Janet's Love and Service, by Margaret M Robertson. 

________________________________________________________________________The set of page scans that was used to create this version of the bookwas as dirty as it is possible to be, while still making it just aboutpossible to do the OCR and subsequent editing. This latter was veryhard work. The scans came from the Canadiana Online collection. Nodoubt there is a reason for this lack of quality. But there was areason for persevering with the editing process, endless as it seemed tobe for several weeks, and that was that I do believe this book to bevery great literature, even though it has not hitherto been recognisedas such by the world in general. 

To be truthful, the book's first quarter, and perhaps the last quarter, are more dramatic than the two middle quarters. But it is all wellworth reading and thinking about, for there are many things in the bookthat we should all think deeply about, living as we do in a verydifferent world than the one that surrounded the author and herfictional characters almost a hundred and fifty years ago. That theauthor had very great skill is undoubted, and can be seen from her otherworks. 

I hope you will read it and see if you agree with me that the hard workinvolved on bringing this book to the web has been worthwhile. NH. 

________________________________________________________________________JANET'S LOVE AND SERVICE, BY MARGARET M ROBERTSON. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

The longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the littlevillage of Clayton. There were no loiterers now at the corners of thestreets or on the village square--it was too late for that, thoughdaylight still lingered. Now and then the silence was broken by thefootsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, tellingthat the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. But these soon ceased. The wind moved the tall laburnums in the lanewithout a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke thestillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distantmill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night. 

In the primitive village of Clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle andsimple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. But to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, andin other parts of the house as well. Lights were carried hurriedly pastuncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as awoman's anxious face looked out. 

"What can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickeringcandle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "It's no' like himto linger at a time like this. God send he was at home. "

Another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face waswithdrawn and the door closed. Soon a sound broke the stillness of thevillage street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and thedoor was again opened. 

"Well, Janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neckand pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relievedface. 

"They'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister's no' longhome. "

She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in anotherdirection. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, andwas stirring up the buried embers. 

"Has my father come, Janet?" said a voice out of the darkness. 

"Yes, he's come. He's gone up the stairs. I'll put on the kettle. Idare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride. "

Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against thedarkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen yearsof age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at thatwestern window, but the entrance of Janet's candle darkened that, andthe book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of herhand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet's sight. But she neednot have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for Janet wasintent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon theblaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in thefirelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her. 

The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back onthe window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, andthinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, amurmur of wonder escaped her, that "Janet had'na sent her to her bed. "

"It's quite time I dare say, " she added, in a little, "and I'm tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. I'll go whenever papa comes down. "

She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to otherthings--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who wasnot quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usualcustom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things--of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and donemuch in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the taleand fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the buildingof pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasantfancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a fear cameto dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, inwhich there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, andturned to her book again. 

"I might see by the fire, " she said, and in a minute she was seated onthe floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on theopen page. 

"Miss Graeme, " said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, "your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee Rosie wakened, and wantin' her. You'll need to take her, for I maun awa'. "

The book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightenedface. 

"What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?"

"What should ail her but the one thing?" said Janet, impatiently. "She'll be better the morn I hae nae doubt. "

Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands towardher. 

"I must go to her, Janet. "

"Indeed, Miss Graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. Mrs Burns is withher, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now. Bide still where you are, and take care o' wee Rosie, and hearken if youhear ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma thenight. "

Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on thefloor again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father's voice in thepassage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as shehoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless ofthe prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now andthen the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janetcame into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. Then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed toGraeme a long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came inagain, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any oneto see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streamingdown her cheeks. Graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips couldscarcely utter a sound. 

"Janet!--tell me!--my mother. "

"Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. Youmunna go there, " for Graeme with her little sister in her arms washastening away. "Your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. It's onlyme that doesna ken about the like o' you. The minister keeps up a gudeheart. Gude forgie him and a' mankind. "

Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet'sunwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them bothaside, and stood with her back against the door. 

"No' ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; 'gin the lassie hadbeen but in her bed. No, I'll no' take the bairn, sit down there, you'll be sent for if you're needed. I'll be back again soon; andyou'll promise me that you'll no leave this till I bid you. MissGraeme, I wouldna deceive you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promiseme that you'll bide still. "

Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own vagueterror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim from oneusually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she sat downagain to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The lids felldown over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering her ownfrock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still. 

The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longerdanced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms thatsmiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny gladesand long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, andwaterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed todull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in atlast upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, thegolden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the eldersister as their cheeks lay close together. Graeme moaned and murmuredin her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake tillJanet's voice aroused her. There were no tears on her face now, but itwas very white, and her voice was low and changed. 

"Miss Graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she's wantin' you. But mindyou are to be quiet, and think o' your father. "

Taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startledgirl. Chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, Graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at Janet's arm. 

"Mamma is better Janet, " she asked eagerly. Janet kept her working faceout of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely, --

"Ay, she'll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. But, mind, you are to be quiet, Miss Graeme. "

Chilled and trembling, Graeme crept up-stairs and through the dimpassages to her mother's room. The curtains had been drawn back, andthe daylight streamed into the room. But the forgotten candles stillglimmered on the table. There were several people in the room, standingsad and silent around the bed. They moved away as she drew near. ThenGraeme saw her mother's white face on the pillow, and her father bendingover her. Even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly, --

"Mother. "

The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on herdarling's face, and the white lips opened with a smile. 

"Graeme--my own love--I am going away--and they will have no one butyou. And I have so much to say to you. "

So much to say! With only strength to ask, "God guide my darling ever!"and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heartof the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. Her father and hismotherless children had none but her to care for them now. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

"It's a' ye ken! Gotten ower it, indeed!" and Janet turned her back onher visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: "The ministerno' being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk thatfrequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? It's a'they ken!"

"Janet, woman, " said her visitor, "I canna but think you areunreasonable in your anger. I said nothing derogatory to the minister;far be it from me! But we can a' see that the house needs a head, andthe bairns need a mother. The minister's growing gey cheerful like, andthe year is mair than out; and--"

"Whisht, woman. Dinna say it. Speak sense if ye maun speak, " saidJanet, with a gesture of disgust and anger. 

"Wherefore should I no' say it?" demanded her visitor. "And as tospeaking sense--. But I'll no' trouble you. It seems you have friendsin such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at yourpleasure. Good-day to you, " and she rose to go. 

But Janet had already repented her hot words. 

"Bide still, woman! Friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. Andwhat with ae thing and anither I dinna weel ken what I'm saying or doingwhiles. Sit down: it's you that's unreasonable now. "

This was Mistress Elspat Smith, the wife of a farmer--"no' that illaff, " as he cautiously expressed it--a far more important person in theparish than Janet, the minister's maid-of-all-work. It was acondescension on her part to come into Janet's kitchen, under anycircumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendlyword was not to be borne. But they had been friends all their lives;and Janet "kenned hersel' as gude a woman as Elspat Smith, weel aff orno' weel aff;" so with gentle violence she pushed her back into herchair, saying:

"Hoot, woman! What would folk say to see you and me striving at thislate day? And I want to consult you. "

"But you should speak sense yourself, Janet, " said her friend. 

"Folk maun speak as it's given them to speak, " said Janet; "and we'llsay nae mair about it. No' but that the bairns might be the better tohave some one to be over them. She wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, Ican tell you. No that they're ill bairns--"

"We'll say no more about it, since that is your will, " said Mrs Smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added, --

"You have a full handfu' with the eight of them, I'm sure. "

"Seven only, " said Janet, under her breath. "She got one of them safehome with her, thank God. No' that there's one ower many, " added shequickly; "and they're no' ill bairns. "

"You have your ain troubles among them, I dare say, and are muckle to bepitied--"

"Me to be pitied!" said Janet scornfully, "there's no fear o' me. Butwhat can the like o' me do? For ye ken, woman, though the minister is apowerful preacher, and grand on points o' doctrine, he's a verra bairnabout some things. _She_ aye keepit the siller, and far did she make itgang--having something to lay by at the year's end as well. Now, if wemake the twa ends meet, it's mair than I expect. "

"But Miss Graeme ought to have some sense about these things. Surelyshe takes heed to the bairns?"

"Miss Graeme's but a bairn herself, with little thought and lessexperience; and its no' to be supposed that the rest will take heed toher. The little anes are no' so ill to do with; but these twa laddiesare just spirits o' mischief, for as quiet as Norman looks; and theycome home from the school with torn clothes, till Miss Graeme is justdazed with mending at them. And Miss Marian is near as ill as theladdies; and poor, wee Rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, tillyou would think the wind would blow her awa. Master Arthur is awa athis eddication: the best thing for a' concerned. I wish they were a'safe unto man's estate, " and Janet sighed. 

"And is Miss Graeme good at her seam?" asked Mistress Elspat. 

"Oh ay; she's no' that ill. She's better at her sampler and at theflowering than at mending torn jackets, however. But there's no fearbut she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would buthae patience with herself. Miss Graeme is none of the common kind. "

"And has there been no word from _her_ friends since? They say herbrother has no bairns of his own. He might well do something for hers. "

Janet shook her head. 

"The minister doesna think that I ken; but when Mr Ross was here at theburial, he offered to take two of the bairns, Norman or Harry, and weeMarian. She's likest her mamma. But such a thing wasna to be thoughtof; and he went awa' no' weel pleased. Whether he'll do onything forthem in ony ither way is more than I ken. He might keep Master Arthurat the college and no' miss it. How the minister is ever to school therest o' them is no' easy to be seen, unless he should go to Americaafter all. "

Mistress Smith lifted her hands. 

"He'll never surely think o' taking these motherless bairns to yonsavage place! What could ail him at Mr Ross's offer? My patience! butfolk whiles stand in their ain light. "

"Mr Ross is not a God-fearing man, " replied Janet, solemnly. "It's no'what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up byhim. The minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may besure. And besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of thembehind. "

"But what need to cross the sea?" cried Mrs Smith; "It's a pity butfolk should ken when they're weel aff. What could the like o' him do ina country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?"

"It's for the bairns' sake he's thinking of it. They say there's fineland there for the working, and no such a thing as payin' rent, butevery man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. And there'sroom for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. I'm no' sure but it'sjust the best thing the minister can do. They had near made up theirminds afore, ye ken. "

"Hoot, woman, speak sense, " entreated her friend. "Is the minister tosell rusty knives and glass beads to the Indians? That's what they doin yon country, as I've read in a book myself. Whatna like way is thatto bring up a family?"

"Losh, woman, there's other folk there beside red Indians; folk thatdinna scruple to even themselves with the best in Britain, no' less. You should read the newspapers, woman. There's one John Caldwell there, a friend o' the minister's, that's something in a college, and he's ayewriting him to come. He says it's a wonderful country for progress; andthey hae things there they ca' institutions, that he seems to thinkmuckle o', though what _they_ may be I couldna weel make out. Theminister read a bit out o' a letter the ither night to Miss Graeme andme. "

"Janet, " said her friend, "say the truth at once. The minister is benton this fule's errand, and you're encouraging in it. "

"Na, na! He needs na encouragement from the like o' me. I would giemuckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where heis, though it's easy seen he'll hae ill enough bringing up a familyhere, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er theirheads. And they say yon's a grand country, and fine eddication to begot in it for next to nothing. I'm no sure but the best thing he can dois to take them there. I ken the mistress was weel pleased with thethought, " and Janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but hertruth-telling countenance betrayed her. Her friend shook her headgravely. 

"It might have done, with her to guide them; but it's very differentnow, as you ken yourself, far better than I can tell you. It would belittle else than a temptin' o' Providence to expose these helplessbairns, first to the perils o' the sea, and then to those o' a strangecountry. He'll never do it. He's restless now; and unsettled; but whentime, that cures most troubles, goes by, he'll think better of it, andbide where he is. "

Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. Sheknew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from thescene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and thathe had decided she very well knew. These might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. They might maketheir own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this inthe New World than in the Old. The decision of one whom she had alwaysreverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yetshe had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children shehad come to love so well. It was to have her faint hope confirmed, andher strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to herfriend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, sheturned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone. 

For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feelingthat the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keepingher silent about it to her. That very morning, her heart had leaped toher lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked, --

"Janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?"

And she had vowed to God, and to him, that she would never leave themwhile they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. But theafter thought had come. She had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and hismotherless children. 

A mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a longtime been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. More than halfrequired for their maintenance Janet provided. Could she forsake them?Could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right forher to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? True, her motherwas by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpfullad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. Her mother hadanother daughter too, but Janet knew that her sister could never supplyher place to her mother. Though kind and well-intentioned, she was easyminded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at herfireside, should its shelter come to be needed. 

Day after day Janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind. "If it were not so far, " she thought, or "if her mother could go withher. " But this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if hermother could be brought to consent to such a plan. And Janet askedherself, "What would my mother do if Sandy were to die? And what wouldSandy do if my mother were to die? And what would both do if sicknesswere to overtake them, and me far-away?" till she quite hated herselffor ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her. 

There had been few pleasures scattered over Janet's rough path towomanhood. Not more than two or three mornings since she could rememberhad she risen to other than a life of labour. Even during the brightbrief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil, for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, beforeher son was born. With few words spoken, and few tears shed, save whatfell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother's care, and goneback again to a servant's place in the minister's household. There shehad been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend andmistress, "working the work of two, " as they told her, who would havemade her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year's end toyear's end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in whichGod had placed her. 

But far-away into the future--it might be years and years hence--shelooked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herselfentirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. In this hope she wascontent to strive and toil through the best years of her life, livingpoorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent tothe good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patientlabour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call hermost striking characteristics by less honourable names. She had never, during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, buttheir fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none theless dear to her because of that. Could she give this up? Could she goaway from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be contentto see no respite from her labour till the end? Yes, she could. Thelove that had all these years been growing for the children she hadtended with almost a mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible--even easy to her. But her mother? How could she find courage to tellher that she must leave her alone in her old age? The thought ofparting from her son, her "bonny Sandy, " loved with all the deeperfervour that the love was seldom spoken--even this gave her no such pangas did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. He was young, and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring, she could at least hope to see him again. But her mother, alreadyverging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when oncethe broad Atlantic rolled between them. 

And so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, Janet's words grewfewer and sharper as the days wore on. With strange inconsistency sheblamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered noone else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise thanwhat was wisest and best for all. It was a sore subject, thisanticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in Clayton besidesher, and much was it discussed by all. But it was a subject on whichJanet would not be approached. She gave short answers to those whooffered their services in the way of advice. She preserved a scornfulsilence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsakeher master and his children in their time of need, nor was she betterpleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes. And so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till shedazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think andplan no more. 

"I'll leave it to my mother herself to decide, " she said, at last;"though, poor body, what can she say, but that I maun do what I think ismy duty, and please myself. The Lord above kens I hae little thought o'pleasin' myself in this matter. " And in her perplexity Janet was readyto think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary toall experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

The time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. Theminister was away from home, and before his return it would be madeknown formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after thatthe sooner his departure took place it would be the better for allconcerned, and so Janet must brace herself for the task. 

So out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into thepleasant light of May, knowing that before she entered it again, shewould have made her mother's heart as sore as her own. All day, and formany days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, forshe felt that it must be farewell. 

"If you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which isroughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will bethe right one, " said she to herself. "I read that in a book once, butit's ill choosing when both are rough, and I know not what to do. "

Out into the brightness of the Spring day she came, with many misgivingsas to how she was to speed in her errand. 

"It's a bonny day, bairns, " said she, and her eye wandered wistfullydown the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills thatrose dimly in the distance. The mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate shelingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden fromher. 

"I mun hae it ower, " she muttered to herself as she went on. In eachhand she held firmly the hand of a child. Marian and little Will wereto go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in herabsence Graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little Rose. 

"Oh, Janet!" she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them;"I wish I were going with you, it's such a bonny day. "

But Janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said withouther presence, so she shook her head. 

"You know Miss Graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we wouldweary carrying wee Rosie, and she could never go half the distance onher feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the benpress, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short andceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o' my bonny wee lily, "added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. "But Ineedna tell you that, and we'll soon be back again. "

The children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her ownthoughts, Janet answered them without knowing what she said. Down thelane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossedtheir path again they went, "the near way, " and soon the solitarycottage in the glen was in sight. It was a very humble home, but verypleasant in its loneliness, Janet thought, as her eye fell on it. Thecat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came thehum of the mother's busy wheel. Drawing a long breath, Janet entered. 

"Weel, mother, " said she. 

"Weel, Janet, is this you, and the bairns? I doubt you hadna weelleavin' hame the day, " said her mother. 

"I had to come, and this day's as good as another. It's a bonny day, mother. "

"Ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank God. Come in by, bairns, I sent Sandy over to Fernie a while syne. It's near time he were hameagain. I'll give you a piece, and you'll go down the glen to meet him, "and, well pleased, away they went. 

"I dare say you'll be none the waur of your tea, Janet, woman, " said hermother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal intoher preparations. Janet strove to have patience with her burden alittle longer, and sat still listening to her mother's talk, asking andanswering questions on indifferent subjects. There was no pause. Janethad seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she foundherself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself hermother's need of her. 

"The thought ought to give me pleasure, " she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believedclaimed her. In the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent atlast, or answered her mother at random. Had she been less occupied, shemight have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemedfor many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter'sface, and now and then a sigh escaped her. 

They were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. Themother had been "bonnier in her youth, than ever Janet had, " she used tosay herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. She was fresh-looking yet, atsixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many awoman of half her years. She was smaller than Janet, and her wholeappearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strengthof body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between themwas still striking. She had seen many trials, as who that has lived forsixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and wascheerful and hopeful still. When they were fairly seated, with thelittle table between them, she startled Janet, by coming to the point atonce. 

"And so they say the minister is for awa' to America after all. Is thattrue?"

"Oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is, " said Janet, gravely. "Hespoke to me about it before he went away. It's all settled, or will bebefore he comes hame the morn. "

"Ay, as you say, it's ill news to them that he's leaving. But I hope itmay be for the good o' his young family. There's many a one going thatroad now. "

"Ay, there's more going than will better themselves by the change, Idoubt. It's no like that all the fine tales, we hear o' yon country canbe true. "

"As you say. But, it's like the minister has some other dependence, than what's ca'ed about the country for news. What's this I hear abouta friend o' his that's done weel there?"

Janet made a movement of impatience. 

"Wha' should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in acollege there awa'. I dare say there would be weel pleased in anycountry, where he could get plenty o' books, and a house to hold themin. But what can the like o' him ken o' a young family and what'sneeded for them. If he had but held his peace, and let the ministerbide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, I'm sure. "

Janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrongside of the question. Her mother said nothing, and in a minute sheadded, --

"There's one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o'the plan. Oh! if she had been but spared to them, " and she sighedheavily. 

"You may weel say that, " said her mother, echoing her sigh. "But I'm nosure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. And Janet, woman, there's aye a kind Providence. He that said, `Leavethy fatherless children to me, ' winna forsake the motherless. There'sno fear but they'll be brought through. "

"I hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and I believe itsurely. But oh, mother, " Janet's voice failed her. She could say nomore. 

"I ken weel, Janet, " continued her mother, gravely, "it will be a greatcharge and responsibility to you, and I dare say whiles you are ready torun away from it. But you'll do better for them than any living womancould do. The love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there's no fear but you'll get it. Theback is aye fitted for the burden. Let them gang or let them bide, youcanna leave them now. "

She turned her face away from her mother, and for her life Janet couldnot have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. There was to be no struggle betweenher and her mother. That was well; but with the feeling of relief theknowledge brought, there came a pang--a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. By astrong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say, --

"I shall never leave them while they need me. I could be content totoil for them always. But, ah! mother, the going awa' over the sea--"

Her voice failed her for a minute, then she added, --

"I hae wakened every mornin' with this verse of Jeremiah on my mind:`Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for himthat goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his nativecountry. '" Janet made no secret of her tears now. 

"Hoot fie, Janet, woman, " said her mother, affecting anger to hide farother feelings. "You are misapplyin' Scripture altogether. That wasspoken o' them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, andno' o' honest folk, followin' the leadings o' Providence. If there'sony application it's to me, I'm thinkin'. It's them that bide at hamethat are bidden weep sore;" and she seemed much inclined to follow theinjunction. She recovered in a minute, however, and added, --

"But I'm no' going to add to your trouble. You dinna need me to tellyou I'll have little left when you're awa'. But, if it's your duty togo with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. You winna loseyour reward striving in behalf o' these motherless bairns, and the Lordwill hae me and Sandy in his keeping, I dinna doubt. "

There was a long silence after this. Each knew what the other suffered. There was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word;Janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; hermother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. Each shrunk, for the other's sake, from putting their fears for the future intowords; but their thoughts were busy. The mother's heart ached for thegreat wrench that must sever Janet from her child and her home, andJanet's heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights hermother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter's hand to close hereyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, ferventthough unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that theother might have strength and peace. 

The mother spoke first. "When will it be?"

"It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once it's reallysettled. There are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go. "

"It's for none to say what's right, and what's wrang, in the matter, "said the mother, gravely. "I hae nae doubt the Lord will go with him;but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me. "

"He's bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for the best, " butJanet sighed drearily. 

"And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" asked her mother. 

"Ah! they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' a change. MissGraeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; thereare few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She's owerlike her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother's cheerfulspirit. "

"Her mother's death was an awfu' loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing, " saidthe mother. 

"Aye, that it was--her that had never kent a trouble but by readin' o'them in printed books. It was an awfu' wakening to her. She has neverbeen the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the samelight heart again. She tries to fill her mother's place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience withherself. But I hae great hope o' her. She has the `single eye, ' andGod will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme. "

And then they spoke of many things--settling their little matters ofbusiness, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they lookedforward to doing the same thing every month during the future years asthey had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; forJanet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for thepreparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as thepresent might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her littlesavings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother's use, and ifanything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy overthe sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say thatJanet's voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between themother's eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. Butthere was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firmbelief that however painful the future might be, they were doing rightin this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice thatmust cost them so much. 

At length the children's voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet'sheart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utteranceto the pang. 

"Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you, " said she, as with mingled shyness andpleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother's bidding. He was awell-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock oflight curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and thesmile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, atthe moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried outagainst the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his handin hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on whichhe had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was alook on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair withher hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, andthen coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck andwhispered, --

"Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for usall. "

"I've been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie, " said Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. "You'll hae Norman and Harry, and thema', but grannie has none but me. "

"And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?" asked his mother, with a pang. 

"To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?" said Sandy, withsparkling eyes. "That I would, but it wouldna be right to leavegrannie, and she says she's ower old to go so far-away--and over thegreat sea too. "

"Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, andyou'll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and therewill be no fear of you. "

"And are you goin' mother?" asked Sandy, gravely. 

"I doubt I'll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think lessof it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I'm sure Ineedna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--"

It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of herheart. 

"And will you never come back again, mother?"

"I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that's no' for us to consider. Itis present duty we maun think o'. The rest is in the Lord's hands. "

What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lordwould take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; andher mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children homebefore her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greetmair. " And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how thatnight, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood tofind his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting thatwas drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, insilence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheatitself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

It was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table withtheir books, to wait for their father's coming. It was a fair sight tosee, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. It was all themore sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little theyrealised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. They were moregay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whetherhe would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with therest to America. 

Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He was sittingwith the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. He could have set them at restabout it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him inScotland till his studies were finished at the college. 

"But there's no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night, " he said tohimself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whetherhe was vexed himself or not. The thought of the great countries on theother side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might awaitthem there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. But he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage ofsuch an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and heknew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said tohim of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in astrange land might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost himsomething to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be leftbehind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of hishome-coming. 

There was one sad face among them; for even Arthur's home-coming couldnot quite chase the shadow that had fallen on Graeme since the night ayear ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. It wasonly a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging fromthe change in her. She was taller and paler, and older-looking sincethen. And yet it was not so much that as something else that so changedher, Arthur thought, as he sat watching her. The change had come to herthrough their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to Graeme. He had suffered too more than words could ever tell. Many a time hisheart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his deadmother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, tillhe could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground. 

Graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missingof her mother's counsel and care. Not one day of all the year but shehad been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but shehad striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, andher nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. "As how could it be otherwise than vain, " she said often to herself, "soweak, so foolish, so impatient. " And yet through all her weakness andimpatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill hermother's place still. 

Some thought of all this came into Arthur's mind, as she sat thereleaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to timethe cradle at her side. Never before had he realised how sad it was forthem all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at homemust have been all the year. 

"Poor Graeme! and poor wee Rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over thecradle. 

"How old is Rosie?" asked he, suddenly. 

"Near three years old, " said Janet. 

"She winna be three till August, " said Graeme in the same breath, andshe turned beseeching eyes on Janet. For this was becoming a vexedquestion between them--the guiding of poor wee Rosie. Janet was adisciplinarian, and ever declared that Rosie "should go to her bed likeither folk;" but Graeme could never find it in her heart to vex herdarling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour forRosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothethe fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers. 

But Graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. Janet's mind wasfull of other thoughts. One cannot shed oceans of tears and leave nosign; and Janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turnedfrom the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the Bible inher hand. On common occasions the bairns would not have let Janet'ssilence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters ofimportance, and except to say now and then, "Whist, bairns! your fatherwill be here!" she sat without a word. 

There was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, andin a minute their father entered. It was not fear that quieted them. There was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he satdown among them. His was a face to win confidence and respect, even atthe first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle andmild. In his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, whichgrew to reverence as they grew in years. The calm that sat on thathigh, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of wearywandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in thequiet of the resting-place he had found. His words and deeds, and hischastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "thatlife which is the heritage of the few--that true life of God in the soulwith its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness, " whose peacethe world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever moredisturb. 

"The minister is changed--greatly changed. " Janet had said many timesto herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. But with thethought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was notsuch a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and graver, andmore silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breakingthrough the darkness, there flashed into Janet's mind the promise, "Allthings shall work together for good to them that love God. " Her lipshad often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. If that bitter trial, beyondwhich she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wroughtgood, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or anytrial which the future might have in store for her?

"It will work for good, this pain and separation, " murmured she. "I'mno' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, butI humbly hope that I am one of those who love the Lord. "

"Well, bairns!" said the father. There was a gentle stir and movementamong them, though there was no need, for Graeme had already set herfather's chair and opened the Bible at the place. She pushed aside thecradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them. 

"We'll take a Psalm, to-night, " said he, after a minute's turning of theleaves from a "namey chapter" in Chronicles, the usual place. He chosethe forty-sixth. 

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. 

"Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though themountains be cast into the midst of the sea. "

And thus on through the next. 

"He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob, whomhe loved. "

And still on through the next till the last verse, --

"This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even untodeath, " seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise. 

Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never since the mother'svoice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worshiptime. They had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. But Janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night broughtthe hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur's side. In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked from him to them, but Arthur shook his head. He was not sure that his voice would makeits way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while hisfather read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there wassilence still--

There was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, butwhen Arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. Graeme would fainhave stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night ofhis return. He was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so gravethat his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voicefrom the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and sowith a quiet "good-night, papa, " she took her little sister in her arms. Up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie, " her"bonny lammie, " her "little gentle dove, " more than repaid for all herweariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon herbosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made theburden light. 

The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. This had been one ofRosie's "weary nights. " The voices of her brothers had wakened her inthe parlour, and Graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, beforeshe was soothed to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just asJanet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barringthe doors, Graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. The redembers still glowed on the hearth, but Janet was in the very act of"resting the fire" for the night. 

"Oh! Janet, " said Graeme, "put on another peat. I'm cold, and I wantto speak to you. "

"Miss Graeme! You up at this time o' the night! What ails yon cankeredfairy now?"

"Oh, Janet! She's asleep long ago, and I want to speak to you. " Andbefore Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for themorning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. Graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over Janet's knee. 

"Janet, what did your mother say? And oh! Janet, Arthur says myfather--" Turning with a sudden movement, Graeme let her head fall onJanet's lap, and burst into tears. Janet tried to lift her face. 

"Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the lassie? It's no' the thought ofgoing awa', surely? You hae kenned this was to be a while syne. Youhae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are goingaltogether. "

"Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland. "

"Well, it winna be for long. Just till he's done at the college. Idare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who toldyou?"

"Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! whatwill I ever do without him?"

"Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years alreadymostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to dowithout him still. He could na' be here and at the college too. Andwhen he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families cannaaye bide together. Bairns maun part. "

"But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost likedeath. "

"But, lassie it's no' death. There's a great difference. And as forseeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna becomeyou to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decidedunwisely in this matter. Do you no' think it will cost him something topart from his first-born son?"

"But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it wouldbe for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur isalmost a man. "

"Na, lass. He'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. And as for hisgoin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and thewherefore o' the matter. It might be better--more cheery--for you andus all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best forhim to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o'that. "

There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. Janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again. 

"Miss Graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father totake you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brothercan make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o' this. If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things, the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' todisappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can writeto ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. There's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soonfollow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!"

Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet's lap. 

"Janet, what did your mother say?"

Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily, --

"Oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. I told yourfather I would go, and I will. My mother doesna object. "

"And Sandy?" said Graeme, softly, for there was something working inJanet's face, which she did not like to see. 

"Sandy will aye hae my mother, and she'll hae Sandy. But, lassie, itwinna bear speaking about to-night. Gang awa' to your bed. "

Graeme rose; but did not go. 

"But couldna Sandy go with us? It would only be one more. Surely, Janet--"

Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme did not knowwhich, but it stopped her. 

"Na, na! Sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for meto take him. There's no more to be said about that. " And in spite ofherself, Janet's tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen themgush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. Graeme lookedon, hushed and frightened, and in a little, Janet quieted herself andwiped her face with her apron. 

"You see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, I'm weary, and vexed to-night, and no' just myself. Matters will look morehopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. There's one thing certain. Both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see sautwater, without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. Whatwith the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; solet us awa' to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn. "

Graeme still lingered. 

"Oh, Janet! if my mother were only here! How easy it all would be. "

"Ay, lass! I hae said that to myself many a time this while. But Hethat took her canna do wrong. There was some need for it, or she wouldhae been here to-night. You maun aye strive to fill her place to themall. "

Graeme's tears flowed forth afresh. 

"Oh, Janet! I think you're mocking me when you say that. How could _I_ever fill her place?"

"No' by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. But it would belimiting His grace to say He canna make you all you should be--all thatshe was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. But now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. There's no fear but you will be in God's keeping wherever you go. "

Janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience duringthe next two months. When Janet had confidence in herself, she did whatwas to be done with a will. But she had little skill in makingpurchases, and less experience, and Graeme was little better. Manythings must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there wasno time to lose. 

But, with the aid of Mrs Smith and other kind friends, theirpreparations were got through at last. Purchases were made, mending andmaking of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was gotthrough, to their entire satisfaction. 

The minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either inthe kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gatherto see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, afew miles on their way. But it was the fairest of summer mornings--themist just lifting from the hills--and the sweet air filled with thelaverock's song, when Janet and the bairns looked their last upon theirhome. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

They found themselves on board the "Steadfast" at last. The day ofsailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the landeither; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a verydreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading inthe distance. 

"Oh! how dismal!" murmured Graeme, as in utter discomfort she seatedherself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. All therest, excepting her father, and not excepting Janet, were down withsea-sickness, and even Norman and Harry had lost heart under itsdepressing influence. Another hour in the close cabin, and Graeme feltshe must yield too--and then what would become of Rose? So into a mistthat was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat downwith her little sister upon the deck. For a minute she closed her eyeson the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. Rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased withthe new sights around her, she sat still on her sister's lap. Soon thecheerful voice of the Captain, startled Graeme. 

"Touch and go with you I see, Miss Elliott. I am afraid you will haveto give in like the rest. "

Graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough. 

"Not if I can help it, " said she. 

"Well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face likethat. Come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. It willdo you good. Set down the bairn, " for Graeme was rising with Rose inher arms. "No harm will come to her, and you don't look fit to carryyourself. Sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. Here, Ruthven, " he called to a young man who was walking up and down on theother side of the deck, "come and try your hand at baby tending. Thatmay be among the work required of you in the backwoods of Canada, whoknows?"

The young man came forward laughing, and Graeme submitted to be ledaway. The little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined toresent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she wasalways made to feel herself to be. But she took a look into the face ofher new friend and thought better of it. His face was a good one, frankand kindly, and Rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed uponhis knee, and when Graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteenminutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and "ill to dowith, " laughing merrily in the stranger's arms. She would have takenher, but Rose was pleased to stay. 

"You are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to, "said she, gratefully. Looking up, she did not wonder at Rosie's fancyfor the face that smiled down upon her. 

"I ought to feel myself highly honoured, " said he. 

"I think we'll give him the benefit of little Missy's preference, " saidCaptain Armstrong, who had been watching Graeme with a little amusedanxiety since her walk was ended. The colour that the exercise hadgiven her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew whitewith the deadly sickness that was coming over her. 

"You had best go to the cabin a wee while. You must give up, I think, "said he. 

Graeme rose languidly. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Come Rosie. "

"Leave the little one with me, " said Mr Ruthven. And that was the lastGraeme saw of Rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escapethe misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearilythe day passed. It passed, however, at last, and the next, which wascalm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. Theycame with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea airsoon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, andtheir sea life fairly began. 

