had hardly suffered himself to regard aspossible till now. He had been in Aberdeen all the winter, working bothwith his head and his hands. He had fallen in with an old schoolfellow, who was in the second year of his university course, a cripple lad, whowas altogether unfit for the kind of life enjoyed most by lads of hisage when set free from their lectures and their hours of study. He wasliving a lonely life till John found him, and his visits to the lad'srooms were good for them both. 

John had been reading steadily during the winter leisure of the years hehad been in Nethermuir, and now he enjoyed greatly going over the groundwith his friend, and gradually the knowledge came to him that he hadgrown in mind as well as in stature since the days when he had trifledwith, or utterly neglected, the opportunities which had been given him. He could do now with ease and pleasure that which in those idle days hadbeen a task and a burden. Gradually that which had been a vaguelonging, a half-acknowledged desire, became a settled purpose. 

It was to consult with his mother as to the carrying out of this purposethat he had come to Nethermuir at this time, and he had not meant tosleep until all his plans were laid before her. But when three days hadpassed--on the fourth he was to return to Aberdeen--not a word withregard to them had been uttered. John had not got out of the maze intowhich he had fallen when he first caught sight of Allison Bain, standingwith loosened hair and smiling eyes, watching the mad play of thebairns, with little Marjorie in her arms. 

He had not forgotten his plans or his purposes. There were moments whenhe would have been willing to forget them, when he even tried to forgetthem and to smile at his thought of them, as he had sometimes smiled ata foolish dream in the light of the morning. He was not quite sure thathe needed to speak to his mother at all. He might at least wait awhile. Why should he trouble her by speaking about changes which mightnever come?

And yet, had he not told his mother all his plans and even his thoughtsall his life? Her word would make clear what course he should take. Her "single eye" would see the fine scheme he had been dreaming about inits true light. He could trust his mother's wise simplicity more thanhis own ambitious desires, which could hardly be worthy, he thought, since they were the outcome of discontent. 

And why should he not be content as he was? He had fallen from no highestate. His father and his father's father had wrought with theirhands, and had been honoured of all who knew them. Why should he not becontent to live as they lived, or to work his way upward to an easierlife, as his father had done?

"At any rate, I will have it out with my mother to-night, " said he. 

He was standing, when he came to this resolve, on the very spot where hefirst caught sight of Allison Bain. It was the second time he had stoodthere since that day, for no reason that he could have told to any one. He had come to the spot in the early morning after that first sleeplessnight. He needed a walk to stretch his legs, which were rather stiffafter the long tramp of yesterday, he told his mother, when he came hometo the breakfast he had kept waiting, and he told himself that he onlychanced to take that road rather than another. 

He said nothing about it to Robert Hume. They had the night beforeagreed to take an early walk together. Robin was late; but happily, ashe thought, he caught sight of John as he was disappearing over thefirst hilltop, and followed with no thought of finding himself in theway. 

But when he came to the head of the last hillock, and saw John standingwhere he had stood the day before, "looking at nothing, " as Robin toldhis mother afterward, he was seized with sudden shamefaced-ness, andturning, shot like an arrow down the brae. 

John had been less at the manse than he usually was while visiting hismother. He was to go there in the evening, and he must speak to hismother before he said anything about his half-formed plans to theminister or Mrs Hume, as he came home fully intending to do. So heturned homeward on the last afternoon; and as he walked he was saying tohimself, with indignant contempt of his indecision, that after all hemust be a poor creature, a fool, though he had never been in the way ofthinking so till now. 

"Well, John lad, " said his mother, looking up as he came in. 

Her little maid had gone home for the day, and Mrs Beaton was sittingin her arm-chair "just waiting, " as she said. 

It was a nice little room. A bright fire burned in the grate, and ashining tea-kettle was steaming on the hob. The carpet on the floor wasfaded and worn, and the furniture was of the plainest; but there were afew pretty things in the room to brighten it, and over the mantel-piecewas a portrait of John's father, "taken at his best. " For some strangereason, which he himself did not understand, John paused at the door, and looked up at the strong, good face. 

The picture was not much as a work of art perhaps, but it was a strikinglikeness. There was the firm mouth, and the kind grey eyes, and thebroad shoulders, rounded and stooping a little, after long years oflabour, and the abundant dark hair, which had showed no silver threadsuntil the last blow came to end all. A sudden pang smote John's heartas he looked. 

"I was but a lad, " he said to himself. "I didna ken what he was till Ilost him. "

"You are growing like him, John, " said his mother softly. 

"Am I, mother? I doubt it is only your loving een that can see it. "

"Are ye troubled, John?" were the words that rose to the mother's lips, but they were not spoken. "Ye're needing your tea, John, " said sheinstead. 

John laughed. "I'm needing something, and I'll be glad of my tea in themeantime. No, you are not to rise. You are to sit still in your chairand tell me what to do. "

Not that he needed telling. The skill, and the will, and the gentlenessnatural to a loving daughter had come to this mother's son through longand loving service. So the little table was brought forward, on whichall things were already arranged. The tea was "masket, " and the teapotcovered with the "cosie, " and during the three minutes necessary andsufficient for its proper infusion, John went to his room, and themother's face grew grave while she waited. 

"He's no' at peace with himself. But he'll tell me if he's needing myhelp. God bless him and keep him this day--and forever and ay. "

Then John came in and they had their tea, and spoke about other things, about the visit she had had in the afternoon from little Marjorie, whomAllison Bain had carried in her arms to see her, as she often did, andof how the child was growing stronger every day. And then they agreedtogether that little Annie Thorn, who had been coming in to help MrsBeaton all these years, should come now to stay always, because it wouldbe better in many ways for both mistress and maid. They spoke of otherthings besides; but it must be acknowledged that John said little, andwas not so ready with assent or with response as he was wont to be whenhis mother had anything to say to him. 

After a time they fell into silence for a little, and then John said:

"I have something to tell you, mother. "

"Is it good news, John?" said his mother with a little flutter at herheart. 

"Part of it is good, surely. As for the rest--that may be good or bad, as you shall take it. "

"I'm waiting, John. "

For John's head had drooped on his hand, and he sat thinking. 

"And you're a wee anxious? But there is no occasion, mother dear. Ihave good news. I meant to tell you the night I came home. I couldhardly wait till I got home to tell you. I dinna ken how I put it off, "added John hurriedly. "Mother, did you ever hear my father speak of agood turn he once did to one David Cunningham, a long time ago it musthave been?"

"No. He wasna one who was in the way of telling o' the good turns hedid, as ye ken. But I mind the name of Cunningham. "

"This must have been before your day. Maybe a good while before it. "And John went on to tell the story of his father's timely help to afoolish lad, and of the debt which the man wished to pay, according tohis friend's desire, to those who came after him. And when he had toldall he knew about it, and how the money which his father had given hadbeen increasing during all these years till it had become a sum so largethat the interest alone would keep his mother in comfort for the rest ofher life, his mother only said softly:

"Well, John?" as though the something which he had had to say was stillto be told. 

"Well, mother, I think it is your turn now. Wasna that grand of myfather?"

"It was like him. And is this David Cunningham able to spare all thatmoney? It would be an ill thing to harm or harass him now after so longa time. "

"I cannot say whether he be rich or poor; but I am certain sure thatnothing will hinder him from paying his debt. He told me that the sightof my face had given him more pleasure than anything he had seen inScotland yet, " said John laughing. "I would have brought him out to seeyou, if the doctor would have let him come. He is but a frail man, andmust go south again till summer is fairly here. He said little abouthimself, but I know he is a married man. "

"And he would be sorry to hear of your father's losses at the last. "

"Ay, that was he, and angry at the ill done him. If he had but known, he said, he could have helped to tide him over the worst of histroubles, and it might have prolonged his life. "

"It was God's will, and we must submit, " said Mrs Beaton softly. 

"Yes, it was God's will. " Then John rose and set the table back intoits place, and stirred the fire and sat down again. 

"Well, John?" said his mother in a little. 

"Well, mother! You are a rich woman again, in a small way. "

"I have ay been a rich woman. If I had been asked would I have more, Iwould have said I am content. I am glad of this for your sake, John, ifyou are glad. But I think the message from your father, as it seems, ismore to me than the money. "

"Yes, mother, and to me as well. "

"You had something to tell me, John, " said his mother, in a little. 

"I thought I had when I came home. Now I am not sure. There issomething that we may speak about together, and you will help me to makeup my mind one way or the other. "

Mrs Beaton listened in silence as John went on to tell her what he hadbeen doing and thinking for a while. He had not been idle since thebuilding season ended. He had been in the employment of one of thebuilders of the town. He had been able to make himself useful to him--first by going over and putting to rights the books of the business, which had fallen into confusion, and afterward at more congenial work, where his knowledge of drawing, to which he had given much time when hewas a boy, was brought into account with a success which had surprisedhimself. And now his employer had offered him a permanent place, withan opportunity to acquire the kind of knowledge of his work which wouldcome but slowly to him while he worked only with his hands. 

He owned that he liked Mr Swinton, and that they got on well together. Yes, the prospect of success seemed reasonably certain if he were togive himself wholly to the work. And then he came to a pause. 

"Yes. It looks like that, " said his mother. She missed the eagerhopefulness with which her son was wont to bring forward any new plan orprospect of his, and she thought it wiser to let him go on of his ownaccord to say his say than to question him. "Do you think well of it, mother? But there is one thing to be said which will please neither younor me. I doubt in such a case we will need to say farewell toNethermuir, and take up house in the town. "

"Ay, we should both be sorry for that, but it could be done. You havemore to say yet, John?"

"I thought I might have more to say, but since you are content withthings as they are, it might be as well to say nothing. "

"Tell me what is in your mind, John. You needna doubt but I'll take itreasonably, whatever it may be. "

John laughed. 

"I have no fears for you, mother. It is for myself and my owndiscontents that I fear. "

"Tell your mother, laddie. "

Then he went on with his story. How he had taken to college work inearnest with Sandy Begg, how he had enjoyed it and been successful withit, and how the thought had come into his mind that after all he mightgo on again and redeem his character by doing now what he had failed todo when the way was made easy to him. 

"I think my father would be pleased, mother, if he could ken. When Ithink of him I canna forget that I gave him a sore heart at the timewhen his troubles were coming thick upon him. I would like to do as hewished me to do, now that the way seems open. "

"_Is_ the way open?" asked his mother gravely. "If you take that way, all that you have been doing and learning for the last years will be anutter loss. I have ay liked to think of you as following in yourfather's steps to overtake success as he did. "

"I am not the man my father was, as no one should ken better than mymother. "

"But if you were to fall in with this man's offer, you could take theroad your father took with fewer steps and less labour, and I might seeyou a prosperous man yet before I die. And all the good your fatherdid, whether openly or in secret, would begin again in his son's life, and some of it, at least, your mother might see. I canna but long forthe like of that, John. "

"I would try to do my best, mother. But my best would fall far short ofwhat my father did. "

"Oh, fie! John, laddie! What ails ye at yourself the nicht, man? Do Ino' ken my ain son by this time, think ye? Ay, do I. Better, maybe, than he kens himsel'. "

"There can be small doubt of that, mother. Only your kind eyes seefewer faults and failings than he kens of himself. And, mother, I amafraid the man who had my father for his good friend has done me an illturn. He has, in a measure, taken away the motive for my work, and so Ican have little pleasure in it. "

"But, John, you will have your ain life to live and your ain work to dowhen your mother is dead and gone. I have been pleased and proud tohave my son for breadwinner, and to ken that he was pleased and proudfor the same reason. But for all that, I am glad that you are set freeto think of your ain life. You are wearing on, lad, and it would be agreat gladness for me to see you in your ain house with wife and bairnsabout you before I die. Ye can let yourself think of it now, since I amoff your hands. "

"May ye live to see all you wish, mother. It winna be this while, though. There's time enough for the like of that. "

"Well, that's true. There's no' to say much time lost atfour-and-twenty. But I am growing an old Woman and frail, and I maynahave so very many years before me. And ye needna put marriage off tillmiddle life as your father did. Though he ay said had we met sooner itmight have been different even with him. And it would be a wonderfulthing for me to see my son's wife and bairns before I die, " repeated shesoftly. 

John rose and moved about the room. He had to do it with caution, forthere was no space for more than two or three of his long, impatientstrides between the four walls. His impulse was to rush out to thedarkening lanes or even to the more distant hills, that he might have itout with himself there. 

For his mother's words had moved him and a pair of wistful, brown eyeswere looking at him from the dying embers and from the darkness without. He was saying to himself that the way lay straight before him if hechose to take it--the way to moderate success in life, a competencebefore his youth was past, and, as his mother had said, a wife and ahappy home. 

And would all this content him? Who could say? No thought of thesethings had troubled him, or even come into his mind till now. And nosuch thoughts would have come now, he told himself, if it had not beenfor his mother's words and a pair of bonny een. Should he let himselfbe influenced by a dream--a mere fancy?

It would pass away, this folly. It must pass away. Would it be wise tolet circumstances guide him to take the course which seemed for the timeto be the easiest, the most direct to insure a measure of success?Should he be wise in putting out of his thoughts the hopes and planswhich had been occupying him lately? No, he was fit for higher workthan cutting stones or building or planning houses. He could not goback to such work now. Even his mother's desire must be put aside whenthe work of his life was in question. 

And yet!--and yet his mother's simple wisdom had never failed him sincethe day they had gone forth together from what had been the happiest ofhomes. She might be right, and he might be putting away the substanceto please himself by chasing a shadow. So he said to himself, as shewaited quietly with folded hands. He was anxious, uncertain, bewildered, as unlike himself, or as unlike his own idea of himself, ascould well be. He was amazed and angry at his foolishness, and eageronly to get away from his mother's eyes. 

"I promised to go to the manse a while to-night, mother, " said he withhis hand upon the door. 

"Yes, and quite right. The minister has clear vision and good sense, and will give you none but good advice. But bide a wee. You have toldyour mother nothing yet. Sit down and let me hear what you are thinkingto do. Since we have begun, it will be wise to go through to the end. So that you truly ken your ain mind, I shall be content. "

John was far from knowing his own mind. That was what ailed him. Andhe had been so sure of himself before he came home. And so sure alsothat he could persuade his mother to see as he did about that which hedesired to bring to pass! He did not feel that he could do justice tohimself of his plans and prospects at this moment. 

He sat down, however, and went over the matter from the beginning. Hesaid something also about his hopes and plans for the future. He by nomeans meant to give up his work at present. He meant to work in thesummer as he had hitherto done, and go on with his reading in thewinter. If he and Mr Swinton were to come to an agreement, it would beall the easier for him. He had no fear but that he could get on withboth work and reading till he had got through with the college at least. 

"But, O John! it will be a lang look to the end! I can hardly hope tosee it, though that would matter little if it were the best thing foryou. But what is to come after?" asked his mother with a sigh. 

John could not tell her that. But there was nothing more certain thanthat when he should be "thoroughly furnished, " the right work would befound--the very highest work--and a kind of life which would suit him, though he might not grow rich in it. 

"John, " said his mother gravely, "I hardly think all that would help youto live a better life than your father lived. It is not the _kind_ ofwork that matters; it is the way it is done. Your father did his dutyin the sight of God and man, and went far beyond what folk whiles callduty, never letting his left hand ken what his right hand was doing. And I have ay hoped that ye might follow in his steps. It is like aslight on your father, John, when ye speak of higher work. "

"Mother! you cannot really think that of me! And, mother, you must mindthat my father meant me to do as I wish to do. It is only to begin alittle later than he hoped. And there is no fear but I shall see mywork when I am ready for it. "

"And yet there is many a man in Scotland with a store o' book learningwho has done little work, or only ill work, for God and man. And evenwith a good-will the opportunity doesna ay come. "

"Well, never mind, mother. There is no pressing need to decide now, atleast till summer is over. We will wait to see what may happen. " Hedid not speak cheerfully, however. 

"John, " said his mother earnestly, "are ye sure that your heart is seton this? What has come to you? Has anything happened to unsettle you, lad? Tell your mother, John. "

John laughed as he rose and then stooped down and kissed her. 

"Nothing has happened. It is quite possible that you are right and thatI am wrong. We will just wait and see, and decide the matter later. Even if we have to leave Nethermuir, it need not be till summer is over. I am sorry that I have troubled you with this now. You will vexyourself thinking about it all. "

"'Deed I'll do nothing of the kind. I'll just leave it all in betterhands than either yours or mine. And as to your troubling me--Who has alad a right to trouble if it be not his ain mother? And when a' issaid, our way is laid out before us by Him who kens a' and cares for a'. Why should I trouble myself taking thought to-day for the things o'to-morrow? Go your ways to the manse, John, and I'll bide still andthink about it all. "

But the visit to the manse was not so satisfactory as usual. There wereother people there, and though John had a few minutes alone with MrHume in the study, there was no time to enter fully into the matterwhich he had at heart, and on which, he sincerely believed, he wishedfor the minister's opinion and counsel, and so he said nothing about it. 

Robin went down-stairs with him, and while he was making ready thelantern to light the way to an outhouse, where Davie had a puppy whichhis friend must see, John stood waiting by the kitchen-door. In heraccustomed corner sat Allison, spinning in the light of the lamp whichhung high above her head. She raised her eyes and smiled when John camein, but she gave no other answer to his greeting, and went on with herspinning, apparently quite unconscious of his presence. As for him, hefound nothing to say to her, though the lighting of the lantern seemedto take a good while. To himself he was saying:

"I am glad I came. Of course I knew it was but a fancy and utterlyfoolish, and that: it would pass away. But it is well to know it. Yes, I'm glad I came in. "

Could this be the stately maiden he had seen smiling in the sunshine onthe hill, with wee Marjorie in her arms? There she sat in the shadow, with the accustomed gloom on her face, wearing the disguise of the bigmutch with the set-up borders, tied with tape under the chin. An apron, checked in blue and white, held with its strings the striped, short gownclose over the scanty petticoat of blue. John wondered whether herthoughts ever wandered away from the thread she was drawing from thehead of flax so silently. 

"A decent, dull servant-lass, strong and wholesome, invaluable doubtlessin her place, but just like any other lass of her kind. " That is whathe said, and then he added:

"She has bonny een. " Ay, wonderful soft een, with a world of sorrow andsweetness in them; and he waited with impatience till she should liftthem to meet his again. But she did not. And though he let the ladspass out before him, and turned at the door to look back, there she sat, busy with her thread and her own thoughts, with never a thought of him. 

"A good lass, " he repeated as he followed the lads; but he could notquite ignore the sense of discomfiture that was on him, as he went downthe lane with Robin at his side. He had enough to say to Robin. He hadsomething to tell him about his winter's work, and without meaning to doso, he gave him "an inkling, " as Robin called it to his mother, of theplans he had been making, and of the new course which was opening beforehim. 

But John said no more to his mother. It was late when, he came homethat night, and there was no time for many words in the morning, for hehad a long journey before him. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

 "Oh! the happy life of children still restoring joy to ours! Back recalling all the sweetness. "

Summer came slowly but happily to Marjorie this year, bringing with it, oh! so many pleasures to which she had hitherto been a stranger. Shehad had the early spring flowers brought into the parlour many a time, and ferns and buds and bonny leaves, for all the bairns of the placewere more than glad to be allowed to share their treasures with her; andthe one who came first and brought the most of these, thought herselfthe happiest, and great delight in past summers had all this given tothe child. She had watched, too, the springing of the green things inthe garden, the wakening of pale little snowdrops and auriculas, and thegradual unfolding of the leaves and blossoms on the berry-bushes, and onthe one apple-tree, the pride of the place. 

But she had never with her own hands plucked the yellow pussies from thesaughs (low willows) by the burn, nor found the wee violets, blue andwhite, hiding themselves under last year's leaves. She had neverwatched the slow coming of, first the buds, and then the leaves on thetrees along the lanes, nor seen the hawthorn hedges all in bloom, northe low hills growing greener every day, nor the wandering clouds makingwandering shadows where the gowans--the countless "crimson-tippedflowers"--were gleaming among the grass. All this and more she saw thisyear, as she lay in the strong, kind arms of Allison. And as the dayswent on it would not have been easy to say whether it was the littlechild, or the sad and silent woman, who got the greater good from itall. 

For Allison could no longer move along the lanes and over the fields ina dream, her inward eyes seeing other faraway fields and hills and alost home, and faces hidden for evermore, when a small hand was now andthen laid upon her cheek to call her back to the present. The littlesilvery voice was ever breaking in upon these dreary memories, anddrearier forebodings, with cooing murmurs of utter content, or withshrill outbursts of eager delight, in the enjoyment of pleasures thatwere all of Allie's giving. And so what could Allie do but come out ofher own sorrowful musings and smile and rejoice in the child's joy, andfind a new happiness in the child's love. 

There was much to be done in the house, but there was no day so busy orso full of care but that Allison could manage to give the child a blinkof sunshine if the day were fair. There was much to do out of the housealso, what with the cows and the garden and the glebe. Cripple Sandy, who was the minister's man-of-all-work, had all that he could do, andmore, in the narrow fields. So Allison rose early and milked her cows, and led them out herself, to no wide pasture, but to one of those fieldswhere she tethered them first and flitted them later in the morning whenthey had cropped their little circle bare. And both at the tetheringand the flitting Marjorie assisted when the day was fine, and it was apossible thing. She woke when Allison rose, and being firststrengthened by a cup of warm milk and a bit of bread, and then wrappedwarmly up in a plaid to keep her safe from the chill air of the morning, she was ready for a half-hour of perfect enjoyment. When that was over, she was eager for another cup of milk and another sleep, which lastedtill breakfast was over and her brothers had all gone to school. 

And when the time for the afternoon flitting of the cows came, Marjoriewas in the field once more, sitting on a plaid while the placidcreatures were moved on, and she and Allie went home again as they came, through the lanes in which there were so many beautiful things. 

Sometimes a neighbour met them, who had something to say to the child, and sometimes they met the bairns coming from the school. When theycame home by the longest way, as Marjorie liked best to do, they wouldhave a word with the schoolmistress, as she was taking the air at herdoor when the labours of the day were over, and sometimes a smile and aflower from Mrs Beaton in her garden over the way. This was the verybest summer in all her life, Marjorie told her father one day, as Allielaid her down on her couch in the parlour again. 

All this was beginning to do the child good. Even the neighboursnoticed the change after a little, and were glad also. Some of themmeant that the coming and going passed the time and contented her. Others said that it was well that her mother's heart was set at restabout her, and that she got more time for all else that she had to do;and all thought well of the new lass for her care of little Marjorie. 

The mother, who had consented to these new doings with misgiving, began, after a little, to see the change for the better that was being wroughtin the child. Long before midsummer there was dawning a soft littlegleam of colour on Marjorie's cheek, not at all like the feverish tintsthat used to come with weariness or fretfulness or excitement of anykind. The movements of the limbs and of the slender little body werefreer and stronger, and quite unconsciously, it seemed, she helpedherself in ways on which she had never ventured before. 

Her father saw the change too, though not so soon as her mother; buthaving seen it, he was the more hopeful of the two. And by and by theyspoke to one another, saying if this thing could be done, or that, theirMarjorie might be helped and healed, and grow strong and tall like theother bairns, and have a hopeful and happy life before her. But theypaused when they had got thus far, knowing that the child was in God'shands, and that if it were His will to bring about the fulfilment oftheir desire, He would also show a way in which it was to be done. Whether this might be or not, their little gentle darling would ay be, as she had ay been, the dearest blessing in their happy home. 

"And may God bless Allison Bain, however it is to be. "

"Yes, " said the mother. "I think a blessing is already coming to herthrough the child. "

"Is she less sad, think you? She seems more at home among us, atleast. "

"I cannot say that she is lass sad. But her sadness is no longer uttergloom and despair, as it seemed to be at first. And she says herprayers now, Marjorie tells me. I see myself that she listens to whatyou say in the kirk. I think it may be that she is just coming out ofthe darkness of some great sorrow which had at first seemed to her toend all. She is young and strong, and it is natural that her burden oftrouble, whatever it may be, should grow lighter as the time goes by. Oh! she is sad still, and she is sometimes afraid, but she is in abetter state to bear her trouble, whatever it may be, than she was whenshe came first among us. I sometimes think if some good and pleasantthing were to come into her life, some great surprise, that might takeher thoughts quite off the past, she might forget after a little and getback her natural cheerfulness again. "

Mrs Hume ceased suddenly. For a moment a strong temptation assailedher. If ever man and wife were perfectly one in heart and thought anddesires, these two were. As for the wife, no thought or wish of hers, whether of great things or of small, seemed quite her own till she hadalso made it his. Seeing the look which had come to her face, herhusband waited for her to say more. But she was silent. She had noright to utter the words which had almost risen to her lips. To tellanother's secret--if indeed there were a secret--would be betrayal and acruel wrong. Even to her husband she might not tell her thoughts, andindeed, if she had but known it, there was, as far as Allison Bain wasconcerned, no secret to tell. 

But Robin, who was in the way of sharing with his mother most thingswhich greatly interested himself, had told her about his morning runover the hills after John Beaton, and how he had found him "looking atnothing" on the very spot where, the day before, he had got his firstlook at Allison Bain, and how he had turned and run home again withoutbeing seen. Robin only told the story. He drew no inference from it, at least he did not for his mother's hearing. 

His mother did that for herself. Remembering John's dazed condition atworship on the first night of his homecoming, it is not surprising sheshould have said to herself that "the lad's time had come. "

And what of Allison? She had asked herself that question a good manytimes since John's departure; but she owned that never, either by wordor look, had Allison betrayed herself, if indeed she had anything tobetray, and of that she was less assured as the days went on. Butwhether or not, it was evident, Mrs Hume assured herself, that Allisonwas "coming to herself" at last. 

And so she was. Young and naturally hopeful, it is not to be supposedthat Allison's sorrow, heavy and sore though it was, could make all thefuture dark to her, and bow her always to the earth. She had lostherself for a time in the maze of trouble, into which death, and herenforced marriage, and her brother's sin and its punishment, had broughther. But she was coming to the end, and out of it now. She was nolonger living and walking in a dream. She was able to look over thelast year of her life at home with calmness, and she could see how, being overwrought in mind and body, spent with work and watching andcare, she had fallen under the mastery of blind terror for her brother'ssafety, and had yielded where she ought to have stood firm. 

She had no one to blame for what had befallen her. Her mother hadhardly been in a state to know what was going on around her, except thather "bonny Willie"--as she called him in her prayers, and in hermurmured longings for him--was faraway, and might not come home in timeto see her die, or to help to lay her in her grave. Her father grievedfor his son, but, angry at him also, had uttered no word either to helpor to hinder the cause of the man who had made Allison's promise theprice of her brother's safety. But he went about with bowed head, listening, and looking, and longing, ay longing, for the coming of thelad. So what could she do but yield for their sakes, and take whatseemed the only way to bring him back again?

But one wrong was never righted by the doing of another, and hersacrifice had come to worse than naught. Though she had sinned blindly, she had suffered for her sin, and must suffer still. But gradually thedespair which darkened all the year was passing. There was hope in herheart now, and a longing to throw off the dead-weight which had so longheld her down. And the lightening of her burden showed now and then ineye, and voice, and step, so that all could see the change. But withall this the thought of John Beaton had nothing to do. 

She had seen him just as she had seen other folk and he had come intoher thoughts once or twice when he was not in her sight. But that wasbecause of the good understanding there was between him and littleMarjorie. The child had much to say about him when he was at home; andwhen she was carried out in Allison's arms on those days, she was alwayswishing that they might meet him before they went home again. 

One day they met, and Marjorie being gently and safely transferred toJohn's arms, Allison turned and went back into the house without a wordof explanation or apology. 

"It's ironing day, " explained Marjorie, a little startled at the look onJohn's face. 

"Oh! it's ironing day, is it? Well, never mind. I am going to take youto the very top of Windhill to give you a taste of the fresh air, andthen I shall carry you home to take tea with my mother and me. "

"That will be delightful, " said Marjorie with a sigh of pleasure. 

No. In those days Allison was thinking nothing at all about John. Whenshe went about the house, with no gloom, but only a shadow of softenedsadness on her face, and a look of longing in her eyes, it was of herbrother that she was thinking. She was saying in her heart:

"God help him in that dismal place--he who should be free upon the hillswith the sheep, or following the plough on his ain land at home. "

And when a sudden smile came, or a bright glance, or a murmur of song, she was telling herself that his time was nearly over; that he wouldsoon be free again to go faraway over the sea, where, with kind helpfrom Mr Hadden, he would begin a new life, and all would be well withhim once more. Yes, and they might be together again. 

But this could not be for a long time. She must not even try to see herbrother. For Brownrig would be sure to have a watch set on him when hewas free. And Brownrig--having the law on his side, as he had said inthe hearing of many, on the night of the dark day on which her fatherwas buried, raising his voice that she too might hear him, the doorbeing locked and barred between them--Brownrig would come and she wouldbe found, and then lost forever. 

"For, " said Allison to herself, "I should have to drown myself then, andmake an end of it all. "

She was standing on the edge of Burney's Pot, near the mill-dam, whenshe said this to herself, and she shuddered as she looked down into thegrey water. 

"But it will never come to that! Oh! no, mother, it will never come tothat. But to save myself from that man, even to end all would surely beno sin. "

But these thoughts did not haunt and terrify her now, as her doubts anddreads had done during the winter. She had no time for brooding overthe past. Every hour of the day was more than full with all she had todo, and there were no long, dark evenings, when she had only her wheeland her own thoughts for company. 

And there was Marjorie. Marjorie had something to do with her thoughtsthrough all the hours of the day. She was always there to lift or tolay down, to carry here or to carry there, to speak to or to smile upon. And she grew sweeter and dearer every day. Above all, the time washastening, and Willie would soon be free. That thought made all thedays bright to Allison. 

And so she grew, not light-hearted, but reasonable and patient in herthoughts of all that had befallen them, and, at most times, hopeful asto all that might lie before them. 

The neighbours who, at her first coming among them, had been inclined toresent her gloom and her silence, were ready now, for the sake of herfriendly looks, to forgive the silence which she kept still. Even inthe kirk she was like another woman, they said, and didna seem to bemiles awa', or dreaming, or in fear. 

Of this change Allison herself was conscious, when she thought about it. The minister's words did not seem "just to go by" her as they used todo. She listened and took her portion with the rest of the folk, andwas moved, or glad, or doubtful, or afraid, as they were, and thoughtabout all she had heard afterward, as doubtless some of the rest didalso. 

She was not desirous now, as she had been at first, for more than herown turn of staying at home from the kirk. This was partly becauselittle Marjorie was sometimes able to go there; and when she went shewas carried in Allison's arms, where she rested, sometimes listening toher father's voice, and sometimes slumbering through the time. But itwas partly, also, because there came now and then a message to Allisonthere. 

For some of the good words spoken must be for her, she thought, sincethe minister said they were for all. Allison was not good atremembering sermons, or even "heads and particulars, " as Robin was. Fora long time she had heard nothing but the minister's voice, and carriedaway no word of his, either for correction or instruction. His sermonswere "beyond her, " as she said. They meant nothing to her. But now andthen a good word reached her out of the Book; and sometimes a word ofthe minister, spoken, as was the way in those days, as a comment on thepsalm that was to be sung, or on the chapter that was read, touched her, strangely enough, more even than the words of the Book itself, withwhich she had been familiar all her life. 

One day in early summer she carried her wee Marjorie to the kirk with asad heart. For the Sabbath-days were the worst to bear, since she hadleast to do, and more time for thinking. All the morning her thoughtshad been with "her Willie, " shut in between stone walls, away from thesunshine and the sweet air, and she was saying to herself: Would theshame and the misery of it all have changed him, and would he come out, angry and reckless, a lost laddie? Oh! if she could only go to meet himat the very door, and if they could get away together over the sea, tothat country so great and wide that they might easily lose themselves init, and so pass out of the sight and out of the thoughts of all who hadknown them in their happy youth, before trouble had come! Might it notbe? And how could it be? Might she not set Brownrig and his wickedwiles at naught, and go with her brother to save him?

And then the minister's voice was heard: "Fret not thyself because ofevildoers. " And so on: "Commit thy way unto the Lord. Trust also inHim and He shall bring it to pass. "

"Bring it to pass!" In the midst of her trouble and longing, Allisonhad almost uttered the words aloud, as though they had been spoken toher alone of all the listening people, and then Marjorie stirred in herslumber and brought her to herself again. 

"Rest in the Lord. Wait patiently for Him. Fret not thyself because ofhim who prospereth in the way, because of the man who bringeth wickeddevices to pass. "

Surely those words were for her! And she heard no more till he came tothe good man whose "steps are ordered of God. "

"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lordupholdeth him with His hand. 

"I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteousforsaken, nor his seed begging bread. "

And then Robin touched his mother's hand. For Allison had drawn her bigblack bonnet over her face to hide from the folk in the kirk the tearswhich were falling fast on the bright hair of the little sleeper. MrsHume made no sign that she saw them, but she prayed silently for thesorrowful woman who all the long winter had kept her sorrow to herself. 

"Say nothing, Robin, " said she, when they rose to go out together. "Shewill be the better for her tears, or rather for that which made themflow. "

To herself Robin's mother said:

"She will surely speak now, and open her heart to comfort. "

She had a while to wait for that, but a change came over Allison as thesummer days went on. She was restless sometimes, and anxious andafraid. She had an air of expectation as though she were waiting forsomething, and sometimes she had the look of one eager to be up andaway. 

One night when Mrs Hume went up to see her little daughter in her bed, she found Allison writing. She said nothing to her and did not seem tosee, and waited in expectation of hearing more. But she never did. 

For Allison's courage failed her and the letter was never sent. It waswritten to Dr Fleming, who had been kind to her in the infirmary, andit told him of her brother who was in prison, and asked him to visit himand to be kind to him, as he had been to her. But after it was writtenshe was afraid to send it. 

No. She must wait and have patience. Willie must go away alone overthe sea, as they had agreed together in the only letters that had passedbetween them since he was a prisoner. Mr Hadden would befriend him ashe had promised, and she would follow him when the right time came. 

"But it is ill waiting, " said Allison to herself. "It is ill waiting. "

In those days many a word came to her as she sat in the kirk or in theparlour at worship-time, which set her thinking. Some of themstrengthened her courage and gave her hope, and some of them made herafraid. For she said to herself:

"Are these good words for me?"

They we're for the minister and for the minister's wife, doubtless, every promise of them all, and for many more who heard them spoken. Butwere they for her?

"For, " said she, "`if I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will nothear my prayer. ' And I'm no' sure of myself. `Love your enemies, ' theBook says, and I doubt there's hatred in my heart to one man. 

"Or maybe it is only fear of him and anger. I think if I could only getwell away from him, and safe from the dread of him, I would hate him nolonger. I would pity him. I pity him now, even. For he has spoiledhis own life as well as mine, and what with anger and shame, and thepity of some folk and the scorn of others, he must be an unhappy man. Yes, I _am_ sorry for him. For the fault was partly mine. I shouldhave stood fast whatever befell. And how is it all to end?"

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

 "A man may _choose_ to _begin_ love, but not to end it. "

The spring passed quickly and summer came on, and then somethinghappened which made a little stir of pleasure in the manse, and in thepleasure Allison shared, because of little Marjorie. Mrs Esselmontcame home. 

Mrs Esselmont had been, in former days, one of the great ladies of theshire, and, with a difference, she was one of its great ladies still. Marjorie had been "kirstened after her, " as they used to call it in thatcountry. The child was "Marjorie Esselmont Hume, " and she was rightproud of her name. 

But Mrs Esselmont did not come back this time to Esselmont House, whichhad been the home of the Esselmonts for many a year and day. Herhusband was dead and her sons also, and the great house, and the widelands which lay about it, had passed to another Esselmont, a stranger, though of the same blood. She came back, as indeed she had gone away, asorrowful woman, for she had just parted from her youngest and dearestdaughter, who was going, as was her duty, to Canada with her soldierhusband. 

The acquaintance of Mrs Esselmont and the minister had commenced soonafter the coming of Mr Hume--then little more than a lad--a "missioner"to Nethermuir. At the bedside of one whom the lady had long befriended, they met by chance--if one may so speak of a meeting which was thebeginning of so much to them both. The poor woman in whom both wereinterested was drawing nigh to the end of all trouble, and these two didnot meet again for years. 

The next meeting was in no sense by chance. In a time of great sorrowMrs Esselmont came to the minister for help, because she remembered howhis words, spoken in God's name, had brought peace to one who had sinnedand suffered, and who was sore afraid as the end drew near. And thatwas the beginning of a lasting friendship between them. 