But alas! for Janet. The third day, and the tenth found her still inher berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that heldher. In vain she struggled against it. The "Steadfast's" slightestmotion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made noeffort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. On the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helpedup to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabinbelow. 

"It was just a judgment upon her, " she said, "to let her see what a poorconceited body she was. She, that had been making muckle o' herself, asthough the Lord couldna take care o' the bairns without her help. "

It was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well andhappy, or to see it with her own eyes. This aggravated her trouble. "Useless body that I am. " And Janet did not wait for a sight of astrange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what withsea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope thatshe would ever see land of any kind again. 

The lads and Marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. Graeme andtheir father at first were in constant fear of their getting intodanger. It would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts ofclimbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each otherin their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not arope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiarwith before the first few days were over. "And, indeed, they werewonderfully preserved, the foolish lads, " their father acknowledged, andgrew content about them at last. 

Before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big bookgiven by Arthur for the purpose. A full and complete history of the sixweeks might be written from it, but I forbear. Norman or Harry, inlanguage obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. There are notices of whales, seen inthe distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. There arestories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints ofpractical jokes and tricks played on one another. The history of eachsailor in the ship is given, from "handsome Frank, the first Yankee, andthe best-singer" the boys ever saw, to Father Abraham, the Dutchman, "with short legs and shorter temper. "

Graeme writes often, and daily bewails Janet's continued illness, andrejoices over "wee Rosie's" improved health and temper. With heraccount of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes "thatthey had more sense, " but on the whole they are satisfactory. She hasmuch to say of the books she has been reading--"a good many of SirWalter Scott's that papa does not object to, " lent by Allan Ruthven. There are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and Graemedeclares she "has no patience" with Allan. For his favourites in SirWalter's books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness'sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf ofthe good name of the Old Puritans--men whom Graeme delights to honour. But on the whole it is to be seen, that Allan is a favourite with herand with them all. 

The beautiful Bay of Boston was reached at last, and with an interestthat cannot be told, the little party--including the restored Janet--regarded the city to which they were drawing near. Their ideas of whatthey were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite andvague. Far more familiar with the early history of New England--withsuch scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of RogerWilliams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history ofmodern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected tosee. But they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearerand nearer to it through the beautiful bay. 

"And this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all, "said Allan. 

 "They have left unstained what there they found. Freedom to worship God, "

murmured Graeme, softly. "I'm sure I shall like the American people. "

But Allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, morethan was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answerher with a jest as he might at another time. 

"You must write and tell me about your new home, " said he. 

"Yes--the boys will write; we will all write. I can hardly believe thatsix weeks ago we had never seen you. Oh! I wish you were going withus, " said Graeme. 

"Allan will see Arthur when he comes. Arthur will want to see all thecountry, " said Norman. 

"And maybe he will like the Queen's dominions best, and wish to settlethere, " said Allan. 

"Oh! but we shall see you long before Arthur comes, " said Graeme. "Isit very far to Canada?"

"I don't know--not very far, I suppose. I don't feel half so hopefulnow that I am about to know what my fate is to be. I have a great dreadon me. I have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortunehere. "

"But your mother wouldna be pleased, " said Graeme, gravely. 

"No. She has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. But it wouldbe more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. I should liketo look about me a little, before I get fairly into the treadmill ofbusiness. "

In her heart Graeme thought it an excellent thing for Allan that he hadhis uncle to go to. She had her own ideas about young people's lookingabout them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with Janetand Dr Watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. But shethought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off atonce for Canada, Allan might have gone with them for a little while. Before she could say this, however, Janet spoke. 

"Ay, that's bairn-like, though you hae a man's stature. I dare say youwould think it a braw thing to be at naebody's bidding; but, my lad, it's ae' thing to hae a friend's house, and a welcome waiting you in astrange land like this, and it's anither thing to sit solitary in a barelodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ainwill. If you're like the lads that I ken' maist about, you'll be nonethe worse of a little wholesome restraint. Be thankful for yourmercies. "

Allan laughed good-humouredly. 

"But really, Mrs Nasmyth, you are too hard on me. Just think what acountry this is. Think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and ofall these wonderful forests and prairies that Norman reads about, and isit strange that I should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with allthese things to enjoy? It is not the thought of the restraint thattroubles me. I only fear I shall become too soon content with theroutine, till I forget how to enjoy anything but the making and countingof money. I am sure anything would be better than to come to that. "

"You'll hae many things between you and the like o' that, if you do yourduty. You have them you are going to, and them you hae left--yourmother and brother. And though you had none o' them, you could aye findsome poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. Are you to bidein your uncle's house?"

"I don't know. Mrs Peter Stone, that was home last year, told us thatmy uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywherethey like. I shall do as the rest do I suppose. All the better--Ishall be the more able to do what I like with my leisure. "

"Ay, it's aye liberty that the like o' you delight in. Weel, see thatyou make a good use of it, that's the chief thing. Read your Bible andgang to the kirk, and there's no fear o' you. And dinna forget to writeto your mother. She's had many a weary thought about you 'ere thistime, I'll warrant. "

"I daresay I shall be content enough. But it seems like parting fromhome again, to think of leaving you all. My bonnie wee Rosie, whatshall I ever do without you?" said Allan, caressing the little one whohad clambered on his knee. 

"And what shall we do without you?" exclaimed a chorus of voices; andNorman added, --

"What is the use of your going all the way to Canada, when there'senough for you to do here. Come with us, Allan, man, and never mindyour uncle. "

"And what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up foryou?" demanded Janet, sharply. 

"Oh! he'll get just what we'll get ourselves, a chance to make his ownway, and I doubt whether he'll get more where he's going. I've no faithin rich uncles. " Allan laughed. 

"Thank you, Norman, lad. I must go to Canada first, however, whether Istay there or not. Maybe you will see me again, sooner than I thinknow. Surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me. "

Far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, andsilence fell upon them as they watched them. In another day they wouldbe among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. What awaited them there? Not that they feared the future, or doubted awelcome. Indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. A new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. Graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she wasnaturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only thethought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made herexcited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend madeher sad. 

As for Janet, she was herself again. Her courage returned when thesea-sickness departed, and now she was ready "to put a stout heart to astiff brae" as of old. "Disjaskit looking" she was, and not so strongas she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankfulto be able to keep her feet again. "She had been busy all the morning, "overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, muchto the discomfort of all concerned. All the morning Graeme hadsubmitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the"guiding" of this and that, while she had been unable to give personalsupervision to family matters. Thankful to see her at her post again, Graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters ingeneral, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. There were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than Janetconsidered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles ofwearing apparel were missing, after due search made. In vain Graemebegged her never to mind just now. They were in the big blue chest, orthe little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, butof course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened. 

"Maybe no, " said Janet. "There are some long fingers, I doubt, in thesteerage yonder. Miss Graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu'. IfI'm no' mistaken, I saw one o' Norman's spotted handkerchiefs about theneck o' yon lang Johnny Heeman, and yon little Irish lassie ga'ed pastme the day, with a pinafore very like one o' Menie's. I maun ha' a lookat it again. "

"Oh, Janet! never mind. I gave wee Norah the pinafore, and the oldbrown frock besides. She had much need of them. And poor Johnny cameon board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and Normangave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa's, --and--"

Janet's hands were uplifted in consternation. 

"Keep's and guide's lassie--that I should say such a word. Your papahadna an old waistcoat in his possession. What for did you do the likeo' that? The like o' Norman or Menie might be excused, but you that Ithought had some sense and discretion. Your father's waistcoat! Heardanybody ever the like? You may be thankful that you hae somebody thatkens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them--"

"Oh! I'm thankful as you could wish, " said Graeme, laughing. "I wouldrather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to seethe Queen on her throne. I confess to the waistcoat, and some otherthings, but mind, I'm responsible no longer. I resign my office ofgeneral caretaker to you. Success to you, " and Graeme made for thecabin stairs. She turned again, however. 

"Never heed, Janet, about the things. Think what it must be to have nochange, and we had so many. Poor wee Norah, too. Her mother's dead youken, and she looked so miserable. "

Janet was pacified. 

"Weel, Miss Graeme, I'll no' heed. But my dear, it's no' like we'llfind good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. And we had need to be careful. I wonder where a' the strippet pillowslips can be? I see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them. "

But Graeme was out of hearing before she came to this. 

They landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. They had waitedfor hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain wasstill falling when they left the ship. Eager and excited, the wholeparty were, but not after the anticipated fashion. Graeme wassurprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotionsswelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the Puritanshad rendered sacred. Indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that thesacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had toomuch trouble to keep the umbrella over Marian and herself, to be able togive any thanks to the sufferings of the Pilgrim fathers, or motherseither. Mr Elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engagedrooms for them in a quiet street, and thither Allan Ruthven, carryinglittle Rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the properbestowment of their baggage. 

This duty Janet fain would have shared with him. Her reverence for theminister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence inhis capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to gowith the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. Indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, sheexpressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, "yon sharp-looking lad could carry it offfrom beneath the minister's nose. "

Dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts bypresent necessities. The din and bustle of the crowded wharf, wouldhave been sufficient to "daze" the sober-minded country-woman, withoutthe charge of little Will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two "daftladdies forby. " On their part, Norman and Harry scorned the idea ofbeing taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, madetheir way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewilderedJanet. 

"Bide a wee, Norman, man. Harry, you daft laddie, where are you going?Now dinna throw awa' good pennies for such green trash. " For Harry hadmade a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside outin a twinkling. 

"Saw ever anybody such cheatry, " exclaimed Janet, as the dark ladypocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. "Harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. And look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister's bed gownswill be all wet. Man! hae you no sense?"

"Nae muckle, I doubt, Janet, " said Harry, with an exaggerated gesture ofhumility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain theextent of the mischief. "It's awfu' like Scotch dubs, now isn't it?Never mind, I'll give it a wash at the next pump, and it 'ill he nonethe worse. Give me Will's hand, and I'll take care of him. "

"Take care o' yourself, and leave Will with me. But, dear me, where'sMr Allan?" For their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, withthe baskets and the boys in the rainy street. Before her consternationhad reached a climax, however, Ruthven reappeared, having safelybestowed the others in their lodgings. Like a discreet lad, as Janetwas inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of Will, and some ofthe bundles, and led the way. At the door stood the girls, anxiouslylooking out for them. 

If their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her newlodgers, there was little wonder. Such a confusion of tongues herAmerican ears had not heard before. Graeme condoled with Will, who wasboth wet and weary. Janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailedthings in general. Marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for anapple, and Allan was tossing Rosie up to the ceiling, while Norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary Scotland, while withhis right he beckoned to the "brave new world" which was to be the sceneof his wonderful achievements and triumphs. 

The next day rose bright and beautiful. Mr Elliott had gone to staywith his friend Mr Caldwell, and Janet was over head and ears in ageneral "sorting" of things, and made no objections when it was proposedthat the boys and Graeme should go out with Allan Ruthven to see thetown. It is doubtful whether there was ever so much of Boston seen inone day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. It was a daynever to be forgotten by the children. The enjoyment was not quiteunmixed to Graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. Harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapterof adventures at his finger ends for their amusement. 

The crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by Allan Ruthvenon their way home. They were very warm and tired, and hungry too, andthe low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, wasdelightful. There was never such fruit--there were never such cakes asthese that were set before them. As for the ice cream, it was--inexpressible. In describing the feast afterwards, Marian could neverget beyond the ice cream. She was always at a loss for adjectives todescribe it. It was like the manna that the Children of Israel had inthe wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been contentwith it. 

Graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. She had anidea that there were not very many guineas left in Allan's purse, andshe felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance. 

"Never mind, Graeme, dear, " said Norman; "Allan winna have a chance totreat us to manna this while again; and when I am Mayor of Boston, I'llgive him manna and quails too. "

They came home tired, but they had a merry evening. Even Graeme"unbent, " as Harry said, and joined in the mirth; and Janet had enoughto do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came. 

"One would think when Mr Allan is going away in the morning, you mighthave the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while's peace, " saidshe. 

If the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of Allan Ruthven. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

"But where's the town?"

The bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. The meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping fieldat the foot of the hill, lay Merleville pond, like a mirror in a frameof silver and gold. Beyond, and on either side, were hills risingbehind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, "thetrees under which the red Indians used to wander, " Graeme whispered. There were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pinegroves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. Over all thegreat Magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them incolours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purpleheather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land. 

There were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the villagestreet looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellowbeech-trees. Above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the airwas keen, yet mild with the October sunshine. They could not have had alovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was anecho of disappointment in Harry's voice as he asked, --

"Where's the town?"

They had been greatly impressed by the description given them ofMerleville by Mr Sampson Snow, in whose great wagon they had beenconveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between therailway and their new home. 

"I was the first white child born in the town, " said Sampson. "I knowevery foot of it as well as I do my own barn, and I don't want no betterplace to live in than Merleville. It don't lack but a fraction of beingten miles square. Right in the centre, perhaps a _leetle_ south, there's about the prettiest pond you ever saw. There are somefirst-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town isbetter calculated for pasturage than tillage. I shouldn't wonder but itwould be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they'veused up all the other water privileges in the State. There's quite afall in the Merle river, just before it runs into the pond. We've got afullin'-mill and a grist-mill on it now. They'd think everything of itin your country. "

"There's just one meetin'-house in it. That's where your pa'll preachif our folks conclude to hire him a spell. The land's about all takenup, though it hain't reached the highest point of cultivation yet. Thetown is set off into nine school-districts, and I consider that ourprivileges are first-rate. And if it's nutting and squirrel-huntingyou're after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to Uncle Sampson, andhe'll arrange your business for you. "

"Ten miles square and nine school-districts!" Boston could be nothingto it, surely, the boys thought. The inconsistency of talking aboutpasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populousplace which they imagined Merleville to be, did not strike them. Thiswas literally their first glimpse of Merleville, for the rain had keptthem within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before andnow they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured tothemselves. 

"But Norman! Harry! I think this is far better than a town, " saidMarian, eagerly. "Eh, Graeme, isna yon a bonny water?"

"Ay, it's grand, " said Graeme. "Norman, this is far better than atown. "

The people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but thechildren were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. With aninterest that was half wonder, half delight, Graeme gazed to the hillsand the water and the lovely sky. It might be the "bonny day"--the mildair and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might bethe knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safetogether in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarceknew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyessmiled as she stood there holding one of Marian's hands in hers, whilethe other wandered through the curls of Will's golden hair. She did notspeak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whisperedto each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most. 

"Yon's Merle river, I suppose, where we see the water glancing throughthe trees. "

"And yonder is the kirkyard, " said Marian, gravely. "It's no' a bonnyplace. "

"It's bare and lonely looking, " said Harry. 

"They should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mammais, " said Marian. 

"But this is a new country; things are different here, " said Norman. 

"But surely they might have trees. "

"And look, there are cows in it. The gate is broken. It's a pity. "

"Look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between thehills through the wood. That's bonny, I'm sure. "

"And there's a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. Iwould like to live there. "

"Yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side. "

And so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. Theirfriend Mr Snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicatelittle girl, by the hand. He had been watching them for some time. 

"Well how do you like the looks of things?"

"It's bonny here, " said Marian. 

"Where's the town?" asked Harry, promptly. 

Mr Snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scenebefore them. 

"Lacks a fraction of being ten miles square. "

"It's all trees, " said little Will. 

"Wooden country, eh, my little man?"

"Country! yes, it's more like the country than like a town, " said Harry. 

"Well, yes. On this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks' countries, " said Mr Snow, gravely. 

"But it's like no town I ever saw, " said Norman. "There are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town. "

"There's freedom on them hills, " said Mr Snow, waving his hand with anair. 

During the journey the other day, Mr Snow and the lads had discussedmany things together; among the rest, the institutions of theirrespective countries, and Mr Snow had, as he expressed it, "Set theirBritish blood to bilin', " by hints about "aristocracy", "despotism, " andso on. "He never had had such a good time, " he said, afterwards. Theywere a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured askittens, and he meant to see to them. He meant to amuse himself withthem too, it seemed. The boys fired up at once, and a hot answer wasonly arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of Graeme. 

"Whist, Norman. Harry, mind it is the Sabbath-day, and look yonder ispapa coming up with Judge Merle, " and turning smilingly to Mr Snow, sheadded, "We like the place very much. It's beautiful everywhere. It'sfar bonnier than a town. I'm glad there's no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first. "

"No town?" repeated Mr Snow. 

But there was no time for explanations. Their father had reached thesteps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the Judge. Judge Merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man inMerleville, if not in the country. The children had made hisacquaintance on Saturday. He had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, acircumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, butwhich sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to thedignity of his office. Janet, who looked on the whole thing as a propertribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he mightexpect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. Thechildren were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, andwhen Mr Snow gave him a familiar nod, and a "Morning Judge, " Graemefelt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. The Judge did notresent it, however. On the contrary, when Mr Snow, nodding sidewaystoward the minister, said, "He guessed the folks would get about fittedthis time, " he nodded as familiarly back, and said, "He shouldn't wonderif they did. "

There are no such churches built in New England now, as that into whichthe minister and his children were led by the Judge. It was very largeand high, and full of windows. It was the brilliant light that struckthe children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with theSabbath worship, the dimness of their father's little chapel in Clayton. Norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desireto count the panes, and scandalised Graeme by communicating to her theresult of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin. 

How many people there were in the high square pews, and in thegalleries, and even in the narrow aisles. So many, that Graeme notdreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought sobeautiful, wondered where they all could come from. Keen, intelligentfaces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; alittle hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, manyof them were, and kindly withal. 

Afterwards--years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shuttheir eyes to recall their father's face, as it gleamed down upon themfrom that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them ofthis first sermon in Merleville. There was a charm in the Scottishaccent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon thesepeople wonderfully. It was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had sufferedand had been comforted; one who, through all, had by God's gracestruggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. Hespoke as one whom God had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. He spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listenedearnestly. So earnestly that Deacon Fish forgot to hear for DeaconSlowcome, and Deacon Slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. Deacon Sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be hisduty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine bycomparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from theminister's lips, as the very word of God. 

"He means just as he says, " said Mr Snow to young Mr Greenleaf, as heovertook him in going home that afternoon. "He wasn't talking justbecause it was his business to. When he was a telling us what mightythings the grace of God can do, he believed it himself, I guess. "

"They all do, don't they?" said Mr Greenleaf. 

"Well, I don't know. They all say they do. But there's Deacon Fishnow, " said Mr Snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, "he don't begin to think that grace or anything else, could make _me_such a good man as he is. "

Mr Greenleaf laughed. 

"If the vote of the town was taken, I guess it would be decided thatgrace wouldn't have a great deal to do. "

"Well, the town would make a mistake. Deacon Fish ain't to brag of forgoodness, I don't think; but he's a sight better than I be. But seehere, Squire, don't you think the new minister'll about fit?"

"He'll fit _me_, " said the Squire. "It is easy to see that he is not acommon man. But he won't fit the folks here, or they won't fit him. Itwould be too good luck if he were to stay here. "

"Well, I don't know about that. There are folks enough in the town thatknow what's good when they hear it, and I guess they'll keep him if theycan. And I guess he'll stay. He seems to like the look of things. Heis a dreadful mild-spoken man, and I guess he won't want much in the wayof pay. I guess you had better shell out some yourself, Squire. _I_mean to. "

"You are a rich man, Mr Snow. You can afford it. "

"Come now, Squire, that's good. I've worked harder for every dollarI've got, than you've done for any ten you ever earned. "

The Squire shook his head. 

"You don't understand my kind of work, or you wouldn't say so. Butabout the minister? If I were to pledge myself to any amount for hissupport, I should feel just as though I were in a measure responsiblefor the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, andthe paying of it. Anything I have to do with, I want to have go rightalong without any trouble, and unless Merleville folks do differentlythan they have so far, it won't be so in this matter. "

"Yes, I shouldn't wonder if there would be a hitch before long. But Iguess you'd better think before you say no. I guess it'll pay in thelong run. "

"Thank you, Mr Snow. I'll take your advice and think of it, " said MrGreenleaf, as Sampson stopped at his own gate. He watched him going upthe hill. 

"He's goin' along up to the widow Jones' now, I'll bet. I shouldn'twonder if he was a goin' to lose me my chance of getting her place. Itkind o' seems as though I ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. And they say old Skinflint is going to foreclose right off. I'll haveto make things fit pretty tight this winter, if I have to raise thecash. But it does seem as if I ought to have it. Maybe it's Celestiathe Squire wants, and not the farm. "

He came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he hadforgotten, and leaned for a moment over it. 

"Well, now, it does beat all. Here have I been forgetting all aboutwhat I have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. Deacon Sterneneedn't waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. I've gotto know it pretty well by this time;" and, with a sigh, he turned towardthe house. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

The next week was a busy one to all. Mr Elliott, during that time, took up his residence at Judge Merle's, only making daily visits to thelittle brown house behind the elms where Janet and the bairns wereputting things to rights. There was a great deal to be done, but it waslovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each didsomething to help. The lads broke sticks and carried water, and Janet'smammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and beforethe week was over the little brown house began to look like a home. 

A great deal besides was accomplished this week. It was not all devotedto helping, by the boys. Norman caught three squirrels in a trap of hisown invention, and Harry shot as many with Mr Snow's wonderful rifle. They and Marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, throughbushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. They came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggestedthoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with theirtrip, only regretting that Graeme and Janet had not been with them. Itwas Saturday night, after a very busy week, and Janet had her own ideasabout the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out withthem for "their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon. " Butthe minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition betweenthe room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general roomfor the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to theirsurprise and delight. For to tell the truth, Janet's patience with thebairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in thepresence of "torn clothes and ruined shoon. "

The next week was hardly so successful. It was cold and rainy. Thegold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and theearth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. The inconveniences ofthe little brown house became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, evenunder a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place it looked. The windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges weredefective, and there were a score of other evils, which Janet and thelads strove to remedy without vexing their father and Graeme. A verypoor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this couldnot be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house occupied by MrElliott's predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown housewas the only unoccupied house in the village. When winter should beover something might be done about getting another, and in the meantimethey must make the best of it. 

The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to mend windows anddoors, another to mend the chimney. Orrin Green spent two days inbanking up the house. Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bringup wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in bysome of the village people. 

There were some drawbacks. The wood was green, and made more smoke thanheat; and Janet mortally offended Mr Green by giving him his dinneralone in the kitchen. Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and thedriving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year'ssalary, at prices which made Janet's indignation overflow. This lattercircumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and inthe meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find theirnew friends so kind. 

In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bareplace began to look wonderfully comfortable. With warm carpets on thefloors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, andtables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began tohave a look of home to them all. 

The rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of Novemberwas a long and lovely Indian-summer. Then the explorations of the boyswere renewed with delight. Graeme and Rosie and Will went with therest, and even Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion oneafternoon. She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was afair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in thevalley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. It was a finecountry, nobody could deny; but Janet's eyes were sad enough as shegazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home wasstrong at her heart. 

In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with thegeography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-housebesides. And a happy month it was for them all. One night they watchedthe sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke tobehold "the beauty and mystery of the snow. " Far-away to the highesthill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, andtree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment ofwinter. How strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomedeyes. 

"It 'minds me of white grave-clothes, " said Marian, with a shudder. 

"Whist, Menie, " said her sister. "It makes me think, of how full theair will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. Just watchthe flakes floating so quietly in the air. "

"But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and--"

"Well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakesare coming down or going up, they float about so silently. They mind meof beautiful and peaceful things. "

"But, Graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers arecovered in the dark. "

"Menie! There are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is wearywith her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie whitesnow. And, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look outupon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grassand the bonnie flowers again, " and Graeme sighed. 

But it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong intoit, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was"perfect ruination to their clothes;" and yet Janet had not the heart toforbid it. It was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoymentwas crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr Snow came downwith his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them asleigh-ride. There was room for them all, and for Mr Snow's littleEmily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, wellwrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was thereever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme laughed andclapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed everysleigh and sledge on the road. 

"The bonnie creatures!" she exclaimed; and Mr Snow, who loved hisgreys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as acompliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to thebest advantage. Away they went, up hill and down, through the villageand over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocksand cedars stood dressed in white "like brides. " Marian had no thoughtof sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the otherway, past Judge Merle's and the school-house, singing and laughing in away that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whomsleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith's shop, andeven the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and lookedout to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and allgave voice to their mirth except Mr Snow's little Emily, and she wastoo full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anythingherself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it wasnot her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spokeof it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but itwas the beginning of a new life to little Emily. 

"Isna she a queer little creature?" whispered Harry to Graeme, as hergreat black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder. 

"She's a bonnie little creature, " said Graeme, caressing the little handthat had found its way to hers, "and good, too, I'm sure. "

"Grandma don't think so, " said the child, gravely. 

"No!" exclaimed Harry. "What bad things do you do?"

"I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick overbeans. "

Harry whistled. 

"What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Doesshe whip you?"

The child's black eyes flashed. 

"She daren't. Father wouldn't let her. She gives me stints, and sendsme to bed. "

"The Turk!" exclaimed Harry. "Run away from her, and come and bide withus. "

"Hush, Harry, " said Graeme, softly, "grandma is Mr Snow's mother. "

There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of herown accord. 

"There are no children at our house, " said she. 

"Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes, " said Graeme. 

"Yes; when father's gone and mother's sick. Then there's nobody butgrandma. "

"Have you a doll?" asked Menie. 

"No: I have a kitten, though. "

"Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, andher name is Flora Macdonald. "

Menie's doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since shehad created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls. 

"Will you come? Mr Snow, " she said, climbing upon the front seat whichNorman shared with the driver, "won't you let your little girl come andsee my doll?"

"Well, yes; I guess so. If she's half as pretty as you are, she is wellworth seeing. "

Menie was down again in a minute. 

"Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we'll play allday. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like tocome?"

"Yes, " said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever. 

They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout thatbrought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh. 

"Is this your little girl, Mr Snow?" said Mr Elliott, taking thechild's hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly asshe had been looking at the children all the afternoon. 

"Yes; she's your Marian's age, and looks a little like her, too. Don'tyou think so Mrs Nasmyth?"

Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child. 

"She might, if she had any flesh on her bones, " said she. 

"Well, she don't look ragged, that's a fact, " said her father. 

The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the littleElliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made herfather's heart ache to see. 

"The bairn's cold. Let her come in and warm herself, " said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children. 

"Well, I don't know as I ought to wait. My horses don't like to standmuch, " said Mr Snow. 

"Never mind waiting. If it's too far for us to take her home, you cancome down for her in the evening. "

Emily looked at her father wistfully. 

"Would you like to stay, dear?" asked he. 

"Yes, sir. " And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carriedinto the house, and kissed before she was set down. 

"I'll be along down after dark, sometime, " said Mr Snow, as he droveaway. 

Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasantnoise, before. Mr Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in thekitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride. 

"And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?" said he pushing backthe soft, brown hair from the little grave face. "What is your name, little one?"

"Emily Snow Arnold, " answered she, promptly. 

"Emily Arnold Snow, " said Menie, laughing. 

"No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father's own little girl. My father is dead. "

She looked grave, and so did the rest. 

"But it is just the same. He loves you. "

"Oh, yes!" There was a bright look in the eyes for once. 

"And you love him all the same?"

"Oh, yes. "

So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozenchildren, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child ofhis wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have "good times"up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme. 

"Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, ifit wasn't for father, I don't know what we _should_ do. "

Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs Snow had always beenstrong and healthy, altogether unconscious of "nerves, " and she couldhave no sympathy and very little pity for his son's sickly wife. Shehad never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood waspast, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her homeas his wife. So old Mrs Snow kept her place at the head of thehousehold, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son'swife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might havebeen different; but she almost resented her son's warm affection for hislittle step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emilyshould be brought up as children used to be brought up when _she_ wasyoung, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; andthe process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and "good times" werefew and far between at their house. 

Her acquaintance with the minister's children was the beginning of a newlife to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when hecame into Janet's bright kitchen that night and heard his little girllaughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anythinghad been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness tothe child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and hischildren, and Mrs Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr Snow. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

From the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excitedgreat curiosity and interest among the good people of Merleville. Theminister himself, as Mr Snow told Mrs Nasmyth, was "popular. " Not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless MrSnow himself did. Every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. Indeed, they were more unanimous, withregard to the minister's faults, than old ladies generally are onimportant subjects. The matter was dispassionately discussed at severalsuccessive sewing-circles, and when Mrs Page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, "that though the minister was a good man, and a goodpreacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man agood pastor, " there was scarcely a dissenting voice. 

Mrs Merle had ventured to hint that, "they could not expect everythingin one man, " but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister'soffences was, having been several times in at the Judge's, while hesinfully neglected others of his flock. 

"It's handy by, " ventured Mrs Merle, again. But the Judge's wife wasno match for the blacksmith's lady, and it was agreed by all, thatwhatever else the minister might be, he was "no hand at visiting. " Truehe had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularlymeeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. Butthat of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like theaffectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and hispeople. "He might preach like Paul, " said Mrs Page, "but unless onweek days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvestwould never be gathered in. The minister's face ought to be a familiarsight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into thefold, " and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over theten miles square of Merleville. The minister was not sinning inignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in thisrespect. 

"And what did he say?" asked some one. 

"Oh! he didn't say much, but I could see that his conscience wasn'teasy. However, there has been no improvement yet, " she added, withgrave severity. 

"He hain't got a horse, and I've heard say, that deacon Fish charges himsix cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. Hecouldn't afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollarsa year. "

This bold speech was ventured by Miss Rebecca Pettimore, Mrs CaptainLiscome's help, who took turns with that lady, in attending thesewing-circle. But it was well known, that she was always "on the offside, " and Mrs Page deigned no reply. There was a moment's silence. 

"Eli heard Mr Snow say so, in Page's shop yesterday, " added Rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. MrsFish took her up sharply. 

"Sampson Snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, ifhe can afford to do it for nothing. Mr Fish can't. "

"My goodness, Mis' Fish, I wouldn't have said a word, if I'd thought youwere here, " said Rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh. 

"Mr Snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, justto have a talk with him, " said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to coverRebecca's retreat. But Rebecca wouldn't retreat. 

"I didn't mean any offence, Mis' Fish, and if it ain't so about thedeacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther. "

But it was not to be contradicted, and that Mrs Fish well knew, thoughwhat business it was of anybody's, and why the minister, who seemed tobe well off, shouldn't pay for the use of a horse and cutter, shecouldn't understand. The subject was changed by Mrs Slowcome. 

"He must have piles and piles of old sermons. It don't seem as thoughhe needs to spend as much time in his study, as Mrs Nasmyth tellsabout. "

Here there was a murmur of dissent. Would sermons made for the British, be such as to suit free-born American citizens? the children of thePuritans? The prevailing feeling was against such a supposition. 

"Old or new, I like them, " said Celestia Jones, the pretty black-eyedgirl, who had spoken before. "And so do others, who are better judgesthan I. "

"Squire Greenleaf, I suppose, " said Ruby Fox, in a loud whisper. "Hewas up there last Sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all theafternoon. "

Celestia's black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly Ruby saidno more. Indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for thatthey were something for the Merleville people to be proud of, allagreed. Mr Elliott's preaching had filled the old meeting-house. People who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out ofthe town, even. Young Squire Greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospectof succeeding Judge Merle, as the great man of Merleville, had broughtover the judges from Rixford, and they had dined at the minister's, andhad come to church on Sunday. Young Squire Greenleaf was a triumph ofhimself. He had never been at meeting "much, if any, " since he hadcompleted his legal studies. If he ever did go, it was to the Episcopalchurch at Rixford, which, to the liberal Mrs Page, looked considerablylike coquetting with the scarlet woman. Now, he hardly ever lost aSunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and makingfrequent visits to the minister's house. Having put all these thingstogether, and considered the matter, Mrs Page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wontto suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity ofrejoicing over. The rest rejoiced too. There was a murmur of dissentfrom Miss Pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. There was agleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of MissCelestia, which said more plainly than Miss Pettimore's words could havedone, that the squire was better now, than the most in Merleville, butlike a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornfulglances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing. 

The minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the othermembers of the family were discussed, with equal interest. Upon thewhole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. But Mrs Pageand her friends were not quite satisfied with Graeme. As the minister'seldest daughter, and "serious, " they were disposed to overlook heryouthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. ButGraeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour toherself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. But she was kindly dealt with, even by Mrs Page, for her loving careof the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherlyheart among these kind people. And she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen. 

There were numberless stories afloat about the boys, --their mirth, theirmischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to theirfather, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled torepeat and discuss. The boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won forthemselves a welcome. It is true, there had been one or two ratherserious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other ladsof the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner thanthe mirth, and Norman and Harry were very popular among old and young. 

But the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomalyin Merleville society was Janet, or Mrs Nasmyth, as she was generallycalled. In refusing one of the many invitations which she had sharedwith the minister and Graeme, she had thought fit to give society ingeneral a piece of her mind. She was, she said, the minister's servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him inany strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same. 

"Servant!" echoed Mrs Sterne's help, who was staying to pass theevening, while her mistress went home, "to see about supper. "

And, "servant!" echoed the young lady who assisted Mrs Merle in herhousehold affairs. 

"I'll let them see that I think myself just as good as Queen Victoria, if I do live out, " said another dignified auxiliary. 

"She must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature. "

"Why, they do say she'll brush them great boys' shoes. I saw hermyself, through the study-door, pull off Mr Elliott's boots as humbleas could be. "

"To see that little girl pouring tea when there's company, and MrsNasmyth not sitting down. It's ridiculous. "

"I wouldn't do so for the President!"

"Well, they seem to think everything of her, " said Miss Pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection. 

"Why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. And theway them children hang about her, and fuss over her, I never see. Theytell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father. "

"And if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's always, `ask MrsNasmyth, ' or, `Mrs Nasmyth will tell you. '"

"They couldn't get along without her. If I was her I'd show them that Iwas as good as them, and no servant. "

"She's used to it. She's been brought up so. But now that she's gothere, I should think she'd be sick of it. "

"I suppose `servant' there, means pretty much what `help' does here. There don't seem to be difference enough to talk about, " said Rebecca. 

"I see considerable difference, " said Mrs Merle's young lady. 

"It beats all, " said another. 

Yes, it did beat all. It was incomprehensible to these dignifiedpeople, how Janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yetretain her self-respect. And that "Mrs Nasmyth thought considerable ofherself, " many of the curious ladies of Merleville had occasion to know. The relations existing between her and "the bairns, " could not easilybe understood. She acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reprovedthem when they deserved it, and that sharply. She enforced obedience toall rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking todispute her right. They went to her at all times with their troublesand their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, orconsoled them, as the case might need. That they were as the very appleof her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, andrespected her entirely, none could fail to see. 

There were stories going about in the village to prove that she had asharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek todeny. Of course, it was the duty of all the female part of thecongregation to visit at the minister's house, and to give such adviceand assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to berequired of them. It is possible they took more interest in the matterthan if there had been a mistress in the house. "More liberties, " Janetindignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two sheresolutely set her face against what she called the answering ofimpertinent questions. According to her own confession, she gave toseveral of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed withoutdue discretion, a "downsetting, " and Graeme and the boys, and even MrElliott, had an idea that a downsetting from Janet must be somethingserious. It is true her victims' ignorance of the Scottish tongue musthave taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was nomistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upsettin' bodies, " and"meddlesome bodies, " that bestowed too much time on their neighbours'affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on thesubject. 

But she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and softcame very naturally to Janet's lips when her heart was touched, and thisalways happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and manywere the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willinghands relieved. For every sharp word brought up against her, therecould be told a kindly deed, and Janet's friends were the most numerousat the sewing-circle that night. 

Merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, thoughviewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, itseemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. But between thehills lay many a fertile valley. Except toward the west, where thehills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of whichwere occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. The village was not large enough to have a society within itselfindependent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even tothe borders of the "ten miles square, " considered themselves neighbours. They were very socially inclined, for the most part, and Merleville wasa very pleasant place to live in. 

Winter was the time for visiting. There was very little formality intheir entertainments. Nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, wasusually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, excepton special occasions, when formal invitations were given. Then, it mustbe confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpassall others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. But for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they droppedin on one another in a friendly way. 

The minister's family were not overlooked. Scarcely an evening passedbut some of their neighbours came in. Indeed, this happened toofrequently for Janet's patience, for she sorely begrudged the time takenfrom the minister's books, to the entertainment of "ilka idle body thattook leave to come in. " It gave her great delight to see him reallyinterested with visitors, but she set her face against his beingtroubled at all hours on every day in the week. 

"If it's anything particular I'll tell the minister you're here, " sheused to say; "but he bade the bairns be quiet, and I doubt he wouldnalike to be disturbed. Sit down a minute, and I'll speak to Miss Graeme, and I dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly. "

Generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her brightkitchen for a chat with her and the children. It was partly theseevening visits that won for Mrs Nasmyth her popularity. Even in hergloomy days--and she had some days gloomy enough about this time--shewould exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the youngpeople the visitor was generally well entertained. Such singing ofsongs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in thepleasant firelight! There was no such thing as time lagging there, andoften the nine o'clock worship came before the visitor was aware. 

Even Judge Merle and young Squire Greenleaf were sometimes detained inthe kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the ministerwas more than usually engaged. 

"For you see, sir, " said she, on one occasion, "what with ae thing andwhat with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this weekalready, that I dinna like to disturb him. But if you'll sit down herefor a minute or two, I daresay he'll be ben and I'll speak to MissGraeme. "

"Mr Elliott seems a close student, " said the Judge, as he took theoffered seat by the fire. 

"Ay, is he. Though if you are like the lave o' the folk, you'll thinkno more o' him for that. Folk o' my country judge o' a minister by thetime he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought tobe in the way of his duty, unless he's ca'ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife's tale. "

"But, " said the Judge, much amused, "the minister has been studying allhis life. It seems as though he might draw on old stores now. "

"Ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. The minister'sno one that puts his people off with `cauld kail het again, ' and hecanna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time. "

"And he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. That would be to the point at present, " said the Judge, laughing, "Ithink I'll be going. "

"'Deed, no, sir, " said Janet, earnestly, "I didna mean you. I'm ayeglad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. It cheers him. But this week it's been worse than ever. He has hardlyhad an unbroken hour. But sit still, sir. He would be ill-pleased ifyou went away without seeing him. "

"I'll speak to papa, Judge Merle, " said Graeme. 

"Never mind, my dear. Come and speak to me yourself. I think MrsNasmyth is right. The minister ought not to be disturbed. I havenothing particular to say to him. I came because it's a pleasure tocome, and I did not think about its being so near the end of the week. "

Graeme looked rather anxiously from him to Janet. 

"My dear, you needna trouble yourself. It's no' folk like the Judge andyoung Mr Greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being keptwaiting a wee while here. It's folk like the 'smith yonder, or OrrinGreen, the upsettin' body. But you can go in now and see if your papa'sat leisure, and tell him the Judge is here. "

"We had Mr Greenleaf here awhile the ither night, " she continued, asGraeme disappeared. "A nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no' aebit o' a Yankee. "

The Judge opened his eyes. It was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. But he was not one of thekind to take offence, as Janet justly said. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

Other favourites of Mrs Nasmyth's were Mr Snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. MrSnow had been their friend from the very first. He had made good hispromise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. He had taught them toskate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in themaking of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pocketsfull of rosy apples to the little ones. They made many a day pleasantfor his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thoughtnothing too much to do for those who were kind to Emily. 

Janet's kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energiesexercised in behalf of Mr Snow's melancholy, nervous wife. In upon themonotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine intoher room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. During along and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after theminister's arrival in Merleville, Janet had watched with her a good manynights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid madeduring the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was atthe minister's, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness ofthem all. But it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leaveher warm room in wintry weather, and Sampson's visits were made alone, or in company with little Emily. 

The schoolmaster, Mr Isaac Newton Foster, came often, partly because heliked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. Thenight of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates andbooks, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from themysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to growweary. 

Graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soonbecame interested in their studies for their own sake, and Mr Fosterhad not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. Janet hadher doubts about her "taking up with books that were fit only for_laddies_, " but Mr Foster proved, with many words, that her ideas werealtogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did notobject, and Graeme herself had great delight in it, she made noobjections. Her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he wasa well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which saidplainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. But by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good whichhe exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and reallyinteresting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect forMr Foster. 

But all the evenings when Mr Foster was with them were not given up tolessons. When, as sometimes happened, Mr Snow or Mr Greenleaf camein, something much more exciting took the place of Algebra. MrGreenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but hehad the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even Graeme and Janet, in the discussion of some excitingquestion, often the comparative merits of the institutions of theirrespective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to thewilling Mr Foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put ina word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. They seldomlost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on lessfavoured occasions. For Janet and Janet's bairns were prompt to dobattle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though MrFoster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. He could notconscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birthand education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness ofold-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. Mr Snow wasready too with his hints about "despotism" and "aristocracy, " and onsuch occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong intothe thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things ingeneral, and Yankee institutions in particular. It is to be feared thedisputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used;but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot wordsspoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came. 

A chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one night when MrSnow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness ofthe dispute. The lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due toMr Foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resentit, and Mr Snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of thisparticular occasion. The strife was getting warm when Mr Greenleaf'sknock was heard. Norman was in the act of hurling some hundredthousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster's devoted head, while MrFoster strove hard to shield himself by holding up "Britain's wretchedoperatives and starving poor. "

"Come along, Squire, " said Mr Snow. "We want you to settle this littledifficulty. Mrs Nasmyth ain't going to let you into the study justnow, at least she wouldn't let me. The minister's busy to-night. "

Mr Greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew Marian to his knee. 

Neither Norman nor Mr Foster was so eager to go on as Mr Snow was tohave them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, theywere soon in "full blast, " as he whispered to his friend. Thediscussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. It wasnot confined to Norman and Mr Foster. All the rest had something tosay; even Janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. But Norman was the chief speaker on his side. The subject had beendiscussed in the village School Lyceum, and Norman had distinguishedhimself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of hisarguments--certainly not by their originality. But he thundered forththe lines beginning "I would not have a slave, " etcetera, to the intensedelight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of theother. 

To-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and Mr Fostercomplained at last. 

"But, Norman, you don't keep to the point. "

"Talks all round the lot, " said Mr Snow. 

"I'm afraid that is not confined to Norman, " said Mr Greenleaf. 

"Norman is right, anyway, " pronounced Menie. 

"He reasons in a circle, " said the master. "And because slavery is theonly flaw in--"

"The only flaw!" said Norman, with awful irony. 

"Well, yes, " interposed Mr Snow. "But we have had enough of theConstitution for to-night. Let's look at our country. _It_ can't bebeaten any way you take it. Physically or morally, " pursued he, withgreat gravity, "it can't be beaten. There are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. Our laws and our institutions generallyare just about what they ought to see. Even foreigners see that, andprove it, by coming to share our privileges. Where will you find such ageneral diffusion of knowledge among all classes? Classes? There isonly one class. All are free and equal. "

"Folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal, " said MrsNasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. "For my part, Inever saw pride--really to call pride--till I saw it in this finecountry o' yours--ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour. "

"Well--so they be. Liberty and equality is our ticket. "

"But ye're no' a' equal. There's as muckle difference among folks hereas elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. There are folk coming and goinghere, that in my country I would hate sent round to the back door; butnaething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. Gentlemen like the Judge, or like Mr Greenleaf here, will sit and bidethe minister's time; but upsettin' bodies such as I could name--"

"Well, I wouldn't name them, I guess. General principles are best insuch a case, " said Mr Snow. "And I am willing to confess there isamong us an aristocracy of merit. Your friend the Judge belongs to thatand your father, Miss Graeme; and I expect Squire Greenleaf will, too, when he goes to Congress. But no man is great here just because hisfather was before him. Everybody has a chance. Now, on your side ofthe water, `a man must be just what his father was. ' Folks must stayjust there. That's a fact. "

"You seem to be weel informed, " said Janet drily. 

"Ah! yes; I know all about it. Anybody may know anything and everythingin this country. We're a great people. Ain't that so, Mr Foster?"

"It must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that Britain has producedsome great men, " said Mr Foster, breaking out in a new spot as Mr Snowwhispered to the Squire. 

"Surely that would be granting too much, " said Norman. 

"But, " pursued Mr Foster, "Britons themselves confess that it is onthis Western Continent that the Anglo-Saxon race is destined to triumph. Descended from Britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall--which must--which--"

"Sounds considerable like the glorious Fourth, don't it?" whispered MrSnow. 

"Which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet, " said the literalMrs Nasmyth. 

"I was about to say that--that--"

"That the British can lick all creation, and we can lick the British, "said Mr Snow. 

"Any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority, "said Mr Foster, taking a new start. 

"That's been proved already, " said Mr Snow, watching the sparkle inGraeme's eye. She laughed merrily. 

"No, Mr Snow. They may fight it out without me to-night. "

"I am glad you are growing prudent. Mrs Nasmyth, you wouldn't believehow angry she was with me one night. "

"Angry!" repeated Graeme. "Ask Celestia. "

"Well, I guess I shouldn't have much chance between Celestia and you. But I said then, and I say now, you'll make a first-rate Yankee girlyourself before seven years. "

"A Yankee!" repeated her brothers. 

"A Yankee, " echoed Menie. 

"Hush, Menie. Mr Snow is laughing at us, " said Graeme. 

"I would rather be just a little Scotch lassie, than a Yankee Queen, "said Menie, firmly. 

There was a laugh, and Menie was indignant at her brothers for joining. 

"You mean a president's wife. We don't allow queens here--in this freecountry, " said Mr Snow. 

"But it is dreadful that you should hate us so, " said the Squire. 

"I like you, and the Judge. And I like Mrs Merle. "

"And is that all?" asked Mr Snow, solemnly. 

"I like Emily. And I like you when you don't vex Graeme. "

"And who else?" asked Mr Greenleaf. 

"I like Celestia. She's nice, and doesna ask questions. And so doesGraeme. And Janet says that Celestia is a lady. Don't you like her?"asked Menie, thinking her friend unresponsive. 

"You seem to be good at asking questions yourself, Menie, my woman, "interposed Mrs Nasmyth. "I doubt you should be in your bed by thistime. " But Mr Snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy. 

"And don't Cousin Celestia like me?" asked he. 

"Yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?"

"Well, not exactly--we're not very near cousins. But I see to her some, and mean to. I like her. "

The study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one;but as Mr Snow went up the hill he said to himself: "Yes, I shall seeto her. She is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expectto go to Congress. "

CHAPTER TEN. 

"I like the wood fires, " said Graeme. "They are far clearer than thepeat fires at home. "

They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, alittle after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, andthe minister would not be out again. 

Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they weresitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands hadfallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light andheat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not verywarm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered alittle as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet didnot answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight. 

Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for thatmatter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed overseams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the eastwinds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling themto the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in theyard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and frowith a noise that came through Graeme's dream and disturbed it at last. Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had beengathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drewnear to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly:

"The winter's near over now, Janet. "

"Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way, " said Janet. She knew thatGraeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, soshe bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle thefore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to beartelling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together betweenthe andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. Andthe light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow morevisible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all therest had been a time of trial to Janet. 

To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. Thelads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and thelittle ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed thewinter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial toRose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been somuch at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way ofmaking or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was fallinginto her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teachingthe little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at theirlessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant toher. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had becomeso dear to him, Mr Elliott could be content; and in his efforts tobecome acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had beenroused to something like the cheerfulness of former years. 

But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long strugglewith unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she wastelling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. Home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. Night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at herheart. Morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasableyearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walkagain through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces. 

The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed andrejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. Arthur'sletters to his father and Graeme, so clear and full of all they wishedto hear about, "so like a printed book, " made it all the harder for herto bear her disappointment over Sandy's obscure, ill-spelt andindifferently-written letter. She had of old justly prided herself onSandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference betweena school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of thepage, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with thecombined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition. 

Poor Sandy! He had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, butit was not satisfactory. In wishing to be minute, he had becomemysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through allparts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. There was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but twoclear ideas could be gathered! Mr More of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that Mrs Smith had changed hermind, and he was not to be at Saughless for the winter after all. 

There were other troubles too, that Janet had to bear alone. The cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. Unaccustomedto any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met bythe putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the NewEngland winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenlyby her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour spent in Mrs Snow's hot roomoften made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was asfatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "Steadfast" had been. Tosay that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, byno means, saying enough. She was angry at her folly, and called herself"silly body" and "useless body, " striving with all her might to throwthe burden from her. 

Then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. They were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written, "self-satisfied and curious. The fact was, her ideas of things ingeneral were disarranged by the state of affairs in Merleville. Shenever could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and whatmade the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves. 

Mrs Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister's in companywith the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady betweenthem Mrs Page evidently believed it to be herself. Mrs Merle was anice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while MrsPage went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman asshe is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as ifshe were a judge. Both of them had invited her to visit them verykindly, no doubt; but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anythingthat concerned them. She was out of her element. Things were quitedifferent from anything she had been used with. She grew depressed anddoubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her. 

Some thought of all this came into Graeme's mind, as she sat watchingher while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and withthe thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little ofJanet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantlywith her books, in the corner of her father's study. She blamed herselffor her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so infuture. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something tochase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drewnearer. 

"What is it, Janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. "Winna you tell me?"

Janet gave a startled look into her face. 

"What is what, my dear?"

"Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me, " said Graeme, reproachfully. 

"Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I'm weel enough. "

"You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it's hardly time yet, Janet. "

"I'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, itmightna give me muckle comfort. "

"Then something ails you, and you winna tell me, " said Graeme again, ina grieved voice. 

"My dear, I hae naething to tell. "

"Is it me, Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I wouldna willingly dowrong?" pleaded Graeme. 

Janet put her fingers over the girl's lips. 

"Whist, my lammie. It's naething--or naething that can be helpit, " andshe struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in herfull heart. Graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of herfriend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it. 

"Lassie, lassie! I canna help it, " and the long pent up flood gushedforth, and the tears fell on Graeme's bent head like rain. Graemeneither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that God wouldcomfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words shespoke she knew that she was comforted. 

"I am an auld fule, I believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it'sain mind, and I think I'm growing waur ilka day, " and she paused to wipethe tears from her face. 

"But what is it, Janet?" asked Graeme, softly. 

"It's naething, dear, naething that I can tell to mortal. I dinna kenwhat has come ower me. It's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, andmove I canna. But surely I'll be set free in time. "

There was nothing Graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek downon Janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it. 

"Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme, " cried Janet, struggling with anotherwave of the returning flood. "What will come o' us if you give way. There's naething ails me but that I'm an auld fule, and I canna helpthat, you ken. "

"Janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother andSandy to come with us. I never thought till to-night how great it musthave been. "

"Ay, lassie. I'll no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge it now. Itwasna made in a right sperit, and that the Lord is showing me. Ithought you couldna do without me. "

"We couldna, Janet. "

"And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father and yourfather's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strangeland, that would be enough for me. And I hae gotten my wish. You're a'weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy aslead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. God help me. "

"God will help you, " said Graeme, softly. "It is the sorehome-sickness, like the captives by Babel stream. But the Lord neverbrought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will pass away. "

"Weel, it may be. That's what my mother said, or something like it. Hemeans to let me see that you can do without me. But I'll bide stillawhile, anyway. "

Graeme's face was fall of dismay. 

"Janet! what could we ever do without you?"

"Oh, you could learn. But I'm not going to leave you yet. The giantshallna master me with my will. But, oh! lassie, whiles I think theLord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride. "

"But, Janet, " said Graeme, gravely, "the Lord never turns against hisown people. And if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it isyou. It is for us you are living, and not for yourself. "

Janet shook her head. 

"And, Janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. The weight will be lifted off, I'm sure it will. And, Janet, aboutSandy--. You may be sure o' him. If you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. But nowthe Lord will have him in His keeping, for, Janet, if ever a fatherlesschild was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and He willnever forsake him--never, _never_!"

Janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after thetempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens. 

"And, Janet, we all love you dearly. " Graeme had risen, and put herarms round her neck by this time. "Sometimes the boys are rough, anddon't seem to care, but they do care; and I'm thoughtless, too, andcareless, " she added, humbly, "but I was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken I loved her dearly. " And the cry of pain that came with thewords, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. Janet held herclose. 

"And, Janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. WhenI get a book, you ken I forget things, and you winna let me do wrong formy mother's sake. We have no mother, Janet, and what could we dowithout you? And all this pain will pass away, and you will growlight-hearted again. "

And so it was. The worst was over after that night. Much more was saidbefore they separated, and Graeme realised, for the first time, some ofthe discomforts of their present way of living, as far as Janet wasconcerned. Housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomedto, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce system was a greatembarrassment to her. This getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "acorn tawties" from another, she could not endure. It was "living fromhand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts nowand then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax, " as the least delicate amongthe people called it. 

"And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. For I hae mydoubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. Things mount up youken, and we maun try and guide things. "

Graeme looked grave. "I wonder what my father thinks, " said she. Janetshook her head. 

"We mauna trouble your father if we can help it. The last minister theyhad had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. I'm no'feared but we'll be provided for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you'llneed to begin and keep an account again. "

Janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and Graemepromised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mindeasy, and the household accounts straight. 

Weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, thegiant had let Janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. Theletter that Harry brought in with a shout before March was over, was avery different letter from the one that had caused Janet to shed suchtears of disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was thewriter still. The two only intelligible items of news which the lastone had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. Anew master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with allthe lads, and especially with Sandy, "as you will see by this letter, mother, " he wrote, "I hope it will be better worth reading than thelast. "

If Mrs Smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. Janet was nomore to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot inthe glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door ofSaughless. And Sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there wasno fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her heart at rest aboutthem. 

And her heart was set at rest; and Janet sang at her work again, andcheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant holdher in his grasp again. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

"Miss Graeme, " said Janet, softly opening the study-door, and lookingin. Graeme was at her side in a moment. 

"Never mind putting by your book, I only want to tell you, that I'mgoing up the brae to see Mrs Snow awhile. It's no' cold, and I'll takethe bairns with me. So just give a look at the fire now and then, andhave the kettle boiling gin tea time. I winna bide late. "

Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the littleones. 

"I wish I could up with you, Janet. How mild and bright it is to-day. "

"But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and theentertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long with your book, you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark. "

"Think long!" echoed Graeme. "Not if I'm left at peace with my book--Ionly hope no one will come. "

"My dear!" remonstrated Janet, "that's no' hospitable. I daresay ifanybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. You maun tryand make friends with folk, like Menie here. "

Graeme laughed. "It's easy for Menie, she's a child. But I have tobehave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. I would farrather have the afternoon to myself. "

She watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. Life was very pleasant toGraeme, these days. She did not manifest her light-heartedness byoutward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many careshad made her, since her mother's death. But it was a quiet alwayscheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with Janet, or merry playwith the little ones. Janet's returning cheerfulness banished the lastshade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searchinginto the future for a burden to bear. 

She was fast growing into companionship with her father. She knew thathe loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve hisconfidence. In all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, heconsulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as anelder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. In othermatters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, whilehe discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years. 

And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, bythe new friends they had found here. She was a little more than a childin years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was veryagreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Notthat she would have confessed this. Not that she was even conscious ofthe pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont to declare to Janet, inprivate, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would notspeak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom andexperience. But it was agreeable to her all the same. 

She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to disturb them, till thefailing light admonished her that it was time to think of Janet, and thetea-kettle. Then there came a knock at the door, and Graeme opened itto Mr Greenleaf. If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. He did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, ashe came in. 

What the charm was, that beguiled Mr Greenleaf into spending so manyhours in the minister's study, the good people of Merleville found itdifficult to say. The squire's ill-concealed indifference to theopinions of people generally, had told against him always. For once, Mrs Page had been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, atleast, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whetherfrequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage theyoung man to the attainment of Mrs Page's standard of excellence. Butto the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest. 

"If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so, " said he, as he shook handswith Mr Elliott, over a table covered with books and papers. 

"You can hardly do that, " said the minister, preparing to put the booksand papers away. "I am nearly done for the night. Excuse me, for aminute only. "

Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should bequite at liberty. 

"I have something for you, " said Mr Greenleaf, in a minute. Graemesmiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, ormagazine. It was a note this time. 

"From Celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little. 

Graeme did not aspire to the honour of Celestia's confidence in allthings, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairsbetween her friend and Mr Greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested inthem, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she tookthe note, from his hands. 

"Read it, " said he. 

Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note was very brief. Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. Mr Greenleaf would fetch her. 

"Celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up. 

"Yes, " said he, "have you not heard it?"

"I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would still stay inMerleville. "

"So did I, " said Mr Greenleaf, gravely. 

"When will they go?"

"Miss Jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at Rixford. Theyare going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go. "

"To her uncle?"

"No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. They willlive by themselves, with the children. "

"How sorry Celestia will be to go away, " said Graeme, sadly. 

"She will not be persuaded to stay, " said Mr Greenleaf. 

Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "Haveyou asked her?" He answered her in words. 

"Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay. "

There was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothingelse. There was none of the bitterness which, while it made Celestia'sheart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to dowhat she believed to be right. 

"Oh! it's not that, " said Graeme, earnestly, "I'm sure she cares. Imean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not becauseshe wishes it. "

"Is it right to make herself and me unhappy?"

"But her mother and the rest. They are in trouble; it would seem likeforsaking them. "

"It need not. They might stay with her. "

"I think, perhaps--I don't think--" Graeme hesitated, and then saidhurriedly, --

"Are you rich, Mr Greenleaf?" He laughed. 

"I believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the numberof dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I may safely answer, yes. I have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes. "

"Yes; but--I think, --oh, I can't say what I think; but I'm sure Celestiais right. I am quite sure of that. "

Mr Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Graeme feared he might, ather bold speech. 

"I don't believe I had better take you to see her to-morrow. You willencourage her to hold out against me. "

"Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, it would makeno difference. Celestia is wise and strong, and will do what shebelieves to be right. "

"Wise and strong, " repeated Mr Greenleaf, smiling, but his face grewgrave in a minute again. Mr Elliott made a movement to join them, andGraeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away. 

"Never mind, " she whispered, "it will all end well. Things always dowhen people do right. "

Mr Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comfortingdeclaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest andgood wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. Not thathe had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. He had morethan once that very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she didnot care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on thesubject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointmenthad worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the"strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to herfriend. So that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turnedto reply, when the minister addressed him. 

They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, whenthey were summoned to tea by Graeme, and before tea was over, Janet andthe bairns came home. The boys had found their way up the hill whenschool was over, and they all came home together in Mr Snow's sleigh. To escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, MrGreenleaf and the minister went into the study again. 

During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into MrGreenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. It was asource of wonder to him that a man of Mr Elliott's intellectual powerand culture should content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. MrElliott smiled. 

"I don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is anymore wonderful than that you should have done so. Indeed, I should say, far less wonderful. You are young and have the world before you. "

"But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a living, and Imean to get a good one too, and besides, " added he, laughing, "Merleville is as good a place as any other to go to Congress from;there is no American but may have that before him you know. "

"As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. For therest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. I amthankful for my field of labour. "

Mr Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "forwhat they were worth, " as a correct thing for a minister to say. Butthe quiet earnestness and simplicity of Mr Elliott's manner struck himas being not just a matter of course. 

"He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to proveit. There must be something in it. " He did not answer him, however. 

"There is one thing which is worth consideration, " continued MrElliott, "you may be disappointed, but I cannot be so, in the nature ofthings. "

"About getting a living?" said Mr Greenleaf, and a vague remembrance ofDeacons Fish and Slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair. 

"That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may be sure ofthat, too. `Your bread shall be given you, and your water sure. ' Andthere is no such thing as disappointment in that for which I really amlabouring, the glory of God, and the good of souls. "

"Well, " said Mr Greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it thatI don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. It is by nomeans impossible that I may have my wish, men of humbler powers thanmine--I may say it without vanity--have risen higher than to theCongress of our country. I don't look upon mine as by any means ahopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the crookednatures in Merleville made straight! Well, to say the least, I don'tsee how you can be very sanguine about it. "

"Well, I don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond thepower of Him whom I serve to accomplish. But though I may never seethis, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that I am tobe disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will besecured when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule inthe White House even, which is not beyond your ambition either, Isuppose. You know how a promise may be `kept to the ear and broken tothe heart, ' as somebody says. "

"I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn, in our schoolbooks, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature ofpolitical greatness. But even if the attainment must disappoint, thereis interest and excitement in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me tosay so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seemseven more certain. "

Mr Elliott smiled. 

"I suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. Thepromise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely tothe heart. I am not afraid. "

"And, certainly, " thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopefulenough. "

"And, " added Mr Elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that isto be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, I think minemay well bear comparison to yours. "

"Yes, in one sense, I suppose--though I don't understand it. I canimagine an interest most intense, an engagement--a happiness altogetherabsorbing in such a labour of love, but--I was not looking at the matterfrom your point of view. "

"But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen, " saidMr Elliott, quietly. 

"Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had theireyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. One oughtto be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, tobe able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and I fancythat can be said of few. "

"I don't understand you, " said Mr Elliott. "Do you mean that you doubtthe sincerity of those to whom you refer. "

"By no means. My thoughts were altogether in another direction. Infact, I was thinking of the great `bread and butter' struggle in whichninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and nonemore earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession. "

Mr Elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. MrGreenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on. 

"Constituted as we are, I don't see how a man can wholly devote himselfto a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with thethousand petty cares of life. The shifts and turnings to whichinsufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such anature, if it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to makemyself understood by you; let me try again. I don't know how it may bein your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observationhas extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. I don't mean that in many cases they and theirfamilies actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated asregards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration inall their arrangements. Comparing them with other professional men theymay be called poor. Such a thing as the gratification of taste is notto be thought of in their case. There is nothing left after the barenecessaries are secured. It is a struggle to bring up their children, astruggle to educate them, a struggle to live. And what is worse thanall, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a waywhich, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. No, really, I cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractiveone. "

"I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it, " said MrElliott. 

"I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but Icannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under myobservation are extreme ones. Why, there are college friends of minewho, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves--mighthave become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. Howthey are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. They willeither give up the profession or die, or degenerate into verycommonplace men before many years. "

"Unless they have some charm against it--which may very well be, " saidMr Elliott, quietly. 

"I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. He was a good man, all say who knew himwell, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. But if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries oflife, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regularpayment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them atlast. He has since gone West, I hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. The circumstances of his predecessor were no better. He died here, andhis wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate hischildren. She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside herhusband less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the mattersomewhere. "

There was a pause, and then Mr Greenleaf continued. 

"It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views ofyour future in Merleville. Still, it is better that you should be insome measure prepared, for what I fear awaits you. Otherwise, you mightbe disgusted with us all. "

"I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the darkside of the picture, " said Mr Elliott. 

"Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more than enough in myearnestness. I am sure when you really come to know our people, youwill like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise. "

"I like you already, " said Mr Elliott, smiling. "I assure you I had agreat respect for you as the children of the Puritans, before ever I sawyou. "

"Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. We are the children of the Puritans, but very little, I daresay, likethe grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, atfirst, generally disappointed in us as a people. Mind, I don't allowthat we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose usto be for our fathers' sakes. But we are different. It is not so muchthat we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a differentstandard of excellence--one that your education, habits, andprepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us. "

"Well, " said Mr Elliott, as his friend paused. 

"Oh! I have little more to say, except, that what is generally theexperience of your countrymen will probably be yours in Merleville. Youhave some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are anearnest man and a thinker. "

"I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of yourcountrymen, " said the minister. 

"Earnestness!" said Mr Greenleaf. "No, we are earnest enough here inMerleville. But the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my politicalaspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Notthat wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, ina certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, butmoney-making in its meanest form--the scraping together of copper coinsfor their own sakes. At least one might think so, for any good theyever seem to get of it. "

"You are severe, " said the minister, quietly. 

"Not too severe. This seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we arewilling to acknowledge it or not. And such a grovelling end willnaturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. Thereare not many men among us here--I don't know more than two or three--whowould not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, thatthey had not a perfect right to make the very most out of theirfriends--even by shaving closely in matters of business. "

"And yet you say their standard is a high one?"

"High or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt theirown Christianity on account of these things. And what is more, theydon't seem to lose faith in each other. But how it will all seem to youis another matter. "

"How does it seem to you?"

"Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, I am notsupposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; andso, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, I am disposed tothink little of the whole matter. With you it is different. "

"Yes, with me it is indeed different, " said the minister, gravely--sogravely, that Mr Greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject. 

"It must have required a great wrench to break away from your people andcountry and old associations, " said he, in a little. Mr Elliottstarted, --

"No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me more to stay andgrow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do tolive and die among strangers. "

Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr Greenleaf said nomore. In a little Mr Elliott went on, --

"It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children inthis grand new world. We had always looked forward to it sometime. Andwhen I was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and thelonging to get away--anywhere--brought me here. "

He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. 

"Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help for me there, ifmy faith had not failed. I thought it would be better for my childrenwhen I left them to leave them here. But God knows it was no desire toenrich myself that brought me to America. "

"We can live on little. I trust you will be mistaken in your fears. But if these troubles do come, we must try, with God's grace, and MrsNasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. We might not betterourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one. "

"The love and pursuit of the `almighty dollar, ' is most certainly anational characteristic. As to the bearing it may have in churchmatters in other places, of course I have not the means of judging. Here I know it has been bad enough in the past. "

"Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind and liberalhitherto, " said Mr Elliott. 

"Have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire;the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late comingunpleasantly to his mind. 

"No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, I suppose itwill come soon. Still I have no fears--I think I need have none. It isnot _theirs_ but _them_ I seek. "

"Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you? I saw you thereamong the rest. If my heart rose up in thankfulness to God that day, itwas with no thought of gold or gear. God is my witness that I saw notthese people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls--living souls to be encouraged--slumbering souls to be aroused--deadsouls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, spoken by me andblessed by Him. 

"No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this matter. Imay have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes toGod's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but God _willbless his Word_. And even if I do not live to see it, I can rest in theassurance that afterward, `both he that soweth and he that reapeth shallrejoice together. '"

He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and leftit peaceful. 