They had not met often during the last few years. Mrs Esselmont hadlived much in England with her daughters, and had only once returned toher own house during the summer. Now she said she must look uponFirhill as her permanent home, and she did not speak very cheerfullywhen she said it. 

For though she was a good woman, she was not of a cheerful nature, andshe had had many a trouble in the course of her life. Some of them hadbeen troubles to which, at the time, it seemed wrong for her to submit, but which it was in vain, and worse than in vain, to resent. They weretroubles which could only be ignored as far as the world was concerned, but which, she told herself, could never be forgotten or forgiven. Theywere all over now, buried in graves, forgiven and forgotten. But thescars were there still of wounds which had hurt sorely and healedslowly, and now she was looking sadly forward to a solitary old age. 

She had been long away, but Marjorie had not been allowed to forget her. Gifts and kind wishes had come often to the child from her friend, andher name had often been named in the household. But her coming was ashock to Marjorie. What she had imagined of the writer of the letterswhich she had heard read, and of the giver of the gifts which she hadreceived, no one could say. But the first glimpse which she got of thetall form, shrouded in trailing, black garments, and of the pale face, encircled by the border of the widow's cap, and shaded by the heavywidow's veil, struck her with something like terror, which must haveended in tears and sobs and painful excitement, if her mother had notseen the danger in time and carried her away. 

"Poor darling! I fear she is no stronger as time goes on, " said thelady gently. 

"Yes, we think her a little stronger. Indeed we think there is adecided change for the better since spring opened. She is able to standnow, and even to walk a little in the garden. But she is very frailstill, our poor little girl, " said the mother with a sigh. 

"What has helped her, do you think?"

"Nature, it must be, and Allison Bain. The doctor has done nothing forher for more than a year, but even he acknowledges that there is achange for the better, though he does not give us much reason to hopethat she will ever be very strong. "

"It is God's will, " said Mrs Esselmont with a sigh. 

"We can only wait and see what God will send her. As it is, she is ablessing in the house. "

"Yes. Still with your large family and your many cares, she must be aconstant anxiety to you both night and day. "

"Well, we get used with even care and anxiety. And she is a happylittle creature naturally. Allison has helped us greatly with her. Sheis very kind and sensible in all her ways of doing for her. "

"And who is Allison?"

It was on Mrs Hume's lips to say, "We do not know who she is, " but shedid not say it. 

"She came to fill Kirstin's place. Poor Kirstin was called home tonurse her mother, who is lingering still, though she was supposed to bedying when her daughter was sent for. "

And then Mrs Hume went on to speak of something else. 

Allison was "coming to herself, " growing "like other folk, " only bonnierand better than most. There was no need to call attention to her as inany way different from the rest. Allison had been good to Marjorie, andMarjorie was fond of Allison. That was all that need be said even toMrs Esselmont. But the lady and Allison were good friends before allwas done. 

For many of Mrs Esselmont's lonely days were brightened by the visitsof the child Marjorie. And though the pony carriage was sometimes sentfor her, and though she enjoyed greatly the honour and glory of drivingaway from the door in the sight of all the bairns who gathered in thestreet to see, she owned that she felt safer and more at her ease in thearms of "her own Allie, " and so when it was possible, it was inAllison's arms that she was brought home. 

If there had been nothing else to commend her to the pleased notice ofMrs Esselmont, Allison's devotion to the child must have done so. Andthis stately young woman, with her soft voice, and her silence, and herbeautiful, sorrowful eyes, was worth observing for her own sake. ButAllison was as silent with her as with the rest of her little world, though her smile grew brighter and more responsive as the days went on. 

Mrs Esselmont's house stood on the hillside, facing the west. Behindit rose the seven dark firs which had given to the place its name. Thetall firs and the hilltop hid from the house the sunshine of the earlymorning, but they stood a welcome shelter between it and the bleak eastwind which came from the sea when the dreary time of the year had come. 

The house was built of dull grey stone, with no attempt at ornament ofany kind visible upon it. All its beauty was due to the ivy, which grewclose and thick over the two ends, covering the high gables, and eventhe chimneys, and creeping more loosely about the windows in the front. Without the ivy and the two laburnums, which were scattering theirgolden blossoms over the grass when Allison saw it first, the placewould have looked gloomy and sad. 

But when one had fairly passed up the avenue, or rather the lane, lyingbetween a hedge of hawthorn on one side and the rough stone dike whichmarked the bounds of the nearest neighbour on the other, and entered atthe gate which opened on the lawn, it was not the dull grey house whichone noticed first, but the garden. 

"The lovely, _lovely_ garden!" Marjorie always called it. She had notseen many gardens, nor had Allison, and the wealth of blossoms whichcovered every spot where the green grass was not growing, was wonderfulin their eyes. 

The place was kept in order by an old man, who had long been gardener atEsselmont House, and it was as well kept in the absence of the mistressas when she was there to see it. The garden was full of roses, and ofthe common sweet-smelling flowers, for which there seems little room infine gardens nowadays, and it was tended by one who loved flowers fortheir own sake. 

It was shut in and sheltered by a high stone wall on the east, and by ahawthorn hedge on the north, but the walls on the other sides were low;and sitting beneath the laburnums near the house, on the upper edge ofthe sloping lawn, one could see the fields, and the hills, and afarmhouse or two, and the windings of the burn which nearly made anisland of the town. From the end of the west wall, where it touched thehawthorn hedge, one could see the town itself. The manse and the kirkcould be distinguished, but not very clearly. Seen from the hill theplace looked only an irregular group of little grey houses, for thegreen of the narrow gardens behind was mostly hidden, and even the treesalong the lanes seemed small in the distance. But Marjorie liked tolook down over it now and then, to make sure that all was safe therewhen she was away. 

It was a strange experience for her to be for hours away from her ownhome, and even out of the town. 

Poor little Marjorie had passed more time on her couch in her mother'sparlour, during her life of eleven years, than in all other places puttogether. She was happy in the change, and enjoyed greatly the sight ofsomething new, and there were many beautiful things for her to see inMrs Esselmont's house. But she needed "to get used with it, " and justat first a day at a time was quite enough for her strength. The day wasnot allowed to be very long, and the pleasure of getting home again wasalmost as great as the pleasure of getting away had been. But the bestof all was, that the child was getting a little stronger. 

There was much besides this to make it a good and happy summer at themanse. The younger lads were busy at school under a new master, whoseemed to be in a fair way to make scholars of them all, Robin was fullof delight at the thought that _at last_ he was to go to college, and hefully intended to distinguish himself there. He said "at last, " thoughhe was only a month or two past sixteen, and had all his life beforehim. 

"Ay, ye hae a' ye're life afore ye, in which to serve the Lord or theDeevil, " Saunners Crombie took the opportunity to say to him, one nightafter the evening meeting, when he first heard that the lad was to goaway. 

Robin looked at him with angry eyes, and turned his back on him withouta word. 

"Hoot, man Saunners! There is no fear o' the laddie, " said his morehopeful crony, Peter Gilchrist. 

"Maybe no, and maybe ay. It'll be nae haflin course that yon lad willtak'. He'll do verra well or verra ill, and I see no signs o' grace inhim so far. "

"Dinna bode ill o' the lad. The Lord'll hae the son o' his father andmother in His good keeping. And there's John Beaton, forby (besides), to hae an e'e upon him. No' but that there will be mony temptations inthe toon for a lad like him, " added Peter, desirous to avoid anydiscussion with his friend. 

"John Beaton, say ye? I doubt he'll need himsel' all the help the Lordis like to give to ane that's neither cauld nor het. It's wi' stumblin'steps he'll gang himsel', if I'm no mista'en. "

But to this Peter had nothing to say. They had been over the groundbefore, and more than once, and each had failed to convince the other. Crombie went on:

"He carries his head ower-heich (over-high), yon lad. He's nae likelyto see the stanes at his ain feet, to say naething o' being a help tothe like o' Robert Hume. "

"Hae ye had ony words wi' him of late?" asked Peter gravely. 

"Nae me! He's been here often eneuch. But except in the kirk, where hesits glowerin' straecht afore him, as gin there was naebody worthy o' aglance within the four walls, I havena set my een upon him. It's inbornpride that ails him, or else he has gotten something no' canny upon hismind. "

"His mother's no' just so strong. It's that which brings him hame saeoften. His heart is just set on his mother. "

"It's no' like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave herain house, and take lodgin's in a toon. But gin _he_ be pleased, that'll please her, " said Saunners sourly. 

"Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin' and sayin' that the lad hasonything on his mind? He's dull-like whiles, but--"

"I'm no' in the way o' sayin' things for which I hae nae reason, " saidSaunners shortly. "As to special--it's nae mair special to me than toyoursel'. Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, thinkye? Gude-nicht to ye. "

"Gude-nicht, " said Peter meekly. "Eh! but he's dour whiles, isSaunners! He is a gude man. Oh! ay, he's a gude man. But he's hard onfolk whiles. As for John Beaton--I maun hae a crack (a little talk)with himsel'. "

But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he hadhad, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out ofit. 

John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother'shealth, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious. Forthough the last winter had tried her, the summer "was setting her upagain, " she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was alwaysat her best when her son was with her. 

Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, andwhom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderlymanner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done bythe careful hands of her mistress. She was "little Annie" no longer, but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself awoman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even toput on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would haveconsented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair. 

No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease abouther than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much athome alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had moretime, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office workwhich he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercisemore necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not cometoo often for his mother's pleasure. 

This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heartthat there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a foolfor his pains, but still he came. 

He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not lethim rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her waswith him night and day. Her "bonny een" looked up at him from hispapers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when hisrestlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore. 

But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himselffor his weakness. It was a kind of madness that was on him, hethought--a madness that would surely come to an end soon. 

"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I haveheard said. The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over. It has goneill with many a one. But I am a strong man, and it will pass. Yes! Itshall pass. "

This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison'sindifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness ofhim and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was somethingfor which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with itand hasten his cure. 

But he was not so sure after a while--sure, that is, that Allison'sindifference and unconsciousness of him and his feelings made it easierfor him to put her out of his thoughts. There were times when with asort of anger he longed to make her look at him, or speak to him, eventhough her words might hurt him. He was angry with her, and withhimself, and with all the world; and there was truth in old Crombie'saccusation that he carried his head high and neglected his friends. 

It was all that he could do sometimes to endure patiently the company ofRobert Hume or his brothers. Even Davie, who was not exacting in thematter of response to his talk, missed something in his chief _friend_, and had serious misgivings about it. 

And Davie's mother had her own thoughts also, and she was not wellpleased with John. That "his time was come" she knew by many a token, and she knew also, or guessed, the nature of the struggle that was goingon in him. She acknowledged that his prudence was praiseworthy, andthat it might not be the best wisdom for him to yield to impulse in amatter so important; but she also told herself scornfully that if hislove were "true love, " he would never have waited for prudence or forambition to put in a word, but would have gladly taken his chancewhatever might befall. 

"Though indeed he might have cause to repent afterward, " sheacknowledged with a sigh. 

And since Allison was not thinking at all about him, little ill would bedone. The lad would get his discipline and go his way, and might neverknow what a chance of happiness he had let slip out of his hands. 

"For he could make her learn to love if he were to try, " said Mrs Humeto herself. "But he must not try unless--And if he should say or doanything likely to bring watchful eyes or gossiping tongues uponAllison, I shall have something to say to the lad myself. "

Some one else was having her own thoughts about these two. MistressJamieson had seen the lad when "his een first lichted on the lass, " andshe had guessed what had happened to him. Now she waited and watchedwith interest expecting more. She had not counted on the blindness orlong-continued indifference of Allison. 

Was it indifference on her part? Or was it prudence, or a proper pride?And the conclusion the mistress came to was this:

"She's no' heedin' him. Ay, ye're a braw lad, John Beaton, and aclever; but it'll do ye nae ill to be neglecit for a wee while, or evenset at naucht. Ye thocht to tak' her captive wi' a smile and a few saftwords! And ye'll do it yet, I daursay, since it's the nature o' womanto be sae beguiled, " added the mistress with a sigh. 

But her interest was a silent interest. She never named their namestogether in a neighbour's hearing. 

It was of her brother that Allison was thinking all this time--of poorWillie, who, as she believed, had never seen the sunshine, or even thelight of all these summer days. Every night and every morning shecounted the days that must pass before he should be set free to go tohis own house; and she rejoiced and suffered beforehand, as he mustrejoice and suffer when that time came. 

It would be November then. She knew just how Grassie would look to himunder the grey sky, or the slanting rain, with the mist lying low in thehollows, and the wind sighing among the fir-trees on the height. Shecould see the dull patches of stubble, and the bare hedges, and thegarden where only a touch of green lingered among the witheredrose-bushes and berry-bushes, and the bare stalks of the flowers whichthey used to care for together. 

She saw the wet ricks in the corn-yard, and the little pools left in thefootmarks of the beasts about the door. She heard the lowing of thecows in the byre, and the bleating of the sheep in the fold, and sheknew how all familiar sights and sounds would hurt the lad, who wouldnever more see the face or hear the voice of kith or kin in the housewhere he was born. How could he ever bear it?

"Oh! God, be good to him when that day comes!" was her cry. 

And since they had agreed that they must not meet on this side of thesea, was there no other way in which she might reach him for his good?She had thought of many impossible ways before she thought of JohnBeaton. It was in the kirk, one Sabbath-day, that the thought of himcame. 

The day was wet and windy, and Marjorie was not there to fill herthoughts, and they wandered away to Willie in the prison, and she fellto counting the days again, saying to herself: "How could he ever bearit?"

She was afraid for him. She strove against her fears, but she wasafraid--of the evil ways into which, being left to himself, or to theguidance of evil men, he might be tempted to fall. Oh! if she might goto him! Or if she had a friend whom she might trust to go in her stead!

And then she lifted her eyes and met those of John Beaton. She did notstart, nor grow red, nor turn away. But her whole face changed. Therecame over it a look which cannot be described, but which made it for themoment truly beautiful--a look hopeful, trustful, joyful. 

Allison was saying to herself:

"Oh, Willie! if I might only dare to speak and bid him go to you. "

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

 "She wakened heavy-hearted To hear the driving rain, By noon the clouds had parted, And the sun shone out again. `I'd take it for a sign, ' she said, `That I have not prayed in vain. '"

That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanginga word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came tothe door. Allison had given herself no time to reconsider thedetermination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in thekirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall. 

It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at thelast moment. It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself, as she stood waiting. It was because she had run down the lane soquickly that her heart was beating hard. It was like the thud of agreat hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted toturn and run away. But she did not. 

"I would be sorry when it was too late, " thought she, and knocked again. 

There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and JohnBeaton appeared, carrying a light. 

"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me, " saidAllison, making a great effort to speak as usual. 

"Surely, " said John. "Come in. "

"Come away in, Allison, " said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of thedarkness. 

When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, hewas surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that onhis mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it hadworn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall. 

"Sit down, Allison, " said he. 

"No, " said she; "I will say first what I came to say. "

John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her handto detain him. 

"'Bide still, " said she. "I have to ask your mother to ask her son todo something for me--something which I cannot do for myself, but whichmust be done, or I think my heart will break. "

"'Bide still, John, " said his mother. 

John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and thenwent and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair. Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded herwith interest and with surprise as well. 

This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the onewho went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unlessthe child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whateverthere might be to see. She seemed eager and anxious, full ofdetermination and energy. She had not at all the air of one who hadbeen accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk. 

"It is the true Allison at last, " said John to himself. 

"Her gown has something to do with it, " thought Mrs Beaton, and perhapsit had. Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her. Asoft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, andher Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those whichshe wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen. 

"A strong and beautiful woman, " John said to himself. His mother wassaying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and amisgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added:

"May God help her, whatever it may be. Allison, sit down, " she saidafter waiting a minute for her to speak. 

"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble, "said Allison, clasping her hands on her side. 

"Sit down, my dear, " said Mrs Beaton kindly. "Not yet. It is only afew words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life. I havetrouble yet--that must be met. And it came into my mind when I wassitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and--keep my heartfrom breaking altogether, " said she; then lifting her eyes to John'sface she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen? It isthere my Willie is, whom I would fain save. "

John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words. Even sheuttered a word of dismay. 

"I must tell you more, " said Allison eagerly. "Yes, he did wrong. Buthe had great provocation. He struck a man down. At first they thoughtthe man might die. But he didna die. My mother died, and my father, but this man lived. Willie was tried for what he had done, and thoughall in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gottenonly what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and ahalf in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time. A long timeit has been to me, and it has been longer to him. It is near over now, thank God. "

"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked MrsBeaton. 

"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me. That was at thefirst. I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warnhim what he must do when his time was over. I dared not write again, for fear that--and even now I dare not go to him. When we meet it mustbe on the other side of the sea. But I _must_ hear from him beforethen. He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I havetold you. He was only foolish and ill advised. 

"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his angerand his shame--him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on thehills. And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comesout of that weary place--"

"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton. 

"Oh! if he only would! Think of him alone, without a friend! And he iseasily led either for good or ill. "

"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter strangerwould say to him?" said John. 

He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain. Allison did notnotice it. 

"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me. Andanyway, ye wouldna be strangers long. You would like Willie, or youwould be the first one who didna, all his life. And oh! he needs onewise, and strong, and good like you. The very touch of your hand wouldgive him hope, and would keep him from losing heart--and, it might be, from losing himself--"

She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of hiswill and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and byday, looking into his. She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself orof him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of anotherwho was in sore need. No spoken words could have made clearer to himthat he--John Beaton--was not in all her thoughts, save as a possiblefriend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved hisfate. 

And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weakfool to share it--a woman among ten thousand!

"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her, "thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt wasmingled. But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes onhis face. 

"I could trust him to you, " said Allison, trying to smile, "because yehave a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles. But I kenwhat you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warnthem, and to keep them out of _mischief_. It would be the saving o' myWillie if you would but take him in hand. "

"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble, " said John, "but howcould I do it in secret?"

"But you needna do it in secret. It's not Willie that needs to hide. When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes--to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure. Buthe will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house. And the thoughtof going alone to a far-off land will dismay him. The help of such afriend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in meto ask it from you. "

"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one introuble. But why should you not go to him yourself?"

"But that is what I cannot tell you. I would never be suffered to gowith him if I were to be found. I have been asking you to help myWillie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most. I cannot gowith him for both our sakes, but I will follow him. He will be watchedthrough every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again fromthe ends of the earth. And then, " added Allison her face falling intothe gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother hadseen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I shouldjust lie down and die. "

John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said:

"And what am I to say to this man from you?"

"Willie his name is--Willie Bain, " said Allison, smiling faintly. "Oh!ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him. And ye are not to let himknow that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him. He is a lad whois moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when hehears of me will be to try to see me. And he must not try, " repeatedshe, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever. "

There was a pause, and then John said:

"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can. I will faithfullyhelp him, if he will let me--so help me God. "

"I'm not feared for him now. You're strong and wise, and you can dowhat you like with Willie. "

John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him. Allison went on:

"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and saynothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason--till he promisesnot to try to see me, but to have patience and wait. I can trust him toyou, John Beaton, and I must go now. "

He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him. Hetook it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes fullof light and longing. "John, " said she softly, "ye'll mind what is saidin the Book: `I was in prison and ye came unto me. '" And then sheturned to go. 

It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton. He neitherspoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed hismother's hand, and then without a word went away. For a time, which hedid not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaningon the back of her chair. His face was hidden in his hands, but happilyshe did not know that, and she waited till the first word should bespoken by him. In a little he "pulled himself together, " and cameforward into the light, which was but dim at the best. He snuffed thesolitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never verylarge, was in danger of disappearing under his hand. He added a drypeat, however, and it soon blazed up again. 

"Yon's a strange story, mother, " he said at last. "I hardly see thegood of my meddling in it. I suppose I must go and see the man, anyway. "

"Yes, ye canna do less than that, " said his mother. "I'll do more. I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannotsay that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it. "

"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done. Poor lassie. Her heart is init. "

"Yes, " said John, "her heart is in it. " And then they sat silent tillanother knock came at the door. 

It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton, who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak toJohn. 

"My mother said I wasna to stay, " said Robin. But he came forward intothe room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and hadmuch to say about various matters, and the interest with which Johnseemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son. 

Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and itswork, and some other things came in as well. Then there was a littlesparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, MrsBeaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night. ThenRobin rose to go, and John went with him to the door. But he did notlinger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, andas his mother thought he would be sure to do. He came in and fell tomending the fire again "for a last blaze, " as he said. 

"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of theflitting that is before us?"

"It's early days yet, John, " said his mother. 

"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?"

"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place. But any placewill be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'llsoon be ready. And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college, John?"

"I am not sure yet, but it is likely. Whether I do or not, I must be inAberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother'shouse than anywhere else. But I am sorry to disturb you, mother. Yehave got used with the place and are happy here. "

"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be. Butit is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it. "

"Yes, there is no hurry. But there are arrangements to be made. Andmother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin withus for the winter? It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother, and a safeguard to him. "

"Surely, if you wish it. It will make a difference, but only a cheerfuldifference. And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay sofriendly. "

"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a weehouse--that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?"

He did not need to ask. Anything that would please him would please hismother also. But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as shegenerally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and aftera little they fell into silence. 

John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid hergood-bye. She had only a single word to say to him:

"Dinna be long in coming home again, John, " said she. And he promisedthat he would not be long. 

He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and whenhis mother saw his face she was glad. For there was on it no sign ofeither gloom or grieving. It was John, "at his best and bonniest, " shesaid to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while besideher bed, for his coming was late, as usual. She asked no questions. Itwas well with him, that was enough for her. As he rose to go, she said:

"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain. " Then John sat down again. 

There was not much to tell. John had not seen the man himself. He hadbeen set at liberty before his time was out. As to what sort of a manhe was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had beenfirst wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, achange had come over him. A friend had come to visit him more thanonce, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and hadgiven him hope. But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs toany one else. The chances were he had gone home to his own place; butnothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him sincehe went away. 

"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh. 

"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summerdays, and in his own house, " said John. 

"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing. And he must go to America, if heshould go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the otherside of the sea. And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him. She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have totell. "

But it was otherwise ordered. John rose early, as was his custom, intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be gotin a single day. It was a fair morning, clear and still. Only apleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard. There was no onevisible in the street. Most of the tired workers of the place were wontto honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin', " and the doorsand windows of the houses were still closed. While he stood hesitatingas to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately andslowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chainby which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy, whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield. 

John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and thendone at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that hadhappened while he was away. He turned and went down the green, andround by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden, and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of hisintention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, lowoutbuildings of the manse. He had been in the place before with thelads, and knew it well. There was no one there; but the foamingmilk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited. 

He did not wait long. A light step came quickly over the round stonesof the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthenmilk-dishes in her arms. It was a dark little place, and she had setthem safely down before she saw the intruder. Then she did not utter aword, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes. Johnheld out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool, " ashe told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into hismind to say until he saw her face. 

"Allison, " said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me thatit was your brother for whom your heart was sore?"

Her look changed to one of wonder. 

"Surely I told you it was my brother. Who else could it be but myWillie?"

She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast. 

"I did not see him, but I have good news for you. Your brother has beena free man for two months and more. It must have been that theyrepented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again hewearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home. The man Isaw had only good words to say of him. After the first he was patientand quiet. It was hard on him at first. "

"My poor Willie!" said Allison. 

"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago, and he took heart after that and waited patiently. "

"That must have been Mr Hadden, " said Allison. "It was kind of him, and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away. "

"You have not heard from your brother since?"

"Oh! no. How could I hear? He does not even know where I am. "

"But you will write to him now?"

Allison's face fell. 

"I darena do it. No letter can reach him but may first pass through ourenemy's hand. He will be on the watch more than ever now. No, it willbe ill waiting, but we can only wait. "

"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said Johnwondering. 

"Yes, that must be the way. He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I willfind him there. Yes, it may be a long time, " and Allison's eyes filledwith tears. "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it iswell with him, I can wait. Oh! yes, I can wait. "

Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go. 

"I havena thanked you yet, but--"

"You have nothing to thank me for yet. If I only could do something foryou!"

"You have done this. You have told me he is free and at his own home. I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light andthe air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness. And he hashad it all, and now he may be on the sea! It has happened well, and Itake it for a sign that the Lord is on our side. "

"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?"

"I will have hope now. And I thank you in my heart though I havena thewords ready. "

And then John went away. 

Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman. Every one there musthave noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of theseat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of thefolk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest. Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask herwhat she was thinking about that made her look so glad. Allison wasthinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listeningto Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he mightbe walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and getthe air of the hills. She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht, my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een, " as Marjorie told her motherafterward, and the child was content. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

 "Into the restful pause there came A voice of warning, or of blame, Which uttered a beloved name. "

More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked, "Who is Allison Bain?"

Mrs Hume had not much to tell her. Of her family and friends she knewabsolutely nothing. Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seensince she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been DrFleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time anurse there. Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he hadtold to them. 

"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman sheis in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growingcontent and cheerful. I own that she was a weight upon my mind atfirst. She is faithful, patient, true. Her only fault seems to be herreserve--if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others haveno right to ask her to disclose. She has greatly helped our Marjorie, and the child loves her dearly. "

"Yes, that is easily seen. As to her reserve, there are some troublesthat can be best borne in silence, " said Mrs Esselmont. "And she hasgrown more cheerful of late. "

"Much more cheerful. She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled withanxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for thebetter since the spring. It is, of late, as though some heavy weighthad been taken from her heart. "

In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own homeor in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should givesome thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed toher to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse. She would havegreatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be thebetter able to give her help and counsel if the time should come whenshe should acknowledge her need of them. Until that time came, she toldherself, she could offer neither help nor counsel. It was not for herto seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since sheknew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds, to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit. 

"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal. And she is young andwill forget in time whatever her trouble may be. And, when all is said, how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills thatplace so well? God seems to be giving her the opportunity and the powerto do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to themother, who is not one inclined to despond. I will not meddle in herconcerns hastily, but oh! I would like if this Allison were ever insore need of a friend, that she would come to me. "

It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how manyof the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger. 

"We are curious creatures, " she mused. "It is little to my own creditto say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plainlass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and hersorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I willbide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain, whatever her need may be. "

Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usuallycarried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could beno lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorieneeded no one to stay with her. If it were "a garden day, " as shecalled it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content tobe quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk nofarther and make no greater exertion than was good for her. 

In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she wasknitting, to pass the time. In the garden she did not need these. Shehad the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the beesand the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on thegreat firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to oneanother. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, andlooked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleysbetween, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up nowand then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or thecooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams. 

But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. Thesky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "illto do with, " while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her goingto Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter, however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but neverdoubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden. 

But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, andas the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even inthe garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when theycarried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravelyagainst it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and howungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or evenseem to wish to go home before the time. 

Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it. She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could nolonger keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to doso, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end ofher happy days had come. 

Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier thanusual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At thesight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not forlong. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed andquieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her, and was eaten, and the worst was over. 

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while theywaited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms. 

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong, the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as shesat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allisonwondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her. 

"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of _that_, "thought Allison. 

"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home, " said MrsEsselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie. 

"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one ofthe lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on. "

"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her muchgood, poor wee lammie. "

"She has done me much good, " said Allison. 

"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, `It ismore blessed to give than to receive. ' You are a good nurse, Allison. "

"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her. "

"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing withher. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear. "

Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in theinfirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughtshad gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care solong. 

"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. Ilearned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my fatherafterward. "

"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently. 

"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long. There was littletime between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when theywere gone. "

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which toldher this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life inthe hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home, except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman. She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question tostartle her into silence again. After a little she said:

"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes. " Andshe sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway. 

Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer. Byand by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home. 

After this, in their brief intercourse--during a few minutes in thegarden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up togo home--Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithfulnurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely. Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the mostpart quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made nocomments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and thattogether, " she owned that not often in the course of a long life had shecome into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness, firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being awareof it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young womannot as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and workedfor wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed, had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new lifein a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired toknow more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak. 

Summer passed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" wasdrawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or toflit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patientcreatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy hadleisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. Butwhenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day wasdark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden inAllison's arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were sofull of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, whichindeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie. 

For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short whenAllison needed all the help which her love for the child could give herto keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her. No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tellhim that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be inAmerica, and that he might safely write to her now. 

It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home thanhe had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him?She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, ifshe could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could onlystrive to wait with patience whether she heard or not. 

She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silenthouse one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie camein. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well, was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, andasked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for fewwords had ever passed between them. He sat down, however, and leanedover the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld, " hesaid. 

Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to herstocking-mending again. It would not have been easy for her to begin aconversation with Crombie under any circumstances. It seemed impossibleto do so now, for what could she say to him? Saunners had been in deepaffliction. His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burialin a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would bepresumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still tospeak about indifferent things. 

She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work. How old, and grey, and grim he looked! And how sad and solitary thelittle house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was notthere! His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; andthis man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort herfather when her mother died. She was very sorry for him. 

Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out. The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she wentto the dresser and took the teapot down. 

"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea, " saidshe. Saunners looked up in surprise. 

"There's nae occasion. I'll get my supper when I gae hame. "

He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy tosay it. 

"Ay, will ye. But that will be a while yet. And I must do as I ambidden. The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very wellthe night, and is going to her bed. The minister may be in soon. "

So the tea was made and butter spread upon the bannocks, and thenAllison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out ofit, that he might have his tea in peace. When his meal was finished andthe dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowedhead and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say:

"I am sorry for your trouble. "

Saunners answered with a sigh. 

"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart. "

"Ay. It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the endo' the journey. The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me. But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gieher that last pleasure. But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too, puir beast. "

"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?"

Saunners shook his head. 

"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me. But he was ahind with his farmwork, an' I wasna needin' him. Twa folk may shorten a lang day to aneanither, but it's no ay done to edification. But the warst o' a' wascoming hame to a forsaken hoose. "

The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower. 

"I'm sorry for your trouble, " repeated Allison. "It's the forsaken homethat at first seems the worst to bear. "

"Ay, do ye ken that? Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose. She was but afeckless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair missin the hoose. And I hae but begun wi't, " added Saunners with a sigh. Then there was a long silence. "It's a bonny place yon, where I laidher down, " said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts. "It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brownburn at the foot. I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden. The minister's an auld man, they say. I didna trouble him. He couldhae dane nae gude either to her or to me. It's a fine, quiet spot torest in. I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had alonging to lie there with her kin. It is a place weel filled--weelfilled indeed. "

Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips andeager eyes gazing at him as he went on. 

"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there. An only son hadput it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, theysaid. I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stoodglowering at it as we were finishing our job. It was wi' nae gudeintent that he cam', I doubt. He was ane that middled with maist thingsin the parish, they said. But I could hae proved that my Eppie belongedto the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin. We werenear dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then. He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'. "

Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire, sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready tobegin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to herstocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question--but she dared notdo it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on:

"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded itbut for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there camea wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shookher neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names. It was like a curseupon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he wouldhave to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for hiswickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was uncocurious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. Wegaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say aboutane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had mydoubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could onlymind. "

Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face awayfrom the light. 

Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he knowmore than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must havebeen in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of hiswife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" hadcursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her;but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters. Then the old man rose to go. 

"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, thinkye?" Allison shook her head. 

"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that. "

"Ye would be likely to ken, " said Saunners, and then he went away. 

Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance, then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house. Shebarred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and wentsoftly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully. Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard. 

It was not much. Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in thekirkyard of Kilgower. That they were the names of her father and mothershe did not doubt. She had been greatly startled by all she had heard, but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more causeto be glad and thankful than to be afraid? Willie had put up thatstone! Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home, and that all had been well with him? He might be at home yet, on hisown land. Or he might be on the sea--on his way to a new country whichwas to give a home to them both. Glad tears came to Allison's eyes asshe knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie's pillow. 

"I am glad and thankful, " she said, "and I will not vex myself thinkingabout what the old man said. It might just be by chance that he spokewith no thought about me, except that the name was the same. I will bethankful and have patience and wait. I am sure he would not wish toharm me. Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of otherfolk it might end in my having to go away again. "

But the thought of having to go away did not seem so terrible to her asit would have done a few months ago. Her courage had risen since then. She had "come to herself, " and she was reasonable both in her fears andher hopes, and so she repeated, as she laid her head on her pillow:

"I will be thankful and have patience and wait. And I will put my trustin God. "

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

 "She courtsied low, she spoke him fair, She sent him on his way; She said as she stood smiling there, You've wealth, and wiles, and wisdom rare, But I have won the day. "

Crombie did not leave the manse with an easy mind, and the more hethought of what he had said, and what he had not said there, the moreuneasy he became. He was in a quandary, he told himself, putting theaccent on the last "a. " To his surprise and consternation he foundhimself in doubt as to the course he ought to pursue. 

He had gone to the manse with the full intention of asking theminister's lass whether she were the wife of the man whom he had seen"glowering at the new headstane" in the kirkyard of Kilgower, and ofputting it to her conscience whether she was not breaking the laws ofGod and man by keeping herself hidden out of his way. 

But he had not asked her. He could not do it. He had come away withouta word, and now he was saying to himself that the man who throughsoft-heartedness, or through the influence of carnal affection, sufferedsin in another, thus being unfaithful to a sinful soul in danger, washimself a sinner. He ought to have spoken, he told himself. He couldnot be called upon to tell the story to another, but to Allison herselfhe should have spoken. If her conscience needed to be wakened, hesinned against her in keeping silence. It might have been to preparehim for this very work that he had been sent to lay his Eppie down inthat faraway kirkyard. 

Saunners stood still on the hillside when he got thus far. Ought he togo back again? He could not be sure. The thought of the first glimpsehe had got that night of Allison sitting quiet and busy with her work, with a look of growing content upon her face that had once been sogloomy and sad, came back to him, and he moved on again. 

"I'll sleep on it, " said he, "and I'll seek counsel. "

It was a wise resolution to which to come. Saunners was a good man, though, perhaps, he did not always do full honour to his Master or tohimself in the sight of those who were looking on. He was "dour, andsour, and ill to bide, " it was said of him, even by some among hisfriends. 

But there was this also to be said of Saunners. It was only when a lifeof struggle and disappointment and hard, wearing work was more than halfover, that he had come to see the "True Light, " and to find the help ofthe Burden-Bearer. A man may forsake the sins of his youth and learn tohate the things which he loved before, and to love the things which hehated, and in his heart long, and in his life strive, to follow thePerfect Example in all things. But the temper which has been indulgedfor half a lifetime cannot be easily and always overcome, and habitswhich have grown through the years cannot be cast aside and put out ofsight in a moment, like an ill-fitting garment which will never troublemore. Life was, in a way, a struggle to Saunners still. 

But though he lost his temper sometimes and seemed to those who were tooready to judge him to fail in the putting on of that Charity which"thinketh no evil" and which is "the bond of perfectness, " he was stilla good man, honest, conscientious, just, and he could never willinglyhave sought to harm or to alarm any helpless or suffering creature. Butthen neither would his conscience let him consent to suffer sin in onewhom he might, through faithful dealing, save from loss and ruin, andwhom he might bring back to the right way again. 

"She doesna look like a sinfu' woman, " he thought, recalling the glimpsehe had got through the open door, of Allison sitting at peace and safefrom harm. "She is like a woman who has seen sorrow, and who is winningthrough wi't. And yon man had an evil look. 

"And after a', what hae I to go upon? A name on a headstane in afarawa' kirkyard! A' the rest came frae the wee wud wifie (the littlemad woman), who micht have made up the story, or only believed it truebecause o' the ill-will she bore to yon dark, angry-lookin' man. Andeven if the story be true, what call have I to mak' or meddle in it?

"No' an ill word that ever I hae heard has been spoken of the lass sinceshe came to the manse. She's at peace, and she's doing the duty thatseems to be given her to do, and--I'll bide a wee and seek counsel. Andafter a', what hae I to go upon?" repeated Saunners. 

But there was plenty to go upon, as he knew well, if he had only beensure that it would be wise to do anything, or meddle at all in thematter. He had only spoken a word to Allison; but the wee wifie, whilethey sat together on a fallen gravestone, had told him, not the wholestory--she was hardly capable of doing that--but all of it that she hadseen with her own eyes. 

Oh! yes. She knew well about bonny Allie Bain. She was in the kirkwhen she was married--"sair against her will. It was like a muckleblack corbie carrying off a cushat doo. But the cushat got free for a'that, " said the wee wifie, with nods and smiles and shrill laughter. 