"The peace that passeth understanding, " thought the young man, with asigh. For he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that MrElliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. It came into his mindthat even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow moresatisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. So hecould not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The ministerlooked up and met his eye. 

"And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. You may bedisappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. But for me, all mustend well--let the end be what it may. "

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

The time of settlement came at last. The members of the church andcongregation were requested to bring to Deacon Sterne and his coadjutorsan account of money and produce already paid by each, and also astatement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister'ssupport during the ensuing half year. After a delay which, consideringall things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and thedifferent accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval. 

This was done by Deacons Fish and Slowcome alone. Deacon Sterne, as hisbrethren in office intimated to Mrs Nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. Deacon Fish"expected" that brother Sterne had got into trouble. It had been comingon for some time. His son, the only boy he had left, had been over toRixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactlyknow what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. Deacon Sternewas Janet's favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regretthat he should not be present on an occasion so important, she wasgreatly concerned for him on his own account. 

"Dear me!" said she, "I saw him at the kirk on the Sabbath-day, lookingjust as usual. "

"Well, yes, I expect so, " said Mr Fish. "Brother Sterne looks alwayspretty much so. He ain't apt to show his feelin's, if he's got any. He'll have something to suffer with his son William, I guess, whether heshows it or not. "

Janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the townthat there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. The minister awaited them, and business began. First was displayed the list of subscriptions forthe coming half-year. This was quite encouraging. Three hundred andfifty and odd dollars. This looked well. There had never been so muchsubscribed in Merleville before. The deacons were elated, and evidentlyexpected that the minister should be so, too. He would be well off now, said they. But the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year's settlement was turned to. 

There were several sheets of it. The minister in danger of gettingbewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. "Two hundred andseventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents. " He was a littlemystified still, and looked so. 

"If there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be putright, " said Deacon Slowcome. 

Deacon Fish presumed, "that when Mr Elliott should have compared itwith the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be allright. "

Mr Elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. Hesupposed it was all it should be. He really could say nothing withregard to it. He left the management of household affairs entirely tohis daughter and Mrs Nasmyth. It was suggested that Mrs Nasmythshould be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her. 

"If there's anything you don't seem to understand or remember, " prefacedthe accommodating Deacon Slowcome, "don't feel troubled about saying so. I expect we'll make things pretty straight after a while. "

Mrs Nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look ather, and the reading began. After the name of each person, came thedays' work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds ofbutter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she hadcontributed. Deacon Fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horseand his cow. The former had carried the minister on two or three of hismost distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milkdaily during a great part of the winter. It was overpaid indeed by justseventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclinedto make light of. 

"There ain't no matter about it. It can go right on to the next halfyear. It ain't no matter about it anyhow, " said he, in liberal mood. 

He had an attentive listener. Mrs Nasmyth listened with vain effortsnot to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the wholeproceeding, only assenting briefly when Mr Slowcome interrupted thereading, now and then, to say interrogatively, --

"You remember?"

It dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up thesubscription for the half year that was over; but except that her facechanged a little, she gave no sign. It is possible the deacon had hadsome slight misgiving as to how Mrs Nasmyth might receive thestatement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near theend, and at last read the sum total: "Two hundred and seventy-twodollars sixty-two and a-half cents. "

Again Janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he did not avoidher look. The rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. Intense amusement at Janet's changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for amoment, every other feeling. But that passed, and by the look thatfollowed Janet knew that she must keep back the words that were risingto her lips. It required an effort, however, and a rather awkwardsilence followed. Deacon Slowcome spoke first:

"Well, I suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. And I, forone, feel encouraged to expect great things. "

"I doubt, sirs, " said Janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, "thereare some things that haena been put down on yon paper. There was a cumapples, and a bit o' unco spare rib, and--"

"Well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in their accountsyet. That can be seen to another time. "

Janet paid no attention to the interruption. 

"There were some eggs from Mrs Sterne--a dozen and three, I think--anda goose at the New Year from somebody else; and your wife sent apumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that Judge Merlebrought over when first we came here--"

"Ah! the pie was a present from my wife, " said Deacon Fish, on whom MrsNasmyth's awful irony was quite lost. 

"And I presume Judge Merle didn't mean to charge for the porridge, orhominy, or whatever it was, " said Deacon Slowcome. 

"And what for no'?" demanded Janet, turning on him sharply. "I'm surewe got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o' yourbloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we weredone with it. Things should stand on your papers at their true value. "

Deacon Slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreakthan he had been when his "fore-quarter of bloody beef" had beenaccepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborateastonishment allowed Janet's remarks about a slight mistake she hadmade, and about the impropriety of "looking a gift horse in the mouth"to pass unanswered. 

"You were at liberty to return the beef if you didn't want it, " said he, with an injured air. 

"Weel, I'll mind that next time, " said she in a milder tone, by no meanssure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. Deacon Fishmade a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the newsubscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that "didn't lookwell. "

"Ay, on paper, " said Janet, dryly. "Figures are no' dollars. And ifyour folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae beenliving only on the bits o' things written down on your paper you aremistaken. The gude money that has helped it has been worth far morethan the like o' that, as I ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it;but I daresay you're no' needing me longer, sir, " she added, addressingthe minister, and she left the room. 

This matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did Janeta deal of good to think about it. She had no time to indulge inhomesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation asthe meanness of the deacons. She "was nettled at herself beyond allpatience" that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many ofthe things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good-will. 

"Two hundred and seventy dollars and more, " she repeated. "Things mountup, I ken weel; but I maun take another look at it. And I'll hae moresense anither time, I'm thinking. "

She did not speak to Graeme. There would be no use to vex her; but shewould fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner didnot encourage her to introduce the subject. A circumstance soonoccurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed. 

March was nearly over. The nights were cold still, but the sun waspowerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth wasabout to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of herchildren. "And time for her, " sighed Janet, taking a retrospective viewof all that had happened since she saw her face. 

The boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposalmade to them by their friend Mr Snow. He had offered to give themsixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articlesnecessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easyenough. They were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cuttheir own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves;and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see theground and make a beginning. Graeme and the other girls went with themas far as Mr Snow's house, and Janet was left alone. The minister wasin his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable withthe unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the doorand looked rather sadly down the street. She had not long to indulgeher feelings of loneliness, however. A sleigh came slowly grating alongthe half-bare street, and its occupant, Mr Silas Spears, not one of herfavourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in "hitching" hishorse to the post. Janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomedquestion whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him. 

"The body has some sense and discretion, " said Janet to herself, as heannounced instead that he "wa'ant a going to stay but a minute, and itwouldn't be worth while troubling the minister. " He did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general ina way which was tolerable to Janet in her solitude. He rose to go atlast. 

"I've got a bucket of sugar out here, " said he. "Our folks didn't seemto want it, and I thought I'd fetch it along down. I took it to Cook'sstore, but they didn't want it, and they didn't care enough about it atSheldon's to want to pay for it, so I thought I might as well turn it into pay my minister's tax. "

So in he came within a minute. 

"There's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. Sugar's beensellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and I guess I ought to havethat for it, then we'll be about even, according to my calculation. "

"Sugar!" ejaculated Janet, touching the solid black mass with herfinger. "Call you _that_ sugar?"

"Why, yes, I call it sugar. Not the best, maybe, but it's better thanit looks. It'll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, Iexpect. "

"And weigh considerable lighter, I expect, " said Mrs Nasmyth, unconsciously imitating Mr Spears' tone and manner in her rising wrath. "I'm very much obliged to you, but we're in no especial need o' sugarat this time, and we'll do without a while before we spend good silleron staff like that. "

"Well I'll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin' time is 'mosthere. It _ain't_ first-rate, " he added, candidly. "It mightn't just dofor tea, but it's as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes. "

"Many thanks to you. But we're no' given to the makin' o' pies andcakes in this house. Plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does forus, and it's mair than we're like to get, if things dinna mend with us. So you'll just take it with you again. "

"Well, " said Mr Spears, slightly at a loss, "I guess I'll leave it. Iain't particular about the price. Mr Elliott can allow me what hethinks it worth, come to use it. I'll leave it anyhow. "

"But you'll no' leave it with my consent. Deacon Slowcome said theminister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o'that we could make no use of. "

"The deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but I ratherguess he didn't mean you to take him up so. I've been calculating topay my minister's tax with that sugar, and I don't know as I've gotanything else handy. I'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keepit, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he'll give youthe money for it. I'll leave it anyhow. "

"But you'll no leave it here, " exclaimed Mrs Nasmyth, whose patiencewas not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, sherushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in againbefore the astonished Mr Spears quite realised her intention. 

"You'll no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as I hae donebefore, " exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. "If theminister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been usedwi', he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. So dinna bring hereagain what ither folk winna hae from you, for I'll hae none o' it. "

"I should like to see the minister a minute, " said Mr Spears, seatinghimself with dignity. "I don't consider that you are the one to settlethis business. "

"There's many a thing that you dinna consider that there's sense in, notwithstanding. It's just me that is to decide this business, and a'business where the minister's welfare, as regards meat and drink, isconcerned. So dinna fash yourself and me mair about it. "

"I'd like to see him, anyhow, " said he, taking a step towards thestudy-door. 

"But you'll no' see him about any such matter, " and Janet placed herselfbefore him. "I'm no' to hae the minister vexed with the like o' thatnonsense to-night, or any night. I wonder you dinna think shame, tohold up your face to me, forby the minister. What kens the ministerabout the like o' that? He has other things to think about. It's weelthat there's aye me to stand between him and the like o' your `glegs andcorbies'. "--And Janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated intoScotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation inastonishment, and listened in silence. Janet was successful. MrSpears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no meanssure that he hadn't been abused! "Considerable beat, anyhow. "

Scarcely had he taken his departure, when Mr Elliott made hisappearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been goingon. Though loth to do so, Janet thought best to give a faithful accountof what had taken place. He laughed heartily at her success and MrSpears' discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at hisease about the matter. 

"I am at a loss to know how all this will end, " he said, gravely, aftera minute. 

"Indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. It will end in a `toompantry' for us, and that before very long. "

This was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. Much earnest thought did theminister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on theevening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, whenmost of the members of the church were present, the result of hismeditations was given to the public. He did not use many words, butthey were to the point. 

He told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for thefuture. He told them that the value to his family of the articlesbrought in, was not equal to their value, as named in thesubscription-lists, their real value he supposed. They could not livein comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. He had aproposal to make to them. The deacon had estimated that an annualamount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. Let eachsubscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and letthe remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he mightreceive his salary in quarterly payments. This would be the means ofavoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only termson which he would think it wise to remain in Merleville. 

He alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his havingmoney invested in Scotland. In the hand of a friend he had depositedsufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his educationshould be completed. He had no more. The comfort of his family mustdepend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to bepaid, must be decided without loss of time. 

He said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the lovehe felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. He had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to liveand die among them. But no real union or confidence could be maintainedbetween them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment tobecome a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. Headded, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time thanto-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them. 

There was quite a gathering that night. Judge Merle was there, and thedeacons, and the Pages, and Mr Spears, and a great many besides. Behind the door, in a corner seat, sat Mr Snow, and near him, MrGreenleaf. He evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made amovement to go, but Sampson laid his hand on his arm. 

"Hold on, Squire, " he whispered; "as like as not they'd spare us, butI'm bound to see this through. "

There was a long pause. Then Deacon Fish got up and cleared his throat, and "felt as though he felt, " and went over much ground, withoutaccomplishing much. Deacon Slowcome did pretty much the same. JudgeMerle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was amovement behind the door, and Sampson Snow rose, and stepped out. Helaid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened hislips. 

"I expect you'll all think it ain't my place to speak in meetin', and Iain't goin' to say a great deal. It's no more than two hours or sosince I got home from Rixford, and Squire Stone, he told me that theirminister had given notice that he was goin' to quit. Goin' to Boston, Iguess. And the Squire, says he to me, `We've a notion of talking alittle to your Mr Elliott, ' and says he, `We wouldn't begrudge him athousand dollars cash down, and no mistake. ' So now don't worry anyabout the minister. _He's_ all right, and worth his pay any day. That's all I've got to say, " and Mr Snow opened the door and walkedout. 

Sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, andtold. That night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for thecarrying out of the plan suggested by Mr Elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. And the good people of Merleville did not regret their promptitude, whenthe very next week there came a deputation from Rixford, to ascertainwhether Mr Elliott was to remain in Merleville, and if not, whether hewould accept an invitation to settle in the larger town. 

Mr Elliott's answer was brief and decided. He had no wish to leaveMerleville while the people wished him to remain. He hoped never toleave them while he lived. And he never did. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

Spring came and went. The lads distinguished themselves both for thequantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the workbesides. The free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside ablazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightlycrowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. Mr Fosterand his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. In future theywere to devote themselves to agriculture. 

In vain Janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads, " andwarned them that they were deciding too soon. In vain Mr Snow saidthat it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summerand winter among the hills before they committed themselves to afarmer's life. Harry quoted Cincinnatus, and Norman proved to his ownsatisfaction, if not to Mr Snow's, that on scientific principles everyfarm in Merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and doublethe profits. Even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm;and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it wouldhave been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of Merleville. 

An opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came ina manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. Early in May a letter was received from Mr Ross, in which he offered totake the charge of Arthur's education on himself, and, as he was wellable to do so, Mr Elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. Themoney, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned tohis hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountainor valley. 

It came, about this time, to the worst, with Mrs Jones and her daughterCelestia. The mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interesthad fallen far behind, and Squire Skinflint had foreclosed. Nothingremained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of aproperty that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home forherself and her children. On the homestead she was about to leave, theheart and eyes of Mr Snow had long been fixed. As a relation of thewidow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, toavert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys werechildren, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involveherself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, Sampson wouldfain have it pass into his. But the only condition of sale was forready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. Meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and thetime was short; for there had been some failure in Squire Skinflint'sWestern land speculation, and money must be had. If the widow couldhave held it still, Mr Snow would never have desired to have the land;but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear ofgetting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it wasnot worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms putinto one. 

Just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking hisadvice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law'sgenerosity had placed at his disposal. A very few words settled thematter. The minister lent the money to Mr Snow, and for the annualinterest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and theten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. The arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, andbefore May was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left insilence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and thepleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled theminds of Janet and the bairns. 

And a very pleasant home it promised to be. Even in that beautiful landof mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelierspot. Sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north andeast, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of thefarms and forests around it. Close below, with only a short, steepbank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay Merle pond, the veryloveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among thesemountains. Over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood themeeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the whitehouses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples thatfringed the village street. Close by the farm-house, between it and thethick pine grove on the hill, ran Carson's brook, a stream which did notdisappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are aptto do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy ofthe name of river as the Merle itself. Before the house was a largegrassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along thefences and the path that led to the door. There were shade trees, too. Once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the largegarden. Some of these had been injured because of the insufficientfences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of thename of trees. There were elms whose branches nearly touched eachother, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grewas symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had beenclipped and cared for by experienced hands. There had been locustsonce, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few youngones springing up here and there, but they were trees before thechildren went away from the place which they were now beginning to lookupon as home. 

Formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the endof the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivationhad been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green onits squares and borders now. There were a few perennials easy tocultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. There was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in theirseason the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. But, though it looked like awilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, Janet's quick eyeforesaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for thebairns out of the garden, and, as usual, Janet saw clearly. 

There was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at thistime been inclined to find fault with anything. It was large andpleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. Much of it had been littleused of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. But allthis was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily init, without thinking about any defect it might have, and thesedisappeared in time. 

For, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their providentlandlord's own hands. He had no mind to pay out money for what he coulddo himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote tothe replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. A good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new homewere being told over by the children, the living so near to Mr Snow andlittle Emily was never left till the last. 

A very pleasant summer thus began to them all. It would be difficult tosay which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. But Janet'sprophecy came true. The _newness_ of farming proved to be its chiefcharm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant andsow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared therewould not have been much to show for the summer's work. But theirfather, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, hadthe success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with hisadvice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of Mr Snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously. 

Not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. There was not alazy bone in their bodies, Mr Snow declared, and no one had a betteropportunity of knowing than he. But their strength and energy were notexerted always in a direction that would _pay_, according to Mr Snow'sidea of remuneration. Much time and labour were expended on thebuilding of a bridge over Carson's brook, between the house and PineGrove Hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. EvenMr Snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they shouldtake so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carriedaway by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and usedhis crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. Whenthe bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made roundthe hill, to the pine grove at the top. Then, among the pines, therewas a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses andcreeping plants. The Grotto, the children called it, Mr Snow called itthe Cave. A wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. To besure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and thegrotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out oftheir labours. 

The lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. The girlshelped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands aswell. Even Graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so muchon bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even Graeme would not very soonhave come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again. 

As for Janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brownhouse behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up thebrae. With the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, cameback her energy and peace of mind. The first basket of eggs collectedby the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was ableto display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold ashelps to her returning cheerfulness. Not that she valued her dumbfriends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts theybrought to the household. She had a natural love for all dependentcreatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learnedto know and love her in return. All helpless creatures seemed to cometo her naturally. A dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, couldnever be induced to leave her guardianship again. The very bees, atswarming time, did not sting Janet, though they lighted in clouds on hersnowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to sharewith the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. And so, hensand chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from aregretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what wasstrange--"unco like" in her new home. 

Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. Not that she wouldacknowledge them at all equal to "Fleckie" or "Blackie, " now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. But"Brindle and Spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense anddiscretion than some folk that she could name, " and many a child inMerleville got less care than she bestowed on them. Morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in Merleville, at noontoo, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, andmade more and better butter from the two, than even old Mrs Snow, whoprided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three onher pasture. And when in the fall Mr Snow went to Boston with theproduce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of Janet'sbutter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth thedrinking, and at a reasonable price, " and other things besides, which atMerleville and at Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained. 

The Indian-summer had come again. Its mysterious haze and hush were onall things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. The minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, orby the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song orlaughter came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left forhours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was something in themild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of thetime a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on thatfirst Sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utterdespairing home-sickness. She could now, in her restored peace andfirmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, aslight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. Even now, she wasnot quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughtsof the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bringback the old gloom. So she was not sorry when the sound of footstepsbroke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, whenMr Snow appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invitation toenter, but seated himself on the doorstep. 

"Your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he. 

"The minister is in his study, and Miss Graeme and the bairns are outby, some way or other. Your Emily's with them. "

"Yes, I reckoned so. I've just got home from Rixford. It wouldn'tamount to much, all I could do to-night, so I thought I'd come along upa spell. "

Janet repeated her kindly welcome. 

"The minister's busy, I presume, " said he. 

"Yes, --as it's Saturday, --but he winna be busy very long now. If you'llbide a moment, he'll be out, I daresay. "

"There's no hurry. It's nothing particular. "

But Mr Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching himstealthily, Janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on hisusually, cheerful face. 

"Are you no' weel the night?" she asked. 

"Sartain. I never was sick in my life. "

"And how are they all down-by?" meaning at Mr Snow's house, by"down-by. "

"Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing to brag of, in theway of smartness. "

There was a long silence after that. Mr Snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them. 

"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last. 

"Ay, " said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. He satstill, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which hehad been threatening to disfigure Carson's brook, just at the pointwhere its waters fell into the pond. He was looking far-away to thedistant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding themountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hiddenmountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, Janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubtas to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long timesilent. At last, a thought struck her. 

"What for wasna you at the Lord's table, on the Sabbath-day?" asked she. 

Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh. 

"Well, I guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if I had undertookto go there. "

Janet looked at him in some surprise. 

"And what for no? I ken there are others of the folk, that let strifesand divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting downtogether. Though wherefore the like of these things should hinder themfrom remembering their Lord, is more than I can understand. What haeyou been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?"

There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and said, gravely. 

"Mis' Nasmyth, I ain't a professor. I'm one of the world's peopleDeacon Fish tells about. "

Janet looked grave. 

"Come now, Mis' Nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought I was one ofthe good ones?"

"You ought to be, " said she, gravely. 

"Well, --yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain't agreat sight of difference between folks, --leastways, between Merlevillefolks. I know all about _them_. I was the first white child born inthe town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I'm related tomost folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by thistime. Except on Sundays, I expect they're all pretty much so. Itwouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people, that I'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. Now that's a fact. "

"You're no' far wrong _there_, I daresay, " said Janet, with emphasis. "But that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, asyou weel ken. "

"No, --I don't know as it is. But it kind o' makes me feel as thoughthere wasn't much in religion, anyway. "

Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued. 

"Well now, see here, I'll tell you just how it is. There ain't one ofthem that don't think I'm a sinner of the worst kind--gospel hardened. They've about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone thetalk, I don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and themost of them, and the Lord knows I'm bad enough. And so you see, I'veabout come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, I haven't never come across the real article. "

"That's like enough, " said Janet, with a groan. "I canna say that Ihave seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. But Icanna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word. "

"Well, yes. I've always had the Bible, and I've read it considerable, but I never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. And it ain't because Iain't tried, either. There was one spell that I was dreadful down, andsays I to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, I'mbound to have it. So I began at the beginning about the creation, andAdam and Eve, but I didn't seem to get much comfort there. There wassome good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that I couldsee nothing to. Some of the Psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the Proverbs _are_ first-rate. I tell _you_ he knew something ofhuman nature, that wrote _them_. "

"There's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over inGenesis, " said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner. You should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began tolook for comfort. "

"Yes. I knew that before, but I couldn't seem to make it go. Then Ithought, maybe I didn't understand it right, so I talked with folks andwent to meeting, and did the best I could, thinking surely what otherfolks had got, and I hadn't, would come sometime. But it didn't. Thetalking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me. 

"Now there's Deacon Sterne; he'd put it right to me. He'd say, says he, `Sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. You've got to give up, andbow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke. ' Well, `I'd say, I'd be gladto, if I only knew how to. ' Then he'd say, `But you can't do ityourself, no how. You're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'llhave to perish, if the Lord don't take right hold to save you. ' Thensays I, `I wish to mercy He would. ' Then he'd talk and talk, but it allcame to about that, `I must, and I couldn't, ' and it didn't help me amite. 

"That was a spell ago, after Captain Jennings' folks went West. Iwanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother shewouldn't hear a word of it. I was awful discontented, and then, after aspell, worse came, and I tell _you_, I'd ha' given most anything, tohave got religion, just to have had something to hold on to. "

Mr Snow paused. There was no doubting his earnestness now. Janet didnot speak, and in a little while he went on again. 

"I'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in gettingreligion. Sometimes I seem to see that there is, and then again Ithink, why don't it help folks more. Now, there's Deacon Sterne, he'sone of the best of them. He wouldn't swerve a hair, from what hebelieved to be right, not to save a limb. He is one of the real oldPuritan sort, not a mite like Fish and Slowcome. But he ain't one ofthe meek and lowly, I can tell you. And he's made some awful mistakesin his lifetime. He's been awful hard and strict in his family. Hisfirst children got along pretty well. Most of them were girls, andtheir mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and theirfather's hardness. And besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towardskeeping things straight. But his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. They both went, as soon as ever they were of age. Silas came home afterwards, and died. Joshua went West, and I don'tbelieve his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. Thegirls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon marriedagain, Abby Sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never oughtto have married him. She was not made of tough enough stuff, to wearalong side of him. She has changed into a grave and silent woman, inhis house. Her children all died when they were babies, except William, the eldest, --wilful Will, they call him, and I don't know but he'd havebetter died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course withhim, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother'sheart to boot. Now, what I want to know is--if religion is the powerfulthing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from makingsuch mistakes in life?"

Janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and Sampson did notgive her time to consider. 

"Now there's Becky Pettimore, she's got religion. But it don't keep herfrom being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall--"

"Whist, man!" interrupted Janet. "It ill becomes the like o' you tospeak that way of a poor lone woman like yon--one who never knew what itwas to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and littlesympathy, and many another trial. She's a worthy woman, and her deedsprove it, for all her sourness. There's few women in the town that Irespect as I do her. "

"Well, that's so. I know it. I know she gets a dollar a week the yearround at Captain Liscome's, and earns it, too; and I know she gives halfof it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. Butit's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant. "

"One mustna judge another, " said Mrs Nasmyth, gently. 

"No, and I don't want to. Only I wish--but there's no good talking. Still I must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't takemore comfort out of it. Now there's mother; she's a pillar in thechurch, and a good woman, I believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. Now it seems to me, ifI had all they say a Christian has, and expects to have, I'd let therest go. They don't half of them live as if they took more comfort thanI do, and there are spells when I don't take much. "

Janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. There was some surprise in them, too. Mr Snow continued--

"Yes, I do get pretty sick of it all by spells. After father died--andother things--I got over caring about going out West, and I thought itas good to settle down on the old place as any where. So I fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, afirst-rate one, and made believe happy. And I don't know but I shouldhave stayed so, only I heard that Joe Arnold had died out West--he hadmarried Rachel Jennings, you know; so I got kind of unsettled again, andwent off at last. Rachel had changed considerable. She had seentrouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but I broughther right home--her and little Emily. Well--it didn't suit mother. Ihadn't said anything to her when I went off. I hadn't anything to say, not knowing how things might be with Rachel. Come to get home, thingsdidn't go smooth. Mother worried, and Rachel worried, and life wasn'twhat I expected it was going to be, and I worried for a spell. And Mis'Nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, I shouldhave got it then, for I tried hard, and I wanted something to help mebad enough. There didn't seem to be anything else worth caring aboutany way. 

"Well, that was a spell ago. Emily wasn't but three years old when Ibrought them home. We've lived along, taking some comfort, as much asfolks in general, I reckon. I had got kind of used to it, and had givenup expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a goodtime, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made meas discontented with myself and everything else as well. "

"You should thank the Lord for that, " interrupted Janet, devoutly. 

"Well, I don't know about that. Sometimes when he has been speaking, Iseem to see that there is something better than just to live along andmake property. But then again, I don't see but it's just what folks dowho have got religion. Most of the professors that I know--"

"Man!" exclaimed Janet, hotly, "I hae no patience with you and yourprofessors. What need you aye to cast them up? Canna you read yourBible? It's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from anyone that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to findabiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last. "

"Just so, Mis' Nasmyth, " said Mr Snow, deprecatingly, and there was alittle of the old twinkle in his eye. "But it does seem as though onemight naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as thelights of the world; now don't it?"

"There's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you neednasurely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your Fishes and yourSlowcomes. It's no breach o' charity to say that _they_ dinna adorn thedoctrine. But there are other folk that I could name, that are bothlight and salt on the earth. "

"Well, yes, " admitted Sampson; "since I've seen your folks, I've aboutgot cured of one thing. I see now there is something in religion withsome folks. Your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. He's a good man. "

"You may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you hadseen him as I have seen him for the last two twelve-months wadingthrough deep waters. "

"Yes, I expect he's just about what he ought to be. But then, ifreligion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten. "

"Man! it never fails!" exclaimed Janet, with kindling eye. "It neverfailed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. And lad! takeheed to yourself. That's Satan's net spread out to catch your unwarysoul. It may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you callthem, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's atime coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the Lord in `that day. ' You have a stumblingblock in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the Fishesand Slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me fortelling you. "

Sampson opened his eyes. 

"But you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. I ain'tjeering at professors or their misdeeds, I'm grieving for myself. Ifreligion ain't changed them, how can I expect that it will change me;and I need changing bad enough, as you say. "

"If it hasna changed them, they have none of it, " said Mrs Nasmyth, earnestly. "A Christian, and no' a changed man! Is he no' a sleepingman awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? Has henot the Spirit of God abiding in him? And no' changed!--No' that I wishto judge any man, " added she, more gently. "We dinna ken other folk'stemptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. We have all reason to be thankful that it's the Lord and no' man thatis to be our judge. Maybe I have been over hard on those men. "

Here was a wonder! Mrs Nasmyth confessing herself to have been hardupon the deacons. Sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. He wasmore moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show. 

"Well, I expect there's something in it, whether I ever see it with myown eyes or not, " said he, as he rose to go. 

"Ay, is there, " said Mrs Nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear butyou'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may beopened. "

"Mis' Nasmyth, " said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, "I may be deceivingmyself in this matter. I seem to get kind o' bewildered at times overthese things. But I do think I am in earnest. Surely I'll get helpsome time?"

"Ay--that you will, as God is true. But oh man! go straight to _Him_. It's between you and Him, this matter. But winna you bide still? Idaresay the minister will soon be at leisure now. "

"I guess not. I hadn't much particular to say to him. I can just aswell come again. " And without turning his face toward her, he wentaway. 

Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying toherself, --

"If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show what He could makeof him. Something to His praise, I hae no doubt--Yankee though he be. God forgive me for saying it. I daresay I hae nae all the charity Imight hae for them, the upsettin' bodies. "

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

Even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wroughtby the coming and going of seven years, and Merleville has had its shareof these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasantplace with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on thechurch-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the samehills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. But the woods have recededin some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashingmachinery, telling that the Merle river is performing its mission atlast, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in sounpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banksas yet; and long may that day be distant. 

The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the whitegrave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. The tall, rankgrass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of thefuneral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at restforever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silentduring these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; somehave left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have nopower to fill. 

The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for theworse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter thanit was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staffas he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindlyface rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used tobe. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, growsold, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringingher nearer to her hope's fulfilment. 

Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville canremember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times sevenyears could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to softenthe lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say hisface is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbathafternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fellon it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilfulWilliam's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming ofthe tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since therow of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By thedeacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will's bride that was, Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there washope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for thedeacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet. 

Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, "yearning for the privileges he leftbehind, "--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart toput the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yetdeplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, andnever ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest adjurationto "come over and help us. " But on the whole, it is believed that, inhis heart, Deacon Fish will not repine while the grain grows and themarkets prosper. 

Mr Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. Hisnephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, Mr Page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. MrsPage enjoys it well, and goes often to Rixford, where she has her gownsand bonnets made now; and patronises young Mrs Merle, and young MrsGreenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her ownsatisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends--which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she oughtto be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting hergrowth in grace. 

Becky Pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows howto enjoy it. And so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her owngeese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against theadmission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. But it iswhispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there issomething going to happen in Becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring Becky's enjoyment ofit. It may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her manypresses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has everrested, and which no eyes but Becky's own have ever seen; and they fillwith wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is achance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese orwool or dustless rooms can give. 

Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now asnow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. It is neatwithout and neat within, though often there are children's toys andlittle shoes upon the floor. At this moment there is on the floor a rowof chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used todo in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits ArthurElliott Greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor andfreight. And no bad representative either, as far as noise isconcerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradlethrough it all. Beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sitsCelestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinnerthan she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is"ambitious, " in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merlevilleand beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home. 

The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used todo in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his facesuggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles onhis brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is lookingout for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. "He isgrowing old while he is young, " as Mrs Nasmyth says, "Yankees have aknack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more. "But despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choicebits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in lawor politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, themore that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him. 

As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleafis not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinionhas survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire ina giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which thesquire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. Atthis very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as hedraws his chair a little nearer and says:

"See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says, " and thengoes on to read. 

"Now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hersare sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what hasbeen read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have gotto Boston. "

"See here, Elliott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently. 

"Ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "I wouldn't makequite so much noise, dear. "

"Why, mother, I'm the cars, " says Elliott. 

"But hadn't you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where's Carlo? Ihaven't seen Carlo for a long time. Where's Carlo?"

It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely toeach other, about the training of their children, and gravely discussthe prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which comeinto the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves thatthere is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. Theydo not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the trainingprocess soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looksinto the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from thethought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out rightwith him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love andunfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fearfor little Elliott. 

It is a happy home, the Greenleaf's. There are ease and comfort withoutluxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. Thereare many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything withinand without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow's declaration, that "theGreenleafs take their comfort as they go along. "

But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the changethat has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwellingonce--twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one fromher weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampsonreturns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now. 

But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushingwater comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound ofit. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust anddimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found himweary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross ofearth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, thepearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gavehim a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continuallyresort, " a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness passedaway, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind theclosed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him. 

"He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come andmake our abode with him. "

That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny--the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so fewmanifest in their lives. He has learned of the "meek and lowly. " He isa Christian at last. He has "experienced religion, " the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be. 

Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He"stood it" through "a season of interest, " when Deacons Fish andSlowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouringministers, to hold "a series of meetings. " Good, prudent men theseministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some weregathered into the Church from the world; some falling back wererestored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing onescomforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow neverflagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to thewarnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. Heheard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, "withina few rods of the line of demarcation. " He was formally given up as ahopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted oldladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through itall. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister becamemore frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snowdesired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville. 

After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Differentfrom other folks before, he was different from them still. He did notseem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice tomeeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sundayevening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss withregard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speechon those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising orwarning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helpingthem. 

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, yehave done it unto Me, " were words that Sampson seemed to believe. 

"He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do itthan not, " said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right toknow. 

As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love forher husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real andimaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than shehad always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, andsoon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, andas the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens Godhad laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, Godtook her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burdenpresses more. 

If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son'shappiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must haveacknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. Shemust have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by thelingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished onevery trifle she had ever cared for. 

"Sampson seemed kind o' lost, " she said; and her motherly heart, withall its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in hisdesolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with atender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl hadpower to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing everyday more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson'syouthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him. 

But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for Emily. Itcost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he diddecide to do so. For he could not but see that Emily's happiness waslittle cared for by his mother, even yet. She could not now, as in theold time, take refuge in her mother's room. She was helpful about thehouse too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, orin the village; for old Mrs Snow, much as she hated to own it, could nolonger do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. To be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it wasone of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks aroundher. " And, besides, "what was the use of Emily Arnold?" And so, whatwith one thing and another, little Emily's cheek began to grow pale; andthe wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming, came back to her eyes again. 

"There is no kind o' use for Emily's being kept at work, " said herfather. "She ain't strong; and there's Hannah Lovejoy would be glad tocome and help, and I'd be glad to pay her for it. Emily may have a goodtime as well as not. "

But his mother was not to be moved. 

"Girls used to have a good time and work too, when I was young. EmilyArnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not putnotions in her head. And as for Hannah, I'll have none of her. "

So Mr Snow saw that if Emily was to have a good time it must beelsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could havedone for her. He fitted her out, and sent her to Mount Holyokeseminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions New Englandgirls. And a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. There were the first inevitable pangs ofhome-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for hisdarling after all. But, in a little, her letters were merry andhealthful enough. One would never have found out from them anything ofthe hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work onrecreation day. Pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and beforeshe returned home at the close of the year, Mrs Snow had gone, wherethe household work is done without weariness. Her father would fainhave kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return toschool as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations ofHannah Lovejoy in the deserted home again. 

By the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on thedeparture of Deacons Fish and Slowcome, elected to fill the place of oneof them, and in his own way he magnified the office. He was "lonesome, awful lonesome, " at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, andthere is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and atmany another house, than he. 

There have been changes in the minister's household, too. When hiscourse in college was over, Arthur came out to the rest. He lingeredone delightful summer in Merleville, and then betook himself to Canada, to study his profession of the law. For Arthur, wise as the Merlevillepeople came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. He could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become aYankee; so, for the sake of living in the Queen's dominions, he went toCanada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable asa place of residence than Greenland or Kamtschatka. 

That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a struggle sincethen. By sometimes teaching dull boys Latin, sometimes acting assub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with greateconomy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt;and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. He hasvisited Merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is oneof the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy. 

Norman and Harry have both left home, too. Mr Snow did his best tomake a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. Tocollege they went in spite of poverty, and having passed throughhonourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. Norman writes hopefully from the far West. He is an engineer, and willbe a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believehim with a difference. 

"He will make money enough, " Janet says, "but as to his keeping it, that's another matter. "

Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Arthur's exampleand devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in themerchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawlsand gowns to Janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with theidea that he is very rich indeed. 

Those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones;knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, andcertain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whetherprosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first andfondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones athome. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumnwas gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There wasno "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. Thevery pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on thebeech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nutsfell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp andfrequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which GraemeElliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her. 

She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had becometo her. Seen through "the smoky light, " the purple hills beyond thewater seemed not so far-away as usual. The glistening spire of thechurch on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangelynear. It looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses werequite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which onecould never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping outeverywhere from between the hills. 

"There is no place like Merleville, " Graeme thinks in her heart. It ishome to them all now. There were few but pleasant associationsconnected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she wasgazing. It came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there lookingdown, how she had stood with the bairns that first Sabbath morning onthe steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feelingof shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how thefaces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, andsome of them very dear. Yes; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not thatshe had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But the thought of itcame with no painful longing. Even the memory of her mother brought nowregret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of thefirst days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years tothem all. 

And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, atroubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture ofimpatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among thewithered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. Somethingtroubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and thoughshe laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not apleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, itnever went away. 

"It is quite absurd, " she murmured, as she came within the gate, andthen turned and leaned over it. "I won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear!what shall we ever do if it happens?"

"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. Graemestarted more violently than there was any occasion for. It was only MrSnow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, andwho was now on his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stoodwatching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he wentslowly down the road. 

Mr Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. He had grown agreat deal greyer and graver, and Graeme thought, with a little pang ofremorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that shehad, by her coldness, made him all the graver. And yet she only halfregretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as shegathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward thehouse. 

There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchenbeyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:

"Mrs Nasmyth. "

For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by thebairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing isto be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn's own Janet still. Therewas no coaxing echo in Graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chasethe vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down thestairs. 

"Are you not going to sit down?" asked Graeme, as she seated herself ona low stool by the window. "I wonder where the bairns are?"

"The bairns are gone down the brae, " said Mrs Nasmyth; "and I'm justgoing to sit down to my seam a wee while. "

But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for alittle, as she moved quietly about the room. 

"Janet, " said she, at last, "what brings Deacon Snow so often up here oflate?"

Janet's back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, sheanswered:

"I dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. He never stayedlong away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him. "There was another pause. 

"Janet, " said Graeme again, "what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told meall Merleville is saying?"

Janet expressed no curiosity. 

"They say Deacon Snow wants to take you down the brae. "

Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer. 

"He hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed Graemeinterrogatively. 

"No' to me, " said Janet, quietly, "but the minister. "

"The minister! He's no' blate! To think of him holding up his face tomy father and proposing the like of that! And what did my father say?"

"I dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleasedthat it should be so, and--"

"Janet!" Graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, Mrs Nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning. 

"Janet! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I declare I'll takesecond thoughts and go away myself. "

"Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee aforeyou gave Mr Foster his answer, " said Janet, not heeding Graeme'simpatient answer. 

"Janet! A sticket minister!"

"My dear, he's no' a sticket minister. He passed his examinations withgreat credit to himself. You hae your father's word for that, who wasthere to hear him. And he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; andthough he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do agreat deal of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he hasgotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. I aye thoughtyou might do worse than go with him. He's a good lad, and you wouldhave had a comfortable home with him. "

"Thank you. But when I marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. I'm content with the home I have. "

"Ay, if you could be sure of keeping it, " said Janet, with a sigh; "buta good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day. "

"The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems, "said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. 

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "there's many athing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a differentspirit from what you are manifesting just now. If I'm worth the keepinghere, I'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good aright as another. "

"Right, indeed! Nobody has any right to you but ourselves. You areours, and we'll never, never let you go. "

"It's no' far down the brae, " said Janet, gently. 

"Janet! You'll never think of going! Surely, surely, you'll neverleave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your ownmother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here withus--!" Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be keptback. 

"Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, haepatience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way. I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here. "

Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words. 

"It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the headof your father's house, while I manage all things, as I do. "

But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise. 

"You can manage far best, " said she. 

"That's no to be denied, " said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought notto be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to think that I am taking uponmyself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is thebest to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner orlater, come to the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, Iken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and theteaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it makingyou ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I wereaway, but it might be far better for you in the end!"

There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her headupon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath theelms. 

"And if I should go, " continued Janet, "and there's many an if betweenme and going--but if I should go, I'll be near at hand in time ofneed--"

"I know I am very useless, " broke in Graeme. "I don't care for thesethings as I ought--I have left you with too many cares, and I don'twonder that you want to go away. "

"Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother'sbairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. Andif I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you neednafear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a livingchild in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and yourbrother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she metthem. "

Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession ofuselessness, and for a time there was silence. 

"And, dear, " said Janet, in a little, "your father tells me that MrSnow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, myheart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again. "She had no power to add more. 

"But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea whenwe came, and that is seven years ago. "

"My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put thatface on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to giveher. "

There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said, --

"It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happylately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming. "

Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came inat the open door, and in a minute Marian entered. 

"Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself, " saidJanet, tenderly. 

"We have only been down at Mr Snow's barn watching the threshing. But, indeed, I have wearied myself. " And sitting down on the floor atJanet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand waslaid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns. 

"You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and restyourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?"

Marian made her face the very picture of disgust. 

"Oh! Janet, I'm better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. Shelooks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you, Graeme?"

"My dear, " remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you; and go to thesofa, and I'll go up the stair for the bottle. "

Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappearedwith a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and whenthe bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down andcovered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange;for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit ofshowing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janetdid not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes asfull of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. Atlength, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again. 

"Miss Graeme, " said she, in a little, "I dinna like to hear you speakthat way about changes, as though they did not come from God, and asthough He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases. "

"I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for thebetter. "

"That's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse;for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes willcome. You mind what the Word says, `As an eagle stirreth up her nest. 'And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord's children, He'll no leaveus to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He iskinder to us than we would be to ourselves. "

A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as sheturned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly. 

"How lovely she is!" whispered she. 

A crimson flush was rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept. 

"Ay, she was aye bonny, " said Janet, in the same low voice, "and shelooks like an angel now. "

Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again. 

"Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?"

No, Graeme could not. 

"Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than yourmother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken thefamily werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sistersdidna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have hadher away to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content herbut just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kindshe was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was. 

"For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she wasgoing to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonnymoss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to yourmother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when yourmother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she wasgoing, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spokeagain. "

Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face. 

"She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has beengrowing very like her this while. She 'minds me on her now, with thelong lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddenedthat way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but itcurled of itself, like hers. "

Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceasedspeaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went verypale. 

"Janet, " said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter withmy sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie'snot going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!" Her tones grew shrill andincredulous as she went on. 

"I cannot tell. I dinna ken--sometimes I'm feared to think how it mayend. But oh! Miss Graeme--my darling--"

"But it is quite impossible--it can't be, Janet, " broke in Graeme. 

"God knows, dear. " Janet said no more. The look on Graeme's faceshowed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble thatseemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, andJanet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over thebridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain wouldhave borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her--shecould not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whateverthe end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might bemade the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day. 

There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise oracknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible dangeror death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadowof the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet's words hadstirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--itcould never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. Shetried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried topray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might allbe taught to be submissive in God's hands, whatever His will might be, the words would not come to her. It was, "No, no! no, no! it cannotbe, " that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heartnot so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain soterrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and whenshe came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie's themost mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, shefelt like one waking from a painful dream. 

"What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, asshe spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching hersister's bright face. 

"Graeme, tea's over. Where have you been all this time?" asked Rose. 

"My father was asking where you were. He wants to see you, " said Will. 

"I'll go ben now, " said Graeme, rising. 

The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister was sitting inthe firelight alone. He did not move when the door opened, until Graemespoke. 

"I'm here, papa. Did you want me?"

"Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to say to you. "

She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. He waslooking troubled and anxious, Graeme thought; and it suddenly came intoher mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an oldman. Indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him asover the others. The hair which had been grey on his temples before hereached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and wearyas he sat there gazing into the fire. It came into Graeme's mind as shesat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadderchanges before them, than even the change that Janet's words hadimplied. 

"My dear, " said the minister, at last, "has Mrs Nasmyth been speakingto you?"

"About--" Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utterthe word. 

"About Mr Snow, " said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. Graeme started. She had quite forgotten. 

"Mrs Greenleaf told me something--and--"

"I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can cometo a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said theminister. "He seems bent on taking Janet from us, Graeme. "

"Papa! it is too absurd, " said Graeme, all her old vexation coming back. Mr Elliott smiled. 

"I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, and I had well nighbeen so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. But we musttake care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may befor Mrs Nasmyth's advantage. "

"But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. Why shouldthere be a change now?"

"If the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. But, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, I fearit will be a difficult matter. "

"But, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her ownjudgment. "

"My dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, butagainst her affection for us. She only fears that we will miss hersadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us. "

"But she has been quite happy with us. "

"Yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy asshe could be so far separated from those whom she must love better thanshe loves us even. I have been thinking of her to-night, Graeme. Whata self-denying life Janet's has been! She must be considered first inthis matter. "

"Yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--"

"Graeme, Mr Snow is to send for her mother and her son. I could seehow her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having themwith her again. It will be a great happiness for her to provide a homefor her mother in her old age. And she ought to have that happinessafter such a life as hers. "

Graeme sighed, and was silent. 

"If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coinsonly, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will bea matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home ofher own for the rest of her life. "

"But, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one. "

"I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell me that; butGraeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. Notthat I fear for you. You are all young and strong, and the God whom Ihave sought to serve, will never leave my children. But Janet isgrowing old, Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentiallyopened to her. "

"If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" Graeme hesitatedand coloured. Her father smiled. 

"Mrs Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will see thingsdifferently. And besides, she always liked and respected Mr Snow. Ihave no doubt she will be very happy with him. "

"We all liked him, " said Graeme, sighing. "But oh! I dread changes. Ican't bear to break up our old ways. "

"Graeme, " said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changescan be for the better, as far as we are concerned. We have been veryhappy of late--so happy that I fear we were in danger of sitting downcontented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. We maythink ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us. "

The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, but she did notspeak. 

"I know, dear, " said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest uponyou. It will add greatly to your cares to have Mrs Nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and--"

"Oh, papa! it is not that--I mean it is not that altogether, but--"Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear togrieve her father. In a little, she asked. 

"When is it to be?"

"I don't know, indeed, but soon, I suppose; and my dear child, I trustto you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in thismatter to us all. The change you dread so much, will not be very great. Our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasantthings connected with the change. I have no doubt, it will be for thebest. "

"Shall I light your lamp, papa?" said Graeme, in a little while. 

"No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night. "

Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. When sheopened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, andshe shrunk from going out into the light. So she sat down in heraccustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too. 

"Only my frail life between my children and homelessness, " he had said. It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since themorning, everything in the world had changed. They had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settledown to the old quiet life again. 

"As an eagle stirreth up her nest, " she murmured to herself. "Well, Iought no' to fear the changes He brings--But, oh! I am afraid. "

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

The rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was goingto take place among them, in a very different way from Graeme. Theirastonishment at the idea of Janet's marriage was great, but it did notequal their delight. Graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had tokeep quiet. But then Janet was in the minority, too, and Mr Snow'ssuit was anything but prosperous for some time. Indeed, he scarcelyventured to show his face at the minister's house, Mrs Nasmyth was soevidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. Her unhappiness wasmanifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoringSampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, thatlay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuffwould have been; and while Mrs Nasmyth's silence grieved Mr Snow, theelaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that"she would get over it, " that "it would all come right in the end, " weremore than she could sometimes patiently endure. 

"He's like the lave o' them, " said she to Graeme one day, after havingclosed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at allnecessary. "Give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. Because I didnajust set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spokeabout it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but `when will it be?' and`when will it be?' till I have no peace of my life with him. "

Graeme could not help laughing at her excitement. 

"But, when will it be?" asked she. 

"My dear, I'm no sure that it will ever be. "

"Janet!" exclaimed Graeme. "What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened; but I'm no' sure but I ought to have put a stopto the matter at the very first. I dinna weel ken what to do. "

"Janet, " said Graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my fatherthinks it right, and it does not seem so--so strange as it did atfirst--and you should speak to Mr Snow about it, at any rate. "

"To put him out o' pain, " said Janet, smiling grimly. "There's no fearo' him. But I'll speak to him this very night. "

And so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. But Janet wouldnot suffer herself to be entreated. With tearful eyes, she told him ofher fears for Marian, and said, "It would seem like forsaking the bairnsin their trouble, to leave them now. " Mr Snow's kind heart was muchshocked at the thought of Marian's danger. She had been his favouriteamong the bairns, and Emily's chief friend from the very first, and hecould not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reasonfor her stay. 

"So you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. He winna ask any questions, I dare say. "

But in this Janet was mistaken. He did ask a great many questions, andfailing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his ownhands, and named an early day for the marriage. In vain Janet protestedand held back. He said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one tothink and decide for her. As to Marian's illness being an excuse, itwas quite the reverse. If she was afraid Marian would not be well caredfor at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared therewas some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when shewent away. And then he tried to thank her for her care of hismotherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent thanwords. 

"And, my dear friend, " said he, after a little, "I shall feel, when I amto be taken away, I shall not leave my children desolate, while theyhave you to care for them. "

So for Mrs Nasmyth there was no help. But on one thing she wasdetermined. The day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distantto permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. They mightcome or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. She wouldfain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than shegave the minister. To Mr Snow, who doubted whether "them boys" wouldcare to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face thanhe had ever seen her wear. 

"If they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earthagain; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a fewblithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-comingshould be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. They must beasked, any way. "

And so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, sayingthat both Harry and Arthur would be home for a week at the timeappointed. From Norman there came no letter, but one night, while theywere wondering why, Norman came himself. His first greeting to Janetwas in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsakingher "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her facebecame, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting itall along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to acrisis much sooner. He rejoiced Mr Snow's heart, first by his heartycongratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if Mrs Snowwas not henceforth the happiest woman in Merleville. 

Norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than eitherof his brothers, the sisters thought. Arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and Harry was a boywith a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. But, with Norman's brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance. 

But, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. Normanwas the same mirth-loving lad as ever. He was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and Graeme told herself many a time, withpride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for theworse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all. 

Norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, itwas he who had the most to tell. If his active and exposed life as anengineer at the West had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out ofsight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. His "onceupon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the littleones; and even the older ones listened with interest to Norman'srambling stories. Nor did their interest cease when the sparkle inNorman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and theadventures of an imaginary hero begun. 

There was one story which they were never tired of hearing. It needednone of Norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks ofhis sisters, when it was told. It was the story of the burningsteamboat, and how little Hilda Bremer had been saved from it; the onlyone out of a family of eight. Father, mother, brothers, all perishedtogether; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keephere from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tonguethat she could not understand. It would, perhaps, have been wiser inNorman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parentsin their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clungto him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he couldnot bear to send her away. 

"These people were poor, and had many children of their own, " saidNorman. "I would have thought it a hard lot for Menie or Rosie to gowith them; and when she begged to stay with me, I could not send herwith them. If it had not been so far, I would have sent her to you, Graeme. But as I could not do that, I kept her with me while I stayedin C, and there I sent her to school. They say she bids fair to be alearned lady some day. "

This was an item of news that Norman's letters had not conveyed. Theyonly knew that he had saved Hilda from the burning boat, and that he hadbeen kind to her afterwards. 

"But Norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent Mrs Nasmyth, "youhavena surely run yourself in debt?" Norman laughed. 

"No; but it has been close shaving sometimes. However, it would havebeen that anyway. I am afraid I have not the faculty for keeping money, and I might have spent it to worse purpose. "

"And is the little thing grateful?" asked Graeme. 

"Oh! yes; I suppose so. She is a good little thing, and is always gladto see me in her quiet way. "

"It's a pity she's no' bonny, " said Marian. 

"Oh! she is bonny in German fashion; fair and fat. "

"How old is she?" asked Mrs Nasmyth. 

Norman considered. 

"Well, I really can't say. Judging by her inches, I should say aboutRosie's age. But she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to beRosie's grandmother. She's a queer little thing. "

"Tell us more, " said Rose; "do you go to see her often?"

"As often as I can. She is very quiet; she was the only girl among theeight, and a womanly little thing even then. You should hear her talkabout her little business matters. My dear Mrs Nasmyth, you need notbe afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman tocall me to account. 

"I have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, Graeme. Itseems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other homebut a school. She seems happy enough, however. "

"And would she like to come?"

"She says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she wereonce here. I must see about it in the spring. "

The wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it wasrather a sad day to them all. It found Janet still "in a swither. " Shecould not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "thebairns. "

"And, Oh! Miss Graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeingmy mother and Sandy, my heart would fail me quite. And are you quitesure that you are pleased now, dear?"

"Janet, it was because I was selfish that I wasna pleased from the veryfirst; and you are not really going away from us, only just down thebrae. "

Graeme did not look very glad, however. But if the wedding-day wasrather sad, Thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. Itwas spent at the Deacon's. Miss Lovejoy distinguished herself foreverby her chicken-pies and fixings. Mr and Mrs Snow surpassed themselvesas host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. Emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been ata loss how to take the change, Menie's delight decided her, and she wasdelighted, too. 

They grew quiet in the evening but not sad. Seated around the fire inthe parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming toMerleville. And then, they went further back, and spoke about their oldhome, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "Steadfast. "

"I wonder what has become of Allan Ruthven, " said Marian. "It's strangethat you have never seen him, Arthur. "

"I may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. You mind, I wasnot on the `Steadfast' with you. "

"But Harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much butthat he would know him now if he saw him. "

"And do you know no one of the name?" asked Graeme. 

"I have heard of several Ruthvens in Canada West. And the house ofElphinstone and Gilchrist have a Western agent of that name. Do youknow anything about him, Harry? Who knows but he may be Allan Ruthvenof the `Steadfast. '"

"No, I thought he might be, and made inquiries, " said Harry. "But thatRuthven seems quite an old fogey. He has been in the employment of thatfirm ever since the flood, --at least, a long time. Do you mind AllanRuthven, Menie?"

"Mind him!" That she did. Menie was very quiet to-night, sayinglittle, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head onGraeme's knee. 

"Allan was the first one I heard say our Menie was a beauty, " saidNorman. "Menie, do you mind?"

Menie laughed. "Yes, I mind. "

"But I think Rosie was his pet. Graeme, don't you mind how he used towalk up and down the deck, with Rosie in his arms?"

"But that was to rest Graeme, " said Harry. "Miss Rosie was a smalltyrant in those days. "

Rosie shook her head at him. 

"Eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said Norman, taking Rosie's fair facebetween his hands. "Graeme had enough ado with you, I can tell you. "

"And with you, too. Never heed him, Rosie, " said Graeme, smiling at herdarling. 

"I used to admire Graeme's patience on the `Steadfast', " said Harry. 

"I did that before the days of the `Steadfast, '" said Arthur. 

Rosie pouted her pretty lips. 

"I must have been an awful creature. "

"Oh! awful, " said Norman. 

"A spoilt bairn, if ever there was one, " said Harry. "I think I see youhiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us. "

"I never thought Graeme could make anything of you, " said Norman. 

"Graeme has though, " said the elder sister, laughing. "I wouldna givemy bonny Scottish Rose, for all your western lilies, Norman. "

And so they went on, jestingly. 

"Menie, " said Arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in the fire?"

Menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. Shestarted when her brother spoke. 

"I see--Oh! many things. I see our old garden at home, --in Clayton, Imean--and--"

"It must be an imaginary garden, then. I am sure you canna mind that. "

"Mind it! indeed I do. I see it as plainly as possible, just as it usedto be. Only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be inbloom together. I see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall whiterose-bushes blossoming to the very top. "

"And the broad green walk, " said Harry. 

"And the summer-house. "

"And the hawthorn hedge. "

"And the fir trees, dark and high. "

"And the two apple trees. "

"Yes, --the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, I used to think them, " said Norman. 

"And I, too, " said Menie. "Whenever I think of the garden of Eden, Ifancy it like our garden at home. "

"Your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get beyond _that_for Paradise, " said Arthur, laughing. 

"Well, maybe not, but I always do think of it so. Oh! it was a bonnyplace. I wish I could see it again. "

"Well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two, " saidNorman. "You needna laugh, Graeme, I am going home as soon as I getrich. "

"In a year or two! you're nae blate!"

"Oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. We'll comeback again. It will be time enough to make our fortune then. So beready, Menie, when I come for you. "

"Many a thing may happen, before a year or two, " said Marian, gravely. 

"Many a thing, indeed, " said Graeme and Norman, in a breath. But whileGraeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister's flushed face, Normanadded, laughingly. 

"I shouldn't wonder but you would prefer another escort, before thattime comes. I say, Menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you aregrowing?"

Menie laughed, softly. 

"Oh! yes. Emily told me when she came home; and so did Harry. And youhave told me so yourself to-day, already. "

"You vain fairy! and do you really think you're bonny?"

"Janet says, I'm like Aunt Marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma. "

"Like Aunt Marian!" Graeme remembered Janet's words with a pang. Butshe strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright facesround her, it was not difficult to do to-night. Surely if Marian wereill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. And even Janet's anxietyhad been at rest for a while. Menie was better now. How merry she hadbeen with her brothers for the last few days. And though she seemedvery weary to-night, no wonder. So were they all. Even Rosie, thetireless, was half asleep on Arthur's knee, and when all the pleasantbustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, hersister would be herself again. Nothing so terrible could be drawingnear, as the dread which Janet had startled herewith that day. 

"Emily, " said Harry, "why do you persist in going back to that horridschool? Why don't you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?"

"I'm not going to any horrid school, " said Emily. 

"You can't make me believe that you would rather be at school than athome, doing as you please, and having a good time with Rose and Meniehere. "

Emily laughed. "I would like that; but I like going back to schooltoo. "

"But you'll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking toyou, if you stay much longer. "

"In that case, it might do you good to listen, " said Emily, laughing. 

"But you are altogether too wise already, " Harry persisted. "I reallyam quite afraid to open my lips in your presence. "

"We have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it, "said Arthur. 

"But, indeed, I must have a word with the deacon about it, " said Harry. "I can't understand how he has allowed it so long already. I must bringmy influence to bear on him. "

"You needn't, " said Emily. "I have almost prevailed upon Graeme, to letMenie go back with me. There will be two learned ladies then. "

Graeme smiled, and shook her head. 

"Not till summer. We'll see what summer brings. Many things may happenbefore summer, " she added, gravely. 

They all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxiousthought of trouble drawing near. They grew quiet after that, and eachsat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyonethere fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of themorrow's parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meeton earth again. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

They all went away--the lads and Emily, and quietness fell on those thatremained. The reaction from the excitement in which they had beenliving for the last few weeks was very evident in all. Even Will andRosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and theenjoyment of their old pleasures; and so Graeme did not wonder thatMarian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. The weather hadchanged, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer tostay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. So Marianoccupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or withoutit, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to herwere, for a time, at rest. For she did not look ill; she was ascheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which Janet'sdeparture rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with Graeme thelight household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy withheavier matters. 

There was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyesof Mrs Snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of twohouseholds, and though no longer one of the family, she was still theruling spirit in their domestic affairs. With her usual care for thewelfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced Hannah Lovejoy upthe brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" Sephronia, Hannah's less helpful younger sister. There was a great differencebetween the service of love that had all their life long shielded themfrom trouble and annoyance, and Miss Lovejoy's abrupt and ratherfamiliar ministrations. But Hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "atreasure, " in these days of destitution in the way of help; and if herservice was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, whileher wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities werenot so disagreeable to Graeme as she had feared. Indeed, by the timethe first letter from Norman came, full of mock sympathy for her underher new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of therest. Her faith in Hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed someexpostulations from Mrs Snow to prevent her from letting the supremepower, as to household matters, pass into the hands of her energeticauxiliary. 

"My dear, " said she, "there's many a thing that Hannah could do wellenough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should dothem yourself, notwithstanding. It's better for her, and it's betterfor you, too. Every woman should take pleasure in these householdcares. If they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used tothem; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble andweariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. There is greatcomfort in it sometimes. "

Graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well tofall back upon in a time of trouble, but Mrs Snow was not to be moved. 

"My dear, that may be all true. I ken books are fine things to keepfolk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away thatway comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing theirduty that the Lord gives them abiding comfort. I ken by myself. Therehave been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or mybrain grown crazed, if I hadna needed to do this and to do that, to gohere and to go there. My dear, woman's work, that's never done, is agreat help to many a one, as well as me. And trouble or no trouble, itis what you ought to know and do in your father's house. "

So Graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously triedto become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beefand bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way thatexcited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of thecapable Hannah. 

So a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to growlong again, before the old dread was awakened in Graeme. For only inone way was Marian different from her old self. She did not come toexert herself. She was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she wasquite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and inthe affairs of the village. Almost every day, after the sleighingbecame good, she enjoyed a drive with Graeme or her father, or with MrSnow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys. " They paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at Judge Merle's or Mr Greenleaf's, or at someother friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grewgrave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long timecome into Graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that wasinvisible as yet to hers. So the time wore on, and not one in theminister's happy household knew that each day that passed so peacefullyover them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow. 

The first fear was awakened in Graeme by a very little thing. Afterseveral stormy Sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out. 

"I am very sorry not to go, Graeme, " said she; "but I was so weary lasttime. Let me stay at home to-day. "

So she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley thethought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. Nor was theshadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at thechurch door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but onlyhow she seemed to-day. It was well that the sunshine, coming in on thecorner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil overher face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. When the services wereover, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering moreinquiries about Marian, and hastened away, though she knew that MrsMerle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and thatMrs Greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy tillshe should speak a word with her. But she could not trust herself tomeet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. So she wenthome again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness stillround her, till Menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased bothpain and darkness away. 

But when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the Sabbathquiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a littleMarian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with hercheek laid on the Bible that she held in her hand. As Graeme listenedto her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, shefelt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. But she put thethought from her. It was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herselffor always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and toldherself that she must change in this respect. With all her might shestrove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying howutterly beyond belief it was that Menie could be going to die--Menie, who had always been so well and so merry. She was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to somequiet place by the sea-shore, and run about among the rocks, and overthe sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again. 

"If spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. But first there wereweeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before themild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and Graeme could notreason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and Menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chaseit away. 

After this, for a few days, Graeme grow impatient of her sister'squietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. Shewould have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her toride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. But thiswas not for long. Menie yielded always, and tried with all her might toseem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and Graemesaw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in alittle, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again. 

"I will speak to Doctor Chittenden, and know the worst, " said Graeme, toherself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst mightbe. 

By and by there came a mild bright day, more like April than January. Mr Elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, andhad taken Will and Rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone. Graeme would have gladly availed herself of Deacon Snow's offer to lendthem grey Major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. The day wasso fine, she said to Menie; but she was loth to go. It would be sopleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. Or, if Graeme liked, they might send down for Janet in the afternoon. Graeme sighed, andurged no more. 

"We can finish our book, you know, " went on Menie. "And there are thelast letters to read to Mrs Snow. I hope nobody will come in. Weshall have such a quiet day. "

But this was not to be. There was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath thewindow, and Graeme looked out. 

"It is Doctor Chittenden, " said she. 

Marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the Doctorcame, to look strong and well. She did not take his visits to herself. Doctor Chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and ifhis visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formalor professional than before. Graeme watched him as he fastened hishorse, and then went to the door to meet him. 

"My child, " said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to thelight, "are you quite well to-day?"

"Quite well, " said Graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold handtrembled in his. 

"You are quite well, I see, " said he, as Marian came forward to greethim. 

"I ought to be, " said Marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottleon the mantelpiece. 

"I see. We must have it replenished. "

"Don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said Marian, making a pitiful face. "Graeme don't think it does me much good. "

"Miss Graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of myprecious bitters. But, I'll see. I have some doubts about them myself. You ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and I'm afraid youare not, " said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he tookbetween his hands. He looked up, and met Graeme's look fixed anxiouslyupon him. He did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on suchoccasions. The gravity of his look deepened as he met hers. 

"Where has your father gone?" asked he. 

"To the Bell neighbourhood, for the day. The children have gone withhim, and Graeme and I are going to have a nice quiet day, " said Marian. 

"_You_ are going with me, " said the doctor. 

"With you!"

"Yes. Have you any objections?"

"No. Only I don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, withouthaving anywhere to go. "

"But, I am going to take you somewhere. I came for that purpose. MrsGreenleaf sent me. She wants you to-day. "

"But, I can go there any time. I was there, not long ago; I wouldrather stay at home to-day with Graeme, thank you. "

"And what am I to say to Mrs Greenleaf? No, I'm not going without you. So, get ready and come with me. "

Menie pouted. "And Graeme had just consented to my staying at homequietly for the day. "

"Which does not prove Miss Graeme's wisdom, " said the doctor. "Why, child, how many April days do you think we are going to have in January?Be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if I am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. Miss Graeme, getyour sister's things. It is health for her to be out in such a day. "

Graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said, --

"There is no haste. I am going farther, and will call as I come back. Lie down, dear child, and rest just now. "

Graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckonedhim into the study. 

"You don't mean to tell me that Menie is in danger?" said she, with agasp. 

"I am by no means sure what I shall say to you. It will depend on howyou are likely to listen, " said the doctor, gravely. 

Graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly. 

"Anything is better than suspense. " Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "She is not worse! Surely you would have told us!--"

"My dear young lady, calm yourself. She is not worse than she has been. The chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. The indicationsof disease are comparatively slight--that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. If the month of March were over, we would havelittle to fear with another summer before us. Your mother did not dieof consumption?"

"No, but--" The remembrance of what Janet had told her about their"bonny Aunt Marian" took away Graeme's power to speak. 

"Well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through thespring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful. "

"She is always cheerful. "

"Well--that's well. You must not let her do anything to weary herself. I don't like the stove-heat for her. You should let her sleep in theother room where the fireplace is. When the days are fine, she must bewell wrapped up and go out, and I will send her something. My dear, youhave no occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her favour. "

He went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up anddown the room for a little, he came close to Graeme. 

"And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If thepossibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, oughtit to be deplored?"

A strong shudder passed over Graeme. The doctor paused, not able towithstand the pain in her face. 

"Nay, my child--if you could keep her here and assure to her all thatthe world can give, what would that be in comparison with the `rest thatremaineth?' For her it would be far better to go, and for you--whenyour time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to knowthat she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments notunspotted, all the toilsome way alone?"

Graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. Her friend did not seek to check them. 

"I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the grave is a safeplace in which to keep our treasures. Mine are nearly all there. Iwould not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of achangeful world. You will be glad for yourself by and by. You shouldbe glad for your sister now. "

"If I were sure--if I were quite sure, " murmured Graeme through herweeping. 

"Sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisperthe words. "I think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such acase! It is a great mystery. Your father will know best. God is good. Pray for her. "

"My father! He does not even think of danger. " Graeme clasped herhands with a quick despairing motion. 

"Miss Graeme, " said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to yourfather yet. Marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father mustbe spared all anxiety at present. A sudden shock might--" He paused. 

"Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?" asked Graeme. 

"Quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. But it will do no good todisturb him now. I will speak to him, or give you leave to speak tohim, if it should become necessary. In the meantime you must becheerful. You have no cause to be otherwise. "

It was easy to say "be cheerful. " But Graeme hardly hoped for hersister, after that day. Often and often she repeated to herself thedoctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could takeno comfort from them. The great dread was always upon her. She neverspoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister'sstate, till her friends--and even the faithful Janet, who knew her sowell--doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming everyday more apparent to them all. But she knew it well, and strove withall her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst mustcome; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strovesuccessfully. But these quiet, cheerful hours in Marian's room, werepurchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to Him who is full ofcompassion, even when His chastisements are most severe. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was passing away fromamong them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Evenwhen the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian couldaccomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, becameher sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through thelong months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far aspossible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children'slessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian's sidefor a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thingtired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered nopain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basketstood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graemecould not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming briefand infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomedplaces on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of herhand lay always Menie's little Bible, and now and then she read a verseor two, but more frequently it was Graeme's trembling lips, thatmurmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came outto family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in toher. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joinedsoftly and sweetly still in their song of praise. 

Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many kind inquirieswere made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the mostpart the sisters were left to each other. Even the children werebeguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many atranquil hour did the sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outwardseeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was thethought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, herheart was like to break for the desolation that was before them. 

"Graeme, " said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlesslyabout the room, "you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside meand rest, before Will and Rosie come home. "

Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitterthrobs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weepout her tears alone. But she must have patience a little longer, andso, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to claspthemselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheekin silence. 

"Graeme, " said Marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?"

"What love?"

"That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme?"

Graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There was a rushingin her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemyhad already come, but she found voice to say, softly, --

"You're no' feared, Menie?"

"No, " said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning closeover, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "Do you think I need tofear, Graeme?"

If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all toknow that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river ofdeath, need not fear to enter it. 

"None need fear who trust in Jesus, " said she, softly. 

"No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trust, now that I am goingto die? I know He is able to save. "

"All who come to him, " whispered Graeme. "My darling, have you come?"

"I think he has drawn me to Himself. I think I am His very own. Graeme, I know I am not wise like you--and I have not all my life beengood, but thoughtless and wilful often--but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, too. "

She lay quietly down again. 

"Graeme, are you afraid for me?"

"I canna be afraid for one who trusts in Jesus. "

It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to herlips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy. 

"There is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt, " said Marian, again. "My life has been such a happy life. I have had no tribulationthat the Bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. I havebeen happy all my life, and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering. "

"God has been very good to you, dear. "

"And you'll let me go willingly, Graeme?"

"Oh! Menie, must you go. Could you no' bide with us a little while?"said Graeme, her tears coming fast. A look of pain came to her sister'sface. 

"Graeme, " said she, softly; "at first I thought I couldna bear to go andleave you all. But it seems easy now. And you wouldna bring back thepain, dear?"

"No, no! my darling. "

"At first you'll all be sorry, but God will comfort you. And my fatherwinna have long to wait, and you'll have Rosie and Will--and, Graeme, you will tell papa?"

"Yes, I will tell him. "

"He'll grieve at first, and I could not bear to see him grieve. Afterhe has time to think about it, he will be glad. "

"And Arthur, and all the rest--" murmured Graeme. 

A momentary shadow passed over Marian's face. 

"Oh! Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart to leave youall--but I am willing now. God, I trust, has made me willing. Andafter a while they will be happy again. But they will never forget me, will they, Graeme?"

"My darling! never!"

"Sometimes I wish I had known--I wish I had been quite sure, when theywere all at home. I would like to have said something. But it doesnareally matter. They will never forget me. "

"We will send for them, " said Graeme, through her tears. 

"I don't know. I think not. It would grieve them, and I can bear solittle now. And we were so happy the last time. I think they had bestnot come, Graeme. "

But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer. 

"Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so long to see them, "and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would think of me as I used to be, than tosee me now. No, Graeme, I think I will wait. "

In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times. 

"It won't be long. And, Graeme--I shall see our mother first--and youmust have patience, and wait. We shall all get safe home at last--I amquite, _quite_ sure of that. "

A step was heard at the door, and Mrs Snow entered. 

"Weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. She sawthat they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressinglyon the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one whoneeded comforting. 

"Have the bairns come?" asked Menie. 

"No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae again. Do youwant them home?"

"Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them. "

The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for atime in silence. 

"It's no' like spring to-night, Janet, " said Menie. 

"No, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. But thewind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hillsagain. "

"Yes; I hope so, " said Menie, softly. 

"Are you wearying for the spring, dear?"

"Whiles I weary. " But the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for noearthly spring, Janet well knew. 

"I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and theone rose, on my mother's birthday. It was long before this time of theyear--and it seems long to wait for spring. "

"Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. Therewere no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more thanhere. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You'll get downthe brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary. "

Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of Graeme. Thesame thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down thebrae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on aheart at rest forever. 

"Janet, when will Sandy come? Have you got a letter yet?"

"Yes; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now. "

"Oh! I hope not. I want to see him and your mother. I want them tosee me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come tillafterwards. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " said Mrs Snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit withyour father a while. It will rest you, and I'll bide with Menie here. "

Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. Not into thestudy, however, but out into the darkness, where the March wind moanedso drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tearswhich she had been struggling with so long. Up and down thesnow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in theblast. Conscious only of one thought, that Menie must die, and that thetime was hastening. 

Yes. It was coming very near now. God help them all. Weary with theunavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care andsorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night shelet it fall. She bowed herself utterly down. 

"So let it be! God's will be done!"

And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice orthrice in a lifetime. God gives power to his children to pray--face toface--in His very presence. Giving her will and wish up quite, she layat his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying notwith her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "I am Thine. Saveme. " Between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that hersister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. No foreshadowing of afuture more utterly bereaved than Menie's death would bring, darkenedthe light which this momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In thathour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk throughdesert places. 

She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head droopedagain as she met Mr Snow's look, so grave in its kindliness. 

"Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?"

"No, " said Graeme, humbly. "I am going in. " But she did not move evento withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand. 

"Miss Graeme, " said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He's a mind toabout it?"

"Yes, " said Graeme, "I give up. His will be done. "

"Amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder wasplaced upon her head, and Graeme knew that in "the golden vials full ofodours" before the throne, Deacon Snow's prayer for her found a place. 

She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and thenfollowed him up the path into Hannah's bright kitchen. 

"Will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towardsthe parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke. 

"Well, I guess I'll sit down here. It won't be long before Mis' Snow'llbe going along down. But don't you wait. Go right in to your father. "

Graeme opened the study-door and went in. 

"I will tell him to-night, " said she. "God help us. "

Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in hishand. 

"Graeme, " said he, as she sat down, "have you seen Janet?"

"Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago. "

"Poor Janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. No one was soparticular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always"Mistress Snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and Graeme wonderedto-night. 

"Has anything happened?" asked she. 

"Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Hermother is dead. "

The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand. 

"Yes, " continued her father. "It was rather sudden, it seems--soonafter she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for herdaughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!"

Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and totell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart onany earthly good. "Poor Janet!" well might her father say; and amid herown sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. Itwas very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happymeeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. Itdid seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hourafterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend. 

Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme foundwhen she entered her sister's room. Marian was asleep, and coming closeto Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside herand put her arm's about her neck without a word. At first Graemethought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in avoice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "You see, mydear, the upshot of all our fine plans. "

"Oh, Janet! There's nothing in all the world that we can trust in. "

"Ay, you may weel say that. But it is a lesson that we are slow tolearn; and the Lord winna let us forget. "

There was a pause. 

"When was it?" asked Graeme, softly. 

"Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since I sat here. Her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go. "

"And would she have come?"

"Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from thebeginning. I thought I asked God's guiding, and I was persuaded intothinking I had gotten it. But you see my heart was set on it from thevery first--guiding or no guiding--and now the Lord has seen fit topunish me for my self-seeking. "

"Oh, Janet!" said Graeme, remonstratingly. 

"My dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying itnow. I have more need to take the lesson to heart. May the Lord giveme grace to do it. "

Graeme could say nothing, and Janet continued--

"It's ill done in me to grieve for her. She is far better off than everI could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--I mustsubmit. "

"You have Sandy still. "

"Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping. "

"And he will come yet. "

"Yes, I have little doubt. But I'll no' set myself to the hewing out ofbroken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best. "

After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a timetill Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow thatwas drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that heknew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful tohim. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by herbedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he didnot speak of her sister's state till near the very last. 

They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldomsat now. They had been sitting thus a long time--so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let herweary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She lookedutterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious thather father's eyes were upon her. 

"You are tired to-night, Graeme, " said he, at last. Graeme started, butit was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself withsomething at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed. 

"It will not be long now. "

Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak. 

"We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her motherfirst. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!"

Graeme's head drooped down on the table. If she had spoken a word, itmust have been with a great burst of weeping. She trembled from head tofoot in her effort to keep herself quiet. Her father watched her for amoment. 

"Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?"

"Not now, papa, " whispered she, heavily. "I am almost willing now. "

"What is the happiest life here--and Menie's has been happy--to theblessedness of the rest which I confidently believe awaits her, dearchild?"

"It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be leftbehind. "

"Ay, love! But we must bide God's time. And you will have yourbrothers and Rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds inyoung hearts. "

Graeme's head drooped lower. She was weeping unrestrainedly but quietlynow. Her father went on--

"And afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. I used tothink in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to itsbitterness. If it had ever come into my mind that your mother mightleave me, I might have borne it better, I thought. But God knows. There are some things for which we cannot prepare. "

There was a long silence. 

"Graeme, I have something which I must say to you, " said her father, andhis voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "If the timecomes--when the time comes--my child, I grieve to give you pain, butwhat I have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time nonearer. My child, I have something to say to you of the time when weshall no longer be together--" Graeme did not move. 

"My child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from thedoubtful glances one sends into the future. I stand now, and see allthe way by which God has led me, with a grieved wonder, that I shouldever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. Thedark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint withfear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--Mounts ofGod, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. And yet, I mind gropingabout before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable. 

"My child, are you hearing me? Oh! if my experience could teach you! Iknow it cannot be. The blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each mustbear for himself; and I need not tell you that there never yet wassorrow sent to a child of God, for which there is no balm. You areyoung; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you thinkat the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the drearywaters you may have to cross. But there is no fear that you will bealone, dear, or that He will give you anything to do, or bear, and yetwithhold the needed strength. Are you hearing me, my child?"

Graeme gave a mute sign of assent. 

"Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. Yours may be longand toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire tochange with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. God make uspatient in it, --patient and helpful. Short as your sister's life hasbeen, it has not been in vain. She has been like light among us, andher memory will always be a blessedness--and to you Graeme, most ofall. "

Graeme's lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her face down on herfather's knee, and her tears fell fast. Her father raised her, andclasping her closely, let her weep for a little. 

"Hush, love, calm yourself, " said he, at last. "Nay, " he added, as shewould have risen, "rest here, my poor tired Graeme, my child, my bestcomforter always. "

Graeme's frame shook with sobs. 

"Don't papa--I cannot bear it--"

She struggled with herself, and grew calm again. 

"Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, it is not because Iam altogether unhappy, or because I am not willing to let her go--"

"Hush, love, I know. You are your mother's own patient child. I trustyou quite, Graeme, and that is why I have courage to give you pain. ForI must say more to-night. If anything should happen to me--hush, love. My saying it does not hasten it. But when I am gone, you will care forthe others. I do not fear for you. You will always have kind friendsin Janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can giveyou one, I am sure. But Graeme, I would like you all to keep together. Be one family, as long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go tohim, go all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you willtake a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, that you shouldkeep together. "

The shock which her father's words gave, calmed Graeme in a moment. 

"But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?"

"No, love, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to say this toyou, because it is always well to be prepared. That is all I had tosay, love. "

But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly, --

"I trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to yourmother and me. "

It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. They were all together in Marian's room, sittingquietly after worship was over. It was the usual time for separatingfor the night, but they still lingered. Not that any of them thought itwould be to-night. Mrs Snow might have thought so, for never duringthe long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watchedwith earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. She hadbeen slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as Mrs Snowbent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something inher face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice, --

"Janet, is it to be to-night? Are they all here? Papa, Graeme. Whereis Graeme?"

They were with her in a moment, and Graeme's cheek was laid on hersister's wasted hand. 

"Well, my lammie!" said her father, softly. 

"Papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?"

Her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek. 

"You are not afraid, my child?"

Afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. Herlook never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew thatthe King's messenger was come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, hebowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he sawno more those bonny eyes, but Janet's toil-worn hand laid over them. 

Graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when theyall rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm abouther, she did not move. 

"There is no need. Let her rest! it is all over now, the long watchingand waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank God for themomentary forgetfulness which He has given her. "

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

That night, Graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, andthe next day, whenever her father or Mrs Snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still. 

"She is weary, " they said, in whispers. "Let her rest. " Kindneighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothingwas suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. "Lether rest, " said all. 

But when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to aclose, Mrs Snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. Graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to MrsSnow's question whether she felt rested, she said, "Oh! yes, " but sheclosed her eyes, and turned her face away again. Janet went out andseated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. Just then, her husband came in. 

"Is anything the matter?" asked he, anxiously. 

"No, " said his wife, rousing herself. "Only, I dinna ken weel what todo. "

"Is Miss Graeme sick? or is she asleep?"

"I hope she's no' sick. I ken she's no sleeping. But she ought to beroused, and when I think what she's to be roused to--. But, if shewants to see her sister, it must be before--before she's laid in--"

A strong shudder passed over her. 

"Oh! man! it's awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin--"

"Need she see her again?" asked Mr Snow. 

"Oh! yes, I doubt she must. And the bairns too, and it will soon behere, now. "

"Her father, " suggested Mr Snow. 

"He has seen her. He was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. But he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. I canna disturb him. "

"Couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed--to her father orthe little ones? She would rouse herself if they needed her. "

"That's weel said, " said Mrs Snow, gratefully. "Go you down the braefor the bairns, and I'll go and speak to her again. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " said she, softly; "could you speak to me aminute?"

Her manner was quite calm. It was so like the manner in which Graemehad been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, thatwithout seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the timeor circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly, --

"Well, what is it, Janet?"

"My dear, it is the bairns. There is nothing the matter with them, "added she hastily, as Graeme started. "They have been down the braewith Emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, theyhavena been ben yonder, and I think they should see her before--beforeshe's moved, and I dinna like to disturb your father. My bairn, are youable to rise and take Will and wee Rosie ben yonder. "

Graeme raised herself slowly up. 

"Janet, I have been forgetting the bairns. "

Mrs Snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only saidcheerfully:

"My dear, you were weary, and they have had Emily. "

She would not be tender with her, or even help her much in herpreparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in avague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. Janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done;she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means surethat she had done right in rousing her. She was ready at last. 

"Are they come?" asked Graeme, faintly. 

"No, dear. There's no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. My dear, areyou sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as Graeme rose. 

"Yes, I think so. But I would like to go alone, first. "

"My poor lamb! If I were but sure that I have been right, " thoughtJanet, as she sat down to wait. 

An hour passed, and when the door opened, and Graeme came out again, thefears of her faithful friend were set at rest. 

"She hasna' been alone all this time, as I might have known, " said Janetto herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "I'm faithless, and sorebeset myself whiles, but I needna fear for them. The worst is overnow. "

And was the worst over? After that was the covering of the belovedforever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. There was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life;the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. There was the vague unbelief in the reality oftheir sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of suddenremembrance, --the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find hergone. 

By and by, came letters from the lads; those of Norman and Harry full ofbitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that theyhad not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at homecame back strong and fresh again. 

The coming of the "bonny spring days" for which Norman had so wished, wakened "vain longings for the dead. " The brooks rose high, and theyoung leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to themwith Menie's voice. The flowers which she had planted, --the May-flowerand the violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie's eyes. The odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hillcame with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringingback to Graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the houseon the hill, when they were all at home together, and Menie was a happychild. All these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply orbitterly. It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, comingback with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the timewhen they shall meet again, but quite content. 

And Mrs Snow, watching both the minister and Graeme, "couldna bethankful enough" for what she saw. But as the weeks passed on theremingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclinedto resent. "As though the Lord wasna bringing them through theirtroubles in a way that was just wonderful, " she said to herself, many atime. At last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour tothe cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of Graeme, she could not helpletting her uneasiness be seen. 

"It's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't it?" said MrSnow, but his face was grave, too. 

"I dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. Shewearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder, " said MrsSnow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed outfrom the pale, green foliage of spring-time. "And no wonder. EvenEmily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. I dare sayI'm troubling myself when there is no need. "

"The children, Will, and Rosie, don't worry her with their lessons, dothey?"

"I dinna ken. Sometimes I think they do. But she would weary far morewithout them. We must have patience. It would never do to vex theminister with fears for her. "

"No, it won't do to alarm him, " said Mr Snow, with emphasis; and helooked very grave. In a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind. 

"It ain't worth while to worry her with it. I don't more than halfbelieve it myself. Doctors don't know everything. It seems as thoughit couldn't be so--and if it is so, it's best to keep still about it--for a spell, anyhow. "

And Mr Snow vaguely wished that Doctor Chittenden had not overtaken himthat afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravelybeneath the great elms. 

"And the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought to keep still. Can't nothing be done for him? I'll have a talk with the squire, anyhow. "

That night Mr and Mrs Snow were startled by a message from Graeme. Her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seizedwith illness. The doctor looked very grave this time, but seeingGraeme's pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tellher that this was something more than the indigestion which it had beencalled--severe but not dangerous. The worst was over for this time, andGraeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by. 

The minister was better, but his recovery was very slow--so slow, thatfor the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two Sabbathsin succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. It was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, Graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to growdark. She roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from theindulgence of his sad thoughts. 

"Shall I read to you, papa? You have hardly looked at the book that MrSnow brought. I am sure you will like it. Shall I read awhile. "

"Yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. There is nohaste. I have been thinking as I sat here, Graeme--and I shall find nobetter time than this to speak of it to you--that--"

But what he had been thinking Graeme was not to hear that night, for ahand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to Graeme's invitation, Mr and Mrs Snow came in, "just to see how the folks were gettingalong, " said Mr Snow, as Graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. Butthere was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announcedrather abruptly after a little. 

"They've been talking things over, down there to the village, andthey've come to the conclusion that they'd better send you off--for aspell--most anywhere--so that you come back rugged again. Some say tothe seaside, and some say to the mountains, but _I_ say to Canada. It'sall fixed. There's no trouble about ways and means. It's in gold, tosave the discount, " added he, rising, and laying on the table somethingthat jingled. "For they do say they are pretty considerable careful inlooking at our bills, up there in Canada, and it is all the same to ourfolks, gold or paper, " and he sat down again, as though there was enoughsaid, and then he rose as if to go. Graeme was startled, and so was herfather. 

"Sit down, deacon, and tell me more. No, I'm not going to thank you--you need not run away. Tell me how it happened. "

"They don't think papa so very ill?" said Graeme, alarmed. 

"Well--he ain't so rugged as he might be--now is he?" said Mr Snow, seating himself. "But he ain't so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him--I don't suppose he'd care about going byhimself. And Mis' Snow, and me--we'll take care of the children--"

"And what about this, deacon?" asked Mr Elliott, laying his hand on thepurse that Sampson had placed on the table. 

But Mr Snow had little to say about it. If he knew where the idea ofthe minister's holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed inmaking it clear to the minister and Graeme. 

"But that matters little, as long as it is to be, " said Mrs Snow, coming to the deacon's relief. "And it has all been done in a goodspirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best ofmotives, " added she, looking anxiously from Graeme to her father. 

"You need not be afraid, my kind friends, " said Mr Elliott, answeringher look, while his voice trembled. "The gift shall be accepted in thespirit in which it is offered. It gives me great pleasure. "

"And, Miss Graeme, my dear, " continued Mrs Snow, earnestly, "you neednalook so grave about it. It is only what is right and just to yourfather--and no favour--though it has been a great pleasure to allconcerned. And surely, if I'm satisfied, you may be. "

Sampson gave a short laugh. 

"She's changed her mind about us Merleville folks lately--"

"Whist, man! I did that long ago. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, think ofseeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and thegrand river that Harry tells us of! It will be almost like seeingScotland again, to be in the Queen's dominions. My dear, you'll bequite glad when you get time to think about it. "

"Yes--but do they really think papa is so ill?"

She had risen to get a light, and Mrs Snow had followed her from theroom. 

"Ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him fromhome? But he needs a rest, and a change--and, my dear, you do thatyourself, and I think it's just providential. Not but that you couldhave gone without their help, but this was done in love, and I wouldfain have you take pleasure in it, as I do. "

And Graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and "thoughit wasna just the thing for the Sabbath night, " as Janet said, theylingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to beleft undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. They returnedto the study with the light just as Mr Elliott was saying, --

"And so, I thought, having the prospect of but few Sabbaths, I wouldlike to spend them all at home. "

Janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether Graeme had heard herfather's words. She evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and setthe lamp on the table. There was nothing reassuring in the gravity ofher husband's face, Mrs Snow thought, but his words were cheerful. 

"Well, yes, I vote for Canada. We ain't going to believe all the boyssay about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys. "

Graeme laughed softly. The boys would not have been the last on herlist of good reasons, for preferring Canada as the scene of their summerwanderings. She did not join in the cheerful conversation thatfollowed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meetingwith the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well asjoyful. 

If Mrs Snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to thetrue state of the minister's health, she said nothing of it to Graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully thoughvery quietly. Indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of muchgreater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. Ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where halfthe number would have served. Her affairs were made a personal matterby all her friends. Each vied with the others in efforts to help herand save her trouble; and if the reputation of Merleville, for allfuture time, had depended on the perfect fit of Graeme's one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as MrsSnow rather sharply remarked, "have been more fuss made about it. " Andshe had a chance to know, for the deacon's house was the scene of theirlabours of love. For Mrs Snow declared "she wouldna have the ministerand Miss Graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jauntwould do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be doneat all. "

But Mrs Snow's interest and delight in all the preparations were tooreal and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offendedat her sharpness. In her heart Mrs Snow was greatly pleased, and ownedas much in private, but in public, "saw no good in making a work aboutit, " and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted thekindness of the people as their proper right and due. When Mrs Pageidentified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to Rixford forthe purpose of procuring the latest Boston fashion for sleeves, beforeGraeme's dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility ofmanner, with which that lady's advances were always met; and listenedrather coldly to Graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same ladypresented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warmenough in her thanks to Becky Pettimore--I beg her pardon, Mrs EliStone--for the soft lamb's wool socks, spun and knitted for the ministerby her own hands, and her regrets that her baby's teeth would not permither to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received thanwere Mrs Page's profuse offers of assistance. 

On the whole, it was manifest that Mrs Snow appreciated the kindness ofthe people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment ofthanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the "deacon'swife, " and her appreciation of them and their favours. Nothing could bemore easily seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed hermind about many things, since the minister's Janet used "to speak hermind to the Merleville folk, " before they were so well known to her. 

As for Graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no meansarduous. She was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visitsof her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. It was some time before Will and Rosie could be persuaded that it wasright for Graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogetherdelightful to live all the time at Mr Snow's, and go to school in thevillage--to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences ofthe increasing prosperity of Merleville. But they were entirelypersuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that Graemeshould afterward have nothing to teach them. About the little ones, theelder sister's heart was quite at rest. It was not the leaving themalone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who hadcared for them all their lives. 

Graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, onhis gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, inthose days. She never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow Lovejoy, and herfather's voice repeating, --

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. " Longafterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow'sgroans had risen, Graeme could shut her eyes and see again the sufferingface--the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond--the very shadows of the maples on the grass. Then it was her sorrowfuldelight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon--the firm andentire trust for the future, of which his words assured her. 

Afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, herfather was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. He hadspoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to Graeme, of the earlydays of their married-life--of all she had been to him, of all she hadhelped him to be and to do. And more than once he said, --

"You are like your mother, Graeme, in some things, but you have not herhopeful nature. You must be more hopeful and courageous, my child. "

He spoke of Marian, Graeme remembered afterward. Not as one speaks ofthe dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near athand, whom he was sure to meet again. Of the lads far-away, he alwaysspoke as "your brothers, Graeme. " He spoke hopefully, but a littleanxiously, too. 

"For many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over;and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and I know not whetherthey have all found it yet. Not that I am afraid of them. I believe itwill be well with them at last. But in all the changes that may bebefore you, you will have need of patience. You must be patient withyour brothers, Graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let themwander unchecked from what is right, for your mother's sake and mine. "

He spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessingsthat had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, andhis love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, "ofwhom one has got home before me, safely and soon. "

"We might have come here, love, had your mother lived. And yet, I donot know. The ties of home and country are strong, and there was muchto keep us there. Her departure made all the rest easy for me, and I amquite convinced our coming was for the best. There is only one thingthat I have wished, and I know it is a vain thing. " He paused a moment. 

"Of late I have sometimes thought--I mean the thought has sometimes cometo me unbidden--that I would like to rest beside her at last. But it isonly a fancy. I know it will make no difference in the end. "

If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dreadthat she could name. If it was forced upon her that the time must comewhen her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. Shesaw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long lifeshould be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of theblank that such a blessed departure must leave. The peace, which hadtaken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "fearedno evil. "

Afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came backshe chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she shouldnot have seen and understood all that was in his thought--forgetting inher first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them. 

They all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. Thepreparations for the journey were all made. The good-byes were said toall except to Mrs Snow and Emily. The last night was come, and Graemewent round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows beforeshe went to bed. She was tired, but not too tired to linger a littlewhile at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and sodear. The shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlightgleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, andon the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all asMenie's resting-place. How peaceful it looked! Graeme thought of hersister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them allshould first be called to lie down by Menie's side. She thought of thegrave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid hermother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not allsorrowful. She thought of the many happy days that had come to themsince the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by theirmother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as herfather had said to her, that God suffers no sorrow to fall on those whowait on Him, for which He does not also provide a balm. 

"I will trust and not be afraid, " she murmured. 

She thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay beforethem, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; butmused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed todreams. 

At least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that itwas the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. Shedid not hear it when she listened for it again. She did not think ofRosie or Will, but went straight to her father's room. Through thehalf-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that herfather sat in the arm-chair by the window. The lamp burned dimly on thetable beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallenfrom his hand. The moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on histranquil face. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, Graeme knewthat from that sleep her father would never waken more. 

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

It was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when Arthurtook them home with him to Montreal. A very dismal change it seemed tothem all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. Home! Could it ever seem like home to them? Think of the dwellersamong the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick house ina close city street. Graeme had said that if they could all keeptogether, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almostfailed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning. 

Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share withthese neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay onlyroofs and chimneys. From the room above the view was the same, only theroofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there betweenthem showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of aLombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a brightstreak, which they came at last to know as Harry's grand river. On theother side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. The brickwall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Rosiethought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. From Graeme's roomabove were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall andbetween the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden. It was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green grassbefore the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under thewindows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatoryat one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when thesun shone on it--many panes of glass when the sun was gone. The gardenseemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smoothgravel walk with an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens andhorse-chestnuts hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful;and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was theredeeming feature in their new home. 

For it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for thatlittle glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the raggedtops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There wasnothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot andclose, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, atleast it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line atother times. 

How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sightsand sounds and friends of Merleville. 

"If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill, " saidRosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow treesand the sight of the garden. "

For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields andhills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingratitude to Arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girlsfrom the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness thatcame upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be curedby struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge ofit from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, theyhad a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. Theyseldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. Harry's hours were long, and Arthur's business was increasing so as torequire close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur's business was not strictlyprofessional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimesbringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake. 

Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long andtedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all thingsfrom their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy--tooanxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time forhome-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made--when thetaste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their newmaid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright andpleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the longdays and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet hadpredicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going awayfrom Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strengthfailed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of thewinter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. Shedid not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself inthe miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed andalarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference toeverything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil onlyaggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days werepassed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself totheir few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All herstrength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers wereat home. 

Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even whenthe time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded forhours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. Forthough Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of theirlittle household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at restas to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunatechance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculateneatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall backupon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness andkind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but herfield of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in whichcows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu'at the making of butter, " she had not much skill at anything else. Ifit would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step ofher young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning inher arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast ordinner without Graeme's special overlooking. She would walk miles to doher a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shutthe door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing hervery best to help or cheer her. 

But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exertedherself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harrywas at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then shecould still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, asthe case might be. But when any effort was necessary--when she mustinterest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or whenArthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme tobe hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. Shemight get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserablenight was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slowhours exhausted yet sleepless. 

Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she layhelpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum thatrose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush ofCarson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breakingon the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughswhispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till herheart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same. If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of whatshe suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened theloneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this wearinessof body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never leftMerleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of _home_ shethought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. She started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping whenthere was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that layso heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed. 

Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must geteither better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur andHarry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowedthem to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on thesofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight ofthem failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almostimmediately, closing her eyes with a sigh. 

"Graeme!" exclaimed Harry, "what ails you! Such a face! Look here, Ihave something for you. Guess what. "

"A letter, " said Rose. "Oh! Graeme look!"

But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startledand tried to raise her. 

"Don't, Arthur, " said Rose; "let her lie down. She will be better in alittle. Harry get some water. "

Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme'sdress, but she knew well what to do. 

"You don't mean that she has been like this before?" said Arthur, inalarm. 

"Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better, now. "

In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, shesaid, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightenedArthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in thedoctor's hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated herassurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat andweariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, andspoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur's facequite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, andwhen her brother's hand was on the door, whispered, --

"Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it ispartly because Graeme is homesick. "

"Homesick!" repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath. 

"Perhaps not homesick exactly, " said Rose, eagerly addressing herbrother. "She would not go back again you know; but everything is sodifferent--no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don't bevexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here. "

Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising inspite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm ashe drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down, too. 

"Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry littlesister?"

"I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. Shedoes not think that I know. "

"Know what?" asked Arthur. 

"That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watchedher, and I know. "

"Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor, " said Arthur, anxiously. 

But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter withGraeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have somethingto do with it; and then he added, --

"Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this stateof weakness. "

Arthur hesitated a moment. 

"There was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister'sfirst, and then my father's. And then I brought the rest here. "

It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he added withan effort, --

"I fear I have not done well in bringing them. But they wished to come, and I could not leave them. "

"You did right, I have no doubt, " said the doctor. "Your sister mighthave been ill anywhere. She might have been worse without a change. The thing is to make her well again--which, I trust, we can soon do--with the help of Miss Rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, I am sure. "

"Yes, " said Rose, gravely. "I will try. "

Arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dustand heat of the town. 

"Yes, " said the doctor. "The heat is bad. But it will not last longnow, and on the whole, I think she is better where she is, at present. There is no danger. She will soon be as well as usual, I think. "

But it was not very soon. Indeed, it was a long time before Graeme wasas well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown witheredand grey, and the summer had quite gone. Not until kind DoctorMcCulloch had come almost daily for many weeks--long enough for him tobecome much interested in both patient and nurse. 

A wonderful nurse Rose proved herself to be. At first something wassaid about introducing a more experienced person into Graeme's chamber, but both Rose and Nelly Anderson objected so decidedly to this, andaided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that Rosie kept well andcheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. She kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be likeherself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglectedduring the day, Rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk whilethe other stayed with Graeme, and by this means the health and spiritsof the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. Forindeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, whohad never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, andwho was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all therest depended upon her. But she bore the trial well, and indeed came tothe conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to betrusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and playedwith by her brothers. She quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when Graeme began to get well again, and though she got tiredvery often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward thatthis time did Rose no harm, but a great deal of good. 

As for Nelly Anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in amost extraordinary manner--not as a nurse, however. Her efforts in thatline were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in herstockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to Graeme not to lose heart. But in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishmentof the household, and her own most of all. When Arthur had peremptorilyforbidden that any reference should be made to Graeme in householdmatters, Nelly had helplessly betaken herself to Rose, and Rose had ashelplessly betaken herself to "Catherine Beecher. " Nothing short of thestate of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have inducedNelly to put faith in a "printed book, " in any matter where the labourof her hands was concerned. But her accomplishments as a cook did notextend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes, " and morewas required. So with fear and trembling, Rose and she "laid theirheads together, " over that invaluable guide to inexperiencedhousekeepers, and the result was success--indeed a series of successes. For emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, Nelly wanton and prospered; and Rose, content that she should have all the honourof success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also. 

Almost every morning Rose had a walk, either with Harry to his office, or with Will, to the school, while Arthur stayed with Graeme. The walkwas generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, andit was always a merry time if Harry was with her, and then she was readyfor her long day at home. She sometimes lingered on the way back. Onthe broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when shewas alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at theirplay. She used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had beenreplaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich manwill surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens oftheir own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. Andwhenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. She was indanger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and ofexclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so faras to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sobermoments she would have considered advisable. 

One bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standingbefore the large house on the other side of the street. For the firsttime she found the large gate wide open. There was no one in sight, andtaking two steps forward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within thanshe had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk round thesmooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had alwaysprevented her. This time she did not wait for second thoughts, butdeliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leaveasked or given. 

The garden belonged to Mr Elphinstone, a great man--at least a greatmerchant in the eyes of the world. One of Rose's amusements during thetime she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comingsand goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than Roseherself. Sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she droveherself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-lookingcoachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. Rosie used toenvy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gatheringthe flowers at her own will. 

"How happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. "If she is a nice young lady, as I am almost sure she is, she wouldrather that I enjoyed her flowers than not. At any rate I am going towalk round just once--and then go. "

But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It was not avery large one, but there were flowers all round it, and Rosie passedslowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presenteditself. It took a long time to pass quite round, and before this wasaccomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger. She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; andas she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her--

"You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now. "

Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was anintruder. 

"If you'll come, round this way I'll show you flowers that are worthlooking at, " said he. 

"He thinks I am a visitor, " said Rose to herself. "I'm sure I admirehis flowers as much as any of them can do. It won't trouble him much toshow them to me, and I'll just go with him. "

So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She didnot think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductorhurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without givingher time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as toarrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! Whatverbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! Rose couldonly gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and wasevidently well pleased with her delight. 

At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But shethanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and addeddeprecatingly--

"I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came in. I couldn'thelp it. "

It was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor atthe great house or not. 

"You ken a flower when you see it, " said he, "and that's more than canbe said of some of the visitors here. "

He led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house coveredwith a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever Rose had seen before. 

"It was just like what a bower ought to be, " she told Graeme, afterwards. "It was just like a lady's bower in a book. "

There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders closeby grew a great many flowers. Not rare flowers, such as she had justbeen admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweetpeas and mignonette. It was Miss Elphinstone's own bower, the gardenersaid, and these were her favourite flowers. Rose bent over a palelittle blossom near the path--

"What is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have itspoiled by some long unpronounceable name. 

"Surely you have seen that--and you from Scotland? That's a gowan. "

"A gowan!" She was on her knees beside it in a moment. "Is it the realgowan, `that glints on bank and brae'? No, I never saw one; at least Idon't remember. I was only a child when I came away. Oh! how Graemewould like to see them. And I must tell Janet. A real gowan! `Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower'--you mind? And here is a white one, `With silver crest and golden eye. ' Oh! if Graeme could only see them!Give me just one for my sister who is ill. She has gathered them on thebraes at home. "

"Ahem! I don't know, " said her friend, in a changed voice. "These areMiss Elphinstone's own flowers. I wouldna just like to meddle withthem. But you can ask her yourself. "

Rose turned. The pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standingbeside her. Rose's confusion was too deep for words. She felt for aminute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, andmurmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about notwishing to intrude. The young lady's answer was to stoop down andgather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. When she gave them into Rose's hand she asked, --

"Is your sister very ill? I have seen the doctor going often to yourhouse. "

"She is getting better now. She has been very ill. The doctor says shewill soon be well. "

"And have you taken care of her all the time? Is there no one else?"

"I have taken care of her, Nelly Anderson and I, all the day, and ourbrothers are home at night. "

"I am glad she is getting better. Is she fond of flowers. Mr Stirlingis thinking I haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when youput them in water, you know. "

"Oh! thank you. They are beautiful. Yes, Graeme is very fond offlowers. This will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in thecountry, I mean. And besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes athome. "

"I am a Canadian, " said the young lady. "I never saw the `gowanybraes, ' but I shall see them soon. "

They had reached the gate by this time. 

"Come again, soon. Come into the garden, whenever you like. I am sureMr Stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. I think a few of his would improve your bouquet. "

Mr Stirling touched his hat to his young lady. 

"I shall be proud to show the flowers to Miss Rose, and I shall have thehonour of making her a bouquet soon. " The young lady laughed. 

"You are to be a favourite. Is your name Rose, " added she, lingering bythe gate. 

"Yes, Rose Elliott. I am the youngest. We all live over there, mybrothers, and Graeme and I. It would be a dreary place, if it were notfor the glimpse we get of your garden. Look, there is Nelly looking forme. I am afraid I have hindered Arthur. Thank you very much, andgood-bye. "

Rose shyly put forth her hand. The young lady took it in both hers, anddrawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go. 

"Stirling, " said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you knowthe young lady's name is Rose? is she a friend of yours? Do you knowher?"

"I know her face, that is all I have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. And whiles she looksthrough the gate. I heard her brothers calling her Rose. She's a bonnylassie, and kens a flower when she sees it. "

That night, Nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of herthick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into Graeme's room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, "maybe a gentleman, " Nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with hiscompliments to Miss Rose Elliott. A bouquet! it would have won theprize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, whilethe autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. Even when theautumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, andafterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the prettygarden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the littleparlour, where by that time Graeme was able to appear. 

"For, " said Mr Stirling, to the admiring Nelly, "such were MissElphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directionsor no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take realpleasure in their beauty. "

The autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. As Graeme grew strong, she grew content. The children were well and happy, and Arthur'sbusiness was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about waysand means, might be put aside for the present. They often heard fromNorman, and from their friends in Merleville, and Graeme felt that withso much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed tobe otherwise. 

In the spring, they removed to another house. It was in town, butcompared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in thecountry. For the street was not closely built up, and it stood in themiddle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under thetransforming hands of Rose and her brothers. There was a green fieldbehind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visiblefrom it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. The house itself, seemed like apalace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. It was largerthan they needed, Graeme thought, and the rent was higher than theycould well afford, but the garden was enough to content them witheverything else. It was a source of health, if not of wealth, to themall, and a never failing source of delight besides. Their new home wasquite away from Mr Stirling's end of town, but he found time to comeand look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, andseeds, and good advice were invaluable. 

This was a short and pleasant summer to them all. It is wonderful howmuch pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, byyoung and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. To Will andRosie everything was delightful. The early marketing with Nelly, towhich Graeme and Arthur, and sometimes even Harry was beguiled, neverlost its charm for them. Harry had lived in town, long enough, topermit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the resttook, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, andother wares in the great market, and made himself merry over Rosie'spenchant for making acquaintance with the old French woman and littlechildren whom they met. He mystified Rose and her friends by his freeinterpretation of both French and English, and made the rest merry too;so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced torise early enough to go with them. 

Sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, apleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they wouldreturn home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of Nellyand Miss Beecher. Sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by thewhole family, Nelly and all, at Lachine or the Back River, or on the topof the mountain. All this may seem stupid enough to them who are in thehabit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the helpof books and pencils, and lively conversation, the Elliotts were able tofind a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times. 

They had pleasures of another kind, too. Arthur's temporary connectionwith one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, anda new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by oneor other of them. 

They had not many acquaintances at this time. In Janet's estimation, the averseness of Graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, hadbeen a serious defect in her character. It was easier to avoid this inthe town than it used to be in the country, Graeme found. Besides, shehad no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister'sdaughter, and was inclined for quietness. Once or twice she made agreat effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" ofthe ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a greatdeal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so shecompromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and beingvery kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in alane near their house, and stayed at home. She was by no means surethat she did right. For everybody knows, or ought to know, howpraiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoonevery week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and thenetting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form ofcurtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garmentsfor those who have none. But then, though the "sewing-circle" is thegenerally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings andefforts of those dear ladies who _love to do good_, but who are apt tobe bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live ingarrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is justpossible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. Onething is certain, though Graeme did not find it easy for a while tosatisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept herat home, the little Finlays were all the happier and better for the timeshe conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs. 

They made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. Arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, afriend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, orlawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days inthe city made him wish to show kindness. There were two or three gayFrench lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a greatliking to the grave and steady Arthur, and who often came to pass anevening at his pleasant fireside. Graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the French as apeople, and as for Rose, the very sight of these polite moustachedgentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at allcomfortable to think about. But those light-hearted Canadian lads soonproved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though English had beentheir mother tongue. Very agreeable visitors they were, with their nicegentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far bettersubjects for the exercise of Rosie's French than the old market womenwere, and in a little while they never came but they were kindlywelcomed. 

This was a busy time, too. Graeme taught Rosie English, and theystudied together French and German, and music; and were in a fair way, Harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. Verybusy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greaterimportance. And if sometimes it came into Graeme's mind that the lifethey were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make herunhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in theirlot should make them forgetful of life's true end. 

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. 

"It is just three years to-night since we came to M. Did you rememberit, Arthur?" said Graeme, looking up from her work. 

"Is it possible that it can be three years?" said Arthur, in surprise. 

"It has been a very happy time, " said Graeme. 

Rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of herbrother's chair. Arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffedthe smoke into his sister's face. Rose did not heed it. 

"Three years!" repeated she. "I was quite a child then. "

The others laughed, but Rose went on without heeding. 

"It rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. How well I remember the time! Graeme was ill and homesick, and wewished so much for Janet. "

"That was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurseand housekeeper, " said Graeme; "and you were not at all homesickyourself, I suppose?"

"Perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days, " said Rose, gravely; "but I was not homesick very long. "

"I am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time--morethan you let me know about, " said Arthur. 

Graeme smiled and shook her head. 

"I am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. If I hadknown how hard you would have to work, I think I would have stayed inMerleville after all. "

"Pooh! Nonsense! Hard work is wholesome. And at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my fatherhad in Merleville. "

"But that was quite different--"

"Did I tell you that I have got a new client? I have done business forMr Stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth Iam to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of `Grove & Stone. 'It will add something to our income, little woman. "

Rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in herbrother's ear. 

"Don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of `Grove& Stone. ' You know any superfluous wealth we may have, is alreadyappropriated, " said Graeme. 

"To the Merleville visit. But this is not at all an extravagance, isit, Arthur?" said Rose. 

"That depends--. I am afraid Graeme is the best judge. But we won'ttell her to-night. We must break the matter to her gently, " saidArthur. 

"Graeme is so dreadfully prudent, " sighed Rose. 

Graeme laughed. 

"It is well there is one prudent one among us. "

"I don't believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. They are nicer than usual, are they not?" said Rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother's case. 

"Yes. I treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength ofGrove & Stone. They are very nice. Have one?"

Rose took it with great gravity. 

"Suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards, " said she, coaxingly. 

Arthur made a grimace. 

"And where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?"

"There is no telling, indeed, " said Rose. "Graeme, I am going to put onmy new hat. When Mr Elliott honours us with his company, we must lookour very best, you know. "

"But, Arthur, you have an engagement to-night. Don't you remember?"asked Graeme. 

"To Mrs Barnes', " said Rose. "Miss Cressly brought home my dressto-day, and she told me all about it. Her sister is nurse there. Theparty is to be quite a splendid affair. It is given in honour of MissGrove, who has just come home. I wish I were going with you. "

"You may go without me! I will give you my invitation. It is a greatbore, and I don't believe I shall go. I don't see the good of it. "

"But you promised, " said Graeme. 

"Well, I suppose I must go for a while. But it is very stupid. "

"Just as if you could make us believe that. It must be delightful. Ithink it's very stupid of you and Graeme, not to like parties. "

"You forget. I was not asked, " said Graeme. 

"But you might have been, if you had returned Mrs Barnes' call soonenough. How nice it would have been! I wish I were Miss Grove, to havea party given for me. She is a beauty, they say. You must notice herdress, Arthur, and tell me all about it. "

"Oh! certainly, " said Arthur, gravely. "I'll take particular notice. But come, get your hats. There is time enough for a walk before I go. Haste, Rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. Are you coming, Will? Man! you shouldna read by that light. You will blind yourself. Put away your book, you'll be all the better for a walk. "

They lingered a moment at the gate. 

"Here is Harry!" exclaimed Rose. "And some one with him. CharlieMillar, I think. "

"We will wait for them, " said Arthur. 

The look that came to Graeme's face, as she stood watching her brother'scoming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, andthe light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they didnot see. She stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, andlooked at Harry with anxious eyes. 

"Are you going out, Graeme?" asked he, coming within the gate. 

"Only to walk. Will you go with us? Or shall I stay?"

"Miss Elliott, " interposed Charlie Millar, "I beg you will not. Hedoesn't deserve it at your hands. He is as cross as possible. Besides, we are going to D street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. Hecame yesterday. Did Harry tell you?"

"Harry did not come home last night. What kept you, Harry?" asked Rose. 

"We were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and Harry stayed with melast night, " said Charlie. 

"And of course Graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting forme, " said Harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice. 

"Of course she did no such foolish thing. I saw to that, " said Arthur. "But which is it to be? A walk, or a quiet visit at home?"

"Oh! a walk, by all means, " said Charlie Millar. 

"I have a great mind not to go, " said Harry. 

"Nonsense, man! One would think you were about to receive the reward ofyour evil deeds. I refer to you, Miss Elliott. Would it be respectfulto the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?"

"Bother the new firm, " said Harry, impatiently. 

"The new partner, you mean. He has taken a most unreasonable dislike tomy brother at first sight--calls him proud, and a snob, because hehappens to be shy and awkward with strangers. "

"Shy! A six-footer, with a beard enough for three. After that I'llvanish, " said Harry. 

"I don't think Harry is very polite, " said Rose. 

"Never mind. There are better things in the world than politeness. Hewill be more reasonable by and by, " said Harry's friend. 

"So your brother has come, " said Graeme. "How long is it since you haveseen him?"

"Oh! not for ten years. He was home once after he came out here, but Iwas away at school, and did not see him. I remembered him quite well, however. He is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fearhe might be;" then he added, as Harry reappeared, "the fact is, MissElliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. We must overlook hisill-temper. "

"By all means, " said Graeme, laughing. 

"Thank you, " said Harry. "And I'll try to be patient. "

"Well, shall we go now?" said Arthur, who had been waiting patientlythrough it all. The others followed him and Will. 

"Is your brother going to remain here?" asked Graeme. "That will benice for you. "

"Yes, on some accounts it would be nice. But if they send Harry off tofill his place at the West, I shall not like that, unless, indeed, theysend us both. And I am not sure I should like that long. "

"Send Harry!" exclaimed Graeme. 

"Nonsense, Graeme!" said Harry. "That is some of Charlie's stuff. "

"I hope so; but we'll see, " said Charlie. "Miss Elliott, I had a letterfrom my mother to-day. " The lad's eyes softened, as he turned them onGraeme. 

"Have you?" said Graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interestherself in his pleasure. "Is she quite well?"

"Yes, she is much better than she was, and, Miss Elliott, she sends herlove to you, and her best thanks. "

"For what?" said Graeme, smiling. 

"Oh! you know quite well for what. What should I have done, if it hadnot been for you and Harry? I mean if you had not let me come to yourhouse sometimes. "

"Stuff!" said Harry. 

"Truth!" said Charlie. "I never shall forget the misery of my firstmonths, till Harry came into our office. It has been quite differentsince the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as toask me to come again. "

"That was no great self-denial on our part, " said Graeme, smiling. 

"You minded Graeme on some one she used to know long ago, " said Rose. "And, besides, you are from Scotland. "

Both lads laughed. 

"And Graeme feels a motherly interest in all Scottish laddies, howeverunworthy they may be, " said Harry. 

And so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate ofMr Elphinstone's garden, beyond which Arthur and Will were loitering. 

"How pretty the garden is!" said Rose. "Look, Graeme, at that littlegirl in the window. I wonder whether the flowers give her as muchpleasure, as they used to give me. "

"I am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get, " saidGraeme. 

"Come in and let me gather you some, " said Charlie. 

"No, indeed. I should not venture. Though I went in the first timewithout an invitation. And you dare not pick Mr Stirling's flowers. "

"Dare I not?" said Charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from aclimbing rose, that reached high above the wall. 

"Oh! don't. Oh! thank you, " said Rose. 

As far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts awhite dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped outbeneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel. 

"Look, " said Rose, drawing back. 

"The new partner, " said Harry, with a whistle. "A double partnership--eh, Charlie?"

"I shouldn't wonder, " said Charlie, looking wise. 

"He knows what he's about, that brother of yours. He's cute. He knowsa thing or two, I guess. "

"Harry, " said Rose, gravely, "don't talk slang. And I don't think itvery polite to speak that way to Mr Millar about his brother. "

"My dear Rosie, I am not talking slang, but the pure American language;and I think you are more considerate about other people's brothers thanyou are of your own. Twice this night I have heard your brother calledcross and disagreeable, without rebuke. "

"You deserved it, " said Rose, laughing. 

"Miss Rose, " said Charlie, "let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the evening. "

Rose turned her laughing face to her brother. 

"Be a good boy, Harry. Good bye. "

As they returned, Will and Rose went on before, while Graeme lingeredwith Arthur. 

"Did you hear what Mr Millar said about the possibility of Harry'sbeing sent West? It must be to take the new partner's place, Isuppose, " said Graeme, after a little. 

"No; did he say so? It would be a capital good thing for Harry. "

"Do you think so? He would have to leave home. "

"Yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would bea very good one. I doubt whether there is much in it, however. Harryhas been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he isvery young for a place so responsible. Still, it may be. I know theyhave great confidence in him. "

There was a pause, and they walked slowly on. 

"Arthur, " said Graeme, in a low voice. "Do you think Harry is--quitesteady?"

"Steady, " repeated Arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. "Why shouldyou doubt it?"

Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother'sarm, and he knew it cost her an effort. 

"I dare say there is no cause for doubt. Still, I thought I ought tospeak to you. You will know better than I; and you must not think thatI am unkind in speaking thus about Harry. "

"You unkind! No; I should think two or three things before I thoughtthat. But tell me why you have any fears?"

"You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming home, a good manytimes lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. And once or twice--more indeed--he has been excited, more than excited--and--"

Graeme could not go on. 

"Still, Graeme, I do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after--toomuch for his good, I dare say. But he has too much sense to give us anyreal cause for uneasiness on that ground. Why, Graeme, in P streetHarry is thought much of for his sense and talent. "

Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something that her father hadonce said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. But she did notspeak. 

"Shall I speak to him, Graeme? What would you like me to do? I don'tthink there is much to fear for him. "

"Well, I will think so, too. No; don't speak to him yet. It washearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. I daresay I am foolish. "

They walked on in silence for a little, and then Graeme said, --

"I hope it is only that I am foolish. But we have been so happy lately;and I mind papa and Janet both said to me--it was just when we werebeginning to fear for Menie--that just as soon as people were beginningto settle down content, some change would come. It proved so then. "

"Yes; I suppose so, " said Arthur, with a sigh. "We must expect changes;and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we areconcerned. But, Graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. And I am quite sure that after all your care for Harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. That would be too sad. "

They said no more till they overtook the children, --as Rose and Willwere still called in this happy household. 

"I have a good mind not to go, after all. I would much rather stayquietly at home, " said Arthur, sitting down on the steps. 

"But you promised, " said Graeme. "You must go. I will get a light, andyou need not stay long. "

"You must go, of course, " said Rose. "And Graeme and I will have a nicequiet evening. I am going to practise the new music you brought home. "

"A quiet evening, " said Will. 

"Yes; I have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. I'm sure, I don't know where the time goes to. I wish I were going withyou, Arthur. "

"You are far better at home. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Graeme; and Will added, --

"A child like Rosie!"

"Well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially MissGrove's, and tell me all about them. "

"Yes; especially Miss Grove, if I get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful. "

"Well, good-night, " said Rose. "I don't believe there will be agentleman there to compare to you. "

Arthur bowed low. 

"I suppose I ought to say there will be no one there to compare withyou. And I would, if I could conscientiously. But `fine feathers makefine birds, ' and Miss Grove aspires to be a belle it seems, --and, manywho don't aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of thedressmaker, eclipse the little Scottish Rose of our garden. Good-nightto you all--and Graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past yourusual time. "

He went away, leaving Rose to her practising, Will to his books, andGraeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think herown thoughts. They were not very sad thoughts, though Arthur fearedthey might be. Her brother's astonishment at her fears for Harry, haddone much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there weredanger for Harry, Arthur would see it; and she began to be indignantwith herself for having spoken at all. 

"Arthur will think I am foolish. He will think that I have lostconfidence in Harry, which is not true. I wish I were more hopeful. Iwish I did not take fright at the very first shadow. Janet aye saidthat the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling ofthe shower should do. Such folly to suppose that anything could happento our Harry! I won't think about it. And even if Harry has to goaway, I will believe with Arthur, that will be for the best. He will benear Norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. Norman will beglad. And I will not fear changes. Why should I? They cannot come tous unsent. I will trust in God. "

But quite apart from the thought of Harry's temptation or prospects, there was in Graeme's heart a sense of pain. She was not quitesatisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. She feared she hadbeen beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. Except the thought about Harry, which hadcome and gone, and come again a good many times within the last fewmonths, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these twoyears and more. She had almost forgotten how it would seem, to wakeneach morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties laybefore her. Even household care, Nelly's skill and will had put farfrom her. 

And now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how herfather and Janet had always spoken of life as a warfare--a struggle, andthe Bible so spoke of it, too. She thought of Janet's long years ofself-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had alwaysaccepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by God. She thought of her father--how, even in the most tranquil times of hislife--the time she could remember best, the peaceful years inMerleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as onewho must give account. Yes, life was a warfare. Not always withoutward foes. The struggle need not be one that a looker-on couldmeasure or see, but the warfare must be maintained--the struggle mustonly cease with life. It had been so with her father, she knew; andthrough his experience, Graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderfulparadox of the life that is hid with Christ in God, --constant warfare--and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without thewarfare? she asked herself. And what was awaiting them after all thesetranquil days?

It was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm thatpained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turnedto the best account. Had she been to her brothers all that father hadbelieved she would be? Had her influence always been decidedly on theside where her father's and her mother's would have been? They had beenvery happy together, but were her brothers really better and strongerChristian men, because of her? And if, as she had sometimes feared, Harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame?

The friends that had gathered around them during these years, were notjust the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead ofher brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance ofthe pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think astheir father had done on the most important of all matters, came back toher now like a sin. And yet if this had worked for evil among them, itwas indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they calledtheir friend that she feared for Harry. She always came back to Harryin her thoughts. 

"But I will not fear for him, " she repeated often. "I will trust God'scare for Harry and us all. Surely I need not fear, I think I have beenbeginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. Outwardcircumstances cannot make much difference, surely. If we are humble andtrustful God will guide us. "

And busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken thesting, Graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approachingfootsteps recalled her to the present. 

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. 

The shining boots crashed the gravel, and the white dress gleamedthrough the darkness, some time after the young men were seated in MrElphinstone's handsome drawing-room. The master of the mansion satalone when they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the grate. For MrElphinstone was an invalid, with little hope of being other than aninvalid all his life, though he was by no means an old man yet. 

If he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for they hadcome quite close to him before he looked up, and he quite started at thesound of Mr Millar's voice. He rose and received them courteously andkindly, however. Mr Elphinstone in his own drawing-room was adifferent person, or rather, he showed a different manner from MrElphinstone in his counting-room in intercourse with his clerks; andHarry, who had had none but business intercourse with him, was struckwith the difference. It required an effort for him to realise that thebland, gentle voice was the same that he had so often heard in brief andprompt command. 

Business was to be ignored to-night, however. Their talk was of quiteother matters. There was an allusion to the new partnership, and to MrMillar's half-brother, the new partner, who at the moment, as they allknew, was passing along the garden walk with a little white hand on hiscoat-sleeve. This was not alluded to, however, though each thought hisown thoughts about it, in the midst of their talk. That those of MrElphinstone were rather agreeable to himself, the lads could plainlysee. He had no son, and that his partner and nephew should fall into ason's place was an idea that pleased him well. Indeed, it had cost himsome self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after thepretty Lilias had withdrawn, and the smile that Harry was stealthilywatching on his face, was called up by the remembrance of the admirationwhich his daughter had evidently called forth. Harry watched the smile, and in his heart called the new partner "lucky, " and "cute, " and lookedat Charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that would haveexcited some grave astonishment to their host, if by any chance he hadlooked up to see. Though why Charlie should look discontented about it, Harry could not well see. 

They talked about indifferent matters with a little effort till thewhite dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice said--

"What, still in the dark, papa!"

The lights came in, and Harry was introduced to Miss Elphinstone. Hehad shared Rosie's interest in the lady of the pony-carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen her since her return from Scotland, where her lastthree years had been spent. A very sweet-looking and graceful littlelady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps insympathy, Harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman who had comein with her. 

It was evidently Harry's interest to be on good terms with the newpartner, and common politeness might have suggested the propriety ofsome appearance of interest in him and his conversation. But he turnedhis back upon the group by the fire, and devoted himself to theentertainment of their young hostess who was by this time busy with hertea-cups in another part of the room. There was some talk about theweather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in the first little pausethat came, the young lady looked up and said, --

"You don't live in the house opposite now, I think. "

It was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thankful for a newopening, Harry said, --

"No; my sisters were never quite contented there. We left it as soon aspossible; and we are quite at the other end of the town now. "

"And is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever?"

"Rose? Oh, yes! She has a garden of her own now, and aspires to rivalthe pansies and verbenas of Mr Stirling, even. "

Miss Elphinstone smiled brightly. 

"I remember the first time she came into the garden. "

"Yes, that was a bright day in Rosie's life. She has the gowans yougave her still. The garden was a great resource to her in those days. "

"Yes; so she said. I was very glad. I never gathered gowans among thehills at home, but I seemed to see that pretty shy face looking up atme. "

"Yes, " said Harry, meditatively, "Rose was a very pretty child. "

Mr Millar had drawn near by this time. Indeed, the other gentlemenwere listening too, and when Miss Elphinstone looked up it was to meet avery wondering look from the new partner. 

"By the by, Mr Elliott, " said her father, breaking rather suddenly intothe conversation, "whom did your elder brother marry?"

"Marry!" repeated Charles. 

"He is not married, " said Harry. 

"No? Well he is to be, I suppose. I saw him walking the other day witha young lady. Indeed, I have often seen them together, and I thought--"

"It was my sister, I presume, " said Harry. 

"Perhaps so. She was rather tall, with a pale, grave face--but pretty--quite beautiful indeed. "

"It was Graeme, I daresay. I don't know whether other people think herbeautiful or not. "

Harry did not say it, but he was thinking that his sister seemedbeautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took the tender look ofGraeme's own as he thought. It vanished quickly as a heavy hand waslaid on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the look of the new partner. 

"You don't mean that you are the Harry Elliott that sailed with me inthe `Steadfast, ' ten years ago. "

"Yes, I am Harry Elliott, and I crossed the sea in the `Steadfast' tenyears ago. I knew _you_ at the first glance, Mr Ruthven. "

"I never should have known you in the least, " said Mr Ruthven. "Why, you were quite a little fellow, and now you can nearly look down on me. "

"I never thought of that, " said Harry, looking foolish. 

"And you thought the new partner fancied himself too big a man to knowyou, " said Charlie. "And that's the reason you took umbrage at him, andtold your sister he was--ahem, Harry?"

Miss Elphinstone's laugh recalled Charlie to a sense of propriety, andHarry looked more foolish than ever. But Mr Ruthven did not seem tonotice what they were saying. 

"I never should have known you. I see your father's look in you now--and you have your elder sister's eyes. Why did you not write to me asyou promised?"

"We did write--Norman and I both, and afterwards Graeme. We never hearda word from you. "

"You forget, it was not decided where you were to settle when I leftyou. You promised to write and tell me. I wrote several times to yourfather's friend in C---, but I never heard from him. "

"He died soon after we arrived, " said Harry. 

"And afterward I heard of a Reverend Mr Elliott in the western part ofNew York, and went a day's journey thinking I had found you all at last. But I found this Mr Elliott was a very young man, an Englishman--afine fellow, too. But I was greatly disappointed. "

Harry's eyes grew to look more like Graeme's than ever, as they metAllan's downward gaze. 

"I can't tell you how many Mr Elliotts I have written to, and then Iheard of your father's death, Harry, and that your sisters had gone homeagain to Scotland. I gave up all hope then, till last winter, when Iheard of a young Elliott, an engineer--Norman, too--and when I went insearch of him, he was away from home; then I went another fifty miles tobe disappointed again. They told me he had a sister in a school atC---, but Rose never could have grown into the fair, blue-eyed littlelady I found there, and I knew it could not be either of the others, soI only said I was sorry not to see her brother, and went away. "

Harry listened eagerly. 

"I daresay it was our Norman, and the little girl you saw was hisadopted sister, Hilda. If Norman had only known--" said Harry. Andthen he went on to tell of how Norman had saved the little girl from theburning boat, and how he had cared for her since. By and by they spokeof other things and had some music, but the new partner said little, andwhen it was time for the young men to go, he said he would walk down thestreet with them. 

"So, Charlie, you have found the friends who were so kind to me longago, " said his brother, as they shut the gate. 

"Yes, " said Charlie, eagerly, "I don't know how I should have lived inthis strange land without them. It has been a different place to mesince Harry came to our office, and took me home with him. "

"And I suppose I am quite forgotten. "

"Oh, no, indeed!" said Harry, and Charlie added--

"Don't you mind, Harry, your sister Rose said to-night that I remindedMiss Elliott of some one she knew long ago. It was Allan, I daresay, she meant. My mother used to say I looked as Allan did when he wentaway. "

They did not speak again till they came near the house. Then Charliesaid, --

"It is not very late, Harry. I wonder whether they are up yet. Thereis a light. "

"Allan, " said Harry, lingering behind, "Marian died before my father. Don't speak of her to Graeme. "

Graeme was still sitting on the steps. 

"Miss Elliott, " whispered Charlie, eagerly, "who is the new partner, doyou think? Did I ever tell you my half-brother's name? It is AllanRuthven. "

Graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward holding out herhands to the tall figure who came forward with an arm thrown overHarry's shoulder. They were clasped in his. 

"I knew you would come. I was quite sure that some time we should seeyou again, " said Graeme, after a little. 

"And I--I had quite lost hope of ever finding you, " said Allan. "Iwonder if you have missed me as I have missed you?"

"We have been very happy together since we parted from you, " saidGraeme, "and very sorrowful, too. But we never forgot you, either injoy or sorrow; and I was always sure that we should see you again. "

They went into the house together. Rose, roused from the sleep intowhich she had fallen, stood very much amazed beneath the chandelier. 

"You'll never tell me that my wee white Rose has grown into a flowerlike this!" said Allan. 

It was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that Rose was nearly as tallas her sister; but he clasped her in his arms and kissed her "cheek andchin" as he had done that misty morning on the deck of the "Steadfast"so many years ago. 

"Rose, " said Graeme, "it is Allan--Allan Ruthven. Don't you remember. I was always sure we should see him again. "

They were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one another inmany words. The names of the dead were on their lips, making theirvoices trembling and uncertain. 

"Arthur, " said Rose, as they were all sitting together a day or twoafter, "you have forgotten to tell us about the party. "

"You have forgotten to ask me, you mean. You have been so taken up withyour new hero that I have had few of your thoughts. "

Mr Ruthven smiled at Rose from the other side of the table. 

"Well, tell us about it now, " said she. "You must have enjoyed itbetter than you expected, for more than one of the `small-hours' hadstruck before you came home. "

"Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very well. I met young Storey, who has justreturned from Europe. I enjoyed his talk very much. And then MrsGridley took me under her protection. She is a clever woman, andhandsome, too. "

"Handsome!" echoed Rose. "Why she is an old woman, with grown-updaughters. And if you were to see her by daylight!"

They all laughed. 

"Well, that might make a difference. But she says very clever, or maybevery sharp, things about her neighbours, and the time passed quicklytill supper. It was rather late but I could not leave before supper--the event of the evening. "

"I should think not, " said Harry. 

"Well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might make Harrydiscontented with his own. And what happened after supper?"

"Oh! after supper Mr Grove and his friend Barnes began to discuss theharbour question, and I very foolishly allowed myself to be drawn intothe discussion. Mr Green was there, the great western merchant. He isa long-headed fellow, that. You must know him, Mr Ruthven. "

"I know him well. He is a remarkably clever business-man, and a goodfellow; though, I suppose, few know it so well as I do. I had a longillness in C once, and he nursed me as if I had been a brother. I mighthave known him for years in the way of business, without discovering hismany excellent qualities. He has the name of being rather hard in theway of business, I believe?"

"He has a clear head of his own, " said Arthur; "I enjoyed a talk withhim very much. He intends visiting Europe, he tells me. "

"Well, what next?" said Rose, to whom Mr Green and his good qualitieswere matters of indifference. 

"Then I came home. Mr Green walked down the street with me. "

"And didn't you see Miss Grove, the belle of the evening!" exclaimedRose. 

"Oh, yes! I had the honour of an introduction to her. She is a prettylittle thing. "

"Pretty! Is that all you can say for the belle? How does she look? Isshe fair or dark? What colour are her eyes?"

"I can hardly say. She would be called fair, I think. I can't sayabout her eyes. She has a very pretty hand and arm, and--is aware ofit. "

"Don't be censorious, Arthur! Does she wear curls? And what did shesay to you?"