But she said nothing of the brother's part in that which followed, though she told with glee how Brownrig had gotten his deserts before allwas done, and how the bride went one way and the bridegroom wentanother, "carried hame wi' sair banes in his gig. " She told how firstAllison's mother, and then her father, were put in the grave, where theyboth lay with the new stone at their heads, and how "bonny Allie" hadcome to say farewell to them there. She grew eager and eloquent whenshe came to her own part in the story. 

"I was here mysel', as I am maist days, for it's a bonny place andhalesome, though ye mightna think it here among the dead folk. I liketo hae a crack with them that's been awa' for mony a year and day. Mymother lies ower in yon nook, and the man I should hae marriet. Myfather and my brother were lost at sea. 

"Oh! ay--and about bonny Allie. Weel, she lay down wi' her face uponthe sod, and lay lang there, and when she lifted it again it was whiteas the snaw, but there wasna a tear upon it. Then there came the barko' a dog that I kenned weel. He was sent after me once, though Brownrigdenies it. So I made free to go in by; and says I, `Miss Allie dear, Ihear the bark o' the black dog, Worry, and I doubt his maister's naefarawa'. '

"She was speakin' ower the wa' to the minister's son by that time, andafter a minute or twa she came awa', put her face down on the graveagain, and then she followed me. And when we came near to the foot o'the brae, I garred (made) her take off her hose and shoon, and wade doonthe burn a bittie that the dog mightna follow the scent, and I laid doonpeats that she might step on them a bit o' the way between the burn andmy ain door. 

"When she came in she sat still like ane dazed and spent, and never aword spake she. But I stirred up the fire and boiled the kettle, andsaid I:--

"`Did ye break your fast afore ye came awa'?'

"`There wasna time, ' said she. 

"`And ye had nae heart for your supper yestreen, and ye forgot ye'redenner, and nae wonder. But if ye're thinkin' o' winning awa' toAberdeen this day, or even the morn, ye'll need to tak' something tomake ye strong for the journey. '

"So she ate her bread and drank her tea, and then she lay down in my bedand sleepit the hale day. I was unsettled mysel' that day, and I thochtI would gang up the brae to the Meikles and get some buttermilk that themistress had promised me. So I darkened the window and locket my door. But I didna leave my key in the thecking (thatch) as I do whiles, incase any o' the neebors micht send a bairn wi' a sup o' milk, or a bitfrom a new cut cheese. It's weel to gie them a chance to open thedoor. "

"And what then?" said Crombie, fearful of another digression. "Whathappened then?"

"Oh! naething happened. I only thocht I would be as weel awa', in caseBrownrig sent or came himsel' to see what there was to see. So I gaedawa' for a while, and when I cam' back I just set mysel' doon at thedoor to wait for what would come next. Allie sleepit on, and had naeappearance o' having moved when the sun was near set, which wasna early, for the days were near their langest. But I made the fire burn up, andb'iled the kettle to be ready, and made the tea. And then wha' should Isee but Brownrig himsel', riding on his black horse and followed by hisuncanny tyke. I had only time to draw thegither the doors o' mypress-bed ere he was upon me. 

"I was feared at the sicht o' the dog, and the man saw it; but it wasnafor mysel' that I was feared, and that he didna see. 

"`Ye needna gang white like that at the dog. He'll do ye no harm, ' saidhe. 

"`No, unless ye bid him, ' said I. 

"He gaed me a dark look, and said he: `I'm not like to do that, though Ihear ye have accused me of it. '

"So I saw he was gaen to speak me fair, and I cam' to the door, and a'at once I saw the twa cups that I had set on the table for Allie and me. 

"`Ye're to hae a veesitor the nicht?' said he. 

"`Wha' kens?' said I. `I'm ay ready, and it is to be you the nicht. Come ye away in and take a cup o' tea, and maybe I'll find a drappie o'something stronger, gin ye'll promise no' to tell the gauger. No' thatI'm feared at _him_. He's a frien' o' mine, and that's mair than Iwould mak' bauld to say o' ye're-sel', ' said I, giein' another fearedlook at the dog. `Come in by, and sit doon. '

"But it was growing late, he said, and he must awa'. He had only aquestion to speir at me. Had I, by ony chance, seen his wife passing bythat day? And in whose company?

"`Ye're wife?' said I, as gin I had forgotten. I whiles do forget. 

"`Ay, my wife, Mistress Brownrig--her that was Allison Bain!'

"`Oh!' said I then; `bonny Allie Bain? Ay, I did that! In the early, _early_ mornin' I saw her ower yonder, lying wi' her face on thenew-made grave. '

"I spak' laich (low) when I said it. 

"`And did ye no' speak to her?' said he. 

"`I daured na, ' said I. 

"`And which way went she?' said he. 

"`She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, andthen somebody spoke to her from ower the wall. And in a wee while Icam' round and said a word, but she never answered me. '

"`And wha was the man? Or was it a man?'

"`Oh! ay. It was a man. It was the minister's son wha has come latelyfrae America. But I heard na a word he said. '

"`Hadden?' he said. `I'll hae a word wi' him. ' And he gaed off in ahurry, and I was glad enow. Then I cried after him: `Take ye're dog wi'ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame. ' But he never heeded, but hurried awa'. "

"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest hetook in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it. 

"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth. There was little to tell. But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit upsince then near and far. It gaes me lauch when I think about it. Hewas mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand waswhen he put the ring upon it in the kirk. Her lips he never touched--that I'll daur to swear. And a' this time he has been livin' in thehouse that he made sae grand and fine for her. And doesna he hate itwaur than pain or sin by this time? Ay! that does he, " said she withher shrill laughter. "He has had a hard year o' it. He gaes here andthere; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon himto mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bidesin Grassie--that's the Bains' farm. And gin he thocht one had a word tosay about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but hewould get it out o' him. "

Then a change came over the old woman's face. 

"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy underher eye. 

"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while. She was far frae weel then, and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by thistime. "

"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?"

"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain. "

"Weel, I need to be goin' now. I thank ye for yer story. And if ever Ihappen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak'weel o' her. And what may ye're ain name be?"

"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it. And, man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' AllieBain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there. It's better that neither mannor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane shouldspeak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry thesound o' it to her enemy ower yonder. Na, na! The least said issoonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wisemysel'. But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble, and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'. But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman, for ill would be sure to come o' it. "

She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, andglanced sidewise at him in silence for a while. Then she said:

"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater. I'm auld, and I'mcrooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinnalike to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them. Iread my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk. But I'm no sayin'that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen againstme. There's Brownrig himsel' for instance. 

"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the lass nae ill. Ye seem a decent man, andhae nae cause to mean her ill. But never ye name her name. That's gudeadvice--though I havena ta'en it mysel'. Gude-day to ye. And haste yeawa'. Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' yea' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond. Gude-day to ye. "

"Gude-day to you, " said Saunners, rising. He watched her till shepassed round the hill, and then he went away. 

But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gonemany miles on his homeward way. She followed him in the distance, andonly turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse, with his face turned toward his home. 

Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastenedhis departure, he lost no time in setting out. It was not impossiblethat, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find outwhether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed tobe his way with strangers. That he should wile out of him anyinformation that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought littlelikely. But he might ask a direct question; and the old man toldhimself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to saveAllison Bain. 

So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road wasdoubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he hadheard, and about his duty concerning it. His wisdom would be to forgetit altogether, he told himself. But he could not do so. He came to themanse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard, and of getting the truth from her. But when he saw her sitting there sosafe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it. 

And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts. He wouldnot harm a hair of the lassie's head. A good woman she must be, for shehad been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never aword to be spoken against her. And who knew to what straits she mightbe driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter?There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse. No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win hersecret. 

"But there is John Beaton to be considered. I would fain hae a word wi'John. He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carrieshis head ower-high. But the root o' the matter's in him. Yes, I haelittle doubt o' that. And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a roughbittie o' road before him. But he is in gude hands, and he'll winthrough. I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares. I'll ken bythe first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no. "

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

 "Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen. "

But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie's turn came to speak. Some one else had spoken. 

It was Saturday night. The work of the week was over Marjorie was safeasleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure, Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane. It wasdark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from thetrees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and thefaraway hills lay clear in the moonlight. With lingering steps sheturned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottagegardens. When she came to the last of them she heard her name calledsoftly. 

It was John Beaton's voice. She could not see him where he stood, buthe saw her clearly. He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadowwhich told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pass, like themist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen. In a moment hehad leaped the dike, and stood by her side. 

"Allison!" said he eagerly, as he took her hand. 

John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and herways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison's face for thelook of love which he longed to see. He never would have clasped andkissed her without a word. 

In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment inhis embrace. Then she struggled to get free. 

"Allison, forgive me--because I love you. Allison, say that you will bemy wife. "

A low cry of anguish came from her white lips. 

"Oh! may God pity me. I have been sorely wrong, or this would not havecome to be my punishment. "

She drew herself away from him, but she made no movement to leave him. John hung his head before her. 

"Allison, forgive my presumption, and give me a chance to win your love. Allison, I love you dearly. "

"Hush!" she whispered. "Come with me. I must speak to you. I havedone wrong, but how could I ever have dreamed that you would give athought to me?"

She laid her hand upon his arm. 

"I am in sore trouble. Come with me somewhere--to your mother--for Imust speak to you. "

"Not to my mother, if you have anything to say which will grieve her, "said John huskily. 

"It might grieve her, but she would understand. She might be angry fora moment; but she is kind and good, and she would not think evil of me. "

They stood in silence for a minute or two. Then she said:

"Come into the manse. No one will be there till I have time to say whatI must say. "

They moved on till they came to the lane that led thither, and passedout of the moonlight into the shadow. 

"Allison, " said John, pausing, "you cannot surely mean to cut me offfrom all hope? You might come to--care for me in time. "

"Care for you? Oh, yes! I care for you. You are my friend, andWillie's. But I have done you a wrong, and with no will to do it. "

Instead of going into the house they turned aside at the end of thehedge, and entered the garden. On the summer-seat, under the tallfir-trees, they sat down in silence. After a time Allison rose, andstood before her friend. 

"John, " said she, "when I heard your voice to-night I was glad. Myheart has been heavy with a great dread all the week; and when I heardyour voice I said to myself, here is a friend who will help me. John, "she said after a moment's silence, "it is my secret I am going to tellyou--my secret that I have kept all these long months. I trust you, John. You will tell me what I must do. "

"Well, " said John, as she paused again. 

"John--I am a wife already. It is from--from the man who married meagainst my will that I have been hiding all this time. You must notthink ill of me, for I was like a lost creature when my father died, andI knew not what to do. I came away hoping that God would let me die, orkeep me hidden till my brother should get away to the other side of thesea. And God has kept me safe till now. John, will you forgive me andhelp me?"

The hands she held out to him trembled. She was shaking with excitementand the chill of the night. He rose and wrapped her shawl close abouther. 

"Allison, sit down. Or shall we go into the house? I will do all thatI can to help you--so help me God!" said John with a groan, fearing thathe was past help. 

"No, I will not sit down. Sometime I will tell you all my story, butnot to-night. This is what I must tell you. It was in our parish ofKilgower where Mr Crombie laid down his wife. There he heard somethingof Allison Bain. He saw the man who married me against my will--who hassworn to find me and to take me home to his house, alive or dead. Itwas in my hearing that he took that oath. But whether Mr Crombiereally knows about me, or whether he was only speaking for the sake ofsaying something, or whether it was to find me out, or to warn me, Icannot say. And oh! I have been so safe here, and I have come tomyself among these kind people. "

"What do you wish me to do?" said John, as she paused. 

"If Crombie should know who I am, and should speak of me to any one, youwould hear of it. He may even speak to you. You are his friend. Thenwill you warn me, and give me time to go away? I should be sorry, oh!so sorry, to leave the kind folk here and go away again among strangers. But I will never go with that man, never. "

"I will help you if I can. I hope you may be mistaken in thinking thatCrombie knows your story. I think, at the worst, it is only a guess hehas made. "

Allison shook her head. 

"He saw the names of my father and mother on the headstone that theirson has set up over their grave. Willie may be at home still, but Ihope he has gone away to America. Oh! if I were only sure that he wereI would go to him at once. I could hardly be brought back so far. AndI might hide myself in that great country so that I could never befound. "

"Allison, " said John gently. "Think of me as a friend, who will helpyou whatever may happen. "

"I thank you kindly, and I trust you. I will bide still where I amwhile I may, for oh! I dread the thought of these first dark dayscoming on me again. "

"I do not think you need to be afraid of Crombie. He would notwillingly injure you. He is a good man, though his sense of duty makeshim sometimes say or do what looks hard. "

"Yes. He might think it right to betray me--not that it would bebetrayal, since I have not trusted him or any one else. "

She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly. But shewas anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought thatall the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay inNethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to goaway among strangers. 

"But I will not go to yon man's house whatever befall, " she said in herheart. 

The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while passed and showed thetrouble in her face, and John's heart smote him as he saw it. To whommight this poor soul turn in her distress? And why should she tell herstory to any one? Since she had kept it so long to herself, it couldnot be an easy one to tell. Why should she tell it? Whether she hadbeen right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not behelped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, itwould be right to help her. 

"Allison, " he said in a little, "you say you trust me. I also trustyou. You do not need to tell your story to me. Some day, perhaps, youmay tell it to my mother. No one can give you wiser counsel or warmersympathy than she will. And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie. At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knowsto be your friend. He would never betray you to your--enemy. "

"Well, I will wait. I will not go away--for a while at least. And youwill be my friend?"

"I will try to help you, " said John. 

But all the thoughts which were passing through John Beaton's mind wouldnot have made a pleasant hearing for his mother. A sudden, strongtemptation assailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he stroveto put it from him. 

"As to Crombie, " said he, "he is an old man, and growing forgetful. Itmay all pass out of his mind again. That would be best. "

"Yes, " said Allison, "that would be best. "

They walked down to the gate together. 

"And you will forgive me, Allison, and--trust me?"

"I will ay trust you. And it is you who need to forgive me, " said she, holding out her hand. "But it never came into my mind--"

John held her hand firmly for a moment. 

"Allison!" said he, and then he turned and went away. 

It was his mother who should befriend Allison Bain. But how to tell herstory? If it had to be told, Allison must tell it herself. As tospeaking with Saunners Crombie about Allison Bain and her troubles--

John uttered an angry word, and hurried down the lane and past thegardens and the green, and over the fields and over the hills, till hecame to himself standing in the moonlight within sight of the "Stanin'Stanes. " And being there he could only turn and go home again, carryinghis troubled thoughts with him. 

He had many of them, and the thought which pressed upon him mostpainfully for the moment was one which need not have troubled him atall. How was he to meet his mother and speak to her about Allison Bainwith all this angry turmoil in his heart? He was angry with himself, with Crombie, even with Allison. 

"How could I have thought--" she had said, looking at him with entreatyin her lovely eyes. While she had been in his thoughts by day and inhis dreams by night, he "had never come into her mind!"

"But I could have made her think of me if I had not been a fool, with myfine plans about rising in the world! I could make her care for meyet, " said John to himself, quite unconscious that from the window ofher room his mother's kind, anxious eyes were watching him. 

"Something has happened to vex him, " said she to herself. "I will notseem to spy upon him. He will tell me, if he needs my help, in his owntime. "

But she waited and listened long before his footstep came to the door, and he went to his room without coming to say good-night as he passed. 

"He is thinking I am asleep, " said she with a sigh. 

There was nothing to be said. That was the conclusion to which Johncame that night. What could he say to his mother about Allison Bain?If he were to speak a word, then nothing could be kept back. His motherhad a way of knowing his thoughts even before he uttered them, and whyshould she be vexed at seeing the trouble which, if he spoke at all, could not be concealed from her?

If the story must be told to his mother, Allison herself must tell it. But why need it be told? If only that meddling old fool, Crombie, hadhad the sense to hold his tongue. What good could come of speaking?Why should not the poor soul be left to forget her troubles and to growcontent? Even his mother could only warn her and help her to get awayif it ever came to that with her. But until then silence was best. 

He would have a word with Saunners to find out what he knew and what heonly suspected, and he would do what might be done to keep him silent. 

John had his word with Crombie, but it did not come about in the waywhich he had desired and planned. While he was the next day lingeringabout the kirk in the hope of getting a word with him, Crombie wasasking for John at his mother's door. 

"Come away in, Mr Crombie, " said Mrs Beaton when she heard his voice. "I have been wishing to see you this while. "

Then there were a few words spoken between them about the sorrow whichhad come upon him, and of his wife's last days, and of the long journeyhe had taken to lay her in the grave. Saunners told of the bonny, quietplace on the hillside, where he had laid her down, and before he hadtaken time to consider, the name of Allison Bain had been uttered. 

"I saw the names of her father and her mother--`John Bain and Allisonhis wife'--on a fine, new headstane that had been put over them by theirson. They hae been dead a year and more. Decent folk they seem to haebeen. He farmed his ain land. I heard about it from a wee bowed wifiewho was there in the kirkyard. She had something to say o' Allison Bainas well. "

And then Crombie came to a pause. Mrs Beaton was startled by hiswords, but kept silence, for she saw that he had not meant to speak. But in a little he went on. 

"It was a queer story that she told altogether, and I hae been in aswither as to what I was to do with it, or if I was to do anything withit. I cam' the day to speak to your son aboot it, but taking a' thepossibeelities into consideration, I'm no' sure but what I hae to sayshould be said to a prudent woman like yoursel'. I would be loth toharm the lass. "

"I will never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till she shall say itto me with her own lips, " said Mrs Beaton, speaking low. 

"Weel, I have no ill to say o' her. There was no ill spoken o' her tome. That is, the woman thought no ill, but quite the contrary--thoughmair micht be said. Ye're her friend, it seems, and should ken herbetter than I do. I'se tell ye all I ken mysel', though it was to ye'reson I meant to tell it. "

"And why to my son?" asked Mrs Beaton gravely. 

It is possible that Crombie might have given a different answer if thedoor had not opened to admit John himself. The two men had met beforein the course of the day, and all had been said which was necessary tobe said about the death and burial of Crombie's wife, and in a minuteCrombie turned to Mrs Beaton again. 

"As to the reason that I had for thinkin' to speak to your son, therewas naebody else that I could weel speak to about it. No' the minister, nor his wife. It would be a pity to unsettle them, or to give themanxious thoughts, and that maybe without sufficient reason. And John'sa sensible lad, and twa heads are better than ane. "

John laughed and mended the fire, and asked "whether it was Robin orJack this time, and what was ado now?"

"It's aboot neither the one nor the other, " said Saunners, with a touchof offence in his voice. "It's aboot the lass at the manse--AllisonBain. "

It had been a part of Crombie's plan "to take the lad by surprise" whenhe mentioned Allison's name, and he peered eagerly into his face "to seewhat he could see. " But the peats, which John had put on with a liberalhand, had darkened the fire for the time, and he had taken his placebeside his mother's chair and was leaning on it, as he had a way ofdoing when anything special was to be said between them, and Saunnerssaw nothing. "Begin at the beginning, " said Mrs Beaton. So Saunnersbegan again, and getting into the spirit of the affair, told it well. They listened in silence till he came to a pause. 

"It is a curious story, " said John, by way of saying something. 

"It was a curious story as I heard it, " said Saunners. "Is the wee wine`a' there'?" asked John quietly. "I'm by no means sure o' it. Shelooked daft-like when she shook her neive (fist) at the man Brownrigbehind his back and called him ill names. And her lauch when she toldme that the man had never touched his wife's hand since the day he putthe ring upon it, and when she swore that _never_ had he touched herlips, was mad enow. "

John's mother felt the start which her son gave when the words werespoken. 

"And is it true, think ye?" said she. "There seems to be truth in thestory, but where it lies I canna say. And whether it be true or no, Iam beginning to think that I have no call to make or meddle in it. "

"There is just one thing that I must say again, " said Mrs Beaton--"I'llnever believe an ill word of Allison Bain till with her own lips shegives me leave to do it! She is a good woman, whatever trouble may havebeen brought into her life by the ill-doing of others. "

"What think ye, John?" said Saunners. 

"I think ye did a wise thing when ye came to consult with my mother. She kens a good woman when she sees her. "

"There may be truth in the story. It may be a' true. But the questionfor me to decide with your advice is whether a word o' mine will help orhinder the richt thing's being done?"

"Yes, that is the question, " said Mrs Beaton. She hesitated to saymore. For she knew that to set one side of a matter in a strong lightwas the surest way to let Crombie see more clearly all that might besaid on the other side. 

"She's a weel doin' lass, " said Crombie. 

"She is invaluable in the manse, " said Mrs Beaton. 

"It would unsettle them sadly to lose her, or even to have a doubtfu'word spoken o' her, " said Saunners. 

"Especially just now, when Mrs Hume is not quite well, " said MrsBeaton. 

"And what say ye, John?" asked Saunners. 

"Do ye feel responsible to this man--whatever his name may be--that yeshould wish to take up his cause? I mean, had ye any words with himabout her?" added John, as his mother touched his hand in warning. 

"No' me! The wifie said he was ay waitin', and watchin', and speirin', and there was a chance that he would have a word wi' me. I didna bideto be questioned. I just took the road without loss o' time, whether itwas wise to do it or no. "

"To my mind it was both wise and kind, " said Mrs Beaton. "As ye say, there may be truth in the story; but the telling of it here will be thesame thing to Allison Bain, whether it be true or false. She is aloneand friendless, it seems, and that a young lass should be spoken aboutat all is a harm to her, and a word might be the means of sending herout into the world without a friend. Surely the Lord was keeping Hiseye on her for good when He sent her to the manse, and into the hands ofsuch a woman as Mrs Hume. "

"Ay, that's the truth. And what say ye, John?"

"I say that my mother seldom makes a mistake when she lets herself speakstrongly about any matter. I agree with her that ye took the rightcourse when ye made up your mind to say nothing about the matter. "

Crombie fidgeted in his chair, and was silent for a minute or two. 

"I said nothing to the man himsel', but I did drop a word to AllisonBain. She said nothing, but I saw by her face that she understood. Ionly hope I may na hae done ill in speakin'. "

The others hoped the same with stronger emphasis, and not without someangry thoughts on John's part. But to speak the old man fair was thewisest way. There was no time for many words, for Annie brought in thetea, and Saunners was prevailed upon to stay and share their meal. Whenit was over it was beginning to grow dark, and he rose to go, and Johnrose also, saying he would go with him a bit of his way. 

The talk between them as they went on was not of Allison, but of quiteother persons and matters, and it was kept steadily up and not sufferedto turn in that direction. When Saunners spoke of the strange thingsthat might be happening under "our very een, " John listened in silence, or brought him back to the kirk, and the new members, and the good thatwas being done, till they came to the little house by the side of themoss, out of whose narrow window no welcoming light was gleaming. 

"I'm no' used wi't yet, " said Saunners with a groan, as he fumbledawkwardly trying to put the clumsy key into the lock. "It's the hardestpart of my day's work, this coming hame to a dark house. But folk maunbide what's sent, and be thankful it's nae waur. Gude-nicht to be. Yehae shortened my road, and mony thanks. I winna ask ye to come in. "

"No. I must be early up and awa' in the morning, and it may be long ereI be home again. Ye might look in on my mother whiles, when ye're downour way. She's much alone. "

If John had planned his best to win Saunners to friendliness, and tosilence concerning the affairs of Allison Bain, he could have saidnothing more to the purpose than that. Saunners accepted theinvitation, and came now and then to inquire for the health of MrsBeaton, and "heard only good words from her, " as he said. 

He had something to say to most of his friends about the place where hehad laid down his wife to her rest beside her own folk, and even spokeof the "daft wifie" that he had seen there; but he never uttered a wordas to the story she had told him, and in course of time, as he thoughtless about it, it passed quite out of his remembrance--which was bestfor all concerned. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

 "Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree To plague her beating heart. "

As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape thethreatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to goaway now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to themanse about this time, and Allison's strength and skill were tried tomeet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leavethese good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong tosteal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do. 

And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and ifby means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, thetimes had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried awaysecretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be saidbefore she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, ashe had said, have "the law on his side. "

She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter shehad sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, andwhen she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be hertime to go away. 

"I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness anddarkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have doneright, there's no turning back now. "

As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothingto fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words ofgreeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution andcounsel which it was "his bounden duty" to let drop for the benefit ofall young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, hadreference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right usingof daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned. 

And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then somethinghappened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. "Home, " it must be, thought the neighbours, who saw the big "kist" and the little one liftedfrom the carrier's cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spokenin general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not helpthinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year's experiencehad given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of hermistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be thedecision with regard to her. 

The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts aboutthe matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came. For as thesummer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick andhad appealed to them for help. 

She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made herresidence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, butundesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to goelsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, shesaid, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washedby the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firson her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. Whatshe wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she hadalready spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. Whatshe could not endure was the thought of going away alone. 

"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought ofthe long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old andfrail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now willyou let me have your Allison Bain for a while?"

"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since shecame into our house, " said Mrs Hume gravely. "It was a risk our takingher as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one. "

"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?"

"Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless shewould be in yours should she go with you. "

"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. Andwe could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is atan end, " said Mr Hume. 

"Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her, "said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie. 

"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spareher to me, " said Mrs Esselmont. "But that is only the beginning of mypetition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part withher for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hearme. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older. Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I amcertain--at least I have hope--that she might be helped by one who hasbeen proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me takeMarjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a goodman. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for thechild he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy lifebefore her!"

A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to thewindow and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which wereonly just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laidherself back on her pillow and waited. 

"Well?" said she after a little. 

"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again. 

"Speak for us both, " said his wife. 

"Well, " said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night. Wethank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must askcounsel. "

"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner wecan go, the better. "

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before theyparted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:

"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain. Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not takeAllison. And remember, my dear, " said she to Mrs Hume, "you haveanother little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made upyour mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would likemyself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the childgo. "

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. Thefather and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counseloften. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie mustgo; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankfulgladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping ofthe Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He cameto save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision beingmade, there was no time to lose. 

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spokenabout. The only difference that this made was, that now she came hometo stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison wasnot long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be. 

"Allison, " said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill thisafternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as youwill be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown andput on your bonnet. "

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone toFirhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Otherfolk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat theweaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friendMrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over. 

Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her wayduring the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger tosay more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil, " Mrs Coatssaid. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did notcome back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes. 

"She has gi'en warning. She was ay above the place, " said Mrs Coats. 

"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the placeweel, " said her friend. 

"But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used withdoin' the bidding o' anither. "

"She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it. What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hearthrough the open window what was to be said. 

"That's true, " said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means fora' that. "

"Ye may say that! It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown. Isshe like the ither lassies o' the place? Who ever saw her bare feet?It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her. "

"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in herain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleevesare put doon to her hands. "

"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to. "

"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them. Ye needna be fearedabout that, " said the weaver. 

"It's no' that _I'm_ feared, but ane would think that she was fearedherself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or whoshe belongs to. "

"Never to the like o' you and me. But the minister's satisfied, andMrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi'them. "

"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistlysomething to be hid. "

"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide fraethe een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' theminister's lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do thatsame, " said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motionagain. 

"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women, " said Mrs Coats, with alook which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well asdisapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed. 

"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easyeneuch wi' me. "

For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw MrsEsselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowersleft, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring handsof old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that wasunsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "thelast look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind onwith pleasure. "

"It's a bonny place, " said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked upquickly. "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young lass to sigh and sechlike that? Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that yewould fain see?" Allison smiled, but shook her head. "I never saw agarden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own--"

"And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?"

"Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your adviceabout it, " said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it. 

"Oh! I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, ginye are near at hand. " Allison shook her head. 

"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on theother side of the sea. "

"In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye gothere ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybeslips and roots as well. They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land. Ionce heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) atthe sicht o' a gowan. "

"Thank you, " said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though shesmiled. 

"Here's my lady, " said Delvie, bending to his work again. 

Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, a woman several years older than herself. 

"You may leave me here with Allison Bain, " said she; "I will take a turnor two and then I will be in again. "

She had the minister's note in her hand, but she made no allusion to itas they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and thefair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then MrsEsselmont said:

"You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. Ihave something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. ButI have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the housefirst. "

So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire andmade her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together. 

"Allison, " said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment's silence, "I havesomething to say to you. "

And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because ofher ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed toMarjorie's father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plancould only be carried out with Allison's help, because Mrs Hume wouldnever trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thoughtthat she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then sheadded:

"I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also tocare for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong andwell, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she isnow. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner thebetter. We have no time to lose. "

Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes. 

"I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go--but--"

She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmontwas lying. 

"But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may notwish me to go when you have heard. "

"Allison, " said Mrs Esselmont, "stand where I can see your face. "

She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:

"I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will changemy thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of yourmaster and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I amwilling to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you thanthey have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman, Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong. "

"I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I shouldhave done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I wouldnot undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I couldnot. I would rather die, " said Allison, speaking low. 

There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed onthe floor. 

"Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and yourbonnet. You are too warm in this room. "

Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings ofher black bonnet. 

"Take it off, " said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated. 

Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at theback of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here andthere--brown, with a touch of gold in them--and without the disguise ofthe big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very differentAllison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont. 

"A beautiful woman, " she said to herself, "and with something in herface better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need beashamed. "

Aloud she said:

"Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me, you should, perhaps, tell me all. "

"Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrongto take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would needto tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with theirchild. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble becauseof taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spokenof on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all theirkindness. "

"And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is awareof what has befallen you?"

Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that sheanswered. 

"It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One nighthe came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my nameon a new headstone, `John Bain and Allison his wife'--the names of myfather and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me allmy life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was tryingme, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I wouldlike to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon mesince then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. Iwould rather die, " repeated Allison, and the look that came over herface gave emphasis to her words. 

"And has he never spoken again?"

"Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, buthe might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the rightway. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would behappiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie. "

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a longtime. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand. 

"Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will notbear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. Itrust you. Come with me and the child. "

The tears came into Allison's eyes, and she said quietly:

"I thank you, madam. I will serve you well. "

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

 "God be with thee, Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north. "

Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story whichCrombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother:

"If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way ofletting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He willsay nothing to harm her. "

But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison'smarriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering thematter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would notbe well for Allison's peace of mind to know that the sad story of herlife had been told to them. 

And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to finda chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, andwent no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done oflate, and was not at ease with her when they met. 

For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspectthat her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one ofwhom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beatonmight still blame her for her son's folly. 

Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had sostartled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to bereasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to thedoor, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words thatmight be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into thekirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentaryterror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent insearch of her. 

She had said to herself many times, "I will wait quietly. I will staywhere I am, and I will not yield to my fears. "

But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, sheknew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long haveborne the strain which had been upon her. 

"Six days!" she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill thatnight, in the darkness. "Only six days and nights, and I shall be away, and safe for a year at least; and then!--but I will not look beyond theyear. I will care for the child, and be at peace. "

As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent northon business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell wherehe was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that. When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, ashe was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about cominghome. His mother's heart was sore for her son. No word concerningAllison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart hadgone from him and that he must suffer for a time. 

"But he'll win through, " she said, hopefully, to herself, "as other menhave won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, sinceever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for thepain! He will be sorry not to see her again, " added she, with a sigh. 

So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjoriewas to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; thatshe was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful wordsas to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: "It isAllison Bain who is to have the care of her. " Of Allison herself sheonly said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would behappy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply. 

On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack, that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, andthe neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that ifthere should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be nolingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie tookit all very quietly. 

"Yes, I'm going away. Yes, I'm sorry, and I'm glad, but I'm not afraid, because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I'm glad. I'm going tosee new things and places--me that was never ten miles away from home inall my life! And I'm going to come home strong and well, like the otherbairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister nowto take my place. It's my father that I'm sorriest for. But I'll comehome strong and well, and then he'll be glad that he let me go. "

She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from theschool to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again welland strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; andthough she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid. 

Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtfulwhether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and theschoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her. 

"Allison, " said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, "I think itwould be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send toher son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to seehim yourself in the town. Are you very tired?"

"I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now, " said Allison. 

So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had goneso many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own. She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight. 

"Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you, " said she. 

Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume's message. 

"I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He willbe home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake ofthe child?"

"Yes, I am glad to be going. "

"But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?"

"No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here. Everybody at the manse has been kind. "

"And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kennedyou, Allison Bain, " but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it. 

What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between thesetwo? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken thespell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken. 

"It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us, "thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: "His mother would be grieved, if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I amgone away. "

And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said"good-bye" to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down withwistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend. 

"Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?"

But Allison shook her head. "Nothing that it would please you to hear;and it is all over now, and I am going away. "

"Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believeyou to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your lifeby the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, andbring you safe through all trouble `into a large place. ' Kiss me, mydear. "

Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As sheturned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:

"Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi' ye. I'll no' keep yelang. "

Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. Shecould not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and asmall, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had beentaken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor. 

"Sit ye doon, Allison, " said the schoolmistress. "I saw ye when ye gaedinto Mistress Beaton's, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. And ye're going farawa'? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin'back again?"

"I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring homethe child to her father and her mother, " said Allison, gravely. 

"Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And maynaething but gude befall ye. I'll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a greatdivert to me, you and the minister's bairn thegither--especially sincethe cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak' heartagain. Do ye mind the `Stanin Stanes' yon day, and a' the bairns, andJohn Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I'll miss ye mair than ye ken. "

The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then shesaid:

"Eh! woman! It's weel to be the like o' you! Ye're young, and ye'restrong, and ye're bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk likeye. It's nae ance in a thousand times that a' these things come to awoman thegither. Ye mind me o' mysel' when I was young. I had a' thatye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that's neither here northere, at this late day, " added she, rising. 

Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place andopening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. Whenthe old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, therelay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, andhad evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright inthe light as she held it up to the lamp. 

"Look ye at it, " said the mistress. "Until this day I have never, forforty years and mair, set e'en upon it. I hae been twice marriet--though folk here ken naething about that--and this was my first marriagering. It was my mother's before me, and her mother's before her. Itheld a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none tome--he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I wasa wilfu' lassie--an undutifu' daughter. But it may work again wi' you. Take it, and put it on your finger. "

But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her. 

"And what for no'? It's my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye neednabe feared, " said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. "But why should yewish to give it to me?"

"Because I hae naebody else to gi'e it to. There's not, to myknowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before yecome back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keepevil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand. "

Allison looked anxiously into the old woman's eager face. What did shemean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more thanothers knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must notanger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again shedid not resist. 

"There is the charm written on the inside of it, `Let love abyde tilldeath devyde. ' Ye'll see it by the daylicht. "

But the ring was far too large for Allison's finger. It slipped from itand fell to the ground. 

"Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?" said the mistress. 

"It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me, " saidAllison with an uncertain smile. "It is very kind of you, MistressJamieson, to think of giving it to me, but--"

"It's a pity. But it's yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa'evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun' ye're neck, and itmay do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel', if it minds naebodyelse. "

Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face sodeeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in thepale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only ofkindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that theold woman did not mean her harm. 

"Why should you be so kind to me--a stranger?" said she gently. 

"I hardly ken mysel', except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind meo' my ain youth, partly that ye're sae like what I once was, and partlythat ye are sae different. I can see _now_ where I gaed wrang. And yehae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that yemay. "

"I'll try, " said Allison humbly. And so they parted. 

Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standingabout the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw itmore. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistresswas done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessedof her life before she came to the manse. 

There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. Marjorie was in the "gig" with her father and mother, who were to takeher to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was notcome, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of herfriends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the sametime, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of whatmight be before her. 

The same might be said of her father and mother--with a difference. They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a littlefainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that laybefore them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in theGood Hand which had "led them all their life long until now, " and theyhad confidence in Allison Bain. 

Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. Thenight before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others tohear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father andmother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to goaway, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she saidgravely:

"I think if you had known me all my days, --if you had seen all my lifetill now, --I think you would still be willing to trust me with yourMarjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason--it is better tosay nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all. "

"We can wait till then, " said the minister heartily. The child's mothersaid the same. 

They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might havearisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one ofwhom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance ofall that she had already done for her. The few words which MrsEsselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged themalso, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well notto seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal. 

Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when thetravellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of thevalley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful asshe was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in hertime of need she had been guided to find a refuge there. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

 "Unless you can swear for life or for death Oh! fear to call it loving. "

Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day inAberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found aplace prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in theuniversity, had taken up his abode. 

It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that hecould not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, andMarjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad ofthe rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For howcould she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or ofthose who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten thedull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward withhope. 

Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father hadasked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes. 

"You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder, " said he. 

"And so do we, " said Robin. 

"It was a good day for me, " said Allison, and her eyes said more thanthat. 

"Yes, better than you know, " said the doctor. "And for you, too, my weepale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carryyou away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she?May God grant it, " added the doctor reverently. 

"I will try to take good care of her, " said Allison. 

"I am sure of that. "

When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door. 

"I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named overyonder, " said she, casting down her eyes. 

"Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has cometo inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heardhis voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of hissight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be otherswho would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you. " And then hewent away. 

"I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfullywedded wife, but I cannot--I have not the heart to betray her into hishands. "

In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought herinto the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story totell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, sinceAllison was with her. 

"I will have her all to myself, " said Marjorie. 

John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm. 

"Happy little Marjorie, " he whispered in her ear. 

She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allisonlingered beside her, John said to his friend:

"Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a wordwith Allison. "

Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Thenhe started up in great haste. 

"I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don't go till I come back, John, "said he. "Can I do anything for you, Allison?"

"Nothing more, " said Allison; and Robin disappeared. 

There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She wastaking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spokeabout the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, andabout other things. 

"Did you see my mother before you came away?" said John. 

"Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night. "

And then she added that she thought his mother was "wearying" to seehim, and that he should go home soon. 

"Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I havebeen in the parish of Kilgower. "

Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing verypale. 

"It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one shouldbe sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. Itwas asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned theleaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why. "

Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But ithad been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly. 

He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but Johnrefused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself:

"If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tellafter I had eaten his bread. "

Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemedinclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, evenfriendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. Hetold John about the country folk, and about the various farms which theypassed; and at last they came round by Grassie. 

"`It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likelysoon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, muchrespected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain hadgone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father'sdeath. '

"I kenned by this time what he was to be at, " said John to Allison, whenhe had got thus far. "And I thought it wiser to take the matter into myown hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of WilliamBain before. Where could it have been?

"`In the tollbooth, likely, ' said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for aminute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could notsay which. `Yes, it might. I have been there, ' I said. `I had afriend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once ortwice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been outbefore ever I went there. '

"I saw the change in the man's face when I said this. 

"`He was here in June, ' he said. `He's off to America now, and I wouldgive much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one cantrust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I'll winto the end o' the clue yet, ' he said. He had an evil look when he saidit. 

"I made haste over my work after that, " went on John, "for I could nottrust myself to listen. If he had named your name--"

John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out intothe darkness. 

The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrigappeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with himto see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm thatwas soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, andthe matter might as well be considered at once. 

On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden's name wasmentioned. 

"He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two orthree lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain amongthe rest"; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John couldnot hear, but he answered:

"I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheapand good, and skilled labour is well paid, " and so on. 

But Brownrig came back again to Bain. 

"That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing washe. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would havebeen glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and wouldgladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, yemight let me know. "

"I might possibly hear of him, " said John; "but it is hardly likely. "

He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had utteredthe name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But hewas not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the innand asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when themessage was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he couldstill "take care of himself, " or he thought so. He made some pretenceof having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in alittle, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemenceabout men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sightto see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose andwished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his"desertion, " as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay. 

He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild atthe thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain--thatthe time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her inhis power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to thelast. 

"Ye're wise to go your ways, " said the innkeeper, as John went into theopen air. "Yon man's no easy to do wi', when he gets past a certainpoint. He'll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as hecalls it, before he's done. He's like a madman, drinking himself todeath. "

John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listenedwhile the man went on to tell of Brownrig's marriage and all thatfollowed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon thedisappointed man. 

"She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her;and it's my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parishkenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she's safe in America bythis time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonderif he were to set out there in search of her some day. "

John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound ofBrownrig's angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on. 

It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking outlong into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading hiseyes with his hand. 

"I am glad to be going away, " said Allison, after a little; "and I thankyou for--all your kindness. "

"Kindness!" repeated John. "I would like to be kind to you, Allison, ifyou would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman. "

He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly. 

"I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;" and then sheadded: "But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. Ihave my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can goto Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away. "

John went to the window again. When he came back his face was verypale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her. 

"I am glad--yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for atime. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to comeafter? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?"

Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did notwithdraw her eyes from his. 

"Speak wisely, John, " said she. 

"Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man--that brute, Ishould rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God tobind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife?Would it be right for you to go to him?"

"Even if it were right, I could not go to him, " said she. 

"And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you aservant in another woman's house--a wanderer on the face of the earth?"

"He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away. "

"And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?"

"I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think--that Ipity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine--ifI only _get_ safe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should havetrusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong toresist him. "

John bent toward her and took her hand. 

"Will you use your strength against me, Allison?"

"No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf. "

"Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear, " he entreated, as sheput up her hand to stop him, "Yes, let me tell you all. From the firstmoment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day?Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was inlove with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambitionby striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened beforeme, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man amongmen. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despiseme? But love conquered. Love is strong and true. "

Allison's colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his;but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:

"John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, whatis due from him to her?"

"Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a longlife to do it. "

"John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does henot uphold her honour before the world?"

"We would go away together across the sea. "

"Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do notmake me doubt it. "

"Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that Ilove you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me. "

He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him. 

"And your mother, John?"

"She would forgive us, if it were once done. "

"And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know?No, John, it cannot be. "

"You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me. "

"Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you;but I could not go with you. No, I could not. "

"Allison, I could make you a happy woman, " said John, ending where hehad begun. 

"And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I haveay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?"

"Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, `John, I love you. '"

She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she methis eyes. But she did meet them bravely. 

"I think I might have learned to love you--as you said--but I will notdo you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will notbe lost. God be with you, and fare ye well. "

She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did nottake the hand which she held out to him. 

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"We shall be friends always, I hope. "

"Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothingbetween us. You must see that. "

She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes. 

"It cannot be all, " said she, speaking low. 

John turned and went away without a word. 

That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning intime to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison'sarms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed:

"Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?"

John looked up to see the tears in Allison's sad eyes, and his ownsoftened as he looked. 

"Good-bye, my friend, " said she. "Good-bye. "

Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand thistime, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, and in a moment they were gone. 

John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till itdisappeared around a corner of the street, "And now, " said he, "I mustto my work again. "

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

 "Will I like a fule, quo' he, For a haughty hizzie dee?"

There was work enough waiting him, if he were to carry out the plans hehad pleased himself with making, before ever he had seen the face ofAllison Bain. In one year more he had hoped to get to the end of hisuniversity course. If not in one year, then in two. After that, theworld was before him and hard work. 

"It has happened well, " he was saying to himself, as he still stoodlooking at the corner of the street. "Yes, it has happened well. I amglad she is gone away. If she had been staying on in Nethermuir, itmight not have been so easy for me to put her out of my thoughts. Ithas happened well. "

And then he turned and went down the street "with his nose in the air, "as was said by a humble friend of his who saw him, but whom he did notsee. 

"I must have my turn of folly like the lave (the rest), as auld Crombiewould say. And `it's weel over, ' as he would also say, if he kennedall. I must to my work again. "

Then he turned the corner and came face to face with the husband ofAllison Bain. John's impulse during the space of one long-drawn breathwas to knock the man down and trample him under his feet. Instead ofthis, in answer to Brownrig's astonished question, "Have you forgottenme?" John met his extended hand and stammered:

"I did not expect to see you. And for the moment--certainly--"

"I have been at Mr Swinton's office to see him or you. You are latethis morning. "

"I am on my way there now. Have you time to go back again? That is, ifI can do anything for you!"

"I'll go back with you. It is business I came down about. I am sorryto hear from Mr Swinton that you are thinking of leaving hisemployment. I was hoping that ye might have the overseeing of a jobthat the laird has nearly made up his mind to. "

"Oh! as to that, the matter is by no means settled yet, though I havebeen thinking about it. I may stay on. "

"A place in the employ of a man like Swinton, and I may add, after whatI have heard him say, --a place in his confidence also, must make goodstepping-stones to fortune for a young man. Where were you thinking ofgoing, if one may ask? To America, I suppose, like so many other folkin these days. "

"To America! Oh! no; I have no thought of leaving Scotland at present, or even of leaving Aberdeen. I intend taking a while at the college. Ibegan it when I was a lad. But my plans may fall through yet. "

"It would take time and it would take money, " said Brownrig. 

"That's true, but I have plenty of time before me. "

"Well, ye may be up our way after all. The laird has ta'en it intil hishead to have a new wing put to the house. It has as muckle need of anew wing as a Collie dog has o' twa tails, " said Brownrig--falling intoScotch, as some folk have a way of doing when they wish to becontemptuous or jocose, or indeed are moved in any way. "But if it isto be done, it is to be done well, and Swinton is the man, with you tooversee. "

"There could be little done this year, " said John. 

"Plans and preparations could be made. The work must be done in thesummer. "

Brownrig seemed to be thinking of something else, for when they came tothe corner of the street, he stood still, looking out toward the sea. John paused also for a moment, but he grew impatient and moved on. Allthis time he had been saying to himself:

"In some way I must keep this man in sight through the day and throughthe night as well, as long as he shall stay in the town. If he were tosee her now! If he were to follow her!"

John drew his breath hard at the thought. 

There was a long stair to go up before Mr Swinton's rooms could bereached, and when they came to the foot of it Brownrig paused. 

"I am not quite myself this morning, " he said. "I'll wait till later inthe day before I try to see Mr Swinton again. There's no specialhurry. "

"You are not looking very well, " said John gravely. "It would be aswise for you to wait a while and refresh yourself. I'll go with you abit of the way. "

They went back together till they came to the door of the inn. Johnrefused Brownrig's invitation to enter, and left him there. Then hetook his way to Robert's lodgings. Robert had not returned. 

"Can they be lingering yet?" said John to himself. "I must see thatthey are fairly away. "

In the street opposite the house where Mrs Esselmont had stayed, nocarriage was standing. John slowly passed the house and turned again, waiting for a while. Then he went toward the office. Looking in at theinn parlour on his way thither, he saw Brownrig sitting with a friend. There were a bottle and glasses between them, and judging that he was"safe enough for the present, " John went to his work. Brownrig paidanother visit to Mr Swinton the next day, but nothing was definitelyarranged between them as to the work which was to be done, and in a dayor two he went away. 

It must be owned that it went ill with John Beaton about this time. Hehad been in the way of saying to himself, and of saying to others also, whom he wished to influence, that the thing which a man desired with allhis heart to do, that he could do. Of course he meant only such thingsas were not in their nature impossible to be done. But after a while hewas not so sure of himself. 

While Brownrig had lingered in the town, John had been more or lessoccupied with thoughts of him. He had kept sight of him at most times. He had known where he was and what he was doing, and in what company. He had done this for the sake of Allison Bain, declaring to himself thatwhatever might be done to prevent her falling into the hands of the manwho called her his wife, it was right for him to do. 

But Brownrig showed no sign of knowing that Allison had been in thetown, and in a few days he turned his face homeward again. 

Then John had time to attend to his own affairs, and it went ill withhim for a while. He faced his trouble like a man, and "had it out withhimself, " as he might have "had it out" with friend or foe, with whom abattle was to be fought for the sake of assured peace to come after. 

Yes, he loved Allison Bain--loved her so well that he had been willingto sacrifice a hopeful future at home, and begin a life of labour in astrange land, so that she might share it with him. He had not tried toshut his eyes as to the right and wrong of the matter. He had seen thatwhich he had desired to do as other men would see it, and he had stillspoken. 

But Allison Bain did not love him. At least she did not love him wellenough to be willing to do what was wrong for his sake. And now it wasall past and gone forever. 

What, then, was his duty and interest in the circumstances?

To forget her; to put her out of his thoughts and out of his heart; tobegin at the work which he had planned for himself before ever he hadseen her face; to hold to this work with might and main, so as to leavehimself no time and no room for the cherishing of hope or the rebellingagainst despair, and he strengthened himself by recalling the many goodreasons he had seen for not yielding when the temptation first assailedhim. 

He ought to be glad that she had refused to listen to him. She had beenwise for them both, and it was well. Yes, it was well. This momentarymadness would pass away, and he had his work before him. 

And so to his work he determined to set himself. So many hours were tobe given to Mr Swinton and so many to his books. In thesecircumstances there would be no leisure for dreams or for regrets, andhe would soon be master of himself again. 

And he must lose no time. First he must go and see his mother. He hunghis head as he owned to himself how few of his thoughts had been givento her of late. 

All this while she had had many thoughts concerning him; and when, onenight, he came at last, wet and weary, through the darkness of aNovember night, she welcomed him lovingly, and uttered no word ofreproach or even of surprise at his long silence, or at his seemingforgetfulness of the plan which he had himself proposed. She was justas usual, more glad to see him than she had words to tell, and full ofinterest in all that he had to say. 

And John flattered himself that he was "just as usual" also. He hadplenty to say at first, and was cheerful over it. Of his own accord hetold her about the travellers, as he called them; how he had seen themat Robin's lodgings at night, and when they went away in the morning;and of how content little Marjorie seemed to be in Allison Bain's care, and how sure she was that she was coming home strong and well. 

"You'll need to go and tell her mother about it to-morrow, " said MrsBeaton. "She will be glad to hear about her, though I daresay they havehad a letter by this time. "

"Surely, I'll go to tell them, " said John. 

But he grew silent after that. He said a few words about how busy hehad been of late, and then he owned that he was very tired, and bade hismother good-night cheerfully enough. 

"For, " said he, "why should my mother be vexed by any trouble of mine, that is so sure soon to pass away?"

And his mother was saying, as she had said before:

"If he needs me, he will tell me, and if I cannot help him, silence isbest between us. For oh! I fear if all were told, there might be somethings said that his mother would grieve to hear. "

The next day passed as Sabbath-days at home usually passed. They wentto the kirk together in the morning, and John went alone in theafternoon. He led the singing, and shook hands with a good many people, and was perhaps more friendly with some of them than was usual with him. 

He went to the manse in the gloaming to tell them how he had seen thelast of Marjorie, how she had been happy and bright, and how she hadpromised to write a letter to him and to many more; but he nevermentioned Allison's name, Mrs Hume noticed, nor did she. 

He found his mother sitting by the light of the fire. She gave him herusual greeting. 

"Well, John?" said she, cheerfully. 

"Well, mother?" said he cheerfully also. 

There was not much more said for a while. John's thoughts were faraway, his mother saw, and she sat waiting with patience till they should comeback again--with a patience which might have failed at last. 

"He maybe needs a sharp word, " she thought. 

It could wait, however; and in a little she said gently:

"You are looking tired, John; you have been overworking yourself, Idoubt. "

John laughed. 

"Oh! no, mother; far from that. I have plenty of work before me, however, and must buckle to it with a will. You are thinking of comingwith me, mother? I hope your heart is not failing you at the thought ofthe change?"

"Failing me! by no means. Surely, I have been thinking of it andpreparing for it, and it is full time the change were made, for thewinter is drawing on. "

"Yes, the winter is drawing on. "

"But, John, I have been taking a second thought about the house. I mustgo to the town with you for the winter, and that for various reasons. Chiefly because you cannot come here often without losing your time, andI weary for you whiles, sorely. I did that last year, and this year itwould be worse. But I would like to be here in the summer. If I haveto part from you I would rather be here than among strangers. "

"But, mother, what has put that in your head? It is late in the day tospeak of a parting between you and me. "

"Parting! Oh, no. Only it is the lot of woman, be she mother or wife, to bide at home while a man goes his way. You may have to seek yourwork when you are ready for it; and I am too old and frail now to gohere and there as you may need to do, and you could ay come home to mehere. "

John's conscience smote him as he listened. He had been full of his ownplans and troubles; he had been neglecting his mother, who, since theday he was born, had thought only of him. 

"You are not satisfied with the decision I have come to--the change ofwork which I have been planning. "

His mother did not answer for a minute. 

"I would have been well pleased if the thought of change had never comeinto your mind. But since it has come, it is for you to do as you thinkright. No, I would have had you content to do as your father did beforeyou; but I can understand how you may have hopes and ambitions beyondthat, and it is for you to decide for yourself. You have your lifebefore you, and mine is nearly over; it is right that you should chooseyour way. "

John rose and moved restlessly about the room. His mother was hard onhim, he said to himself. His hopes and ambitions! He could havelaughed at her words, for he had been telling himself that such dreamswere over forever. It mattered little whether he were to work with hishead or his hands, except as one kind of work might answer a betterpurpose than the other in curing him of his folly and bringing him tohis senses again. 

"Sit down, John, " said his mother; "I like to see your face. "

John laughed. 

"Shall I light the candle, mother?"

"There is no haste about it. I have more to say. It is this. You maybe quite right in the decision to which you have come. You are youngyet, and the time which you may think you have lost, may be in yourfavour. You have a stronger body than you might have had if you hadbeen at your books all these years; and you have got experience, and Ihope some wisdom, that your books could not have given you. I am quitecontent that you should have your will. "

"Thank you, mother. That is a glad hearing for me. I could have hadlittle pleasure in my work, going against your wish and will. "

"Well, take pleasure in it now. If I held back for a while, it was onlythat I thought I saw a chance of a better kind of happiness for you. The sort of work matters less than we think. If it is done well, thatis the chief thing. And you have been a good son to your mother. "

"Thank you, mother. I hope you will never have to say less of me thanthat. And now is it settled?"

"Now it's settled--as far as words can settle it, and may God bless youand--keep you all your days. "

She had almost said, "comfort you!" but she kept it back, and said itonly in her heart. 

Though Mrs Beaton's preparations were well advanced, there was stillsomething to do. It could be done without John's help, however, and heleft as usual, early in the morning. It was a good while before he sawNethermuir again. 

In a few days his mother was ready to follow him. The door was shut andlocked, and the key put into the responsible hand of cripple Sandy forsafe keeping. It must be owned that John's mother turned away from thelittle house where her son had made a home for her, with a troubledheart. Would it ever be her home again? she could not but ask herself. It might be hers, and then it would also be his in a way--to come backto for a day or a week now and then for his mother's sake. But it couldnever more be as it had been. 

It was nothing to grieve for, she told herself. The young must go forthto their work in the world, and the old must stay at home to take theirrest, and to wait for the end. Such was God's will, and it should beenough. 

It was, in a sense, enough for this poor mother, who was happier in hersubmission than many a mother who has seen her son go from her; but shecould not forget that--for a time at least--her son must carry a sadheart with him wherever he went. And he was young, and open to thetemptations of youth, from which his love and care for his mother, andthe hard work which had fallen to his lot, had hitherto saved him. Howwould it be with him now?

"God guide him! God keep him safe from sin, " she prayed, as she wentdown the street. 

Mrs Hume stood at the door of the manse, waiting to welcome her, andthe sight of her kind face woke within the mother's heart a momentarydesire for the easement which comes with the telling of one's anxious ortroubled thoughts to a true friend. Loyalty to her son stayed theutterance of that which was in her heart. But perhaps Mrs Hume did notneed to be told in words, for she gave silently the sympathy which wasneeded, all the same, and her friend was comforted and strengthened byit. 

"Yes, " said she, "I am coming back again in the spring. It is more likehome here among you all than any other place is likely to be now; andJohn will ay be coming and going, whatever he may at last decide to do. "

Perhaps the silence of the minister as to John's new intentions andplans implied a doubt in his mind as to their wisdom. Mrs Beaton wassilent also with regard to them, refusing to admit to herself or to him, that her son needed to have his sense and wisdom defended. 

But they loved John dearly in the manse, and trusted him entirely, ashis mother saw with a glad heart. So her visit ended happily, and notrace of anxiety or regret was visible in her face when John met her ather journey's end. 

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. 

 "The very rod, If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart. "

And so their new life began, and long before the first month was over, Mrs Beaton was apparently as content with the state of affairs as couldwell be desired. She had no trouble as to household matters, and satwith her book or her needle at one side of the table, while her son satwith his books and his papers at the other side, very much as they haddone during those evenings which John had spent at home in Nethermuir. 

Robert Hume lived in the same house, and their meals were servedtogether. But Robert pursued his college work in his own room, and onlycame as a visitor to Mrs Beaton's parlour when his books were putaside. John still spent several hours daily in Mr Swinton's office, and all the rest of the time he was busy also with his college work. Tosee her son content, was enough for Mrs Beaton. 

To give the history of one day would be giving the history of nearly allthe days of the winter, except as the Sabbath made a break among them, Robin was reasonably industrious, but he could not be expected tosatisfy himself with the unbroken routine into which John readily fell. He had his own companions and his amusements, and their meals wereenlivened by his cheerful accounts of all that was happening in theworld around them. At his books Robert did fairly well, but he was notlikely to overwork himself. 

They heard often from Marjorie by the way of the manse, and severaltimes during the winter a little letter came to Robin or to John, written with great care and pains by her own hand. She was very happy, she said, and she had not forgotten them; and by and by she hoped to beable to tell them that she was growing strong and well. 

Twice or thrice during the winter Brownrig made his appearance at theoffice of Mr Swinton. He had, each time, something to say aboutbusiness, but apparently the laird had changed his mind about thebuilding of the new wing, for nothing more was to be done for thepresent. 

John could not help thinking that his chief reason for coming there wasto see him, in the hope that he might hear something about William Bain. More than once he brought his name into their talk, asking if MrBeaton had heard anything of him, and hoping that he was doing well. Onhis second visit, meeting John in the street, he turned and walked withhim, and told him that one of the lads who had sailed with Bain had beenheard from by his friends. The ship had been disabled in a storm beforethey were half-way over, and had gone far out of her course, but had gotsafely into a southern port at last. 

The passengers had gone their several ways probably, and lost sight ofone another, for this lad could tell nothing of Bain, though he hadhimself safely reached the town where Mr Hadden, the minister's son, lived, and to which Bain had also intended to go. "I thought perhapsyou or your friend might have had some word from him, as you had takensome trouble to help him, " said Brownrig. 

"No, that is not at all likely, " said John, "at least as far as I amconcerned. Neither likely nor possible. He never saw me, nor I him. He never, to my knowledge, heard my name, and it was only by chance thatI ever heard his. But I will give you the name of the man who used togo to the tollbooth on Sunday afternoons. It is just possible, thoughnot very likely, that he may have heard from him. "

John wrote the name and address, and gave it to him. 

"Have you been at the shipping office for news?" said he. 

Yes, Brownrig had been there, and had been told that the ship wasrefitting in the American port, and would soon be home, but that, wasall he had heard. Whenever it was possible to do so, John kept out ofthe man's way. He had spoken to him nothing but the truth, yet he couldnot help feeling like a deceiver. And though he told himself that hewas ready to lie to Brownrig, rather than say anything that might givehim a clue by which the hiding-place of Allison Bain might bediscovered, still lying could not be easy work to unaccustomed lips, andhe said to himself, "the less of it the better. " So he did notencourage Brownrig when they met, and he kept out of his way whenever itwas possible for him to do so. But he pitied the man. He was sorry forthe misery for which there could be no help, since Allison Bain fearedhim, even if she did not hate him. He pitied him, but he could not helphim to gain his end. Whether it were right or whether it were wrong, itwas all the same to John. He could not betray to her enemy the womanwho had trusted her cause in his hands. 

But while he pitied him, Brownrig's persistence in seeking him irritatedhim almost beyond his power to endure. And the worst of it to John was, that he could not put it all out of his thoughts when Brownrig hadturned his back upon the town, and had gone to his own place. 

He grew restless and irritable. He could not forget himself in his workas he had been able to do at first, nor fix his attention upon it atall, at times. He read the same page over and over again, and knew notwhat he read; or he sat for many minutes together, without turning aleaf, as his mother sometimes saw, with much misgiving as to how it wasall to end. And when it came to this with him, it was time for her tospeak. 

"John, my lad, " she said suddenly one night, and in her voice was themother's sharpness which is so delightful to hear and so effectual whenit is heard only at long intervals; "John, my lad, shut your book andput on your coat, and take Robin with you for a run on the sands, andthen go to your bed. "

John's dazed eyes met hers for a moment. Then he laughed and rose, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. 

"You are right, mother, as you always are. We'll away to the links;"and his cheerful voice calling up-stairs for Robin to come down at once, was music to the ears of his mother. 

"There's not much wrong with him, " she said to herself hopefully. "He'll win through, and begin again, when once he is fairly free. "

She meant that when "those weary examinations" were all over, he wouldhave time to rest and come to himself, and be ready for his work, whatever it was to be. And--hopeful old mother that she was--she meantmore than that. She meant, that before this son of hers, who was wiserand stronger and better than the sons of most mothers, lay a fairfuture. "The world was all before him where to choose. " He would onlybe the stronger for the weight of the burden which had fallen so earlyon his young shoulders. In time he would forget his dream, outlive hisdisappointment, and be not the worse, but the better for the discipline. He would go his way and serve his Master, and win honour among goodmen. "And I'll bide at home and hear of him whiles, and be content, "said the anxious, happy mother, with tears in her loving eyes. 

In the meantime John was on the sands, facing the wind, which drownedhis voice as he sang:

 "Will I like a fule, quo' he, For a haughty hizzie dee?"

But it was not the wind which silenced his song, for Allison Bain was no"haughty hizzie" of the sort, "Who frown to lead a lover on, " but a sadand solitary woman, who might have a sorrowful life before her. 

"To whom may the Lord be kind!" said John, with a softened heart. "Ilove her, and it is no sin to love her, since I may never see her faceagain. "

And many more thoughts he had which might not so well bear the telling;and all the time Robin was bawling into his inattentive ears an accountof a battle of words which had taken place between two of his friends, who had agreed, since neither would acknowledge defeat, to make himumpire to decide between them. 

When they, turned their backs to the wind and their faces homeward, hearing and answering became possible. They had the matter decided totheir own satisfaction before they reached the house, and their merrysparring and laughter, and the evidence they gave of an excellentappetite when supper-time came, might have been reassuring to MrsBeaton, even had she been more anxious than she was about her son. 

After that John was more careful of his looks and words and ways, whenin his mother's presence. All tokens of weariness or preoccupation ordepression were kept out of her sight; and, indeed, at all times he feltthe necessity of struggling against the dullness and the indifference tomost things, even to his work, which were growing upon him. 

He did his best against it, or he thought he did so. He forced himselfto read as usual, and when he "could make nothing of it, " he took longwalks in all weathers, so as to keep his "helplessness" out of hismother's sight, believing that when the necessity for exertion should beover--when he could get out of the groove into which it would haveperhaps been better that he had never put himself, all would be as ithad been before. And said he grimly:

"If the worse comes to the worst, I can but fall to breaking stonesagain. "

It ended, as it generally does end, when a man sets himself to do thework of two men, or to do in six months the work of twelve, in order togratify a vain ambition, or to lighten a heavy heart. It took no morethan a slight cold, so it was thought to be at first, to bring thestruggle to an end, and the work of the winter. 

There was a night or two of feverish restlessness, of "tossing to andfro until the dawning of the day, " a day or two of effort to seem well, and to do his work as usual, and then Doctor Fleming was sent for. Itcannot be said that there ever came a day when the doctor could not, with a good conscience, say to John's mother, that he did not think herson was going to die; but he was very ill, and he was long ill. Thecollege halls were closed, and all the college lads had gone to theirhomes before John was able, leaning on Robert's arm, to walk to thecorner of the street; and it may be truly said, that the worst time ofall came to him after that. 

He had no strength for exertion of any kind; and worse than that, he hadno motive, and in his weakness he was most miserable. It was a changehe needed, they all knew, and when the days began to grow long and warm, something was said about returning to Nethermuir for a while. 

"To Nethermuir, and the lanes where Allison used to go up and down withlittle Marjorie in her arms, to the kirk where she used to sit; to thehills which hid the spot where his eyes first lighted on her!"

No, John could not go there. He had got to the very depths of weaknesswhen it came to that with him--and of self-contempt. 

"There is no haste about it, mother, " said he. "The garden? Yes, but Icould do nothing in it yet. Let us bide where we are for a little. "

Robert, who had refused to leave while John needed him, went home now, and Mr Hume came in for a day. Robert had "had his own thoughts" for agood while, indeed ever since the day when John had gone to his morningwalk without him; but Robert had been discreet, and had kept histhoughts to himself for the most part. During John's illness the ladhad been about his bed by night and by day, and he had now and thenheard words which moved him greatly--broken words unconsciouslyuttered--by turns angry, entreating, despairing. Foolish words theyoften were, but they brought tears to Robin's "unaccustomed eyes, " andthey turned his thoughts where, indeed, all true and deep feeling turnedthem, toward his mother. 

Not that he had the slightest intention of betraying his friend'sweakness to her. How it came about he did not know--it had alreadyhappened more than once in his experience--before he was aware the wordswere uttered. 

They were going together, by special invitation from Delvie, to see thetulips in the Firhill garden. They went slowly and rested on the way, not that they were tired, but because the day was warm and the airsweet, and the whole land rejoicing in the joy of the coming summer; andas they sat in the pleasant gloom which the young firs made, looking outon the shadows of the clouds on the fields beyond, it came into Robin'smind that there could be no better time than this to tell his mothersome things which "by rights" ought never to have happened, but which, since they had happened, his mother ought to know. They should neverhappen again, he said to himself, and he swore it in his heart, when hesaw her kind eyes sadden and her dear face grow grave as he went on. 

Then when she had "said her say, " and all was clear between them again, he began to speak about John Beaton; and before he was aware, he wastelling her what he knew, and what he guessed of the trouble throughwhich his friend was passing; then he hung his head. 

"I never meant to speak about it, " said he. "It is only to your mother, Robin. And I have had my own thoughts, too. Oh! yes, many of them. Iam sorry for John, but he needed the discipline, or it would not havebeen sent, and he'll be all the wiser for the lesson. "

But there was no comfort in that for Robin. "It is like betraying him, mother, " said he. And when it was one night made known in the housethat his father was going to Aberdeen, and that his chief reason forgoing was to see how it was with John Beaton, Robin's eyes sought thoseof his mother in doubtful appeal. His mother only smiled. "Cannot youtrust your father, Robin?" said she. "I canna trust myself, it seems, "said Robin. "There's no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear thatill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother. "

"But other folk's secret thoughts?" said Robin. 

No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husbandof Robert's words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had keptto herself hitherto. Her husband's first idea was that it was a pitythat she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But thatwas not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for variousreasons. 

"He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not wellpleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him`a piece of my mind, ' now that he is down-hearted. It is you who mustgo. "

It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all thatwas to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he wasscarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by thetale she had told. 

"There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him, " said he. 

Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do bothhim and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see themwithout loss of time. 

It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planningon his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. "You have donehim good already, " Mrs Beaton's eyes said to the minister, when shecame in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, takinghis part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew wearyand bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more likehimself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when shewent to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had alreadysaid good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more. 

"I am afraid I have wearied you, lad, " said he; "and you were wearyenough before I came--weary of time and place, and of the words and waysof other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have theguiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you putyourself into my hands, John, for one day?"

"Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like. "

"We'll take one day of it first, if to-morrow be fair. "

The day was all that could be desired; clear, but with clouds now andthen, moving before the breeze, to make shadows for their delight, uponland and sea. 

They took a boat at the wharf and sailed away toward the north, having amutual friend--"auld Boatie Tamson"--for captain and pilot and crew. There was health in the smell of the sea, strength in every breath ofthe salt air, and rest and peace alike in their talk and in theirsilence, and all went well. 

After a time, when they had left the town far behind them, they turnedlandward to a place which Mr Hume had known in the days of his youth, and which he had sought with pleasure, more than once since then. AuldBoatie knew it also, and took them safely into the little cove which wasfloored with shining sands, and sheltered on three sides by great rocks, on which the sea birds came to rest; on the other side it was open tothe sea. Here he left them for the day. 

They had not many appliances for the comfort of the invalid, but theyhad all that were needed. A pillow and a plaid spread on the sand madehis bed, and another plaid covered him when the wind came fresh. In theunexplored basket which Mrs Beaton had provided they had perfect faithfor future needs, and so they rested and looked out upon the sea. 

They had not much to say to one another at first. Mr Hume had broughta book in his pocket, from which he read a page now and then, sometimesto himself and sometimes to his friend; and as John lay and listened, looking away to the place where the sky and ocean met, he fell asleep, and had an hour and more of perfect repose. 

How it came about, I cannot tell, but when he opened his eyes to meetthe grave, kind eyes of the minister, looking down upon him, there cameto him an utter softening of the heart--a longing unspeakable for therest and peace which comes with the sympathy, be it voiced or silent, ofone who is pitiful and who understands. 

The minister put forth his hand and touched the hand of his friend. 

"You have been at hard and weary work of late, John, or shall I say, youhave been fighting a battle with a strong foe? and it has gone ill withyou. "

John had no words with which to answer him. His lips trembled and thetears rose to his eyes. 

That was the beginning. They had enough to say to one another after alittle time; but not a word of it all is to be written down. Of somethings that passed between them neither ever spoke to the other again. Before all was said, John "had made a clean breast of it" to theminister, and had proved in his experience, that "faithful are thewounds of a friend, " and that "a brother is born for adversity. " Theyhad been friends before that day. Thenceforth they were brothers by astronger tie than that of blood. 

When John was brought home to his mother that night, she could not butbe doubtful of the good which their day had done him. But he was restedand cheerful in the morning, and she was not doubtful long. As timepassed, she could not but see that he was less impatient of his weaknessand his enforced idleness; that he was at peace with himself, as he hadnot been for many a day, and that he was looking forward to renewedstrength with a firmer purpose and a more hopeful heart. 

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. 

 "And so, taking heart, he sailed Westward, not knowing the end. "

Dr Fleming was by no means satisfied with the progress which hispatient was making. He had called at the house with Mr Hume, and hadexpressed himself very decidedly as to the desirableness of a change forthe young man, but he did not approve of Nethermuir, and he startledthem all by saying:

"What you need is a sea voyage. It will take time and it will takemoney, but it is the very thing you need to make a new man of you. Andthe sooner you go the better. " And then he went away. 

"You should go to America, John, where so many are going these days, "said the minister. 

Mrs Beaton looked from one to the other with appealing eyes; and seeingthis, John said nothing. Not a word more was spoken on the subject thatday nor the next. On the third, as they sat together by the fireside inthe gloaming, Mrs Beaton said:

"Well, John, what do you think?"

"Well, mother, I think the worst is over. I am growing stronger everyday. "

His mother smiled and shook her head. 

"You havena won far on yet, " said she. "But it was about the voyage toAmerica that I was wishing to hear. "

"It might do me good, but it is not absolutely necessary, I suppose. "

"You might take a voyage without going so far as America. "

"Yes, that is true. "

"And the sooner the better for us both, " said his mother, after a pause. 

"A voyage to America would be as safe as any other, though it would be along one. "

"Yes, it would be a long voyage. America is far, faraway. And when youwere once there, you might take it in your head to bide there. "

"And you wouldna like that, mother?"

"I mightna like it, but it might be for your good, for all that. "

"It wouldna be for my good to go away anywhere and leave my motherbehind me, " said John gravely. "Would you come with me, mother?"

"No, lad; no. I couldna do that for several reasons. But if you wereto go there, and should see a prospect of prosperous days, I mightfollow you. "

"Would you, mother dear?"

John rose and walked up and down the room a good many times. His motherwaited with patience till he sat down again. 

"Well, John?" said she. 

"Do you mean it, mother?"

"Surely I mean it, or I wouldna say it. I should like better that youshould content yourself at home. But it would be a new beginning. "

"Yes, it would be a new beginning, " said John gravely. 

"It would need to be that, even here, in some ways, I suppose, and a newbeginning might be easier there. "

"Have you been thinking about all that, mother?"

"Surely! What else have I to think about but that which concerns you, who have your life before you?"

"And wouldna you be afraid of the long voyage, and the going to astrange land and leaving all behind you?"

"I would have my fears, I daresay, like other folk; but I would have fewto leave if you were away; and I would have you to welcome me. "

"I might come home for you in the course of a year or two. "

"You could hardly do that without interfering with your work, whateverit might be. But I might come to you with some one else. I feel strongand well now. "

"You are none the worse for the winter, mother?"

"None the worse, but much the better, " said she cheerfully. And thenshe paused to consider whether it would be wise to say more. 

"It will hurt him, but it may help him as well, " she thought; and thenshe said aloud:

"I am far stronger than I was when I came here, and in better healthevery way. I may tell you now, since it is over, that all the lastsummer I was afraid--ay, sore afraid, of what might be before me. But Ihad a few words with Dr Fleming about myself, and he bade me put awaymy fears, for I had mistaken my trouble altogether. It was a greatrelief to my mind, and he helped my body as well. I am a stronger womanto-day than I ever thought to be. "

John, remembering the lingering illness of an aunt, knew or guessed whather fear had been, and he grew white as he met her eyes. 

"Are you sure, mother, " said he hoarsely, "that you are now safe fromall fear?"

"As sure as the word of a skillful doctor and honest man can make me. Yes, I think I may say I have no fear now. "

"And you kept this dread to yourself! Oh! mother! mother!" said John, covering his face with his hands. 

She had been enduring this trial--this great dread, in one way worse tomeet than suffering itself would have been; while he, full of himselfand his own plans and disappointments, had been taking no heed. 

"I have great reason to be thankful, " said Mrs Beaton softly; "and, John lad, what could I do, but keep my fears to myself till I was quitesure? You had your own trouble to bear, as I could well see, and itwould have made mine none the less to add to your pain. "

"Oh! mother! mother!" was all her son could say. 

"John, " said Mrs Beaton, after a time, "I think you might tell yourmother!"

John raised his head and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes as hecame over to her, and stooping, he softly kissed her. "Do you need tobe told, mother?" said he. 

These were the very first words which had passed between them concerningthe sorrow which had come to them both through Allison Bain, and theywere nearly all that were ever spoken. 

"I grieved for you, John, and I feared for you; but I trusted AllisonBain. If she does not love him, he is in no danger, I said. If sheloves him, she will withstand him for his own sake. "

"Be content, mother. She withstood me, whether she loved me or not. "

"I thank God for you both. May He ever lead you in His own way!"

Of course a voyage was to be taken. There was some hesitation as towhether John should avail himself of the opportunity offered by a shipwhich was to sail at once to bring home timber from Norway, or wait alittle longer for the _Griffin_, an emigrant vessel, bound for Quebec. There were already great steam vessels crossing the ocean--not many ofthem, however, at this time, but the long voyage would be rather anadvantage in John's case, and he made up his mind to go by the_Griffin_. But he said nothing to make any one suppose that he did notintend to return with her. There would be time enough to decide as tothe length of his stay, when he had seen the country. 

So the mother and son bade one another farewell for a while, and MrsBeaton was the more courageous of the two when it came to the last wordsbetween them. But they did not linger over last words. Robert Hume hadcome to say good-bye to his friend, and to take care of Mrs Beaton onher homeward journey to Nethermuir, and he was amazed at John's"down-heartedness. "

"Oh! man! if I only had your chance! Or if I were going with you!" saidhe, and John echoed his wish. 

He had been a good many days out of sight of land, before he began totake himself to task for his utter inability to feel, or to profess aninterest in that which was going on about him. He was, indeed, verydown-hearted, as Robert had said. He said in his foolishness:

"My days are past. My purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of myheart. "

And he told himself that, except for his mother's sake, it did notmatter whether he made his home in America or in Scotland, or whether heshould ever make a home at all. But this melancholy did not continuelong. Little by little the salt winds brought him health and strength. They blew away his foolish fancies, and soothed the smart of a painreal, and ill to bear. Then he began to see and to interest himself inthat which was going on in the little world around him. 

There were all sorts of people in it--fathers and mothers, and littlechildren, young men and maidens. There were doubtful characters amongthem, it is to be supposed; some of them seemed to be poor enough, andsome were evidently "well-to-do. " All were alike cheerful and notafraid of the future, for they were all looking forward to having landof their own and a fair chance in the new world. 

John made acquaintance with many, and made friends with a few, and gotgood, and tried to do good among them. There is time to makeacquaintance during a voyage which lasts for weeks, and the seventh weekwas over before they anchored within sight of the citadel of Quebec. 

There are letters still in existence in John's handwriting--greatsheets, larger than common foolscap, written in small, even characters, like "copper-plate, " and so written that every available hairbreadth ofspace is covered, except that part which, when the elaborate process offolding was accomplished, was left blank for the address. There are agood many of these letters, and there is great variety both as to matterand to manner among them, some of them being addressed to his mother andothers to the minister and to Robert. Altogether, they might affordmaterial for a very full account of John's first impression of thescenery, the climate, the character of the people, the state of moralsand manners, of education and religion in the new country to which hehad come. 

When they fell into John's hands many years after they were written, heenjoyed the reading of them greatly. He was very proud of thehandwriting for one thing, and pleased with the evidence they gave ofhis patient and faithful efforts to satisfy his correspondents, both asto the quantity and the quality of the information conveyed. 

His descriptions of natural scenery, of the grand river Saint Lawrence, the mountains, the islands, the great falls of Niagara, were veryfine--"perhaps a little too fine"--he acknowledged. But his opinions asto the state of morals and manners, education and religion, and Americaninstitutions generally, were greatly modified by the time he read hisletters again; his "first impressions" may therefore be omitted in hisstory, and his adventures also, which were not of extraordinaryinterest, even to himself, until he came to the town of Barstow in theUnited States, the only town in all America which at that time had anyspecial attraction for him. 

In those days Barstow used to be spoken of as a Western town; but somany new States have been made since then, and so many towns and citieshave risen up far to the westward, that it is now regarded as belongingto the eastern part of the great republic. It was not a large town whenJohn Beaton first saw it. It had a few long, tree-shaded streets, wherethe great square, white houses, stood far apart, with pleasant lawns andgardens about them. Even the business streets were wide and clean, andhad trees growing in them; and, altogether, "the place gave one the ideaof plenty of elbow room, " as John told Robert Hume in the first letterwhich he wrote there. 

But he did not tell Robert or any one else why he had turned his facethitherward. 

Before Dr Fleming had ended the sentence which declared that a seavoyage would be the best thing for his patient, John was saying tohimself, that to the town of Barstow, where Alexander Hadden lived, andwhere William Bain was likely to go at last, wherever he might belingering now, he should first direct his steps when his voyage wasended. If such a thing were possible, Allison's heart should be set atrest concerning her brother. 

But now that he was there, for a reason which he could not well havedeclared to any one, he hesitated to apply to Mr Hadden for theinformation which he desired. It would be more natural and moreagreeable to them both, he thought, that meeting William Bain as it wereby chance, he should claim him as a countryman, and strive to win hisconfidence first of all. Afterward, he might be able to help andinfluence him. And it was too likely that he would need both help andinfluence. 

That this lad who, not through wickedness perhaps, but through weaknessand folly, had brought sorrow on all who loved him, would have strengthand wisdom to resist all temptation, and begin a new life in a new land, was hardly to be believed. Alone, homesick, remorseful, there waslittle hope of his doing well without help from some one. 

"And whatever else I may do, I must first find Willie Bain and help himas he may need, for Allison's sake. "

But time was precious, and John's purse was not very deep; and if hewere to see anything of this wonderful country, he told himself, he mustnot linger long in Barstow. But he did linger day after day. He didnot seem to care so very much for seeing the country. He was growingwell and strong, and to get health and strength was his motive forcrossing the sea. He was as well here as elsewhere, and here he muststay. It seemed to be "borne in upon him, " that there was something forhim to do in the place. 

When several days had passed, he made up his mind that he would go tothe bank and see Mr Hadden, and he went. It was too late to see himthat day. Mr Hadden had gone home. On that night something happened. John met the man whom he was seeking, face to face. 

It could be no one else, he said to himself. For the eyes which met hisfor a moment were the beautiful, sad eyes of Allison Bain. "Now, Godguide me!" said John in strong entreaty, and then he followed the lad. He followed him down one street and up another, and out into the countryalong the lake shore. The stranger moved more slowly as he went on andstopped at last; and, leaning upon a broken fence, looked out long uponthe water. 

"I'm not so very strong yet, " said John to himself, as he paused also, for his heart was beating hard and his hands trembled. 

While he hesitated whether he should speak at once or wait a while, thelad turned and began to retrace his steps. John addressed him as hepassed. "Can you tell me if I am on the right road to--to--Jericho?"said he, at a loss for a name. "No, I cannot tell you. I am a strangerhere. "

"A stranger? So am I. And you are a Scotchman, I ken by your tongue. So am I. We are both strangers in a strange land. "

If John had had time to think, he might not have spoken in this way, butit is very likely he might have said nothing which would have answered abetter purpose. The lad turned and looked at him. 

"Yes, I am a stranger. I have no friends--no one, " he said huskily, andthe tears came into his eyes. 

"I have no friends on this side of the sea, and not so very many beyondit--besides my mother. "

This, also, was a stupid sort of thing to say, he owned, when he came tothink of it, and then he added:

"I have heard that this is a fine country to get on in. "

"Yes, so they say. "

They went on in silence, and very slowly, the stranger walking wearily, as John could see. 

"I am done out, " said he at last, stopping and leaning against a tree. 

"Yes, so I see. Have you far to go? I will go with you. "

"I have nowhere to go. I came here yesterday, and I slept last night ina boat by the wharf. "

"Then ye'll just come with me, " said John heartily, giving him his armto lean upon. He would have liked to ask his name, but he did not. They walked on slowly, till they came to the house where John wasstaying. 

"I have brought a friend, " said he to the mistress of the house. "Hewill share my room, and I will be responsible for him. "

"He looks sick, " said the woman gravely. "I hope you realise what youare undertaking?"

John _thought_ he "realised" it, but he did not. It would have made nodifference, however, if he had. His new friend tossed and muttered allnight, and in the morning was unable to raise his head from the pillow, and that was but the beginning. Many days passed before he was able todo so. He was light-headed much of the time, and uttered a great manynames, some of them angrily enough, and some of them with love andlonging unspeakable. It was, "Oh! mother! mother!" Or, "Oh! Allie!Allie! where are you gone?" through the whole of one painful night whenhe was at the worst, till the dawn brought sleep at last, and a respite. 

He grew better after a while, and the visits of the doctor ceased, buthis strength came slowly and his spirits failed him often. The house inwhich they lodged stood near the water's edge. The heat was great inthe middle of the day, and at night the wind which came from the lakewas damp and chill. John saw that a change of place was needed, and hewould fain have carried him away to get the fresh air of the country. 

"A change is what he needs. We can manage it for a day now and then, toget somewhere, " said John to himself; "and then--I must to work again. "

He knew, or he supposed, that if he applied to Mr Hadden, who had thereputation of being a rich man who did much good with his money, allwould be made easy to this stranger; but he himself had the best rightto have the pleasure of helping Allison's brother; and he said tohimself:

"I'll bide a wee. He has not mentioned Mr Hadden's name, nor his own, for that matter. Yes, I'll bide a wee, and we'll manage it in someway. "

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. 

 "Let us be content to work-- To do the thing we can, and not presume To fret because 'tis little. "

And it was managed very much to John's satisfaction, and very easilymanaged. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning homewith his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for alittle way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute. 

"Well, yes, I guess so--just as well as not. Glad of your company, "said he, after a second glance at John's face, and away they wenttogether. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, ashe took his leave of them. 

"If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you've come farenough, " said he, when they came to the top of the hill. 

He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and herethey spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while hispatient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them. 

What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands?Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever wasupon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in lettingJohn do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietlyand naturally as they were cheerfully given. 

And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For thelad's sake something must be said, something must be done. 

"He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave, " said John, thinking rather of the lightness of hispurse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get homeagain. 

"Yes, we must lose no time, " he repeated, and looked up to meet thelad's eyes fixed on him. 

"You have never told me your name, " said he gravely. 

John laughed. 

"Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?"

"No, I have never heard it. "

"And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name isusually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, whenthey wish to become friends. "

There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little. 

"I have been thinking--I mean I call myself William Leslie. "

"And is that your name?" asked John gravely. 

"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matterin this new country? My name is nothing to any one. "

"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was myfather's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to becalled a lord, " said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have donenothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?"

"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if itwould give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyesflashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish tohave my name forgotten, and--for Allie's sake. "

He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John didan extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over hisfriend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then herose and turned his back upon him. 

While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summershower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now?Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other sideof the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, anddown over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could notmake otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grainstretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work amongthe hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelterbefore the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stoodnear, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming ofthe wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, andin another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with hisfriend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of thebarns on a bed of fragrant hay. 

"I must go back for the plaid and the basket, " said he; and stoopingdown, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mindthat you are Willie Bain. "

He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door. 

"Drive right in under cover, Sam, " said the farmer, who followed. "Iexpect we'll have to leave it here. We can't unload in time to do muchmore. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it hadonly held up another hour!"

The man slid down from the load and made for the field. 

"Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up, " soliloquisedthe farmer. "I 'most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!"

But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making thegreatest possible haste to the field. 

"Perhaps I might help you to unload, " said John from the dimness of thebarn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second. 

"I don't know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitchthe hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead. "

John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed inembarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threwdown into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what thefarmer called "pretty considerable quick time. " And then he saw WilliamBain sitting with John's plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in thecorner. 

"Well! it seems to me that we're goin' to have company, " said he. 

"We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But Iwas afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so weventured to take possession of your barn. "

"All right. It's nothing catching he's had, is it? He'd better goright into the house, hadn't he?"

But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took hisplace on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field. 

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if we saved most of it now. It's justpossible--with your help, " added he, nodding in a friendly way to John. As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out:

"See here, Myra; there's company out there in the south barn. You tellgrandma she'd better have him in, and see to him. There's nothingcatching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make himcomfortable; and she'll like nothing better. "

The rain "held up" for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with thehelp of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down intorrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer wastriumphant. 

Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found WillieBain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under theguardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasureall her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was agood sight for John to see. 

"He'll do now, " said he to himself. "He has fallen into good hands. Ionly wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him upagain. "

"Be you brothers?" said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look withwhich John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them. 

"We are fellow-countrymen, " said John, "and that makes brothers of ushere in a strange land. "

The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had beenstrangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of hislife has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong'shouse. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worthremembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming intothat long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglowfrom the west, when the first heavy shower was over. 

There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright woodfire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arrangedcandlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaintand pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a talllooking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in anothercorner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. Thetable was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfectin neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and thefarmer's wife and his "little daughter, " as Jacob Strong called aslender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother'schair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was agood day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong andhis household proved true friends to them. 

Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Biblehad been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Notthat either of the patriarch's names fitted him exactly. He was not a"supplanter, " and though he was on the right side, as no one who knewhim well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell hischaracter in two words, it would not have been as "a soldier of God"that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very likethe patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he waswily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, andwhen it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, tomeet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who tookreasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do itwithout wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of twogood women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved himwell, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for hissingleness of heart before God. 

Of course John's knowledge of his character came later, and by slowdegrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in histalk, which was at once "worldly wise and heavenly simple, " as heafterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong innature as in name. He could "hold on. " He had paid every dollar whichhis farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on othermen's farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of hiswife, "who each carried a good head on her shoulders, " as he told John, he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to thefirst hundred, and later, when "the Western fever" set in, and peoplebegan to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made outthere in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, andJacob's two hundred acres became four. 

"And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labourcomes to cost less, which won't be for a spell, as things look now, "said he. 

All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting. Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in MrsStrong's south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for themto know about the lad, --how, though he had known friends of his at home, he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on thelake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and caredfor him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant tostay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he wouldstay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time. 

Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where theylived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in themorning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend. And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took hisdeparture. 

Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right thatMr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and nextmorning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was agood deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. Itwas not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reasonwas soon made clear to him. 

John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name hadbeen mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who hadbeen willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and whowished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of hismeeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in fallinginto the hands of the kind people out at the farm. 

"It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be inno better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longerhe is there, the better it will be for him. "

"I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willingto keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for himto-night. "

Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the restof the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort ofwork there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his handwith a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came atlast to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said tohimself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, anddo his best for a while at least. 

But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day whenhe first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned hisshilling before he laid the hammer down again. 

"I might have done better, but then I might have done worse, " headmitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. "And if I take it upagain, it need not be `for a continuance, ' as auld Crombie would say. Imust see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way. "

He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wageswere to be decided upon when his first day's work should be done, and itneed not be said that his wages were of the best. 

When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden hadbeen there before him. Willie Bain's first word to him was:

"Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?"

"Do ye no' mind that, till last night you never told me your name? Howwas I to ken?" added John, as Willie hung his head. "I did ken you assoon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She issafe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she iscoming out here to you. "

Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down hischeeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she hadnow gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forwardto the time when she might join her brother, so that they might haveagain a home together. 

"And, Willie, my lad, " added John, gravely, "if I had a sister likeyours, I would make a man of myself for her sake. "

"You are a man already, " said Willie, with a sound which might have beeneither a laugh or a sob. "As for me--yes, I ken I havena been takingright care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder. But now I have you, and I _will_ be a man for Allie's sake. "

There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had notbeen "taking care of himself, " but John had spoken no word whichbetrayed his knowledge. 

They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making agrateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, John lending his strength to help his friend's weakness; and he asked:

"Would you not like to stay here a little while?"

"Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I meansometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the newways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bidehere for a while. "

He spoke eagerly and hopefully. 

"I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then, " said Willie, looking up at John with Allie's wistful eyes. 

"She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought forhere--in Mr Hadden's neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I thinkit is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. It_is you who_ would be _looking_ up to her, because she is wiser thanyou, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. Thatmight be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far moremanly for you to learn to stand by your own strength--to walk by yourown wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things, " saidJohn, gravely. 

"Do ye ken Allie well?" asked Willie, looking up into his friend's face. 

John hesitated a moment. 

"I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I knowthat she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must bestrong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely indifficult places, so that all those who _do_ know her well, respect her, and some few people love her dearly--my mother among the rest. "

"You must tell me all about her some time, " said Willie, with glisteningeyes. 

"Yes, " said John. Then he paused before he added:

"I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you shouldsay nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one. "

Willie withdrew his hand from John's arm, and turned upon him with aface white with anger. 

"Married! Happy! I'll swear that he has never touched her hand, norlooked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?"

"Thank God!" said John; "and may he never touch her hand, nor look uponher face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now. "

Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him moreabout his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how theyhad valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father andmother had intrusted to Allison's care, and of the child's love for her, and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for thechild. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no onewould harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont's care. John talked ontill the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea. 

The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in togetherwere:

"You don't think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, doyou? I don't think you had better--for a day or two, at least. "

It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree withthe dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a littlestronger. 

"We're glad to have him stay. Don't you say a word about it, " was theyounger Mrs Strong's answer, when John tried to thank her for all theirkindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until heshould be strong and well. 

"You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. You could pay your way and his too, and have something over, " said MrStrong. 

But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make longhours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for awhile. 

"Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here aswell as there. "

And John answered:

"Yes, I will be glad to come. "

Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke forthemselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strangeto John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Faceto face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed naturalenough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself. 

"Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happenedwell, and--not by chance, " added he, reverently, recalling many a one athome who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place--andthinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be"remembering" both him and his friend there. 

It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, beforeall the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, insearch of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. Therewas room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and tolive honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he betteredhimself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours, and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, newcomers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend wereliked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome whichthey got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy dayscame to them through the friends they found there, before all was done. 

It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in thosecircumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he wasstrong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If hehad found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himselfwith leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision ofMr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriendhim. But John could not quite free himself from a sense ofresponsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of himfor a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. Hewould not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant totravel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might dosomething toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison'ssake. 

So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day's work with the rest. Itwas hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat, and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, andhe was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he washimself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for hiswork as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter whichhe sent her, after he began. 

He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As noone else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessaryto speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearingof some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write toAllison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John'skindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him. 

Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question, whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where hewas, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more thanonce in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to himshould he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no hasteabout it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and hemust have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was notmaking a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him tobe alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do thevery best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for hismother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst ofkind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than contentto join him when the right time came. 

And so John followed his mother's counsel. He kept his eyes open and"worked away, " and by the end of the first year, he began to see his wayclear to "the measure of success" which his mother desired for him. Hehad proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those whohad employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a onebesides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, atthat time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town ofBarstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances ofsome of the people who lived in the big white houses among the treesalong the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a fewweeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down. 

The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year, were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendlywith him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and becausehe was a friend of William Bain's. Afterward, they were more thanfriendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprisein finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of widereading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymenwho had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beatonwas different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, inthat it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made forunconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certainways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but ofwhich it is desirable that one should be aware. 

But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. Henever had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had "kept himself tohimself, " as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must beowned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and inone or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He hadno time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but hemight have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had notmuch leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years, he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and inconnection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged, he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his bestfriends. 

All that need be told of the first three years of his residence inBarstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his motherabout that time. 

"You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desireof your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired forme nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father haddone, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I amdoing. There is this difference between us--that I have got `a measureof success' on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man, and I have no desire to be one--though even that may come in time. ButI stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. Ihave `got on' well even for this country, where all things move morerapidly than with us at home. 

"I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They havehelped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence. I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, butthey have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends. 

"Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will ownthat I have sometimes wearied of them--and of everything else. Butone's life must go on till God's will brings it to an end, and I know ofno other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as Ihave told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along. 

"And now, dear mother--when are you coming home?--For this is to be yourhome, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you canwait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on indifferent parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house islaid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath themaple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinksevery night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and Ishall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home. 

"I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall bequite content when that time comes. 

"William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. Hewas wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back sincethen. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannotblame them for their advice--or rather, for their silence. And I cannotblame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her--Amen. "

And so the letter ends, without even his name. 

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. 

 "Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child. "

"Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?" said MarjorieHume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend's face, for Allisonhad said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time. 

They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, andMarjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying itall so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison wasenjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her facewas very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had notseen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the childrepeated the question:

"Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?"

"I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to herfather and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see usagain. "

"And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants youagain. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be aywishing to win away to your brother in America--at least for a while?"

"No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needsme. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and hashis house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry, " said Allison, after a pause. "And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It istoo early yet to see Dr Fleming. "

"But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long--thesea that has helped to make me strong and well. "

"It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is asbonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the samesun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time tolose. "

They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, a hand was laid on Allison's arm, and looking up she met the eyes of onewhom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him lookingsorrowfully down on the face of her dying father. 

"Mr Rainy!" cried she, faintly, thinking of that day. 

"Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where haveyou been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as Icame down the street. I must believe in a special Providence afterthis. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! hereye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, hewould say, `Put yourself into my old friend's hand, and be advised andguided by him, and ye'll never have cause to repent it. ' And now I sayit for him. "

Allison shook her head. 

"I cannot do that--blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidancethat you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child. "

"The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is, " saidMr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. "And whose child may she be?"

"She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service allthis time, and I need help from no one. "

"In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I'll be bound! Well! well!And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour thathas gone by since you--were lost sight of. That is well. "

"It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me toaccount, " said Allison, coldly. 

Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the streettogether. 

"A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did beforeyou. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise. "

"Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I mightcome to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that youhave seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my firstfear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see DoctorFleming. But first we are going down to the sands. "

And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of MrsEsselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left himstanding there. 

Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of thelaird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the greathouse on the laird's business, he had given counsel to Allison's fatherwith regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawingnear his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, toset his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, forthe benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstancesof Allison's unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when thematter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declaredhis conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base. 

But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to findher. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love himwhen he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the leastAllison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. Shemight come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the finethings, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her lifelike the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over. For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect heowed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, thatmight avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that shewould remain within a short day's journey of the place where all herlife had been spent. 

Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said tohimself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her fatherand her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For hermarriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she hadforgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because sheloved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she wouldhave laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp ofa brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who hadmarried her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house itmight have gone ill with them both. 

"But it is different now, " he said to himself, as he went down thestreet. "Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he hasknown little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. Andhis heart is softening--yes, I think his heart must be softening. Hemight be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when hemarried her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must bebrought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him. A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see himat once. "

Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for thedoctor had much before him in his day's work. The patience with whichhe listened, soon changed to eager interest. "It is about Brownrig--theman whose horse fell with him in the street--that I want to ask. He wasbrought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him. "

Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told thestory of Allison Bain. 

"I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, thoughshe did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she namedyour name, and I thought you might help in the matter. "

Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain. He had never been told her story before; but through some words spokenby Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that she _had_ a story, and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all thisto Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:

"What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or todie. " And then he added, with an oath, "If I thought he might live, Iwould not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of aman like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if heis to die--that is another thing. "

Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into hisconfidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these twotogether, and he said no more. 

"I will see the man to-day, " said the doctor, gravely. 

As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allisonand Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first. 

"My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little MarjorieHume. You'll mind on me, I think. "

Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, kissed her, "cheek and chin. "

"My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?"

"Oh! yes. I'm quite well and strong now--just like other bairns. I'mnot very big yet, " added she, as he set her down again. "But I am well. Allie will tell you. "

Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling. 

"She is much better indeed, " said she. 

"You should say quite well, Allie dear, " urged Marjorie, in a whisper. 

"Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see youbefore going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But yourtime is precious. "

"Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I willcome round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions toask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?"

No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet themwhen they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked aquestion or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them withinterest till they passed round the corner out of sight. 

When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping onthe sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. Ithappened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could beanswered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not beconsidered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and inanswer to the doctor's questions Allison told briefly and directly allthat he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at thefulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that thedoctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; andsometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively asthey were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by DrThorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded itup, he said:

"The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and awise man. That is well seen in his works and his words. "

"Yes, " said Allison. "You are right there. "

She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colourcame into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on. 

"I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just towish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had muchhope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case infull earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure ofseeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help andhealing. But in a while, it was not just a _case_ with him. He sooncame to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle littlecreature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, aswhiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne allshe has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not adoctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, youwill excuse my saying so much, " said Allison, pausing suddenly, as shecaught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her. 

"Oh! yes. I understand well. " And then he opened his letter and read aline or two. 

"`It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in ithas paid me ten times over for my trouble. '"

"I am sure of it, " said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. "I couldnever tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life. It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been sovery sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been sparedthe trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though manywould have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, andsuffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that shehas been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to seeher father's face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaksin earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child. "

Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a fewwords more from it. 

"`You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm andgentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without herconstant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. Sheis a woman among a thousand--a born nurse--'"

Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes. 

"Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because--if a time shouldcome when--"

And then she paused as she met Marjorie's wondering eyes. The doctorhad something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He hadcome with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison ofBrownrig's condition. But he could not bring himself to do it. 

"I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. Heis not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likelyto move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not byany words about him, spoil her happy homecoming. "

"A happy homecoming!" It was that truly. When they came to the mill, where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would haveliked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at thepoint where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see thatshe could walk, and even run, "like the other bairns. " And theneverybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sendingher away to a good man's care. But Robert laughed at her, and saidthere would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her veryfirst steps at home. 

The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of peopleto see them as they passed down the street. Every window and doorshowed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie shesmiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; andthere were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, beforeshe made the turn which brought the manse in sight. 

And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in hisarms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting forher, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removedall this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long. 

For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was thelittle sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in along white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass oftwo years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was inAllison's arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasantconfusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described. 

That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one cameto the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. Andnow she was "strong and well, " she told them all, and the eager, smilingface was "bonnier and sweeter than ever, " her admiring friends agreed. 

And those who could not come to see her, she went to see--auld Maggieand the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all hertroubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. Sowere some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from thestreets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of thechild. 

In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drinktea at Mrs Beaton's, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beatonread to them bits out of her John's last letters, which told a good manyinteresting things about America, and about John himself, and about afriend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerlyand asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into herold friend's kindly face with wistful eyes. 

That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back againto hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heardbefore, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some thingsto tell John's mother, which she had not heard from her son, though shemight have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing successin his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make itclear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and whohad helped one another through the time when they were making the firstdoubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. ButWillie had told his sister of his friend's success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for "kenning a good man when they sawhim. "

"For, " said Willie, "it is not just an imagination, or a way ofspeaking, to say, that in this land `all men are free and equal. ' Ofcourse, there are all kinds of men--rich and poor, good, bad, andindifferent--here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim aright to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place thananother because of his family, or his father's wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, thatbring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friendsenough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work. 

"He has been a good friend to me--better than I could ever tell you, andnothing shall come between us to separate us, _that_ I say, and swear. Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I mightgive myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do notthink I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. There is surely no danger now after nearly three years. "

All this Allison read to John's mother, and there was something morewhich, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might givepleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter hadbetrayed, that the "something" which was never to be permitted to comebetween the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty andwayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, whereshe had been for a year or more, "has been as changeable as the windwith me, " wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more thanfriendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then hewent on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther Westbefore he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made uphis mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at firstintended to do. 

The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and wasgoing to build a house upon it. 

"It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. Johnsaved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all hisgoodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold arod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would behard for him to part from her. 

"The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before Itake up land of my own--and you must come when I have got it--"

All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bringherself to read it to Mrs Beaton. 

"He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell itto me. I am glad--or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poorlad. "

And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie camestumbling in. 

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. 

 "Show me what I have to do, Every hour my strength renew. "

"Mistress Beaton, " said the old man, "it is a liberty I am taking totrouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to getspeech o' Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when Imay see her, and it is of importance. "

Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile. 

"I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me, " said she. 

"That's neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again. Ye hae been doin' your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae thegrace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, orwill I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen. "

"And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself, " said MrsBeaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she wasabout to leave the room. 

"Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, thatyou may not hear. "

The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, lookingtired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself asAllison spoke. 

"That is as ye shall think yoursel'. This is what I hae to say to you. I hae heard o' yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say toyou, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed. Ay woman! ye'll need to go. It's no' atween you and him now, but atweenyou and your Maker. "

"It has come at last, " said Allison, growing pale. 

Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly inboth hers. 

"It was an accident, " went on Crombie. "He had been drinking toofreely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but theyfound him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead--it was supposedat first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet. He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and he _may_ live to leave theplace, but it's less than likely. "

"And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?" asked MrsBeaton, gravely. "And are you quite sure it is true?"

"Oh! ay, it's true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel'to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me comehere to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I'm thinking. The man'sname wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen himbefore. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o'his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to mewho am the only one here beside yoursel' who kens how these twa stand toane anither?"

But Mrs Beaton's heart sickened at the thought of what might be beforeAllison. 

"What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good handsdoubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?"

"That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there isno saying `wherefore?' to a message from the Lord. And it is betweenthe Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now. "

But Mrs Beaton shook her head. 

"I canna see it so. If he really needed her--if it were a matter oflife and death--"

"A matter of life and death! Do ye no' see, woman, that it is for morethan that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye notunderstand, that a' the evil deeds o' a' his evil life will be comingback now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, andno' among the least o' them the evil he brought on her and hers? Andwhat kens he o' the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard ofsalvation from death through faith in the Son of God?"

Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all weresilent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:

"And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubtsupon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were tosee her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, itmight encourage him to hope in God's mercy, and to lippen himsel'--sinner as he kens himsel' to be--in the hands of Him who is gracious, and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of beingthe means, in the Lord's hand, of saving a sinner like that!"

The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison's face, spokeearnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into hischair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, Allison rose and went out into the kitchen. 

"Mr Crombie, " said Mrs Beaton, softly, "it is a great thing that youare asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak noword to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright. "

The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless. 

"You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out, " said MrsBeaton. 

"Ay, have I. And it's no' just done yet, and there is a dark house anda silent at the end o't. But I'll win through it. "

In a few minutes Allison came in quietly. 

"Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some teafor you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home. "

He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose andwent with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fireburned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first herefused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leanedback and seemed ready to fall asleep again. 

"Mr Crombie, " said Allison, stooping and speaking low, "I will think ofwhat you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guideme. Wait here till I come back again. "

She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist's men on his way to the mill withhis cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingeringabout the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in hispresent state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone. Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safelysent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street, and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked atone another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubledand anxious than Allison herself. 

"My dear, " said she, "it looks as if all these years that you have beenkept safe from his hands, had been in vain. "

"No, " said Allison, "much good has come to me in those years. They havenot been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell mewhat I ought to do. "

"My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide. Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what maybe before you? Think of living your life--ten--twenty years with a manlike that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no onecan really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comesto part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it isright for you to do. " Allison sat silent. 

"It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stoodfirm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine--farmore than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of Hiswill in this thing, I wouldna be afraid. "

"But, Allison! Think of your brother. "

"Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong. "

"Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, atleast take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken bysurprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself dowhat can never be undone. "

"No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting somethingto happen ever since I came back again. " And then Allison told of hermeeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spokento her of Brownrig. 

"He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say, has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have beenpreparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be fareasier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all whoknow me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. Myonly thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going. Yet I believe I was guided here. "

Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look andlisten, astonished, as she went on. 

"Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And Ithink--I believe, that I wish to follow God's wul in this, whatever itmay be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel. "

"You have the minister--and Mrs Hume. "

"Yes, I might speak to them--I must speak to them, " said Allison, with asigh. "I _must_ say something to them. They know nothing of me, exceptwhat they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they willblame me much, when they know all. "

Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either bythe minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But inseeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son wentaway, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew evenmore of John's disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. Shehad made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silencewas best. 

As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped orcomforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply anddeliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious, and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whetherin mercy or in judgment. Could it be God's will that Allison's lifeshould be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him?Surely, surely not. 

Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie's words:

"Life and death! It is the matter of a soul's salvation! It is notbetween you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lordhimself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and itshall be forgiven unto you--"

Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat insilence, till Mrs Beaton said gently:

"Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which youhave heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it, my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before yousuffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be noescape for many a year and day--from which you may never, all your life, escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years, to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence youagainst your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seekcounsel, as I shall seek it for you. "

But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden hergood-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allisongently withdrew herself from her clasp. 

"Pray to God to guide me in the right way, " she whispered, and then shewent away. 

Mrs Beaton slept little that night--less than Allison did, though shehad much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie. "Seek counsel, " Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of thenight, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came toher that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain havegiven to her friend. 

Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Notof Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how itmight still be God's will that he should have the desire of his heart. And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having lookedagain on that man's face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name. Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence, to whom had come the blessed "afterward" and "the peaceable fruits ofrighteousness, " surely, for her it could not be God's will that theworst was yet to come. Who could say?

"And yet, ah me! our _worst_ is whiles His _best_ for us and ours! Idoubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into myain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself. She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul's salvation--thatis a great thing--"

That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day wasdawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was oncemore standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge, and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen. 

When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes, where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was sayingto herself:

"I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for asign. "

It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the housewas quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand. The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, andMrs Hume's face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allisonwas in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing withher hands firmly clasped. 

"I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You willtry to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but Icould see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to doGod's will, and you will tell me what it is. "

She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she wasvery white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading herto a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding herhand. 

"We shall be glad to help you if we can, " said the minister. 

Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtfulwhether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard itthen for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here andthere of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of themorbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she hadsuffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as shewent on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were notneeded. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she hadasked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely:

"He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away withthe child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. Itwas a friend who wrote to me--Mr Hadden, our minister's son. Willie isdoing well, and some time I am to go out to him--if I can. "

She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume's clasp, and rose, saying:

"Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that--the manwho married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me. But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me abouthim. He said he had seen him--on his dying bed, and in God's name hebade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he didme. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned againstme, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgiveif I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same--"

Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid herhand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said:

"I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter. "

Allison looked up. 

"I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombieburied his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on theirheadstone, and some one there--meaning me no ill--told him about me. And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to methat I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of hismind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night. "

"And to-night he spoke?"

"Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton's house, and warned me thatit was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, Imust go. "

She let her face fall again upon her hands. 

Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter whichhe held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from DoctorFleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig waslying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume todecide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig's condition, and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who hadlong been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she shouldcome at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy's request, that as MrBrownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him, it might be much for Allison's interest to respond in a friendly spiritto this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be forAllison's future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she hadforgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered itunnecessary to discuss this letter with her. 

"Allison, " said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, "no one can decidethis matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is wellthat he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be wellalso for you. "

"Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I neverwished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying--"

Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over herface, but she did not utter her thought. 

"Allison, " said Mrs Hume, "I think there is much in what Crombie said. If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help himto believe--it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willingto forgive and receive him. "

"You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing ofpresent duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you seesit all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannotsee the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go, " said Mr Hume, solemnly. 

Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a momentcame the lost look--the look helpless and hopeless, which they hadwondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming amongthem. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying:

"Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time. "

"And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight ofone another. There is no need for many words between us. This is yourhome. Come back again as soon as you are able. "

Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her tothe room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women hadsomething to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when shesaid good-night, the minister's wife kissed and blessed her with a fullheart. 

Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched thepillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the pointwhere she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be saidthat she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on thehilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge, and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway fromNethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turnedas home. 

"Shall I ever see it again?" she asked herself, sadly. "And how will itbe with me then?"

But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather, she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day, nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town. 

"Poor soul!" said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else whostood helpless and fearful there. "Ay! poor soul! But was she not wellwelcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herselfagain? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days sincethen? Why should I be so sore afraid?"

And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to theplace where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait awhile. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent onher bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaselessdroning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and theoaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angryand afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous asshe had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of thehouse where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was betterto go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself amongstrangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fearnow. 

Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future?A life which she might loathe perhaps--

"But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am tryingto do God's will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will isbest. "

But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had abad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen. She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his cominghad been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed heraltogether. 

He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprisedher, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming's letter to him. Hehad, however, sent a note by her to the doctor. 

"Well?" said she, when he had read it. "Does he tell you what I am todo? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tellyou--only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think youwould wish to help me, --and--my courage is like to fail. "

"Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you totell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do whatyou believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all myheart. "

Allison's answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had everseen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away andoccupied himself at his desk. 

"I hope you will excuse me, sir, " said Allison in a little; "I am tired, for one thing, and--you are so kind. And I am not sure--though Ithought I was sure--that I am doing right in coming here--"

"I think I know what you would say. And--I think you are right in whatyou desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able toforgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater theblessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire. Nothing can be kept back. "

"But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond--I thinkI desire to do God's will, but--"

"Ah! do not say `but. ' Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You willbe brought through. And then--you may help to save a sinful soul. Canyou seek to look beyond that?"

Allison shook her head. 

"If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since--since I cameto trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, sofearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if Icould be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I shouldhave trusted God and stood firm, " said Allison, as she had said so manytimes before. "And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well asmine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me contentwith my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, wholoves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh!no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speakof. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive--if that were all. "

"Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now, Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for atime. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall bedrawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the biddingof any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to doright. Now, go away to Mrs Robb's, and try to sleep well, and waittill you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be forseveral days. Have you any woman's work to keep you busy till then?"

"I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kindwords. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will bepatient and wait. "

"That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kindof work till you hear from me again. "

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. 

 "What we win and hold, is through some strife. "

Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously throughthe second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming, formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary, which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was alittle startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment indeciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he hadrequested her to do. 

"Yes, " said the doctor as she entered, "I was sure you would come; youare wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to takeup your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be athand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abodewith Mistress Robb. And, my dear, " added the doctor gravely, "I wouldadvise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain itwill answer the purpose none the worse for that. You'll be betterpleased with as little notice as may be for the present. "

Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in herstraight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin coveringall her pretty hair. 

And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay therecame back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy. On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage hadcome to her since then. 

"I will trust and not be afraid, " she said to herself as she came in atthe door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed toanother. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten herown care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her. 

There were no "bad cases" in the room in which she had been placed. There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age, brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk whowere taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making readyfor another turn or two of hard work before the end should come. 

"It is no' that I'm sae ill. I hae done mony a day's work with moresuffering on me than I have now. But oh! I'm weary, weary, I hae lostheart, and it's time I was awa', " said one old woman who held Allison'shand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes. 

"What brings the like o' you here?" said another, "to such a place asthis. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu' and ye can lift a head and shake up apillow without gieing a body's neck a thraw. But I doubt it's just thatye're new to it yet. Ye'll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (therest). "

"Whisht, woman, " said her neighbour, "be thankful for sma' mercies. Yewould be but ill off at hame. "

"And be _ye_ thankfu' that ye are an auld wife and near done wi't, " saidthe neighbour on the other side. "As for mysel', I'm bowed withrheumatics, and me no' fifty yet. I may live many years, says thedoctor, and what's to 'come o' me, the Lord alone kens. "

"But, " said Allison, speaking very softly, "_He does_ ken. Dinna youmind, `Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carryyou. '"

"Ay, but ye see, I'm no' sae sure that He's with me now, or that He hasever been with me. That mak's an awfu' differ. "

"But He is willing to come, --waiting to be asked. "

"It may be; I dinna ken, " said the woman gravely. 

They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprisedherself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered. She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing tohelp them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them beforeher work there was done. 

A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried herwith her as she went on. 

"Dinna be troublesome, Nannie, " said a voice from a distant bed. 

"Come and see my mother, " said the child. 

Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes takingfire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and herlittle girl was allowed to come and see her now and then. 

"Ye can do naething for me, " she said as Allison set down the childbeside her. 

"No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking upyour pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?"

"Ill enough. But it's no' the pain that troubles me. It's the fearthat I mayna get the use o' my hand again. "

"Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that, " said Allison, shaking up thepillows and smoothing the woman's rough hair, and tying her crumpledcap-strings under her chin. "What does the doctor say about it?"

"Ye'll need to speir at himsel' to find that out. He says naething tome. "

"We will hope better things for you, " said Allison. 

She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creatureshe was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes. She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison'sarms in perfect content. 

"Come and see Charlie, " said she. 

Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; butbeing restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change. 

"What ails you, my laddie?" asked Allison, meeting his sharp, brighteyes. 

"Just a sair leg. It's better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, butno' so bad. Have you ony books?"

"No, I brought no book with me except my Bible. "

"Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a'. "

"Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?" said a voicebehind him. "And there's Bibles here--plenty o' them. "

"Are ye comin' the morn?" asked the lad. 

"Yes, I am, " said Allison. 

"And could ye no' get a book to bring with you--a book of ony kind--except the catechis?"

"Heard ye ever the like o' that! Wha has had the up-bringin' o' you?"

"Mysel' maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin'? Will ye hae a bookfor me the morn?" said he to Allison. 

"If I can, and if it's allowed. "

"Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It's no' my head, but my leg that's sair. Readin' winna do that ony ill, I'm thinkin'. "

And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwardsamong them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh!the pain, and the weariness!--the murmurs of some, and the dull patienceof others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever "get used with it, " asthe woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking aboutthem, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household workwhile her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surelyit would never come to that with her. 

Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers--help whichshe might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It mightbe that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant toprepare her for such a work. 

For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It hadfilled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet timewhich had come to her, when she was with the child beside the farawaysea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some ofthese suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?

She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she couldnot but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do. 

"Allison Bain, " said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood. Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pairof great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, butnot in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon thepillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintlystill from the lips of the speaker. 

"I saw you--and I couldna keep mysel' from speaking. But ye neednafear. I will never tell that it is you--or that I have seen you. Oh!I thought I would never see a kenned face again. "

The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allisonhad given her. 

"Is it Mary Brand?" whispered Allison, after a little. 

"No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and--safe, " and she turned her face awayand lay quiet for a while. 

Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand. 

"Wait a minute. I must speak to some one--before I die--and I may diethis night, " she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. "I'mAnnie, " she said. "You'll mind how my mother died, and my fathermarried again--ower-soon maybe--and we were all angry, and there was nopeace in the house. So the elder ones scattered, --one went here andanother there. We were ower young to take right heed, --and not verystrong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and--went home to die atlast. As for me--I fell into trouble--and I dared na go home. SometimeI may tell you--but I'm done out now. I'm near the end--and oh!Allie--I'm feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lordwere to forgive me--how could I ever look into my mother's face inHeaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I'm sairfeared, Allie. "

Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears onher cheeks. 

"Annie, " said she, "never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you. I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you. You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother couldhold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no' mind howDoctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, `Oh! Thou who artmighty to save'? _Mighty_ to _save_! Think of it, dear. `Neithershall any man pluck them out of my hand. ' Jesus said that Himself. Ah!ye are weary and spent--but ye have strength to say, `Save me, Iperish. ' And that is enough. "

"Weary and spent!" Yes, almost to death. The parched lips saidfaintly, "Come again, " and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allisonpromised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, beforeshe went away. 

She came often--every day, and many times a day, and she always had agood word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much. Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there camea day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, andthen a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away--sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed thedead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, saying to herself: "To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless andforget. "

But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the endof the first week of Dickson's stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, there came to her the message for which she had through all the daysbeen waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, "Come. "

"Is he dying?" she found voice to say, as they passed into the roomtogether. 

"No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to beroused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannotreally harm him. "

And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seizedher when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, herhusband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said toherself, "My husband. "

The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to oneanother, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm, at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answeredsensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be letalone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had alltheir physic done him yet. 

They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on herface for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and ina little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then theylet down the curtain, and the room was in shadow. 

"A dream--the old dream, ay coming--coming--only a dream, " they heardhim say with a sigh. 

Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room. 

"He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be morehimself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you whenhe wakens again. "

"I am not afraid, " said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she addedwith a firmer voice, "No, I am not afraid. "

"You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will bewith you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and comeaway. "

Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone ofsympathy escape from him. "I'll see you again before I leave theplace, " said he. 

So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wonderinghow this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spokenor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Flemingreturned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door. 

"That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again?If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora hasreturned, and I will speak to her. "

"I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me. Yes, I would like better to come back again. "

And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought anodd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a laterose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor AnnieBrand. 

The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called, and sat beside the sick man's bed for an hour or two. He followed herwith his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. Hewas restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power tomove himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hopedhe might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt hersorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and agleam of anger. 

"If I could do something for him, " thought she. "But to sit hereuseless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me. "

She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyes _were_following her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a smallNew Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his faceaway, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then assome one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heardfrom him yet:

"Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away--if she be a woman and not awraith (spirit), " he added, as he turned his face from the light. 

It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison's startled lookas he came in at the door. 

"You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?" said he. 

"He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and--not withgood-will. "

"You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made astep in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show yourface in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for along walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must doas I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I kenthey keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. Butyou may have a good while of this work yet, --weeks it may be, ormonths, " and in his heart he said, "God grant it may not be for years. "

"Yes, I will go, " said Allison faintly. 

"And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you haveset out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you wouldhelp to save this man's soul. "

"I have no thought of turning back, " said Allison. 

"That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye'llalso need to have a' your wits about you. You'll need perfect healthand your natural strength, and ye'll just do my bidding in all things, that you may be fit to meet all that is before you--since it seems to beGod's will that this work is to fall to you. "

Allison went at the doctor's bidding. She wrapped herself up and wentdown to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than abreeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were cominggrandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood andwatched them for a while musing. 

"And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Himcould quiet them now, as His `Peace, be still, ' quieted the waves on theSea of Galilee so long ago. `Oh! ye of little faith!' said He, `wherefore do ye doubt?' As He might well say to me this day, for oh!I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sinfinding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with?God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, letme never, never doubt Him. "

And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her wayagainst it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down torest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind tostruggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemedto her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the placewhere she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight waslifted a little from her heart. 

"It is only a day at a time, however long it may be, " she told herself. "It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though Ido not. "

Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, asshe went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the needof its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. Itwas the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silentlips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in theeyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said toherself that she could not long bear it. 

"In one way he is better, " said the doctor. "He is coming to himself, and his memory--his power of recalling the past--is improving. He isstronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory hisaccident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it. He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he mayescape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can neverrecover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will neverwalk a step again--never. But he may live for years. He may evenrecover so as to be able to attend to business again--in a way. "

Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on. 

"I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason forspeaking now. I do not ask if you have `counted the cost. ' I know youhave not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which mightenable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced inlife, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life wouldbe--and might be for years, --spent with this man as his nurse, or hisservant--for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand couldbear it, --unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slowmartyrdom. "

Allison sat silent, with her face turned away. 

"What I have to say to you is this, " went on the doctor. "Since it isimpossible--if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should berequired at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer, or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he wouldgreatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better. "

Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in hereyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waitedpatiently. 

"No, " said Allison, "I do not love him, but I have great pity for him--and--I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God's will. If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet, --till--itis made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well ashe. I should have stood fast against him. I hope--I believe, that Iwish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way. "

"That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men whoare not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of whatyou may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, yourlife at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care andtrouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land. "

"That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me, why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might bebefore me?"

"I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but Ithought the man was going to die. "

"No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day inthe street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait tohear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me thatnight, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he wasgoing to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am notafraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my wayclearer, whether I should go or stay. "

"Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am notsure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in athousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed, and you may be that woman. My only fear is--no, I will not say it. Ido believe that you are seeking to do God's will in this matter. Let ushope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you, and to me also. "

But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this. 

"If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I wouldnever have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, Iwas sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do himsome good maybe--pray for him, and all that, and that his consciencemight be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. Butwell ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for theloss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have tolive with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havenaasked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly toyour brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. Andif ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, Iwould help you against him, and all the world, with right good will. "

Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not tobe moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, andthen she must decide. Before those days were over something hadhappened. 

One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usualamong her "auld wives, " and it was late when she came into Brownrig'sroom. 

"What has keepit you?" said he impatiently. 

It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her. 

"I have been detained, " said Allison quietly. "Can I do anything foryou, now that I am here?"

"Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they uponye, I should like to ken?"

"The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attendthem. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able tohelp them--or any one in distress--my best pleasure. "

To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought herwork with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking, and there was silence, as on other days. 

"What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?"said Brownrig after a little. 

"I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nursehere. I held it once before, and I like it in a way. "

No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrigspoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew morelike his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and atthe wages. 

"It must end, " said he angrily. 

"Mr Brownrig, " said the doctor gravely, "you may not care to take aword of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to runaway, I'll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane. Be thankfu' for sma' mercies, which when ye come to consider them arenot so very sma'. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she ispaid nurse's wages, and you have the good luck to be one of herpatients. But ca' canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on MistressAllison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland wouldhelp you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her ownfree will she shall stay--and--if such a time comes, --of her own freewill she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of hercare and kindness that you can. "

"Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy's meeting her onthe street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? Idoubt that was the best reason for her coming. "

"You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of herwithin the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, evenif he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own freewill. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put anend to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to letbygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save thesoul of her enemy. "

"Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had somethingto leave behind him, " said Brownrig, with a scowl. 

"As you say, --who has something to leave behind him, and who is aslittle likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, if he did. But that's neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care andher company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, andclaim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she'll go her ownway, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, lether do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairnscan spare her. "

And with that the doctor bade him `good-day, ' and took his departure. 

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. 

 "God liveth ever, Wherefore, soul, despair thou never. "

Brownrig was better in mind and in body than when Allison first came, but he was far from strong. His mind was not quite clear, and it wasnot easy for him "to put this and that together, " in a way to satisfyhimself, when the doctor went away. He was already "muddled, " as hecalled it, and he did the best thing he could have done in thecircumstances, he shut his eyes and fell asleep. 

Before he woke Allison came in, and when he looked up, he saw hersitting with her work on her lap, and yesterday's newspaper in her hand, reading: and smiling to herself as she read. 

"Weel, what's the news the day?" said he. 

Allison did not start or show the surprise she fell at being thusaddressed. 

"Will I read it to you?" she asked. 

She read about the markets and the news of the day; but whether he weregetting the good of it all or not, she could not say. When she thoughtshe had read enough, she laid down the paper and took up her work asusual. 

That was the beginning. All the days passed like this day for a while, except that a book took the place of a newspaper sometimes. And by andby, the best of books had a minute or two given to it--rarely more thana minute or two. Brownrig listened to that as he listened to the rest, willingly, and sometimes with interest, when she chanced to light on apart which had not been quite forgotten in the long careless years whichhad passed since the time his dead mother used to read it with him andhis little sisters, when they were children at home. When he lookedinterested, or made a remark on any part of what she read, Allison wentover it again, and now and then took courage to speak a word or two ofHim who "bore our griefs and carried our sorrows, " and who died that wemight live. He listened always in silence. Whether he was ever movedby the words could not be told, for he gave no sign. 

While all this went on, summer was passing, and the dull November dayswere drawing near. Allison had her own thoughts, and some of them weretroubled thoughts enough. But she waited, always patiently, if notalways hopefully; and even at the worst, when she had little to cheerher, and when she dared not look forward to what the future might holdfor her, she still strove to live day by day, and hour by hour, waitingto learn God's will, whatever it might be. 

Little change came to the sick man as far as Allison could judge, or anyone else. Was he getting better? If so, his progress toward health wasmore slowly made than had been hoped. At times he was restless andirritable, and spared neither nurse, nor doctor, which was taken as agood sign by some who were looking on. But for the most part he wasquiet enough, taking little heed of the passing hours. 

When Mr Rainy came to speak to him on any matter of business, he seemedto rouse himself, and gave tokens of a clear mind and a good memory withregard to those matters which were put before him, whether theypertained to his own private business, or to that of the estate ofBlackhills. But of his own accord he rarely alluded to business of anykind, and seemed, for the most part, forgetful of all that had hithertofilled his life. His friends came to see him now and then, and whileany one was with him, he seemed moved to a certain interest in what theyhad to tell, in the news of the town, or in the events which were takingplace in the world beyond it, but his interest ceased when his visitorleft him. 

Except from weariness, and restlessness, and inability to move, hesuffered little, and he had been so often told that the best hope forhim, the only chance for restoration to a measure of health in thefuture, lay in implicit obedience to all that doctor and nurse requiredof him, that he learned the lesson at last, and was obedient and patientto a degree that might well surprise those who knew him best. 

It did not always come easy to him, this patience and obedience. Thereere times when he broke bounds, and complained, and threatened, and evenswore at his man Dickson; nor did Allison herself escape from thehearing of bitter words. But Dickson took it calmly, and bore it aspart of his duty and his day's work. 

"I'm weel used with it, " said he. "His hard words maybe ease him, poorman, and they do me nae ill. "

And they did Allison "no ill, " in one way. She was too sorry for him tobe angry on her own account, and listened in silence. Or, if he forgothimself altogether and gave her many of them, she rose quietly and wentout of the room. She expected no apology when she returned, and nonewas ever offered, and his ill words made her none the less patient withhim, and none the less ready at all times to do faithfully the dutieswhich she had undertaken of her own free will. 

But they made her unhappy many a time. For what evidence had she thather sacrifice was accepted? Had she been presumptuous in her desiresand hopes that she might be permitted to do some good to this man, whohad done her so much evil? Had she taken up this work too lightly--inher own strength which was weakness--in her own wisdom which was folly?Had she been unwise in coming, or wilful in staying? Or was it that shewas not fit to be used as an instrument in God's hand to help this man, because she also had done wrong? She wearied herself with thesethoughts, telling herself that her sacrifice had been in vain, and herefforts and her prayers--all alike in vain. 

For she saw no token that this man's heart had been touched by thediscipline through which he had passed, or that any word or effort ofhers had availed to move him, or to make him see his need of higher helpthan hers. So she grew discouraged now and then, and shrunk from hisanger and his "ill words" as from a blow. Still she said to herself:

"There is no turning back now. I must have patience and wait. "

She had less cause for discouragement than she supposed. For Brownrigdid, now and then, take to heart a gently spoken word of hers; and thewords of the Book which his mother had loved, and which brought back tohim the sound of her voice and the smile in her kind eyes, were notheard altogether in vain. He had his own thoughts about them, and aboutAllison herself; and at last his thoughts took this turn, and clung tohim persistently. 

"Either she is willing to forgive me the wrong which she believes I didher, or else she thinks that I am going to die. "

Dickson did not have an easy time on the morning when this thought camefirst to his master. When Allison came in she had utter silence for awhile. Brownrig took no notice of the newspaper in her hand, and lookedaway when she took up the Book and slowly turned the leaves. But thathad happened before, and Allison read on a few verses about the rulerwho came to Jesus by night, and who, wondering, said, "How can a man beborn when he is old?"

"Ay! how indeed?" muttered Brownrig. "Born again. Ah! if that mightbe! If a man could have a second chance!"

And then his thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and he askedhimself when and where he had taken the first step aside from the rightway, and how it came about that, having had his mother for the firstthirteen years of his life, he should have forgotten her. No, he hadnot forgotten her, but he had forgotten her teachings and her prayers, and his own promises made to her, that he would ever "hate that which isevil, and cleave to that which is good, " and that he would strive so tolive and serve God that he might come at last to meet her where shehoped to go. Was it too late now? He sighed, and turned his headuneasily on the pillow. The angry look had gone out of his eyes, andthey met Allison's with a question in them. But he did not speak tillshe said very gently:

"What is it? Can I do anything for you?"

"Has the doctor been saying anything to you of late?" he asked. "Doeshe think that my time is come, and that I am going to die?"

Allison's face showed only her surprise at the question. 

"The doctor has said nothing to me. Are you not so well? Will I sendfor the doctor?" and she laid her cool fingers on his hand. But hemoved it away impatiently. 

"What I canna understand is, that you should have come at all. You musthave thought that I was going to die, or you wouldna have come. "

"Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would havecome but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, inthat I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and Ithought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at thelast. "

"Forgive--at the last! There's sma' comfort in _that_, I'm thinking, "and not another word was spoken between them that day. And not manywere spoken for a good many days after that. 

But one morning, when Allison had been detained among her "auld wives" alittle longer than usual, she came softly into the room, to find, notDickson, but an old man with clear, keen eyes and soft white hairsitting beside the bed. His hands were clasped together on the top ofhis staff, and his face, benign and grave, was turned toward the sickman. 

"He seems to be asleep, " said Allison softly, as she drew near. 

"Yes, he seems to be asleep, " said the old man; "but I have a message tohim from the Master, and I can wait till he wakens. And who may you be?One who comes on an errand of mercy, or I am greatly mistaken. "

"I am a nurse here. And--I am--this man's wife. "

She said it in a whisper, having had no thought a moment before of everuttering the words. 

"Ay! ay!" said the old man, in tones which expressed many things--surprise, interest, awakened remembrance. And then Allison turned andmet the eyes of her husband. 

"It is the minister come to see you, " said she, drawing back from hisoutstretched hand. 

"Stay where you are, " said he, taking hold of her gown. "Bide stillwhere you are. "

"Yes, I will bide. It is Doctor Kirke who has come to see you. "

"You have had a long and sore time of trouble and pain, " said theminister, gravely. 

"Yes, but the worst is over now, " said Brownrig, his eyes still fixed onAllison's half-averted face. 

"Let us hope so, " said the old man, solemnly. "If the Lord's dealinghas been taken to heart and His lesson learned, the worst is over. "

But he had more to say than this. He was by no means sure that in hissense, or in any sense, the worst was over for this man, who had all hislife sinned with a high hand, in the sight of his fellow-men, as well asin the sight of his Maker. His heart was full of pity, but he was oneof those whose pity inclines them to be faithful rather than tender. 

"Man, you have been a great sinner all your days, " he said, slowly andsolemnly. Many changes passed over the face of Brownrig as the ministerwent on, but he never removed his eyes from the face of Allison, norloosened his firm clasp of her hand. 

Faithful! Yes, but yet tender. How full of pity and of entreaty wasthe old man's voice when he spoke of One who, hating sin, yet loves thesinner; One who is slow to anger, full of compassion and of great mercy, not willing that any should perish, but that all, even the worst, shouldcome unto Him and live. 

"And, O man! ye need Him no less, that you may be going back to yourlife again. The Lord could do wonderful things for the like of you, ifye would but let Him have His will o' ye. Able! ay, is He, and willingas able, and surely He has given you a sign. Look at this woman againstwhom, it is said, ye woefully sinned! If she, who is but a weak andsinful mortal, has forgiven you, and is caring for you, and would saveyou, how can there be doubt of Him who gave His life a ransom for you?"

A glance at Allison's face stayed his words. Then he knelt down andprayed--not in many words--not as if entreating One offended or angry, but One waiting, looking, listening, loving; One "mighty to save. " Andthen he rose and touched the hand of each, and went silently away. 

Had Brownrig fallen asleep? Allison slowly turned her face toward him. He lay with closed eyes, motionless, and there were tears on his cheeks. As Allison tried gently to withdraw her hand from his clasp his eyesopened. 

"Is it true, Allie? Have you forgiven me?"

"I--was sorry for you long since, even before you were hurt. I neverwished ill to you. I came when I heard that you were like to die, sothat we might forgive one another--"

Allison had gone almost beyond her power of speech by this time, but heheld her fast. 

"Oh! Allie, ye micht hae made a good man o' me, if ye had but had thepatience and the will to try. "

But Allison said:

"No, that could never have been. I wasna good myself, and I was dazedwith trouble. "

"Ay, poor lassie, ye hae much to forgive. But I will make amends, Iwill make amends. Yes, in the sight of God and man, I will make fullamends. "

Allison could bear no more. Where was it all to end? Surely she was inthe net now, and it was drawing close upon her, and she could not bearit. For a moment it came into her mind to flee. But the temptation didnot linger long, nor did it return. 

In his accustomed place Dickson was waiting. 

"Your master requires you, " said Allison, and then she passed on to herrefuge among the auld wives, and puir bodies in the wide ward beyond. But it was not a refuge to-day. 

"And how is your patient the day, puir man?" said she who was bowed withrheumatism being `no' fifty yet. 

"We heard that the minister had been sent for to see him, " said another. "It is to be hoped that he will do him some good. "

Allison answered them both quietly: "He is just as usual. Yes, theminister has been there, " and moved on to some one else. 

It was the hour which she usually spent among them, and she went fromone bed to another, saying and doing what was needed for the sufferingor fretful poor souls among them, answering kindly and firmly, withnever-failing patience, the grateful looks of some, and the dullcomplaining of others, till the time came which set her free to go herown way again. 

She was the better for the hour which she had dreaded when she firstcame in. She no longer felt the touch of that hot hand on hers, or thegaze of the eager eyes, which she had met with such sinking of heart. She was herself again. 

"To think that I should grow fainthearted this day of all days, when forthe first time he seemed to be touched by a good man's words. I shouldbe rejoicing and thankful. And whatever else is true, it is true thatHe who brought me here, kens the end, though I do not. "

And so she went home to her rest, and the next day was like all thedays, except that the sick man, as Dickson put it, "wasna sae ill to dowi'. " It became evident to both doctor and nurse, that Brownrig had atlast taken in the thought that he might be going to die. He saidnothing for a while, but he marked their words and watched their ways, and when Dr Kirke came, which he did every few days, he listened withpatience which grew to pleasure as time went on. When at last herepeated to Doctor Fleming himself, the question which he had put toAllison, the doctor's rather ambiguous answer did not satisfy him. 

"I see you have your own thoughts about it, " said Brownrig. "I thinkyou are mistaken. I do not mean to die if I can help it. I wish tolive, and I mean to live--if such is God's will, " he added, after apause. "I'm no' going to let myself slip out o' life without a strugglefor it. I have a strong will, which hasna ay been guided to good ends, ye'll say, and I acknowledge it. But `all that a man hath will he givefor his life, ' the Book says, And I will do my best to live. "

The doctor said nothing. 

"It is not that I'm feared to die. If all is true that Doctor Kirke hasbeen saying to me, why should I fear? `More willing to forgive, than yeare to be forgiven, ' says he. And I can believe it. I _do_ believe it. If Allison Bain can forgive, surely He will not refuse, who is`merciful and full of compassion'. And I hope--I believe--that I amforgiven. "

Looking up, Doctor Fleming saw the tears on the sick man's cheek. Thatwas all he was permitted to say for the time, for his strength was notgreat though his will was strong. The rest of the day was passedbetween sleeping and waking, while Allison sat working in silence by thewindow. But he returned to his declaration in the morning. 

"Yes, I mean to live, but for a' that I may as well be prepared fordeath. And you'll send Mr Rainy to me this very day. He must justcome while I need him--and when I'm at my best and able for him. I'lldie none the sooner for setting all things in order to my mind. "

So the next day Mr Rainy came, and for a good many days, and wentthrough with him many matters of business, which must be attended towhether he lived or died. He was quite fit for it--a little at a time--Mr Rainy declared. But the doctor wondered that his strength held outthrough it all. There was no evidence of failure in sense or judgmentin all he said or planned, though his memory sometimes was at fault. 

There was much to do, and some of it was not of a nature to give eitherpeace or pleasure to the sick man. But it came to an end at last, andthere were a few days of quiet till he was rested. Then he began again. 

"I may be going to die, or I may be going to live. Who can say? Itmust be as God wills. But I have settled with myself one thing. Whether I am to live or to die, it is to be in my own house. "

This was said to Dickson, who was ready with an answer to please him. 

"And the sooner the better, sir, say I. The fine fresh air o' the hillswould set you up sooner than a' their doctor's bottles is like to do. If it were only May instead of November, I would say the sooner thebetter. "

"And I say the sooner the better at this time. Yes, it's late, and it'sa lang road, and I have little strength to come and go upon. But thereare ways o' doing most things--when the siller (money) needna beconsidered, and where there is a good will to do them. "

"Ay, sir, that's true. And I daresay the laird micht send his aincarriage, and ye micht tak' twa days to it, or even three. "

"No, no. The sooner the journey could be gotten over the better. Butthat's a good thought o' yours about the laird's carriage. He'll sendit fast enough, if I but ask it. But I'm done out now, and I'll need tolie still a while, to be ready and at my best, when the doctor comes. "

But when the doctor came, Brownrig had forgotten his intention to speak, or he did not feel equal to the effort needed for the assertion of hisown will in a matter which was of such importance to him. So it wasAllison to whom he first spoke of his wish to go home. He said howweary he had grown of the dull room, and the din of the town, and evenof the sight of the doctors' faces, and he said how sure he was that hewould never gather strength lying there. It would give him new life, hedeclared, to get home to his own house, and to the free air of thehills. 

Allison listened in silence, and when he would be answered, she murmuredsomething about the coming of the summer days making such a movepossible, and said that the doctors would have to decide what would bethe wisest thing to do. 

"They will be the wisest to decide _how_ it is to be done, but it isdecided already that the change is to be made. You speak of the summerdays! Count ye the months till then, and ask if I could have thepatience to wait for them? Yes, there is a risk, I ken that weel, but Imay as well die there as here. And to that I have made up my mind. "

Allison did not answer him, and he said no more. He had grown waryabout wasting his strength, or exciting himself to his own injury, andso he lay quiet. 

"You might take the Book, " said he in a little. 

Yes, there was always "The Book. " Allison took the Bible, and as itfell open in her hand, she read: "I will lead the blind by a way theyknow not, " and her head was bowed, and the tears, which were sometimesvery near her eyes, fell fast for a single moment. But they fellsilently. No sound of voice or movement of hand betrayed her, and therewas no bitterness in her tears. 

"Yes, it is for me--this word. For surely I am blind. I canna see myway through it all. But if I am to be led by the hand like a littlechild, and upheld by One who is strong, and who cares for me, who `hasloved me, ' shall I be afraid?"

And if her voice trembled now and then as she read, so that at lastBrownrig turned uneasily to get a glimpse of her face, he saw no shadowof doubt of fear upon it, nor even the quiet to which he had becomeaccustomed, but a look of rest and peace which it was not given to himto understand. Allison took her work and sat as usual by the window. 

"I may have my ups and downs as I have ay had them, " she was saying toherself, "but I dinna think I can ever forget--I pray God that I maynever forget--that I am `led. '"

Brownrig lay quiet, but he was not at his ease, Allison could see. Hespoke at last. 

"Are you sure that you have forgiven me--quite sure--in the way that Godforgives? Come and stand where I can see your face. "

Allison in her surprise at his words neither answered nor moved. 

"For ye see, if ye were to fail me, I doubt I could hardly keep hold ofthe Lord himself. If there is one thing that the minister has saidoftener than another, it is this, that when God forgives He alsoreceives. You believe this surely? Come and stand where I can see yourface. "

Allison laid down her work, and came and stood not very near him, butwhere the light fell full upon her. 

"I cannot but be sorry for--what happened, but I bear no anger againstyou for it now. Yes, I have forgiven. I wish you no ill. I wish youevery good. I am far sorrier for you than I am for myself. God sees myheart. "

She did not need to prove her words. He knew that they were true. Ifshe had not been sorry for him, if she had not forgiven him, and hadpity upon him, why should she have come to him at all? But God's waywent beyond that. He not only pitied and pardoned, He received, loved, saved. But he was afraid to say all this to her. 

"In sickness and trouble she has been willing to stand by me, as shestands by all suffering creatures. That is all. And she is not one ofthose women who long for ease and prosperous days, or for anything thatI could offer her to tempt her. I must just content myself with whatshe freely gives, nor ask for more. "

Then he turned away his face, and Allison did not move till he spokeagain. 

"You could help me greatly with the doctor, if ye were to try. "

Allison made a gesture of dissent. 

"That is little likely, " said she. 

"He thinks much of you, and ye ken it well. "

"Does he? It must be because he thinks I am kind to all the poor folkyonder--not because he thinks me wise, " added she with a smile. 

"As to wisdom, --that's neither here nor there in this matter. I amgoing hame to my ain house. That's decided, whatever may be said by anydoctor o' them a'. As for life and death--they are no' in the doctors'hands, though they whiles seem to think it. I'm going hame, whether itbe to live or to die. But I want no vexation about it; I'm no' able towrangle with them. But if you were to speak to Doctor Fleming--if youwere to tell him that you are willing to go with me--to do your best forme, he would make no words about it, but just let me go. "

Allison's colour changed, but she stood still and said quietly:

"Do you think Doctor Fleming is a man like that? And don't you think hewill be only too glad to send you home when you are able for thejourney? Your wisest way will be to trust it all to him. "

"At least you will say nothing against it?"

"I shall have nothing to say about it--nothing. " She spoke calmly andwas quite unmoved, as far as he could see. But she was afraid. She wassaying in her heart that her time was coming. Beyond the day! Surelyshe must look beyond the day. But not now. Not this moment. Even inher dismay she thought of him, and "pitied" him, as he had said. 

"You are wearing yourself out, " said she gently. "The doctor will notthink well of what you have to say, if you are tired and feverish. Liequiet, and rest till he come. "

He did not answer her except with his eager appealing eyes, which shewould not meet. She sat by the window sewing steadily on, till thedoctor's step came to the door. 

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. 

 "Look not at thine own peace, but look beyond, And take the Cross for glory and for guide. "

It was Allison's way when the doctor came, to answer such questions ashe had to ask, and then to call Dickson, and betake herself to the longward beyond. But to-day Brownrig's first words were:

"I have something to say to you, doctor, and I wish my wife to hear it. Bide ye still, Allison. "

"My wife!" Neither the doctor nor Allison had ever heard him utter theword before. Allison took her usual seat by the window, and the doctorplaced himself beside the bed. It was the same story over again whichBrownrig had to tell. He was going home to his own house. It might beto die, and it might not. But whether he were to live or die, home hemust go. He had something to do which could only be done there. Thedoctors had owned that their skill could do nothing more for him. Hiscure, if he were to be cured, must be left to time. He would neverimprove in the dreary dullness of the place, and there were many reasonswhy he should be determined to go--reasons which would affect other folkas well as himself; go he must, and the sooner the better. He said itall quietly enough, speaking reasonably, but with decision. DoctorFleming listened in silence, and did not answer immediately. To himselfhe was saying, that it might be well to let the man have his way. Hedid not think it would make much difference in the end. There was achance for him--not for health, but for a few years of such a life as noman could envy, as few men could endure. Staying here, or going there, it would be all the same in the end. 

Doctor Fleming had in his thoughts at the moment a life long sufferer, who was happy in the midst of his suffering, and who made the chiefhappiness of more than one who loved him--one strong in weakness, patient to endure, a scholar, a gentleman; a simple, wise soul, to whomthe least of God's works was a wonder and delight; a strong and faithfulsoul, who, in the darkness of God's mysterious dealings, was content towait His time--willing to stay, yet longing to go--full of pain, yetfull of peace. 

"Yes, " said the doctor, unconsciously uttering his thought aloud, "fullof pain, yet full of peace. "

And here was this man, so eager to live--this drunkard and liar andcoward! What could life hold for him that he should so desire toprolong it? And what would life with such a man be to such a woman asAllison Bain?

"Yes, I know God can change the heart. He is wise to guide and mightyto save, and they are both in His good hands. May His mercy bevouchsafed to them both. "

"Well, " said the sick man, as the doctor suddenly rose to his feet. 

"Well--it would be a risk, but it would not be impossible for you to betaken home, as you seem to desire it--if only the summer were here. "

"Yes, I have been waiting to hear you say that--like the rest, " saidBrownrig, with the first touch of impatience in his voice; "but thesummer days are faraway, and winna be here for a while. And ye kenyourself what chance I have of ever seeing the summer days, whether Ibide or whether I go, and go I must. "

Then he went on to say how the laird would be sure to send theBlackhills carriage for him--the easy one, which had been made in Londonfor the auld leddy, his mother, and how the journey might be takenslowly and safely. 

"And if I were only once there!" he said, looking up with anxious eyes. Then he lay still. 

"If you were once there, you think you would be yourself again?"

A sudden spasm passed over the eager face. 

"No--not that. I ken, though you have never said it in my hearing, thatit is your belief that, be my life long or short, I can never hope tobear my own weight again. My life's over an' done with--in a sense, butthen--there is--Allison Bain. "

His voice sank to a whisper as he uttered her name. 

"Yes, " said the doctor to himself, "there is Allison Bain!"

Then he rose and moved about the room. He, too, had something to say ofAllison Bain--something which it would be a pain for the sick man tohear, but which must be said, and there might come no better time forsaying it than this. And yet he shrunk from the task. He paused by thewindow and took out his watch. 

"Mistress Allison, " said he, speaking, as was his way when addressingher, with the utmost gentleness and respect, "I have half an hour at mydisposal to-day. Go your ways down to the sands, and breathe the freshair while I am here. The days are too short to put it off later, andyou need the change. "

"Yes, I will go, " said Allison. 

"And do not return to-night, neither here nor to the long ward. Mind, Isay you must not. "

As her hand was on the latch Brownrig called her name. When she cameand stood beside the bed he looked at her, but did not speak. 

"Were you needing anything?" she asked, gently. 

"No. Oh! no, only just to see your face. You'll come early in themorning?"

"Yes, I will come early. "

But as she moved away there came into her eyes a look as of somefrightened woodland creature, hemmed in and eager to escape. There wassilence for a moment, and just as the doctor was about to speak, Brownrig said:

"Yes, it was well to send her away to get the air, and what I have tosay may as well be said now, for it must not be said in her hearing. And it may be better to say it to you than to Rainy, who is but a--nomatter what he is. But to you I must say this. Think of Allison Bain!Think of my wife, --for she _is_ my wife, for all that's come and gone. It is for her sake that I would fain win home to Blackhills. It is tohelp to make it all easy for her afterward. If I were to die here, doyou not see that it would be a hard thing for her to go and lay me downyonder, in the sight of them who canna but mind the time, when sheseemed to think that the touch of my hand on his coffin would dodishonour to her father's memory among them? It would hurt her to gofrom my grave to take possession of her own house, with the thought ofall that in her mind, and with all their een upon her. But if they wereto see us there together, and to ken all that she has done and been tome for the last months, they would see that we had forgiven one another, and they would understand. Then she would take her right place easilyand naturally, and none would dare to say that she came home for thesake of taking what was left. "

He paused exhausted, but Doctor Fleming said nothing in reply, and hewent on. 

"It would be better and easier for her to be left in her ain house. Andeven though my days were shortened by the journey, what is a week or twomore or less of life to me? You'll just need to let me go. "

In a little he spoke again, saying a few words at a time. 

"No, my day is done--but she may have a long life before her. Yes, shehas forgiven me--and so I can believe--that God will also forgive. AndI am not so very sorry--that my end is near, --because, though I wouldhave tried, I might have failed to make her happy. But no one can everlove her as I have done. Or maybe it was myself I loved--and my ownwill and pleasure. "

There was a long pause, and then he went on speaking rather to himselfthan to him who sat silent beside him. 

"Oh! if a man could but have a second chance! If my mother had butlived--I might have been different. But it's too late now--too late!too late! I am done out. I'll try to sleep. "

He closed his eyes and turned away his face. Greatly moved, DoctorFleming sat thinking about it all. He had spoken no word of all hemeant to say, and he would never speak now. No word of his was needed. He sat rebuked in this man's presence--this man whom, within the hour, he had called boaster and braggart, liar and coward. 

"Truly, " he mused, "there _is_ such a thing as getting `a new heart. 'Truly, there _is_ a God who is `mighty to save!' I will neither makenor meddle in this matter. No, I cannot encourage this woman to forsakehim now--at the last--if the end is drawing near--as I cannot butbelieve. He may live for years, but even so, I dare not say she wouldbe right to leave him. God guide and strengthen her for what may bebefore her. It will be a sore thing for her to go home and find onlygraves. "

"Doctor, " said Brownrig suddenly, "you'll no' set yourself against itlonger--for the sake of Allison Bain!"

"My friend, " said the doctor, bending forward and taking his hand, "Isee what your thought is, and I honour you for it. Wait a day or twomore before you make your plans to go, and then, if it is possible foryou to have your wish, you shall have it, and all shall be made as easyand safe for you as it can possibly be made. You are right in thinkingthat you will never--be a strong man again. And after all, it can onlybe a little sooner or later with you now. "

"Av, I ken that well. It is vain to struggle with death. "

"And you are not afraid?"

"Whiles--I am afraid. I deserve nothing at His hand, whom I have ayneglected and often set at naught. But, you see, I have His own wordfor it. Ready to forgive--waiting to be gracious--I am sorry for mysins--for my lost life--and all the ill I have done in it. Do you thinkI am over-bold just to take Him at His word? Well--I just do that. What else can I do?"

What indeed! There was nothing else to be done--and nothing else wasneeded. 

"He will not fail you, " said the doctor gently. 

"And you'll speak to--my wife? for I am not sure--that she will wish togo--home. " And then he closed his eyes and lay still. 

In the meantime Allison had taken her way to the sands, and as she wentshe was saying to herself:

"I can but go as I am led. God guide me, for the way is dark. "

It was a mild November day, still and grey on land and sea. The greysea had a gleam on it here and there, and the tide was creeping softlyin over the sands. Allison walked slowly and wearily, for her heart washeavy. She was saying to herself that at last, that which she fearedwas come upon her, and there was truly no escape. 

"For how can I forsake him now? And yet--how can I go with him--to meetall that may wait me there? Have I been wrong all the way through, fromthe very first, and is this the way in which my punishment is to come?And is it my own will I have been seeking all this time, while I havebeen asking to be led?"

There was no wind to battle against to-day, but when she came to theplace where she had been once before at a time like this, she sat downat the foot of the great rock, and went over it all again. To whatpurpose!

There was only one way in which the struggle could end, --just as it hadoften ended before. 

"I will make no plan. I will live just _day_ by _day_. And if I am ledby Him--as the blind are led--what does it matter where?"

So she rose and went slowly home, and was "just as usual, " as far asMrs Robb, or even the clearer-eyed Robert, could see. Robert was backto his classes and his books again, and he took a great but silentinterest in Allison's comings and goings, gathering from chance words ofhers more than ever she dreamed of disclosing. And from her silence hegathered something too. 

A few more days passed, and though little difference could be seen inBrownrig's state from day-to-day, when the week came to an end, evenAllison could see that a change of some kind had come, or was drawingnear. The sick man spoke, now and then, about getting home, and aboutthe carriage which was to be sent for him, and when the doctor came, heasked, "Will it be to-morrow?" But he hardly heeded the answer when itwas given, and seemed to have no knowledge of night or day, or of howthe time was passing. 

He slumbered and wakened, and looked up to utter a word or two, and thenslumbered again. Once or twice he started, as if he were afraid, cryingout for help, for he was "slipping away. " And hour after hour--how longthe hours seemed--Allison sat holding his hand, speaking a word now andthen, to soothe or to encourage him, as his eager, anxious eyes soughthers. And as she sat there in the utter quiet of the time, she _did_get a glimpse of the "wherefore" which had brought her there. 

For she _did_ help him. When there came back upon him, like the voiceof an accusing enemy, the sudden remembrance of some cruel orquestionable deed of his, which he could not put from him as he had donein the days of his strength, he could not shut his eyes and refuse tosee his shame, nor his lips, and refuse to utter his fears. He moanedand muttered a name, now and then, which startled Allison as shelistened, and brought back to her memory stories which had beenwhispered through the countryside, of hard measure meted out by thelaird's factor, to some who had had no helper--of acts of oppression, even of injustice, against some who had tried to maintain their rights, and against others who yielded in silence, knowing that to strive wouldbe in vain. 

Another might not have understood, for he had only strength for a wordor two, and he did not always know what he was saying. But Allisonunderstood well, and she could not wonder at the remorse and fear whichhis words betrayed. Oh! how she pitied him, and soothed and comfortedhim during these days. 

And what could she say to him, but the same words, over and over again?"Mighty to save!--To the very utmost--even the _chief_ of sinners, --forHis name's sake. "

Yes, she helped him, and gave him hope. And in helping him, she herselfwas helped. 

"I will let it all go, " she said to herself, at last. "Was I right?Was I wrong? Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? Godknows, who, though I knew it not, has had His hand about me through itall. I am content. As for what may be before me--that is in His handas well. "

Would she have had it otherwise? No, she would not--even if it shouldcome true that the life she had fled from, might still be hers. Butthat could never be. Brownrig helpless, repentant, was no longer theman whom she had loathed and feared. 

Since the Lord himself had interposed to save him, might not she--forHis dear name's sake--be willing to serve him in his suffering andweakness, till the end should come? And what did it matter whether theservice were done here or there, or whether the time were longer orshorter? And why should she heed what might be said of it all? Eventhe thought of her brother, who would be angry, and perhaps unreasonablein his anger, must not come between her and her duty to this man, towhom she had been brought as a friend and helper at last. 

And so she let all go--her doubts, and fears, and cares, willing to waitGod's will. Her face grew white and thin in these days, but verypeaceful. At the utterance of some chance word, there came no more asudden look of doubt or fear into her beautiful, sad eyes. Face, andeyes, and every word and movement told of peace. Whatever struggle shehad been passing through, during all these months, it was over now. Shewas waiting neither for one thing nor another, --to be bound, or to beset free. She was "waiting on God's will, content. "

They all saw it--Mistress Robb, in whose house she lived, and RobertHume, and Doctor Fleming, who had been mindful of her health and comfortall through her stay. Even Mr Rainy, who had little time to spare fromhis own affairs, took notice of her peaceful face, and her untroubledmovements as she went about the sickroom. 

"But oh! I'm wae for the puir lassie, " said he, falling like the restinto Scotch when much moved. "She kens little what's before her. He islike a lamb now; but when his strength comes back, if it ever comesback, --she will hae her ain adoes with him. Still--she's a sensiblewoman, and she canna but hae her ain thochts about him, and--and about--ahem--the gear he must soon--in the course o' nature--leave behind him. Weel! it will fall into good hands; it could hardly fall into better, unless indeed, the Brownrig, that young Douglas of Fourden marriedagainst the will o' his friends some forty years ago, should turn out tobe the factor's eldest sister, and a soldier lad I ken o', should be herson. It is to a man's own flesh and blood, that his siller (money)should go by rights. But yet a man can do what he likes with what hehas won for himsel'--"

All this or something like it, Mr Rainy had said to himself a good manytimes of late, and one day he said it to Doctor Fleming, with whom, since they both had so much to do with Brownrig, he had fallen into asort of intimacy. 

"Yes, she is a sensible woman, and may make a good use of it. But it isto a man's ain flesh and blood that his gear should go. I have beentaking some trouble in the looking up of a nephew of his, to whom he hasleft five hundred pounds, and I doubt the lad will not be well pleased, that all the rest should go as it's going. "

The doctor had not much to say about the matter. But he answered:

"As to Mistress Allison's being ready to take up the guiding ofBrownrig's fine house when he is done with it, I cannot make myselfbelieve it beforehand. She has no such thought as that, or I am greatlymistaken. By all means, do you what may be done to find this nephew ofher husband's. "

"Is it that you are thinking she will refuse to go with Brownrig toBlackhills?"

"I cannot say. I am to speak to her to-morrow. If he is to go, it mustbe soon. "

"She'll go, " said Mr Rainy. 

"Yes, I think she may go, " said the doctor; but though they agreed, orseemed to agree, their thoughts about the matter were as different ascould well be. 

The next day Doctor Fleming stood long by the bed, looking on the faceof the sleeper. It had changed greatly since the sick man lay downthere. He had grown thin and pale, and all traces of theself-indulgence which had so injured him, had passed away. He lookedhaggard and wan--the face was the face of an old man. But even so, itwas a better face, and pleasanter to look on, than it had ever been inhis time of health. 

"A spoiled life!" the doctor was saying to himself. "With a face and ahead like that, he ought to have been a wiser and better man. I neednot disturb him to-day, " said he to Allison, as he turned to go. 

He beckoned to her when he reached the door. 

"Mistress Allison, answer truly the question I am going to put to you. Will it be more than you are able to bear, to go with him to his home, and wait there for the end?"

"Surely, I am able. I never meant to go till lately. But I could neverforsake him now. Oh! yes, I will be ready to go, when you shall say thetime is come. "

She spoke very quietly, not at all as if it cost her anything to say it. Indeed, in a sense, it did not. She was willing now to go. 

The doctor looked at her gravely. 

"Are you able--quite able? I do not think he will need you for a verylong time. I am glad you are willing to go, though I never would haveurged you to do so, or have blamed you if you had refused. "

In his heart he doubted whether the journey could ever be taken. Dayspassed and little change appeared. The sick man was conscious when hewas spoken to, and answered clearly enough the questions that were putto him by the doctors; but he had either given up, or had forgotten hisdetermination to get home to die. Allison stayed in the place by nightas well as by day, and while she rested close at hand, Robert Hume orthe faithful Dickson took the watch. She would not leave him. He mightrouse himself and ask for her, and she would not fail him at the last. She did not fail him. For one morning as she stood looking down uponhim, when the others had gone away, he opened his eyes and spoke hername. She stooped to catch his words. 

"Is it all forgiven?" he said faintly. 

"All forgiven!" she answered, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she benther head and touched her lips to his. 

A strange brightness passed over the dying face. 

"Forgiven!" he breathed. It was his last word. 

He lingered still a few days more. Long, silent days, in which therewas little to be done but to wait for the end. Through them all, Allison sat beside the bed, slumbering now and then, when some one cameto share her watch, but ready at the faintest moan or movement of thedying man, with voice or touch, to soothe or satisfy him. Her strengthand courage held out till her hand was laid on the closed eyes, and thenshe went home to rest. 

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. 

 "Choosing to walk in the shadow, Patient and not afraid. "

Allison had need of rest, greater need than she knew. The first daysafter her long watch and service came to an end were passed in utterquiet. No one came to disturb her, either with question or counsel. Mr Rainy, of course, took the management of affairs into his hands; andif he could have had his own way, everything which was to be done, andthe manner of doing it, would have been submitted to her for directionor approval. It would, to him, have seemed right that she should go atonce to Blackhills, to await in the forsaken house the coming home ofits dead master. 

But Doctor Fleming had something to say about the matter. He would notallow a word to be spoken to her concerning any arrangement which was tobe made. 

"You know that you have full power to do as you think fit with regard tothe burial, and all else that may require your oversight. Any referencewhich you would be likely to make to Mistress Allison, would be a merematter of form, and I will not have her disturbed. Man! ye little kenhow ill able she is to bear what ye would lay upon her. As to her evenhearing a word about going up yonder, it is out of the question. Leaveher in peace for a while, and you will have the better chance of gettingyour own way with her later. "

"As you say, doctor, it is a mere matter of form. But forms andceremonies cannot ay be dispensed with. She might like to have her ainsay, as is the way with women. However, I can wait till later on, asyou advise. "

So Allison was left in quiet. Brownrig was carried to his own house, and for a few days his coffin stood there in the unbroken silence of theplace. 

Then his neighbours gathered to his burial, and "gentle and simple"followed him to his grave. As the long procession moved slowly on, manya low-spoken word was exchanged between friends concerning the dead manand his doings during the years he had been in the countryside. Hisstrong will, his uncertain temper, his faithful service to an easy andimprovident employer, all were discussed and commented upon freelyenough, yet with a certain reticence and forbearance also, since "he hadgone to his account. "

It was a pity that he had become so careless about himself of late, theysaid. That was the mild way in which they put it, when they alluded to"the drink" which had been "the death of him. " And who was to comeafter him? Who was to get the good of what he had left?

Allison Bain's name was spoken also. Had she been wrong to go away?Had she been right? If she had accepted her lot, might she have savedhim, and lived to be a happy woman in spite of all? Who could say? Butif all was true that his man Dickson was saying, she had helped to savehim at last. 

In silence they laid him down within sight of the grave where Allisonhad knelt one sorrowful day, and there they left him to his rest. 

Allison was worn and spent, but she was a strong woman and she wouldsoon be herself again, she said, and her friends said so also. They didnot know that Doctor Fleming had, at this time, some anxiety about her. He remembered the first days of his acquaintance with her, and the dulldespair into which she had fallen, before he sent her to Nethermuir, andhe would not have been surprised if, after the long strain upon mind andbody through which she had passed, the same suffering had fallen uponher again. Therefore it was that he used both his authority as aphysician and his influence as a friend, to prevent any allusion tobusiness matters; and though he was guarded in all that he said to MrRainy on the subject, he yet said enough to show him the propriety ofletting all things remain as they were, for a time. 

So Allison was left at peace, --in the quiet little house which she wasbeginning to call her home. She had been asked, and even entreated byMrs Hume, to come to the manse for a while. Mrs Beaton had written tosay how glad it would make her if Allison would come to her for a weekor two. But remembering the misery of her first months in Nethermuir, Allison hesitated at first, and then refused them both. She was betterwhere she was, she said, and in a few days she would be ready for herwork again. 

She did not say it to them, and she hardly confessed it to herself, butshe shrank from the thought of the eyes that would be looking at her, and the tongues that would be discussing her, now that her secret wasknown. For of course it could not be kept. All her small world wouldknow how who she was, and why she had come to take refuge in the manse. They would think well of her, or ill of her, according to their natures, but that would not trouble her if she were not there to hear and see. So she stayed where she was, and as she could not do what she would haveliked best, she made up her mind to go back to the infirmary again. 

She would have liked best to go away at once to her brother in America, and some of her friends were inclined to wonder that she did not do so. But Allison had her reasons, some of which she was not prepared todiscuss with any one, --which indeed she did not like to dwell uponherself. She had been asked to come to the home of the Haddens to staythere till her brother was ready for her. When she was stronger andsurer of herself, she would accept their kind invitation, and then shewould go to Willie--it did not matter where. East or West, far or near, would be all the same to her in that strange land, so that she andWillie might be able to help one another. 

"And, oh! I wish the time were only come, " said she. 

Since this must be waited for, she would have liked well to ask kindDoctor Thorne, who had called her "a born nurse, " to let her come tohim, that she might be at his bidding, and live her life, and do somegood in the world. The first time that Doctor Fleming had come to seeher, after her long labour and care were over, it had been on her lipsto ask him to speak to the good London doctor for her. But that was atthe very first, and the fear that Doctor Fleming might wonder at her forthinking of new plans, before the dead man was laid in his grave, hadkept her silent. After that she hesitated for other reasons. Londonwas faraway, and the journey was expensive, and it would only be for ayear at most, and possibly for less, as whenever her brother said he wasready for her she must go. So there was nothing better for her to dothan just to return to her work in the infirmary, and wait withpatience. 

"And surely that ought to be enough for me, after all I have comethrough, just to stay there quietly and wait. I ought to ken by thistime--and I do ken--that no real ill can come upon me. 

"Pain? Yes, and sorrow, and disappointment. But neither doubt, norfear, nor any real ill can harm me. I may be well content, since I amsure of that. And I _am_ content, only--whiles, I am foolish andforget. "

She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But shemust have forgotten--being foolish--one night on which Doctor Flemingcame in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were tracesof tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was broughtin. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knewnothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tearsto-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it. 

_Was_ he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was tobe said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, andthe saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear. 

"Are you rested?" said he. "Are you quite strong and well again?"

"Yes, I am quite well and strong. "

"And cheerful? And hopeful?"

"Surely, " said Allison, looking at him in surprise. 

"Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letterto-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from--my Marjorie. Idon't know--I canna tell why it should--"

"Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, nevermind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than youwere, I am glad to say. "

"Yes, I am quite well and cheerful, --only--"

But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it. 

"It is Mr Rainy. He has come to speak about--business. But he willnot keep you long to-night. "

Mr Rainy had never come much into contact with Allison Bain. She wasto him "just a woman, like the lave. " He had no wife, and no near kinamong women, and it is possible that he knew less of the sex than hethought he did. He did not pretend to know much about Allison, but heknew that several people, whose sense and judgment he respected, thoughtwell of her. She was tall and strong, and had a face at which it was apleasure to look, and, judging from all that he had heard about her, shemight be freer than most, from the little vanities and weaknesses usualto her kind. She was a reasonable woman, he had heard, and that heshould have anything to do to-night, except to explain how mattersstood, and to suggest the time and the manner of certain necessaryarrangements, he had not imagined. 

He came prepared to be well received, and he did not for a moment doubtthat he should make good his claim to be heard and heeded in all thatconcerned the affairs which Brownrig had left in his hands. So hegreeted Allison with gravity suited to the occasion, yet with acheerfulness which seemed to imply that he had pleasant news to tell. Allison received him with a quietness which, he told himself, it costher something to maintain. But he thought none the less of her forthat. 

"No woman could stand in _her_ shoes this night, and not be moved, andthat greatly. And not one in ten could keep a grip of herself as she isdoing--no, nor one in fifty, " said he to himself. Aloud he said: "Iought, perhaps, to have given you longer time to consider when you couldreceive me. But the doctor informed me that you had been at theinfirmary to-day, and as he was at liberty he suggested that you woulddoubtless be willing to see us to-night. There are certain matters thatmust be attended to at once. "

"For the present I come home early, " said Allison. "The evening is theonly time I have to myself. "

"Yes. For the present, as you say. Ahem! You are aware, perhaps, thatfor years I was employed by--by Mr Brownrig in the transaction of somuch of his business as was in my line. And you know that during hislast illness I was often with him, and was consulted by him. In short, the arrangement of his affairs was left to me. "

This was but the introduction to much more. Allison listened insilence, and when he came to a pause she said quietly:

"And what can I have to do with all this?"

Mr Rainy looked a little startled. 

"You are not, I should suppose, altogether unaware of the manner inwhich--I mean of the provisions of your husband's will?"

"I know nothing about it, " said Allison. 

"Then let me have the pleasure of telling you that by this will, youare, on certain conditions, to be put in possession of all of which MrBrownrig died possessed. There are a few unimportant legacies tofriends. " He mentioned the names of several persons, and then went onwith his explanations. 

Allison understood some things which he said, and some things sheneither understood nor heeded. When he came to an end at last, she didnot, as he expected, ask what was the condition to which he hadreferred, but said:

"And what will happen if I say that I can take nothing?"

Mr Rainy looked at her in astonishment. 

"That is easily told, " said he, with a queer contortion of his face. "The property of the deceased would go to the next of kin. "

Then Mr Rainy waited to hear more, --waited "to see what it was that shewould be at, " he said to himself. 

"And it is your place to settle it all, to see that all is put right asit should be?"

"Yes, that is my place, with the help of one or two others. Your friendDoctor Fleming has something to do with your affairs, under the will. "

"What you have to do will be to put the will aside, as if it had neverbeen made. I hope it will not add to the trouble you must have tosettle everything without it. "

"Are you in earnest?" asked Mr Rainy gravely. 

"Surely, I am in earnest. "

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to receive the property which yourhusband left to you? Is it because of the condition? No, it cannot bethat, for I named no condition. And indeed it is hardly a condition. It is rather a request. "

Allison asked no question, though he paused expectant. 

"The condition--if it can be called a condition--is easy enough tofulfil. It is to take possession of a fine house, and live in it--awhile every year, anyway, and to call yourself by your husband's name. Is that a hard thing to do?"

Allison grew red and then pale. 

"I have nothing to say about any condition. With no condition mydecision would have been the same. What you have to do must be donewith no thought of me. "

"But what is your reason? What would you have? You were friends withhim. You were good to him all those long months. You had forgiven himbefore he died. "

"I think I had forgiven him long before that time. I came to himbecause I was sorry for him, and he, too, had something to forgive. Iwished to be at peace with him before he died, for his sake and for myown. "

"What more need be said? You had forgiven one another, and he wished tomake amends. Give me a reason for this most astonishing resolution. "

"I can give you no reason, except that I cannot take what you say he hasleft to me. I have no right to it. It should go to those of his ownblood. "

There was more said, but not much, and not another word was spoken byAllison. Doctor Fleming, who had been silent hitherto, said somethingabout taking longer time to consider the matter--that there was no needfor haste. She should take time, and consult her friends. But he didnot seem surprised at her decision, and indeed "spoke in a half-heartedkind of a way, which was likely to do little ill, little good in thisstrange matter, " Mr Rainy declared, with an echo of reproach in hisvoice, as they left the house together. 

"Is she a' there, think ye? It canna surely be that she refuses to bebeholden to him, because of the ill turn he did her when he married her?She forgave him, and that should end all ill thoughts. Yes, she hadforgiven him; no one could doubt that who saw her as you saw her. Andno one would think of casting up to her that she served him with anythought of what he had to leave behind him. But she might think so, andI daresay she has her ain pride, for all her gentle ways. You must havea word with her, doctor. It is easy seen that your word would go farwith her. As for me, I canna follow her, nor understand her, unless itis that she has a want or a weakness about her somewhere. "

"No, " said the doctor, "it cannot be explained in that way. "

"Well, what would she have? Man! think ye what many a woman would givefor her chance! A house of her own, and wealth, no responsibilities, noincumbrances, and not a true word to be spoken against her. Why! itwould be the beginning of a new life to her. With her good looks, andthe grip she has of herself (her self-possession), she would hold herown--no fear of that. And no one has a right to meddle with her. Thereis her brother, but it is hardly likely he will trouble her. And she isthe stronger of the two, and she has had experience since the old days. I canna fathom it--unless there be somebody else, " said Mr Rainy, standing still in the street. "Doctor, can you tell me that? I think Iwould have heard of him, surely. And he would be a queer lad that wouldobject to her coming to him with her hands full. And there is not aword said about her not marrying again. No, it must just be that she isa woman of weak judgment. "

They had walked a long way by this time, and now they turned intoanother street, and soon came to Mr Rainy's door. 

"Come in, doctor, come in. You surely must have something to say aboutthis strange freak, though I own I have not given you much chance to sayit. Come in if you can spare the time. It's early yet. "

The doctor went in with him, but he had not much to say except that hewas not altogether surprised at Mistress Allison's decision. Indeed heowned that he would have been surprised had she decided otherwise. 

"But what, I ask, in the name of common sense, is the reason? You mustknow, for you seem to have foreseen her refusal. "

"I do not believe she herself could find a reason, except that shecannot do this thing. The reason lies in her nature. She came to him, as she says, because she was sorry for him, and because she wished thatthey might forgive one another before he died. And I daresay shethought she might do him some good. And so she did. May God bless her!But as to what he had, or what he might do with it, I doubt if thethought of it ever came into her mind, till you spoke the wordto-night. "

Mr Rainy shook his head. 

"I don't say that it is altogether beyond possibility. She seems to bea simple-minded creature in some ways, but she's a woman. And justthink of it! A free life before her, and all that money can give--Imean of the things dear to women--even to good and sensible women--gownsand bonnets and--things. It couldna but have come into her mind. "

"But even if she has thought of all these things, she refuses them now. "

"Yes, she does that, but why? It may be that she hasna confidence inherself. But that would come. There is no fear of a fine, statelywoman like her. It is a pity that the poor man didna get to his ownhouse to die. "

"Yes, it was Brownrig's sole reason for wishing to go, that all might bemade easier for her. He was eager to see her in the possession of allhe had to give. It was too late, however. He failed rapidly, after hetold me his wish. Still, I do not think that her being there would havemade any difference in the end. "

"Do you mean that she would have said the same in those circumstances, and that she will hold out now? That she will go her own ways, and earnher bread, and call herself Allison Bain to the end of her days? No, no! she will come round. We'll give her time, and she'll come round, and ken her ain mind better. A year and a day I'll give her, and bythat time she will be wiser and less--less, what shall I call it? Lessscrupulous. "

"There are, doubtless, folk ready to put in a claim for a share of whatis left, should she refuse. "

"There is one man, and he has a family. I have had my eye on him for awhile. He knows his connection with Brownrig. I don't think he isproud of it. But he will have no scruples about taking all that he canget, I daresay. The will, as it stands, is not to be meddled with. Ihope he may have to content himself with his five hundred pounds. "

Doctor Fleming smiled. 

"I should say that he stands a fair chance of taking that and all elsebesides. Time will show. "

"I think, doctor, " said Mr Rainy gravely, "if you were to give yourmind to it, you could make her see her interest, and her duty as well. "

"I am not so sure of that. Nor would I like to say, that to take _your_way, would be either her interest or her duty. "

"Nonsense, man! Consider the good a woman like that might do. I thinkI'll send a letter to her friend Mr Hume. He can set her duty beforeher, as to the spending of the money. They are good at that, theseministers. And there is Mrs Esselmont! If she were to take up AllisonBain, it would be the making of her. And she might well do it. ForJohn Bain came of as good a stock as any Esselmont of them all. Only oflate they let slip their chances--set them at naught, I daresay, asMistress Allison is like to do. Yes, I'll write to Mrs Esselmont. Shehas taken to serious things of late, I hear, but she kens as weel asanither the value of a competence to a young woman like Allison Bain. "

"Does Mistress Allison know anything of this nephew of Brownrig's?"

"All that she knows is that there are folk who can claim kinship withher husband. "

"Well, I hope he is a good man if this money is to go to him, as Icannot but think it may. "

Mr Rainy said nothing for a moment, but looked doubtfully at thedoctor. 

"He is an unworldly kind of a man, " said he to himself, "and though hehas not said as much, I daresay he is thinking in his heart that it is afine thing in Allison Bain to be firm in refusing to take the benefit ofwhat was left to her. And if I were to tell who the next of kin is, itmight confirm her in her foolishness. But I'll say nothing to him, norto Mrs Esselmont. "

Then he added aloud:

"Speak you a word to her. She will hear you if she will hear any one. Make her see that it is her _duty_ to give up her own will, and takewhat is hers, and help other folk with it. She is one of the kind thatthinks much of doing her duty, I should say. "

Doctor Fleming smiled. 

"Yes, that is quite true; if I were only sure as to what is her duty, Iwould set it before her clearly. I will speak to her, however, sinceyou wish it, but I will let a few days pass first. "

That night Robert Hume looked in upon Allison, as was his custom now andthen. Marjorie's letter lay on the table. 

"There is no bad news, I hope?" said he as he met Allison's glance. 

"No. Marjorie would like me to come `home, ' as she calls it. Or, ifthat canna be, she would like to come here. "

"She could hardly come here, but you should go to the manse. You _must_go when spring comes. "

"I would like to go for some reasons. But--I would like to see myMarjorie, and the sight of your mother would do me good, and yet I cannathink of going with any pleasure. But I may feel differently when thespring comes. "

"You went back to your auld wives too soon, " said Robin. 

"No, it is not that. If I am not fit to go to them, what am I fit for?"And, to Robert's consternation, the tears came into her eyes. 

"Allie, " said he, "come away home to my mother. "

But when Allison found her voice again, she said "no" to that. 

"I havena the heart to go anywhere. My auld wives are my best friendsnow. I must just have patience and wait. "

"Allison, " said Robert gravely, "would you not like to come with me toAmerica?"

Allison looked at him in astonishment. 

"With you! To America!"

"Yes, with me. Why not? They have fine colleges. I could learn to bea doctor as well there as here, at least I could learn well enough. Andthen there is your brother, and--John Beaton. The change is what youneed. You wouldna, maybe, like to go by yourself, and I could take careof you as well as another. "

This hold and wise proposal had the effect of staying Allison's tears, which was something. 

"And what would your father and mother say to that, think ye?" saidAllison with a smile. 

"I dinna--just ken. But I ken one thing. They would listen to reason. They ay do that. And a little sooner or later, what difference would itmake? For it is there I am going some time, and that soon. "

"And so am I, I hope--but not just yet. I couldna go to a strange land, to bide among strange folk, until--I am fitter for it. If my brotherhad a house of his own, I might go. "

"But when your brother gets a house of his own, he'll be taking a wife, "said Robert gravely. 

"Surely! I would like that well. "

"Oh! it will come whether you like it or no. If he canna get one, he'llget another--there's no fear. "

"Ah! but if he canna get the right one, he should take none. And hewould ay have me. "

Robin might have had his own thoughts about that matter. He saidnothing, however, but that night he wrote a letter to his mother. Hewrote about various matters, as once every week it was his duty andpleasure to do. And when he had said all else that was to be said, headded, that Allison Bain whiles looked as she used to look in her firstdays in Nethermuir--as though she had lost all her friends, and asthough she might lose herself next. 

"I told her to-night that her best wisdom would be to come away with meto America. I meant, of course, that I would go with her if she wasafraid to go by herself. For they say there are fine colleges inAmerica, and I could keep on with my work there. Allison is getting nogood here, among her auld wives. "

Mrs Hume smiled at Robert's proposal, and so did the minister, but theyboth looked grave at his account of Allison. 

"It is a pity that she refuses to come here for a few weeks, " said MrHume. 

"Yes, it might do her good. Still it would not be as it was at first. It was because her hands were busy and her days full, that she washelped then. It would be different now. And more than that, she seemsquite to shrink from the thought of it. We will wait a while, and allthat may pass away. "

CHAPTER THIRTY. 

 "Then fare ye weel, my ain true love, And fare ye weel a while. "

But Allison was in no such evil case as her friends were inclined tobelieve. She was growing strong again, and she had enough to do, and awill to do it, which to reasonable folk means content, if it does notquite mean happiness. She still lived in Mrs Robb's house, and went tothe infirmary every day, and took pleasure in her work, the best ofpleasure, --knowing that she was doing something to soothe the pains ofthose whose portion in life seemed to be only suffering and sorrow. 

In helping these, she helped herself also. She forgot her own sadness, when she saw the weary, pain-drawn faces brighten as she came near, andshe felt her own courage revived, and her strength renewed, when anyweak and hesitating word of hers had power to comfort the hearts of somewhom care or poverty or ill-requited affection had made sick, or sour, or hopeless. 

There were complaining and ingratitude to meet now and then, from someof them. But, poor souls! they needed help and comfort all the more, because of their unreasonable anger, or their querulous discontent. Herkindest words, and softest touches, and longest patience were for these. And when the cloud parted, and a light from Heaven shone in upon onesitting in darkness, or when, for a moment, the troubled and angryspirit was made to feel what the coming of God's grace into the heart islike, --was not that enough to make her content?

Doctor Fleming, though he said little to her about herself or herhealth, still kept his eye upon her, and soon became quite satisfiedabout her. Mr Rainy, who sometimes saw her passing through the street, wondered when she would begin to tire of her self-imposed labour, and ofgetting her own will and be ready to listen to reason. But heacknowledged to himself, that, if one could judge by her look, sheseemed well pleased with her work and her own ways thus far. 

"She goes by, not seeming to see me or any other body, but her thoughtsare good and pleasant thoughts, or I am mistaken. Still, I doubt, whenshe comes to stand face to face with `the next of kin, ' she may have aqualm of repentance for her foolishness. But a last will and testamentis no' to be lightly meddled with, and I will do my best for her. "

So he wrote to Mr Hume, asking him to use his influence with Allison. He wrote also to Mrs Esselmont, whom he had known long and well. Hehad known her best in her youth, when, as he said to himself, she hadkept as firm a grip of the good things of this life as most folk. Heassured her that there was no reason, either in law or in morals, whyAllison Bain should not have and hold, and make a good use of all thather husband had left to her, and he believed that no one would be sowell able to set all this before her as Mrs Esselmont, since, as he hadheard, she had for some time taken an interest in the young woman; andthen he added:

"She has both sense and discretion, except with regard to this onematter She has been living a repressed sort of life of late, --indeedfrom all that I can gather, she never has had any other kind of life, which goes far to account for her hesitation--I will not say refusal--toreceive what is rightfully hers. I think that she is afraid of theresponsibility, and that she is not sure of herself, or of doing wellthe duties of a higher station. But she would soon learn to haveconfidence in herself; and with the friendship and the countenance ofMrs Esselmont, she need care little for the favour or disfavour of anyof the rest. "

Mrs Esselmont smiled as she read. If such a letter had come to her inthe days when Mr Rainy knew her best--when she was young--when she hadinfluence in her own circle, and liked well to exercise it, she mighthave been moved by it even more than it moved her now. For she _was_moved by it. She had seen and known enough of Allison Bain to cause herto assent willingly to Mr Rainy's opinion, that under favourablecircumstances she might hold her own in a position very different fromthat which she had hitherto occupied. 

She had not known Allison during her first months at the manse, when, under the terrible strain of sorrow and fear, she had seemed to breakdown and lose herself. It was the sight of her beautiful, sad face asshe sat in the kirk, that had first touched Mrs Esselmont, andafterward, her firm and gentle dealing with the child Marjorie. Lateron she had learned to know well and to admire, --yes, and to love dearly, this reticent, self-respecting, young woman who was living under herroof, a child's nurse--a servant, --yet who in all her words and waysshowed herself to be a true lady. 

Such help as she could give, she would gladly give to Allison, shouldshe of her own free will choose wealth and a higher position in life. But to seek to influence her choice, --that was quite another matter. Noone but Allison herself could take the responsibility of deciding whather future was to be. None knew better than Mrs Esselmont, how little, wealth and the esteem of the world had to do with peace of mind orenduring happiness. She therefore answered Mr Rainy's letter withoutcommitting herself. But she told him, that a journey to Aberdeen whichshe was intending to make, should be hastened, in order that she mightthe sooner see Allison. 

As for the minister, he did with Mr Rainy's letter, what he was in theway of doing with all important matters on which he was called todecide. He considered it well for a night and a day, and then he laidit before his wife. She did not wait long to consider it. She said asshe laid it down:

"John Beaton!"

"Well, " said the minister, "what of him?"

"He would never wish it. At least I hope he would never wish it. "

"And has that anything to do with her refusal, think you?"

Mrs Hume was silent a moment. Then she said:

"No. I do not think so. I am sure it has not. There is no usesearching for reasons as far as Allison is concerned. She simply cannotdo the thing they are wishing her to do. It is not a matter for reasonwith her, but a matter of feeling. And I quite understand it, though Icould not hope to make this clear to Mr Rainy, perhaps not even toyou. "

There was more said about John Beaton and his hopes and wishes, but theadvice which was to be given to Allison was not to be influenced by anythought of him, or what he might desire. What would be best for Allisonherself?

Knowing her well, the minister could not but believe that she would be"a faithful and wise steward" of whatever was committed to her hand. And he could not but have a thought also, as to the direction which herliberality might take under judicious guidance. But for Allisonherself, was the possession of so much money desirable? Would she be ahappier woman because she lived in a fine house, and had fine folk abouther? And would these fine folk ever fully accept her as one ofthemselves, and give her what was her due, --not as a rich woman, but asa good woman, --one possessing rare qualities of heart and mind, one inherself worthy of high regard and honour? All this was, in Mr Hume'sopinion, more than doubtful. 

There was this to be said. A measure of happiness cannot but be theirsto whom is given the heart as well as the power to dispense wisely andliberally, and surely Allison would be one of these. Still, theconclusion to which Mr Hume came, was that Allison must be left todecide for herself. 

So Mr Hume's reply to Mr Rainy's letter was not very satisfactory tothat gentleman, and he could only hope, that as the months went on, something might occur which would suggest more reasonable views to themall. 

Mrs Esselmont went to Aberdeen, and it so happened that she had aninterview with Mr Rainy before she saw Allison. She owned herselfimpressed by what he had to say. Therefore when she met Allison, herfirst words to her were not those which she had intended to use. Shespoke very gently and kindly, but it was with the desire to convinceAllison that though it might not be for her pleasure, it might still beher duty to yield to wise guidance, and accept the lot which she had notchosen for herself, but which seemed to be the lot appointed for her. She dwelt on the advantages which would naturally follow such anacceptance, --the good which in so many ways Allison might do, theposition which she would have, and which she would hold with credit andhonour. 

There was more said than this, and Allison listened in silence, with alook in her eyes which brought Mrs Esselmont to a pause at last. 

"Were these your first thoughts about me when you heard what hadbefallen me? And do you think that I would be a happier woman or abetter, for being a richer woman?" asked Allison quietly. 

"Not happier or better, perhaps, but you might be more useful. No, Imust own that my first thought was, that you did well to refuse toreceive anything from him from whom you had fled, and from whom you hadhidden yourself so long. But you owe something to his memory. Do younot see how it would quiet the evil tongues which are raised againsthim, if you were to take your rightful place and do there the dutieswhich he, I fear, neglected sometimes to do?"

"I could not go there, " said Allison. 

That was all she had to say. She had no reasons to give, and she hadnothing to answer to all the good reasons which Mrs Esselmont had heardfrom Mr Rainy, and which she tried to set before her. 

Mrs Esselmont kept her best argument till the last. It was not onewhich had been suggested to her by Mr Rainy. 

"Allison, I can understand why you may shrink from the responsibilitywhich the acceptance of your husband's will would bring upon you. Butin a way, the responsibility would remain, even were you to refuse. Youdo not know into whose hands this money may fall. Think of the evilinfluence which a bad rich man might exert through all the countryside. What is known of this stranger who is putting in his claim as next ofkin?"

"Mr Rainy knows that he is the man that he declares himself to be. Hehas long known about him, and has always kept him in view. DoctorFleming told me that. Yes, I have thought of what you say. But if MrRainy is satisfied, I think I am free to do as I desire to do--as I mustdo. "

"Is it your brother who is seeking to influence you in this matter, Allison?"

"No. I have thought of what might be his wish. But I have had no wordfrom him since--I do not even know whether he has heard of--what hashappened. No one has influenced me. I am sure I am right in refusing;but right or wrong, I must refuse. Oh! say no more, for I cannot bearit. "

She was doing her best to keep herself quiet, but the constant dwellingon this matter had vexed and wearied her, and Mrs Esselmont wasstartled by the look which came to her face, as she rose and took a steptoward the door. 

"Allison, my dear, " said she, "you are worn out and need to be takencare of and comforted. Leave it all for the present, and come home withme. "

The ready tears came to Allison's eyes. 

"You are very kind, but I think I am better here. Mrs Hume has askedme to come to the manse, and Mrs Beaton would like me to go to her. You are all very kind, but I think it is better for me just to bidewhere I am, and keep myself busy for the present. "

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking earnestly for several minutes. Then shesaid gravely:

"Allison, listen to me for a moment, and put out of your thoughts allthat I hose been saying. You have been long enough under my roof toknow something of me. You know that I am growing an old woman now, andthat I am much alone, having no one very near to me who could be with mealways. I am often very lonely. One daughter is taken up with the careof her large family, and has other claims upon her besides, and my Maryis over the sea. Will you come to me, Allison? Not as a servant, --as acompanion and friend. I like you greatly, my dear. I may say I loveyou dearly. Will you come to me?"

She held out her hand. Allison took it in both hers, and stooping, shekissed it, and her tears fell upon it. 

"If my brother did not need me I would come with good will. But I mustgo to him when he is ready for me. "

"Will you come to me till he sends for you? If he were to marry hewould not need you. You would be happy with me, I am sure, my dear. "

"That you should even wish me to come, makes me very glad, but I can saynothing now. "

"Well, think about it. We would suit one another, my dear. And wemight have our Marjorie with us now and then. "

Mrs Esselmont went back to Firhill, and Allison went daily to theinfirmary again. She kept herself busy, as was best for her, and no onecame to trouble her any more with counsel or expostulation. She did herwork and thought her own thoughts in peace. 

"I will wait patiently till this troublesome business is settled, andthen I will know what I may do. I am not losing my time and I canwait. "

Having quite made up her mind as to her duty with regard to "thistroublesome business, " she put it out of her thoughts and grew cheerfuland content, and able to take the good of such solace or pleasure ascame in her way. 

Robert Hume was a help to her at this time. He looked in upon heroften, and gave her such items of news as came to him from the manse orfrom Nethermuir. He brought her books now and then, to improve her mindand pass the time, he told her, and Allison began, to her own surprise, to take pleasure in them, such as she had taken in books in the days ofher youth, before all things went wrong with them, and all the world waschanged. 

A letter came from her brother at last. It was dated at a strange placein the West, and it was not a cheerful letter. 

"It is a long time since I wrote to you, " he said. "I had no heart towrite. I was grieved and angry, and I would only have hurt you with mywords. But I have not made so much of my own life that I should ventureto find fault with what you are doing with yours. As to my plans thatyou asked about, I have none now. I may wait a while before I think ofgetting a home of my own, since I am not like to have any one to shareit with me. Oh! Allie, how is it that all our fine hopes and planshave come to nothing? It was your duty, you thought, to take the stepyou have taken. I cannot see it so. Having once gone to him, you cannever leave him till death comes to part you. You might as well havegone at the first as at the last, and you would have saved yourself thetrouble of years. But it is useless to say more--"

Then he went on to tell her that he had come West to see the country--and a fine country it was, grand for growing grain. He had not made uphis mind to stay in it. "It is a fine country, but it has a dreary lookto me. There is not a hill to be seen far or near, and in some parts, not a tree for scores of miles. I hardly think I will stay here long. "

Allison read all this with painful misgivings. Willie alone anddiscouraged, and alas! open to temptation, perhaps, as he had beenbefore--how would it end? Her heart sank within her, and she said toherself, that there was no need for her to wait for a settlement of thattroublesome business. There were those who could settle it without herhelp, and she would away to her brother. 

His name was signed at the end of the page, but she turned the leaf overand read a few lines more. 

"I have gotten a letter from John Beaton, and I have made up my mind togo back to Barstow. John says he is going home to bring out his mother, and he will give you all the news--so no more at present. "

Allison's heart was lightened as she read. 

"There cannot be much wrong with him since he is going back again, " shethought, "and I can wait patiently till his friend comes, to hear more. "

She had not long to wait. One night, when she came home in the earlygloaming, she found Mrs Robb standing at the door. 

"Mr Robert is in the room, " said she, "and a friend with him. He askedfor you, and I thought ye might maybe like to take off your cap andchange your gown before you went in to them. "

"I may as well, " said Allison. "It is some one from Nethermuir, Isuppose, " she thought as she went up the stair. 

So she came down quite unprepared to find John Beaton standing in themiddle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the door. They stood for amoment looking at one another, and then their hands met, but not a wordof greeting passed between them. Then Allison sat down, and John took aturn up and down the room. 

"I heard from my brother that you were coming home for your mother, butI did not think it was to be so soon, " said Allison. 

"It is the best time for me to leave my work. It is rather early in theseason for my mother, I am afraid. But the voyage is shorter than itused to be, and she can have every comfort. "

"She will be glad to go, " said Allison. 

"Yes, for some reasons. But at her age, changes are neither easy norwelcome. Still, I am sure she will be glad to go. "

"You have something to tell me about my brother, " said Allison. 

"Yes, I have much to tell you--and nothing but good. "

"I was thankful when I heard that he was to go back again to MrStrong's house. It has been like home to him a long time. Did he senda letter to me?"

"Yes--but it is a very little one. I am to tell you all the news, " saidJohn, taking from his pocketbook a tiny, folded paper. Allison openedit and read:

"Dear Allie, it was all a mistake; it was me she cared for all the time. Oh! Allie, you must love her dearly for my sake. "

It seemed to take Allison a good while to read it, short as it was. When at last she looked up and met John's eyes, a sudden rush of colourmade her hide her face in her hands. 

"Don't be sorry, Allie; you would not if you knew all, " said John. 

"Oh! no. It is not that I am sorry. But--he will not need me now. Oh!I am not sorry. I am glad for him. " But her voice trembled as shesaid it. 

"Will he not need his sister? You would not say so if you knew what thethought of you has been to him all these years. You have not seen yourbrother for a long time, but it is you who have made a man of him, forall that. "

"Have I made a man of him? It has been with your good help then. "

"Yes, I think I may have helped him. We have been friends, and more, ever since we met that night by the lake shore. "

"Ah! he needed a friend then. I seemed to forget my fears for him, after I heard that you had found him. I do not know how to thank youfor all you have been to him. "

"I will tell you how, " said John. But he did not. He rose and walkedup and down again. After a little he sat down beside her, and had moreto say. He spoke of his first meeting with her brother, of Willie'sillness, and of the good fortune that came to them both on the day whenthey took shelter from the rain in Mr Strong's barn. He told her muchmore than that. Some things she had heard before, and some things sheheard now for the first time. She listened to all with a lightenedheart, and more than once the happy tears came to her eyes. And whenJohn ended thus, "You will be proud of your brother yet, Allison, " sheput out her hand, and John took it, and, for a moment, held it closely. 

Before Allison came in John had said to Robert:

"You are not to go away; I have nothing to say to Allison Bain to-nightthat all Nethermuir might not hear. "

But for the moment he wished the words unsaid. A wild desire "to putall to the touch" and know his fate assailed him. He spoke quietlyenough, however, when he went on to tell, in answer to Allison'squestions, why Willie had gone away so suddenly to the West. 

He had always intended to go out there some time, but with thesuddenness of his going Mr Strong had something to do. It never seemedto have come into the father's mind that his little Elsie was not achild any longer, and when he began to notice the look that came intoWillie's eyes when they lighted on her, he was startled first, and thenhe was angry, and he let his anger be seen, which was foolish. I amafraid he spoke to Elsie herself, which was more foolish still. For shebecame conscious, and shy, and ill at ease, and these two, who up tothat time had been like brother and sister, had little to say to oneanother. When Elsie was sent away to visit an aunt, Willie grewrestless and angry, and, in a moment when something had vexed him, hetold Mr Strong that he had made up his mind to go West. 

"Mr Strong said `all right' a little too readily perhaps, and gave thelad no time to reconsider his decision, and so Willie went away. Ithappened when I was in another town, where I had building going on. Iheard of the matter first from a letter which Willie sent me, andhurried back as soon as possible, hoping to induce him to wait for awhile, that I might go with him, as I had always meant to do. I was toolate. But it has all ended well. Willie was glad to get home again, and they were all glad to have him home. Mr Strong had missed the ladmore than he had been willing to confess, even to himself. "

"And is that what you call ending well? Is that to be the end?" saidRobert, speaking for the first time. 

John laughed. "That is as far as it has gone yet, and it as well aswell can be. We must wait for the rest. "

"Tell me about Elsie, " said Allison. 

John had a good deal to tell about Elsie, and about other people. Hehad much to say about Mr Hadden and his family, and about their greatkindness to both Willie and himself. He had something also to say ofhis own business and of his success in it, and Robin drew him out todescribe the house he had built for himself among the maples, by thelake. A pleasant place he said it was, but it would have to wait awhile yet before it could be called a home. 

Then Robin challenged him to say truly, whether, after all, he was quitecontented with his life in the new world, and whether he had not hadtimes of being homesick, repentant, miserable?

No, John had never repented. He had succeeded in every way, far betterthan he had had any reason to expect or hope. Miserable? No. No oneneed be miserable anywhere, who had enough to do, and a measure ofsuccess in doing it. 

"As to homesickness--it depends on what you call homesickness. My heartwas ay turning homewards, but not with any thought that I had been wrongor foolish to leave Scotland. No, I am not sorry I went to America whenI did. "

And then, turning to Allison he added:

"And yet I had no intention of staying there when I went. If it hadnabeen the thought of finding Willie, I would never have turned my face toBarstow. Indeed, I think your Willie and his trust in me, and perhapsalso my care for him, has had more to do with my contentment, yes, andwith my success, than all else together. "

"I am glad, " said Allison, and her impulse was to put out her handagain. But she did not. She only said:

"How long do you think of staying in Scotland?"

"Only as long as my mother needs to make ready for the journey. "

"And when you go will you pass this way? I should like well to see yourmother, and say good-bye before she goes away. "

"You must go borne for a while to the manse, Allie. That is what youmust do, " said Robert. 

"No, " said Allison, "I would like a quiet day with her here far better. "

"And you shall have it, " said John heartily. "That will be far betterthan to be there in the confusion of leaving. "

Then John rose, saying it was time to go, and Robert, who was to see hima few miles on his journey, remembered that there was still something tobe done, and hurried away. 

He might as well have stayed where he was, for the parting between thesetwo was as undemonstrative as their meeting had been. But when theyoung men had gone a few steps down the pavement, John turned back againto the door where Allison was still standing. 

"Allie, " said he, "say a kind word to me before I go. Tell me you haveforgiven the presumption of that night. "

"I have had none but kind thoughts of you since then, John, " said she, giving him her hand. 

He stooped and kissed it. 

"I am not going to ask anything from you just now, because--But I musttell you--that I love you dearly, --so dearly, that I can wait patientlytill you shall bid me come again. "

Laying her hand upon his shoulder, Allison whispered softly:

"Will you wait till the year is over, John?"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. 

 "And I will come again, my love, Though 'twere ten thousand mile. "

A year and a day Mr Rainy had given to Allison Bain, in which toreconsider her decision as to her refusal to be benefited by theprovisions of Brownrig's will, and now the year was drawing to a close. "The next of kin" had signified his intention of returning to Scotlandimmediately, and as he was an officer in the army, who might be sent onshort notice to any part of the empire, it was desirable that he shouldknow as soon as might be, what chance there was of his inheriting theproperty which his uncle had left. 

Mr Rainy had written cautiously to this man at first. He had hadlittle doubt that Brownrig's widow, as he always called Allison in histhoughts, would be brought to her senses and hear reason, before theyear was out. So he had not given the next of kin much encouragement tobelieve that more than his five hundred pounds would fall to his share. 

It was a matter of conscience with Mr Rainy. Whatever any one elsemight think or say, or whatever his own private opinion might be, it wasclearly his duty to use all diligence in carrying out the expressedwishes of the testator. In the meantime he left Allison to herself, believing that frequent discussion would only make her--womanlike--holdthe more firmly to her first determination. 

But after all was said and done, this "troublesome business, " which hadcaused care and anxiety to several people besides Allison, was broughtto a happy end. Mr Rainy's house was the place appointed for themeeting of all those who had anything to do with the matter, eitherofficially or otherwise; and on the day named, shy and anxious, butquite determined as to what she was to say and do, Allison took her waythither. She told herself that she would have at least one friendthere. Doctor Fleming had promised not to fail her, and though he hadnever spoken many words to her about the will, she knew that he wouldstand by her in the decision to which she had come. She had confidencein his kindness and consideration. No word to deride her foolishnesswould fall from his lips, and even Mr Rainy's half-contemptuousexpostulations would be restrained by the good doctor's presence. 

She reached the house at the appointed hour, and found all who had aright to be present on the occasion, already there. It was her friendDoctor Fleming who came forward to the door, and led her into the room. 

"Mrs Esselmont!" said Allison, as the lady advanced to meet her. 

"Yes, Allison, I am here, " said she gravely. 

There were a number of gentlemen present, and voices were heard also, inthe room beyond. Mrs Esselmont's presence and support were just whatAllison needed to help her self-possession, as Mr Rainy brought oneafter another to greet her; and she went through the ceremony ofintroduction with a gentle dignity which surprised only those to whomshe was a stranger. The last hand that was held out to her was that of"the next of kin, " as Mr Rainy announced gravely. 

He was a tall man, with a brown face and smiling eyes, and the grasp ofhis hand was firm and kindly. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Allison turned a triumphant glance on Mr Rainy. 

"Mistress Allison, " said the new-comer, "I have been hearing strangethings about you. "

"But only things of which you are glad to hear, " said Allison eagerly. "I have heard of you too, though I do not remember ever to have heardyour name. "

"I am Allan Douglas, the son of Mr Brownrig's eldest sister. "

He had not time to say more. Allison put her other hand on the handwhich held hers. 

"Not Captain Douglas from Canada? Not Miss Mary's husband?" saidAllison, speaking very softly. 

She saw the answer in his smiling eyes, even before he spoke, "Yes, thehusband of Mary Esselmont, --the daughter of your friend. "

Allison turned with a radiant face to those who were looking on. 

"And is not this the best way? Is not this as right as right can be?"said she, still speaking low. 

Not one of them had a word to answer her. But they said to one anotherthat she was a strange creature, a grand creature, a woman among athousand. Allison might well laugh at all this when it was told herafterward. For what had she done? She had held to her firstdetermination, and had taken her own will against the advice and eventhe entreaty of those who were supposed to be wiser than she. She hadonly refused to take up a burden which she could not have borne. Whatwas there that was grand in all that?

"As right as right can be, " she repeated, as she went over to the sofawhere Mrs Esselmont was sitting. "And now you will have your Mary homeagain, " said she. 

Her Mary was there already. A fair, slender woman with a delicate face, was holding out her hand to Allison. 

"I am glad to see the Allison of whom my mother has so often told me, "said she. 

"And I am glad you are come home for her sake, " said Allison. 

There was no long discussion of the matter needed after this. Mr Rainymight be trusted to complete all arrangements as speedily as might be, and it was with a lightened heart that Allison saw one after another ofthose concerned take their departure. 

Captain Douglas had still something to say to Allison, and he came andsat down by the side of his wife. 

"Have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know that I went tosee him before I left America?"

"No, " said Allison in surprise. "I have had no letter for a month andmore. Was it by chance that you met in that great country?"

"Oh! no. When Mr Rainy told me of your decision, he also told me thatyou had a brother in America, and gave me his address. The place wasnot very faraway from the town where we were stationed, and I made up mymind to see him before I returned home. Mr Rainy could not tell mewhether you had consulted with your brother or not, and I thought it wasright for your sake as well as for my own, that I should see him andlearn _his_ opinion of the matter. "

"Well?" said Allison anxiously. 

"Well, he answered me scornfully enough, at first, and told me I waswelcome to take possession of a bad man's ill-gotten gains, and moreangry words he added. But that was only at first. He had a friend withhim who sent me away, and bade me come again in the morning. From him Iheard something of the cause of your brother's anger against my uncle. We were on better terms, your brother and I, before I left. "

"And was he angry with me? I mean, was he angry that I was with youruncle at the end?"

"He did not speak of that. You must let me thank you for all you didfor my uncle in his last days. "

"Oh! no. You must not thank me. It was only my duty; I could not havedone otherwise, " said Allison. "And did Willie not speak of me at all?"

"Yes. He said that there was not in all Scotland another woman like hissister Allie, nor in America either. "

Allison, smiled at that. 

"And did he send no letter to me?"

"Yes, he sent a letter. I have it with me. No, I gave it to a friend, who said he would put it into your own hand. "

"It was to your brother's friend that he gave the letter, " said MrsEsselmont in a whisper. 

So when Allison came home to see a light in the parlour window, and atall shadow moving back and forth upon the blind, she knew who waswaiting for her there. 

An hour later Robert Hume came to the house. 

"Mistress Allison must have gone to the inn with Mrs Esselmont and herfriends, " said Mrs Robb, "and here has the poor lad been waiting forher in the parlour an hour and more. What can be keepin' her, thinkyou? And I dinna just like to open the door. "

Robert laughed. "Poor fellow, indeed!" said he. "I suppose we may atleast knock and ask leave to open it. "

They had seen each other already, but the hands of the two young men metin a clasp which said some things which neither would have cared to putinto words for the other's hearing. Then Robert turned to Allison, whowas sitting there "just as usual, " he thought at first. But there was alook on her face, which neither he nor any one else had seen there tillnow. 

"No. I am not going to sit down, " said Robert. "But I promised mymother that I would write to-night, to tell her how it all ended, and Ineed my time. "

"Ended! It is only beginning, " said John. 

"Robert, " said Allison gravely, "does John ken?"

Robert laughed. 

"There are few things that John doesna ken, I'm thinking. What I meanis this. How did old Rainy and you agree at last?"

"Yes, Allison, I ken, " said John, as she turned to him, "and I say asyou said: The end is as right as right can be. "

"Were you there, John?" said Allison wondering. 

"Surely, I was there as Captain Douglas' friend. He had a right to askme, you see. "

"You know him, John, and Miss Mary?"

"We sailed together, and I had seen Captain Douglas before that time. "

"Yes, when he went to see my brother. A friend helped him, he told me, a friend of Willie's, and I knew it must be you. "

John told something of the interview between them, and when a pausecame, Robert, who had been standing all this time, said:

"There is just one thing more which I must tell my mother. When are youcoming home to the manse? and--when is it to be?"

"You are a bold lad, Robin. _I_ have not dared to ask that yet, " saidJohn. 

But when Robert was gone he asked it, and Allison was kind and let him"name the day. "

"A week hence! But is not that very soon, considering all you have todo?"

"Oh, no! All that I have to do can be done after, " said John. "Will itbe too soon for you?"

Allison's modest "providing" had been growing under her own busy hands, during the brief leisure which her daily duties left her. It was all ofthe plainest and simplest, but it was sufficient in her esteem. 

"Yes, " said she after a moment's hesitation, "I can be ready, and--whatever more you think I need--you will have to give me, John. "

John laughed and kissed her hand. Then he said gravely:

"And, dear, I made a promise once, for you and for myself. I said, ifthis happy day should ever come, I would take my wife, first of all, tothe manse of Kilgower--to get an old man's blessing. "

Kilgower! At the name, a shadow of the old trouble fell on Allison'sface--for the last time. 

"I will go anywhere with you, John, " said she. 

The next day Allison went home to the manse--another "happy homecoming, "as Marjorie called it, --though she was to be there only a little while. There were few changes in the manse since the old days. There was agleam of silver on the dark hair of the minister, and the face of theminister's wife showed a touch of care, now and then, when she fell intosilence. But in the home there were cheerfulness and content, and ahopeful outlook as there had always been, and the peace which comes asthe fulfilment of a promise which cannot be broken. 

The boys had grown bigger and stronger, and they had three sisters now. Jack was not at home. Jack was in the South learning to make steamengines, and when he had learned, he was going to America to make hisfortune, like John Beaton. And so was Davie. Only Davie was to haveland--a farm of a thousand acres. To America the thoughts and hopes ofall the young people of the manse were turning, it seemed, and thethoughts of a good many in the town, as well. 

John Beaton's success in the new country to which he had gone, was thetheme of admiring discussion among the townsfolk, and when John came toNethermuir, before the week was over, he found that all arrangements hadbeen made for a lecture about America, which was to be delivered in thekirk. John saw at once that he could not refuse to speak. But it wouldbe no _lecture_ that he could give, he declared. If any one had anyquestions to ask, he would answer them as well as he could. And this hedid, to the general satisfaction. 

As to his own success--yes, he had been successful in so far, that hehad made a beginning. That was all he had done as yet. It was abeginning indeed, which gave him good reason for thankfulness and forhope. 

"Oh! yes. America is a fine country. But after all, the chief thingis, that there is room for folk out there. When one comes to speakabout success, courage and patience and strength and hard work are asnecessary to ensure it there as they are here in Scotland. But there isthis to be said. When a man's land is his own, and he kens that everystroke of his axe and every furrow of his plough is to tell to his ownadvantage, it makes a wonderful difference. " And so on, to the pleasureand profit of all who heard it. 

Allison did not hear the lecture, nor Marjorie. They were at MrsEsselmont's. Marjorie enjoyed the visit and had much to say of it, whenshe came home. Allison did not enjoy it so well. She was a littledoubtful as to how John would be pleased when he came to hear all. Thatwas what troubled Allison, --that, and the fear that Mrs Esselmont andMrs Douglas might see her trouble. 

For it seemed that it was not to be left to John to supply all the restthat was needed in the way of Allison's "providing. " For a glimpse wasgiven her of a great many beautiful things, --"naiprie, " and bed linen, and gowns and shawls, and other things which a bride is supposed torequire. And something was said of china and silver, that were waitingto be sent away to the ship when the time for sailing came. And Allisonwas not sure how John might like all this. But she need not have beenafraid. 

Mrs Esselmont had a word with John that night, when he came after his"lecture" to take Allison home. On their way thither, he said to her:

"What did Mrs Esselmont mean when she said to me, that she had at onetime hoped that you would come home to her, to be to her a daughter inher old age?"

"Did she say that? It was friend and companion that she said to me. Itwas at the worst time of all, when Willie had written to me that he wasgoing away to the far West. I was longing to get away, but I couldnago, not knowing that Willie wanted me, and because--until--Oh! yes, Iwas sad and lonely, and not very strong, and Mrs Esselmont asked me. But it was not daughter she said to me, but companion and friend. "

"And what answer did you give her?"

"I thanked her, but I couldna promise, since I _must_ go to my brothersooner or later. "

"And was it only of your brother that you thought, Allison?"

"I had no right to think of any one else then, and besides--"

"Well, besides?" said John after a pause. 

"It was you that Elsie liked best, Willie thought--and that her fatherliked best, as well--"

"Did the foolish fellow tell you that?"

"He said that Elsie was ay friendly with you, and that she had hardly aword or a look for him, and he was afraid that it might break friendshipbetween you if he stayed on, and he said he was going away. "

"And he did go, the foolish lad. Friendly! Yes, Elsie and I werefriendly, but it was Willie who had her heart. But his going away didno harm in the end. "

Allison sighed. 

"It was ay Willie's way to yield to impulse, and ill came of it whiles. "

"It is his way still--whiles. But it is _good_ that mostly comes of itnow. And in Elsie's hands, a thread will guide him. You will loveElsie dearly, Allison. "

"I love her dearly already. "

They had reached the manse by this time, and as they lingered a momentin the close, John said:

"And were you pleased with all the bonny things that Mrs Esselmont hasbeen speaking to me about?"

Allison started, and laid her hand on his arm. 

"Are you pleased, John? I was afraid--"

"Yes, I am pleased. She is very kind. "

John kept her hand in his, and led her on till they came to thegarden-gate. 

"Now tell me of what you are afraid, Allie, " said he. 

"Oh! not afraid. But I was glad to come to you with little, because Iknew you would be glad to give me all. And I thought that--perhaps--you--But Mrs Esselmont is very kind. "

"My dear, I would be ill to please indeed, if I were not both pleasedand proud to hear the words which Mrs Esselmont said of you to-night. Yes, she is more than kind, and she has a right to give you what shepleases, because she loves you dearly. "

Allison gave a sigh of pleasure. 

"Oh! it was not that I was afraid. But I was, for so long a time, troubled and anxious, --that--whiles I think I am not just like otherwomen--and that you might--"

John uttered a little note of triumph. 

"Like other women? You are very little like the most of them, I shouldsay. "

"It is not of you--it is of myself I am afraid. You think too well ofme, John. I am not so good and wise as you believe, but I love you, John. "

That ought to have been enough, and there were only a few words more, and this was one of them:

"Allie, " said John gravely, "I doubt that I am neither so wise nor sogood as you think me to be. You will need to have patience with me. There are some who say I am hard, and ower-full of myself, and whiles Ihave thought it of myself. But, Allie, if I am ever hard with you, orforgetful, or if I ever hurt you by word or deed, it will not be becauseI do not love you dearly. And you will ay have patience with me, dear, and trust me?"

"I am not afraid, John. "

The happy day came, and the marriage in the manse parlour was a veryquiet affair, as those who were most concerned desired it to be. But inthe opinion of Nethermuir generally, a great mistake had been made. Themarriage should have been in the kirk, it was said, so that all the townmight have seen it. 

Robert was best-man, and Marjorie was best-maid. Mrs Esselmont and herdaughter and son-in-law were there, and one other guest. 

"Think of it!" folk said. "Only one asked to the marriage out of thewhole town, and that one auld Saunners Crombie!"

There was a good reason for that in John's esteem, and in Allison's. Saunners appreciated the honour which was done him. He also did honourto the occasion--pronouncing with unction over the bride and bridegroomthe blessings so long ago spoken at the gate of Bethlehem. 

It was not quite springtime yet, but the day was like a spring day, witha grey sky, and a west wind blowing softly, when John and Allison camein sight of the kirk of Kilgower. Only the voice of the brown burnbroke the stillness, murmuring its way past the manse garden, and thekirkyard wall, and over the stepping-stones on which Allison had notdared to rest her tired feet, on the morning when she saw it last, andshe said in her heart:

"Oh! can it be that I am the same woman who would fain have died on thatday?"

They went into the kirkyard first. The tears which fell on the whiteheadstone were not all tears of sorrow. They told of full submission, of glad acceptance of God's will in all the past, and of gratitude forall that the future promised. 

"John, " said she softly. But her voice failed her to say more. 

"We will come again, dear, " said he gently, and he led her away. 

And so they went on to the manse, and Allison bowed her head while thegood old man blessed her, and was glad, though the tears were very nearher eyes. John had much to tell the minister about his son and hishappy family, and of their way of life, and the good which they did inthe town; and after a little Allison smiled as she met her husband'skind eyes, and was ready with her answers when Dr Hadden turned to her. 

They were to stay over the Sabbath. Surely they must stay over theSabbath, the minister said, and the reason which he gave for theirstaying was the one which John would have given for wishing to go away. 

"There will be so many at the kirk who will like to see Allison Bain'sface again, " said he. 

But when he added reverently, "And doubtless it is in her heart to thankGod in His own house, for all the way by which He has led her since thatsorrowful day, " what could they do but promise to remain?

In the gloaming they went down by the burn side, and past thestepping-stones, and round the hill to the cottage of Janet Mair. Itwas a dark little place. The tiny peat fire on the hearth cast only afaint light, and it was some moments before they caught a glimpse of thewee bowed wifie, who had befriended Allison in her time of need. 

"Come ye awa ben, " said she. "Is it Betty, or is it the minister'sBarbara? Bide still till I licht my bit lampie. "

But when the lamp was lighted, she "wasna just sae sure, " even then, whoit was that had come in. 

"Dinna ye mind Allie Bain, and how good ye were to her, the day she gaedawa?"

"Ay do I. Weel that. Eh, woman! Are ye Allie Bain?"

The lamp did not cast a very bright light, but it fell full on Allison'sface. 

"Eh! but ye're grown a bonny woman! Sit ye doon and rest yersel'. Andwha is this? Is it witless Willie, as I've heard folk ca' him?"

She did not wait for an answer, but wandered away to other matters. Sheseemed quite to have forgotten the events of the last years. But shetold them about her mother, and about the man she should have married, who were both lying in the kirkyard doon by, and about her father andher brothers who were lost at sea. 

"I'm sair failed, " said she. "It has been an unco hard winter, and Ihae had to keep the hoose. But I'll be mysel' again, when the bonnyspring days come, and I can win out to the kirkyard. It's a bonnyplace, and wholesome. "

And so on she wandered. They did not try to bring her thoughts back tolater days. "It was as well not, " Allison said sadly. 

Yes, she was sore failed, but she brightened wonderfully at the touch ofa golden piece which John put into her hand. 

"I'll tak' it to the manse and get it changed for the bawbees andpennies that are gaithered in the kirk. It'll tak' twa or threeSabbaths o' them, I daursay, to mak' it out. Eh! but ye're a braw lad, and a weelfaured, " added she, holding up the lamp and peering into hisface. "And muckle gude be wi' ye a' ye're days, " she added as they wentaway. 

"You have never told me of all the help she gave you, " said John as theywent down the burn side together. 

"Sometime I will tell you; I would fain forget it all just now. "

The next day they went to Grassie, to see the two or three with whomAllison could claim kindred in the countryside. She had seen them laston her father's burial-day. Then they went to many a spot where intheir happy childhood Allison and her brother used to play together. John had heard of some of these before, he said. He knew the spot atthe edge of the moor, where young Alex. Hadden had rescued Willie fromthe jaws of death, and he recognised the clump of dark old firs, wherethe hoodie-crows used to take counsel together, and the lithe nook wherethe two bairns were wont to shelter from the east wind or the rain. Andhe reminded Allison of things which she had herself forgotten. At someof them she wept, and at others she laughed, joyful to think that herbrother should remember them so well. And she too had some things totell, and some sweet words to say, in the gladness of her heart, whichJohn might never have heard but for their walk over the hills that day. 

They went to the kirk on the Sabbath, and sat, not in the minister'spew, but in the very seat where Allison used to sit with her father andher mother and Willie before trouble came. And when the silence wasbroken by the minister's voice saying: "Oh! Thou who art mighty tosave!" did not her heart respond joyfully to the words? The tears roseas she bowed her head, but her heart was glad as she listened to thegood words spoken. When they came out into the kirkyard, where, one byone, at first, and afterward by twos and threes, the folk who had knownher all her life came up to greet her, there were neither tears norsmiles on her face, but a look at once gentle, and firm, and grave--thelook of a strong, patient, self-respecting woman, who had passed throughthe darkness of suffering and sorrow into the light at last. 

John stood a little apart, watching and waiting for her, and in hisheart he was saying, "May I grow worthy of her and of her love. " Whenthere had been "quite enough of it, " as he thought, and he was about toput an end to it, there drew near, doubtful, yet eager, an old bowedman, to take her hand, and then John saw his wife's face, "as if it hadbeen the face of an angel. "

She had waited for all the rest to come to her, but she went forward tomeet this man with both hands held out to him, and they went asidetogether. Then, Allison stooped toward him, speaking softly, and whilehe listened, the tears were running down his withered cheeks, but hesmiled and prayed God bless her, at the end. 

"Who was your last friend?" said John when they had left the kirkyard, and were drawing near the manse. 

"It was--the father of Annie Brand. She died--over yonder--"

She could not say more, and she did not need to. John had heard thestory of Annie Brand and of others, also, from her friend DoctorFleming, and in his heart he said again:

"O God! make me worthy of her love. "

They did not linger long after the Sabbath, though their old friendasked for all the time which they could freely give. They were notspecially pressed for time, John acknowledged, but there were severalplaces to which they meant to go--to some of them for business, to allof them for pleasure. He had left all his affairs "on the other side"in good hands, so that they need not be in haste to return, and theywere free to go about at their leisure. 

"And it is quite right you are, " said Doctor Hadden. "It is wonderfulwhat a bonny world it is that happy eyes look out upon. And you willhave the sight of many a fair picture, that you will recall together inthe years that are to come. And with all this, and the voyage that liesbefore you, you will have time to get acquaint with one another, beforethe warstle of common life begins. "

And so they went away. And their "happy eyes" saw many a fair picture, and day by day they "got acquaint" with one another, as their dear oldfriend had said. 

And in due time they sailed away in to the West, to begin together a newlife in a new land.