"Curls! I cannot say. I have the impression of a quantity of hair, notin the best order toward the end of the evening. She seemed to bedancing most of the time, and she dances beautifully. "

"But she surely said something to you. What did you talk about?"demanded Rose, impatiently. 

"She told that if she were to dance all the dances for which she wasengaged, she wouldn't get home till morning. "

"You don't mean to say you asked her to dance?"

"Oh, no! She volunteered the information. I could have waited so longas to have the honour. "

"And, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress?"

"I beg your pardon, " said Arthur, searching his pocket. "It must be inmy other vest. I asked Mrs Gridley what the young lady's dress wasmade of, and put it down for your satisfaction. Rosie, I hope I haven'tlost it. "

"Arthur! what nonsense!" said Graeme, laughing. "I am sure Mrs Gridleywas laughing in her sleeve at you all the time. "

"She hadn't any sleeve to laugh in. But when I told her that I wasdoing it for the benefit of my little sister Rosie, she smiled in hersuperior way. "

"I think I see her, " said Rosie, indignantly. "But what was her dress, after all? Was it silk or satin?"

"No, nothing so commonplace as that. I could have remembered silk orsatin. It was--"

"Was it lace, or gauze, or crape?" suggested Rose. 

"Or tarltan or muslin?" said Graeme, much amused. 

"Or damask, or velvet, or cloth of gold, or linsey-woolsey?" said Harry. 

Arthur assumed an air of bewilderment. 

"It was gauze or crape, I think. No; it had a name of three syllablesat least. It was white or blue, or both. But I'll write a note to MrsGridley, shall I, Rosie?"

"It would be a good plan. I wonder what is the use of your going toparties?"

"So do I, indeed, " said her brother. "I am quite in the dark on thesubject. But I was told in confidence that there are cards to be issuedfor a great entertainment in Grove House, and I should not wonder if my`accomplished sisters'--as Mrs Gridley in her friendly way calls them--were to be visited in due form by the lady of the Grove preparatory toan invitation to the same. So be in readiness. I think I should writethe note to Mrs Gridley, Rosie; you'll need a hint. "

Graeme laughed, while Rose clapped her hands. 

"I am not afraid of the call or the invitation, " said Graeme. 

But they came--first the call, which was duly returned, and then theinvitation. That was quite informal. Mrs Grove would be happy if MissElliott and her sister would spend the evening at her house to meet afew friends. To their surprise, Harry, as well as Arthur, came homewith a little pink note to the same effect. 

"I didn't know that you knew the Groves, Harry, " said Arthur. 

"Oh, yes, I know Mr Grove in a general way; but I am invited through amistake. However, I shall go all the same. I am not responsible forother people's mistakes. Nothing can be plainer than that. "

"A mistake!" repeated several voices. 

"Yes; Mrs Grove thinks I am a rising man, like the squire here; and whyundeceive her? I shall add to the brilliancy of her party, and enjoy itmightily myself. Why undeceive her, I ask?"

"Don't be nonsensical, Harry, " said Rose. 

"How came Mrs Grove to make such an absurd mistake?" said Arthur, laughing. 

"She's _cute_, I know; still it was not surprising in the circumstances. I met her on the street yesterday, and I saw the invitation in her eyesas plainly as I see this little pink concern now;" and he tossed thenote to Rose. "I think I should send the acceptance to MissElphinstone. It was she who obtained the invitation for me. "

"Miss Elphinstone!"

"Yes, or Jack, or both, I should perhaps say. For if Jack had been athis post, I should not have been politely requested to call a carriagefor Miss Elphinstone, and Mrs Grove would not have seen me escortingher down the street as she sat in her carriage at Alexander's door. Iknow she was thinking I was very bold to be walking on N Street with mymaster's daughter. Of course she didn't know that I was doing the workof that rascal Jack. And so I am going to the Grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to our going _en masse_. Eh, Graeme?"

"It is not a party, only a few friends, " said Rose, eagerly. 

"Certainly, we'll all go, " said Arthur. "If they had not wanted us all, they would not have asked us. Of course, we'll all go for once. "

"But, Graeme, " said Harry, coming back after he had left to go away, "don't let the idea of `a few friends' delude you. Make yourselves asfine as possible. There will be a great crowd, you may be sure. MissElphinstone and Mr Ruthven are invited, and they are not among theintimate friends of such people as the Groves. Shall I send you home afashion book, Rosie?"

"Or write a note to Mrs Gridley, " said Arthur. 

Rose laughed. She was pleasantly excited at the prospect of her firstlarge party, there was no denying it. Indeed, she did not seek to denyit, but talked merrily on, not seeing, or not seeming to see, thedoubtful look on Graeme's face. She alone, had not spoken during thediscussion. She had not quite decided whether this invitation was sodelightful as Rosie thought, and in a little when her sister had leftthe room, she said--

"Shall I accept the invitation then for Rose and me?"

"Have you not accepted yet? you need not of course, unless you wish. But I think you will enjoy it, and Rosie, too. "

"Yes, but I am by no means sure, that I like Mrs Grove, " said she, hesitating. 

"Are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "Well, I have got muchfarther than you. I am sure that I don't like her at all. But, what ofthat?"

"Only that I don't fancy accepting kindness, from a person I don't like, and to whom I don't think it would be pleasant to repay in kind. "

"Oh! nonsense. The obligation is mutual. Her kindness will be quiterepaid, by having a new face in her splendid rooms. And as for repayingher in kind, as you call it, that is quite out of the question. Thereare not a dozen people in town who do the thing on the scale the Grovesattempt. And besides, Rosie would be disappointed. "

Graeme did not believe that it was the best thing that could happen toRosie, to be gratified in this matter, but she did not say so. 

"After all, " thought she, "I daresay there is no harm in it. I shallnot spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming to enjoy it. But Idon't like Mrs Grove. "

The last words were emphatically repeated. She did not like her. Shedid not wish to see her frequently, or to know her intimately. Shewished she had neither called, nor invited them. She wished she hadfollowed her first impulse, which had been to refuse at once withoutreferring to her brothers. Now, however, she must go with a good grace. 

So they all went, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as they foundon comparing notes around the bright little fire, which Nelly had keptburning, against their return. 

"Only, " said Rosie, with a little shamefacedness, "I am not sure thatGraeme liked me to dance quite so much. "

Graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the best time tospeak about it. So she did not. 

"But how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me, " said Arthur, "and Harry too, I saw him carrying off Miss Elphinstone, with all thecoolness imaginable. Really, the young people of the present day amazeme. "

"Oh! one can dance without learning, " said Rose, laughing. "The musicinspires it. "

"And I have danced many a time before, " said Harry. "You are not sorryyou went, are you Graeme?"

"Sorry! no indeed! I have had a very pleasant evening. "

And so had they all. Mrs Grove had made a great effort to get a greatmany nice and clever people together, and she had succeeded. It hadrequired an effort, for it was only lately, since his second marriage, that Mr Grove had affected the society of clever people, or indeed, anysociety at all. There were people who fancied that he did not affect ityet, and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in cornersamong the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to bring together. He did not enjoy society much, but that was a small matter in theopinion of his wife. He was as little of a drawback to the generalenjoyment, as could be expected in the circumstances. If he was notquite at his ease, at least he was seldom in anybody's way, and MrsGrove was quite able to do the honours for both. Mr Grove was a manwhom it was not difficult to ignore, even in his own dining-room. Indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown to the poor little manin the circumstances, was to ignore him, and a great deal of this sortof kind feeling was manifested towards him by his guests. 

On the first entrance of Arthur and Graeme, their host fastened on theformer, renewing with great earnestness a conversation commenced in themorning in the young man's office. This did not last long, however. The hostess had too high an opinion of Mr Elliott's powers of pleasing, to permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly carried himoff, leaving Mr Grove, for the present, to the tender mercies ofGraeme. He might have had a worse fate; for Graeme listened andresponded with a politeness and interest, to which he was littleaccustomed from his wife's guests. Before he became unbearably tedious, she was rescued by Mr Ruthven, and Mr Grove went to receive Mr EliasGreen, the great western merchant, a guest far more worthy of hisattention than any of the fine ladies and gentlemen, who only knew himin the character of feast-maker, or as the stupid husband of hisaspiring wife. 

Graeme had seen Allan Ruthven often since that first night. They hadspoken of the pleasant and painful things that had befallen them, sincethey parted so long ago, or they might not have been able to walk soquietly up and down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. Thenthey found a quiet, or rather a noisy, corner in the music room, wherethey pursued their conversation unmolested, till Harry brought MissElphinstone to be introduced to Graeme. 

This was a mutual pleasure, for Graeme wished to know the young lady whohad long been Rosie's ideal of all that was sweet and beautiful, andMiss Elphinstone was as pleased to become the friend of one whom hercousins Allan and Charlie admired so much. And when she beggedpermission to call upon her and Rose, what could Graeme do, but becharmed more and more. Then Miss Elphinstone was claimed for anotherdance, and who should present himself again but their host, and with himthe guest of the evening, the great western merchant! Then there were afew minutes not so pleasant, and then Mr Green proposed that they"should make the tour of the rooms. " But Graeme had not the courage forsuch an ordeal, and smilingly begged to be excused; and so he sat downbeside her, and by and by, Graeme was surprised to find herselfinterested in his conversation. Before he had been a great merchant. Mr Green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of Vermont, and whenhe knew that Miss Elliott had passed seven happy years in a New Englandvillage, he found enough to say to her; and Graeme listened andresponded, well pleased. 

She had one uncomfortable moment. It was when the supper movement beganto be made, and the thought flashed upon her, that she must be led tothe supper room, by this western giant. Mr Ruthven saved her fromthis, however, to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engagedin talking and listening, as not to have perceived that somethinginteresting was about to take place. The sight of the freely flowingchampagne gave Graeme a shock, but a glance at Harry reassured her. There was no danger for him to-night. Yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as they lingered over the fire after their return. 

"But, Arthur, " said Graeme, "I was disappointed in Miss Grove. She ispretty, certainly, but there is something wanting--in expression I mean. She looks good tempered, but not intellectual. "

"Intellectual!" repeated Arthur. "No. One would hardly make use ofthat word in describing her. But she is almost the prettiest littlething I ever saw, I think. "

"And she certainly is the silliest little thing I ever saw, " said Harry. "Rosie, if I thought you capable of talking such stuff, as I heard fromher pretty lips to-night, _I_ would--"

Arthur laughed; less, it seemed, at what Harry had said, than at what itrecalled. 

"She is not likely to astonish the world by her wisdom, I should think, "said he, as he rose to go up-stairs. "Nor Rosie either, for thatmatter, " he added, laughing, and looking back. 

"None of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, I think, " saidGraeme. "Come, Rosie, Nelly will lose patience if breakfast is keptwaiting. Good-night, Harry. Don't sit long. "

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. 

Whether Nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does notrecord; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, Rosie did not make her appearance at it. Graeme had still a verypleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. The late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, Rosie'slassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any seriousoccupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. Allwere more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another. 

This did not last long, however. The drawback was forgotten, thepleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a notecame from Mrs Gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sistersat a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. MrsGridley had promised some friends from Toronto, a treat of Scottishmusic, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. Butthe consolation of Mrs Gridley was not the chief reason of theacceptance. Arthur was to be out of town, but Will was to go in hisplace. They went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable. 

Mrs Gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who hadno claim to the title said the same--the tone and manner making all thedifference in the sense of the declaration. She would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convincedherself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in thehouses of other people. So there was only music and conversation, and asimple game or two for the very young people. Graeme and Rosie, andWill too, enjoyed it well. Harry professed to have been bored. 

Out of these parties sprang others. Graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. Perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into byArthur, with the long-established firm of Black & Company. Theycertainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at theirdoor, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. Invitations camethick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. Regular reading was interfered with or neglected. Household mattersmust have fallen into confusion, if Nelly had not proved herself equalto all emergencies. The long quiet evening at home became theexception. They went out, or some one came in, or there was a lectureor concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. There were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire thestrongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time. 

Graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. The novelty soon wore off for her, and she becamepainfully conscious of the attendant evils. Sadly disinclined herselfto engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with hersister it was even worse. Rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude anddepression were proportionably greater. Indeed, lassitude anddepression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child'ssensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifesteditself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, theparty of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. Then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. For a time, Graememade excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did whatwas much wiser. She determined to put a stop to the cause of so muchdiscomfort. Several circumstances helped her to this decision, orrather to see the necessity for it. She only hesitated as to the mannerin which she was to make her determination known; and while shehesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, andshe did not permit it to pass unimproved. 

Christmas and New Year's Day had been past for some weeks, and there wasa pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usualform and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. Rose, whohad seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, tillNelly had taken it from his hand. She just noticed that it wasaddressed to Graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it. 

"What is it, Graeme?" asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room whereher sister was writing. "I am almost sure it was left by Mrs Roxbury'sservant. See, there is their crest. What is it? An invitation?"

"Yes, " said Graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "For thetwenty-seventh. "

"Such a long time! It will be a grand affair. We must have newdresses, Graeme. "

She took up the note and read:

"Mrs Roxbury's compliments to Miss Elliott. "

"Miss Elliott!" she repeated. "Why, Graeme! I am not invited. "

"So it seems; but never mind, Rosie. I am not going to accept it. "

Rose was indeed crestfallen. 

"Oh, you must go, of course. You must not stay at home on my account. "

"No; certainly. That is not the reason. Your being invited would havemade no difference. "

"I could hardly have gone without you, " said Rose, doubtfully. 

"Certainly not. Neither of us would have gone. If I don't accept thisinvitation our acquaintance with the Roxburys will perhaps go nofurther. That would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if therewere no others. "

"A sufficient reason for not refusing, I should rather say, " said Rose. 

"No. There is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with somany people. There is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste oftime and strength, and money too, for that matter. "

"But Arthur wishes it. He thinks it right. "

"Yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. Idon't mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. But so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfortto us all. I am tired of it. We won't speak of it now, however; I mustfinish my letter. " For to tell the truth, Rosie's face did not lookpromising. 

"Don't send a refusal till you have spoken to Arthur, Graeme. If hewishes you to go, you ought, you know. "

"I am by no means sure of that. Arthur does not very often go to theselarge parties himself. He does not enjoy them, and I see no reason whyI should deny myself, in so bad a cause. "

"But Graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. I am sure I havealways enjoyed them. "

"Yes, I have enjoyed some of them, but I am not sure that it is a rightkind of enjoyment. I mean, it may be too dearly bought. And besides, it is not the party, as a party, that I ever enjoy. I have had morereal pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only--only oneor two friends, than I ever had at a party, and--, but we won't talkabout it now, " and she bent over her letter again. She raised her headalmost immediately, however. 

"And yet, Rosie, I don't know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, I have meant to say. We have not been living a good orwise life of late. Do you mind, love, what Janet said to us, the nightbefore we came away? Do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep ourgarments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? Do youthink, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us morelike what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be--more fit to meet them where they are?"

Graeme spoke very earnestly. There were tears in her eyes. 

"Graeme, " said Rose, "do you think it wrong to go to parties--to dance?Many good people do not. "

"I don't know, love. I cannot tell. It might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. Certainly, if it withdraws our minds fromthings of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannotbe right for us. I am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately. "

Rosie looked grave, but did not reply. In a little, Graeme added, --

"I am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to MrsSnow, Rosie. She seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become toomuch engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of thecare and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from theworld. "

"But, Graeme, everything is so different in Merleville, Janet cannotknow. And, besides--"

"I know, dear; and I would not like to say that we have been doinganything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same aredoing wrong. If we were wiser and stronger, and not so easilyinfluenced for evil, I daresay it would do us no harm. But, Rosie, I amafraid for myself, that I may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as ourfather would have chosen for us, and I am afraid for you, too, dearRose. "

"I enjoy parties very much, and I can't see that there is any harm init, " said Rosie, a little crossly. 

"No, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. But, Rose, think how dreadful, to become `a lover of pleasure. ' Isthere no danger do you think, love?"

Rose hung her head, and was silent. Graeme went on, --

"My darling, there is danger for you--for me--for us all. How can weever hope to win Harry from the society of those who do him harm, whenwe are living only to please ourselves?"

"But, Graeme, it is better that we should all go together--I mean Harryis more with us than he used to be. It must be better. "

"I don't know, dear. I fear it is only a change of evils. Harry'stemptation meets him even with us. And, oh! Rosie, if our exampleshould make it easier for Harry to go astray! But we won't speak aboutHarry. I trust God will keep him safe. I believe He will. "

Though Graeme tried to speak calmly, Rose saw that she trembled and grewvery white. 

"At any rate, Rose, we could not hope that God would hear our prayersfor Harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing toHim. For it is not well with us, dear. We need not try to hide it fromourselves. We must forget the last few troubled months, and beginagain. Yes, we must go farther back than that, Rosie, " said Graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. "Do you mindthat last night, beside the two graves? How little worth all seemed tous then, except to get safe home together. Rosie! I could not answerfor it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled lifelong. My darling! we must begin again. "

There were tears on Rose's cheeks, as well as Graeme's, by this time. But in a little Graeme sat down again. 

"It is I who have been most to blame. These gay doings never shouldhave commenced. I don't think Arthur will object to our living muchmore quietly than we have done of late. And if he does, we must try andreconcile him to the change. "

It was not difficult to reconcile Arthur to the change. "Graeme must doas she thought right, " he said. "It must be rather a troublesome thingto keep up such a general acquaintance--a loss of time to littlepurpose, " and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, ifHarry had not discovered Mrs Roxbury's note. 

"I declare Mrs Gridley is right, " said he. "We are a rising family. Ihope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she washere to-day. But how is this? Miss Elliott. Have you one, Rosie?"

Rose shook her head. 

"No. Have you, Harry?"

"Have I? What are you thinking of, Rose? Do you suppose those loftyportals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? It isonly for such commercial successes as Mr Green, or Allan Ruthven, thatthat honour is reserved. But never mind, Rosie. We shall findsomething to amuse us that night, I have no doubt. "

"Graeme is not going, " said Rose. 

"Not going! Oh! she'll think better of it. "

"No, she has sent her refusal. "

"And why, pray?"

"Oh! one can't go everywhere, as Mrs Gridley says, " replied Graeme, thus appealed to. 

"Yes; but Mrs Gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our goodfriend, Willie Birnie, the tailor. I can understand how she should notfind time to go there. But how you should find time to shine on thatoccasion, and have none to spare for Mrs Roxbury's select affair, ismore than I can comprehend. "

"Don't be snobbish, Harry, " said Will. 

"I think the reasons are obvious, " said Arthur. 

"Yes, " said Graeme, "we knew Willie Birnie when we were children. Hewas at the school with you all. And I like his new wife very much, andour going gave them pleasure, and, besides, I enjoyed it well. "

"Oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, I havenothing to say. And Willie is a fine fellow; I don't object to Willie, or the new wife either--quite the contrary. But of the two, peoplegenerally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs Roxbury andher set. "

"Graeme is not like people generally, " said Rose. 

"I hope not, " said Will. "And, Harry, what do you suppose Mrs Roxburycares about any of us, after all?"

"She cares about Graeme going to her party, or she would not have askedher. "

"I am not sure of that, " said Graeme, smiling at the eagerness of thebrothers. "I suppose she asked me for the same reason that she calledhere, because of the partnership. They are connected with the Blacks, in some way. Now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, Idaresay she will be just as well pleased that I should stay at home. "

"That is not the least bit uncharitable, is it Graeme?"

"No. I don't think so. It certainly cannot make much difference toher, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. I reallythink she asks me from a sense of duty--or rather, I ought to say, froma wish to be polite to her friends the Blacks. It is very well that sheshould do so, and if I cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable toher, but it will not trouble her in the least though I stay away. "

"Well, I can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to beginto be fastidious. I should think the Roxbury's would be the very houseyou would like to go to. "

"Oh! one has to make a beginning. And I am tired of so much gaiety. Itmakes no difference about its being Mrs Roxbury. "

"Very well. Please yourself and you'll please me, " said Harry, rising. 

"Are you going out to-night, Harry?" said Graeme, trying not to lookanxious. 

"Yes; but pray don't wait for me if I should not be in early, " saidHarry, rather hastily. 

There was nothing said for some time after Harry went out. Will went tohis books, and Rose went to the piano. Graeme sewed busily, but shelooked grave and anxious. 

"What can make Harry so desirous that you should go to Mrs Roxbury's?"said Arthur, at last. "Have you any particular reason for not wishingto go?"

"Do you think Harry really cared? No; I have no reason for not wishingto go there. But, Arthur, we have been going out too much lately. Itis not good for Rosie, nor for me, either; and I refused this invitationchiefly because she was not invited, I might not have had the courage torefuse to go with her--as she would have been eager to go. But it isnot good for her, all this party-going. "

"I dare say you are right. She is too young, and not by any meansbeyond being spoiled. She is a very pretty girl. "

"Pretty! Who can compare with her?" said Graeme. "But she must not bespoiled. She is best at home. "

"Proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friendRuthven, and Miss Elphinstone, " said Arthur. "It seems the wedding isto come off soon. Proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know. "

"No; I did not know it, " said Graeme; and in a little she added, "oughtthat to make any difference about my going? My note is written but notsent. "

"I should think not. You are not supposed to know anything about it. It is very likely not true. And it is nothing to us. "

"No; that is true, " said Graeme. "Rosie, my dear, you are playing tooquickly. That should be quite otherwise at the close, " and rising, shewent to the piano and sat down beside her sister. They played a longtime together, and it was Rose who was tired first `for a wonder. '

"Graeme, why did you not tell Harry the true reason that you did notwish to go to Mrs Roxbury's?" said Rose, when they went up-stairstogether. 

"The true reason?" repeated Graeme. 

"I mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?"

"I don't know, dear. Perhaps I ought to have done so. But it is not soeasy to speak to others as it is to you. I am afraid Harry would havecared as little for the true reason as for the one I gave. "

"I don't know, Graeme. He was not satisfied; and don't you think itwould have been better just to say you didn't think it right to go outso much--to large parties, I mean. "

"Perhaps it would have been better, " said Graeme, but she said no more;and sat down in the shadow with her Bible in her hand for the nightlyreading. Rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly, --

"Graeme, you are not afraid for Harry now? I mean not more afraid?"

Graeme started. Her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but theywere not of Harry. 

"I don't know, love. I hope not. I pray God, no harm may come toHarry. Oh! Rosie, Rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. We have been dreaming, I think. We must waken up, and begin again. "

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. 

Graeme's first judgment of Allan Ruthven, had been, "how these ten yearshave changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she cameto see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kindvoice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same, the very same. "

But her first judgment was the true one. He was changed. It would havebeen strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years hadnot changed him, and that not for the better. 

In the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the newacquaintance he made with his brother Charlie, he came to know himselfthat he had changed greatly. He remembered sadly enough, theaspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, thetemptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! hehad not always withstood. He knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him. 

Yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the restan the deck of the "Steadfast, " watching the gleaming lights of astrange city. Standing now face to face with the awakened remembranceof his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of itsattainment; and reading in Graeme's truthful eye "the same, the verysame, " his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he weredeceiving her. 

He was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these tenyears had not changed him more. The lonely life he had pictured to hisfriends, that last night on the "Steadfast, " fell far short of thereality that awaited him. Removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to theturmoil of a Western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in amerchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life thatseemed opening before him. His native place, humble as it was, hadlived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which hadsprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. A few months agothe turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broadstreets are trodden by the feet of thousands. Between gigantic blocksof buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf layundisturbed still. The air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecuritythat seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the saddenprosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one broughtup in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovationis one of mistrust and doubt. 

All his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed himnothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. If businessmen were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith orhonour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. Business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized thegreatest portion. The feverish activity and energy which were fastchanging the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end--the getting of wealth. Wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, andit must be gotten suddenly. There was no respite, no repose. One mustgo onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. Fortune wasdaily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, tilla new chance could be grasped at. 

"Honest labour! Patient toil!" Allan wondered within himself if thewords had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle. 

Allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and tomake himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, andtelling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged byold laws, or measured by old standards. But there were among theswiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whoseboyish feet had wandered over English meadows, or trod the heather onScottish hills. Men whose fathers had spent their lives content inmountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their nativeglens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their owncountry for honest, patient, God-fearing men, grew as eager, asunscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. The very diggers ofditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood anddrawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their dailywages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil ofthe new world. 

That there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. He never could associate the idea of home orcomfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day atevery corner. He could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in theutterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meetingthe smiling mouth of a little child. Home! Why, all the world seemedat home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each othercoldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a blackman, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. Even thechildren seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. They troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairswith their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with acoolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their futuremight be. Looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whosepale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeterwords, Ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. He fanciedhe could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed tohim, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in thedaily strife. 

Ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during thefirst part of his residence in C. He changed his opinions of manythings afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because hebecame a little blind, and, especially, because he himself becamechanged at last. By and by his life was too busy to permit him to watchthose about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. Uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle hadprovided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made itfirst endurable, then pleasant to him. At first his duties were merelymechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then histime was his own. But this did not continue long. Trusted always bythe firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do goodservice to his employers. His skill and will guided their affairsthrough more than one painful crisis. His integrity kept their goodname unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemednecessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve theircredit. He thoroughly identified himself with the interests of thefirm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. He did hisduty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. Sopassed the first years of his commercial life. 

In default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to businesspursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking partwould have thought of singling him out as in any respect different fromthose who were about him. Those who came into close contact with himcalled him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in manypoints; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense abovethem, was willing so to be called. But as one cannot touch pitchwithout being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences inthe midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. So it came topass that, as the years went on, Allan Ruthven was greatly changed. 

It need not have been so. It doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers ofgold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slowto discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife ofthat new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence ofthe Christian faith and the Christian life. There were those over whomthe gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talismanthey held, the "constraining love of Christ, " in them. Those walkedthrough the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. But Ruthven was not one of them. He had thename of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in hisheart. He was a Christian only in name; and so, when the influence ofearly associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as menwill for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way, "at the "lying down and the rising up, " no wonder that the questionablemaxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to haveweight with him at last. 

Not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its ownsake. He never sank so low as that. But in the eagerness with which hedevoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performanceof other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principlesand affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man fromdegenerating into a character so despicable. If he was not swept awayby the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom orstrength or foresight of his. Another ten years of such a life wouldhave made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy ofesteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly--all that in his youth hehad most despised. 

This may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed onhimself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked backover those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely--thathe could not open his hand and let it go. He had been pleasing himselfall along with the thought that he was not like the men about him--content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but therecame a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without thesehe could not be content. It was a great shock and surprise to him to beforced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and howimpossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder andsterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here. 

Ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at longintervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a greatfavourite with his aunt and his cousin Lilias, who was then a child. Indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fellinto his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one ofhis first visits to M, in which half seriously, half playfully, wasexpressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer anddearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. Iam afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wishwas cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughingoutright at the idea. For what a child Lilias must have been when thatwas written, thought he! what a child she was still!

But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, andthe remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to Allan Ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of otherthings. He could not be blind to the advantages that such a connectionwould ensure to him. The new partnership was anticipated and enteredupon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but forthe silent understanding with regard to Lilias that existed between theuncle and nephew. It was no small matter that the young merchant shouldfind himself in a position to which the greater number attain only afterhalf a lifetime of labour. He was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well--consciousof youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. Nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages ofhis position. He knew that this wealth had not bought him. He lovedhis cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to thistime, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinlysort, he believed she loved him. The thought _did_ come into his mindsometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, butnever painfully. He did not doubt that, as years went on, they would bevery happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, nowand then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how hiswife was to be wooed and won. 

He was happy--they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietlyon the the night when Allan clasped the trembling hand of GraemeElliott. Indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charmthat, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the Elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships andthe awakening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which hiscousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less thanhis own. Around the heiress and only child of Mr Elphinstone theresoon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whomwould hardly have recognised the Elliotts as worthy of sharing thehonour with them. But there was to the young girl, who had neitherbrother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion inGraeme's quiet parlour. The mutual love and confidence that made theirhome so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were fewdays, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet. 

The pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She brightened under itwonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side. Her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first hewas not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up sosuddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one likeRose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. The longmorning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were Rosie'sdelight, Graeme seldom shared. But she was quite as much the friend ofLilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem sobeautiful to Allan, never was she so dear, as when, with prettywillfulness; she hung about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Rosethe caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not thinkof danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias shared so happily. He was content with the present, and did not seek to look into thefuture. 

But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. In theatmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. Almostunconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, andmotives, and actions, by a new rule--or rather, he came back to the oldrule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. Thesedays did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, andsometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, withthe clear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not always a pleasantretrospect. There were some things covered up by that time, of whichthe review could not give unmingled pleasure. These were moments whenhe could not meet Graeme's truthful eyes, as with "Don't you remember?"she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though she didnot, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and thoughthe intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there cameto him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though hismanhood had belied the promise of his youth--a strong desire to beginanew--a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed. 

But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called Allan, for atime, to his old home in C, and to his uncongenial life there. It wasnot pleasant business. There was a cry, louder than usual, of "hardtimes" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in whichhe had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endangerthe safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at theWest had become, Allan began to fear that his own presence there wouldfor some time be necessary. He was surprised and startled at the painwhich the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himselfas to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him. 

A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery froman illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must provefatal, set the matter before him in its true light. The letter wasbrief. Knowing little of the disorder into which recent events hadthrown their affairs, he entreated Allan's immediate return, for hissake, and for the sake of Lilias, whom it distressed him to think ofleaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband'sright to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly said, asone might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by allconcerned. But the words smote on Allan's heart with sharp and suddenpain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the timewhen he had listened in complacent silence to Mr Elphinstone'shalf-expressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There waspleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with theknowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme Elliott, there camealso the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness inthe feelings with which she regarded him. But the pleasure passed, andthe pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future inthe face. 

It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had passedbetween them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might notvery well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; andjudging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembranceof many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said tohimself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they mightnever be more than cousins to each other. But this did not end hisdoubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that helingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him thedifficulties of his position. He knew it was a son's place that he hadgot in the firm. He could only claim it as a son. If his relations toLilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could nothonourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which hehad gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten yearsmust be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. He must begin life again a poorman. 

But let me not be unjust to him. It was not this that made all themisery of his indecision. Had all this come in a time of prosperity, orwhen Mr Elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. But now, when all things lookedthreatening, when certain loss--possible ruin--lay before them, when themisfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the veryground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man tostruggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? He knew hisuncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledgebut his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertakenunder more favourable circumstances. 

He was very wretched. He could not put away the discomfort of hisindecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the coursewhich he must take. Whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. There was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the straitin which he found himself. He did not hasten home. He had cause enoughto excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into theincreasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for thetime, left no room for painful thoughts. But it was only for the time. He knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision. 

If his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it wouldhave been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him withintense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changedthe meaning of the word to him. But his honour was involved--his honouras a man, and as a merchant. He could not leave his uncle to strugglewith misfortune in his old age. He could not let the name, so longhonoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the manywhich during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and evenwith shame. He was responsible for the stability or the failure of thehouse, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. More than this. His own reputation as a wise and successful man ofbusiness, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make itimpossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at ajuncture so perilous. 

And then, Lilias. Nothing but her own spoken word could free him fromthe tacit engagement that existed between them. In honour he couldnever ask her to speak that word. 

Through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, makingno decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing graduallyconscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must beforgotten in the future. He met his uncle's eager greeting with no wordof change. His face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, butnot more so than hers. But that might very well be said each of theother. Lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained thanher father knew; and Allan might well look grave, she thought, and thewatching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him forher sad looks. After the first clasp of their hands he knew that thevows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled. 

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. 

Graeme did go to Mrs Roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. Theinvitations had been sent out before Mr Elphinstone's short, sharpillness, and Lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on theoccasion. She had not been consulted about the sending of Graeme'sinvitation, or probably Rose would have had one too, but by goodfortune, as she declared, Graeme's refusal came first to her hand, andthe little lady did a most unprecedented thing. She put it quietly intoher pocket, and going home that night by the Elliott's, ventured toexpostulate. 

"First, you must promise not to be vexed, " and then she showed the note. Graeme looked grave. 

"Now you must not be angry with me. Rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. But I am sure you will not be so cruel. I can't tell you any reason, except that I have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come toplease me, will you not?"

"To please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, I know, " said Graeme, smiling. And Lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. She sawthe acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens ofothers, in the hands of Mrs Roxbury. She did not say much to Graemeabout it, but to Rosie, she triumphed. 

"I want Aunt Roxbury to see Graeme looking her very best. Graeme willlook like a queen among us. Aunt will see that Allan and I have goodreasons for our admiration. Fancy any of these trumpery peoplepatronising Graeme! But you are not to tell her what I say. You don'tthink she was really vexed with me, do you? And she must wear her newpeach-blossom silk. I am so glad. "

But poor little Lilias went through deep waters, before thepeach-blossom silk was worn by Graeme. Mr Elphinstone was brought verynear the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by hisdaughter at his bedside. Mrs Roxbury would have recalled herinvitations, and Lilias' soul sickened at the thought of theentertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell intotheir usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either byword or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and evenher father insisted that it was right for her to go. 

"And so, my love, " said Mrs Roxbury, "as your father and I see noimpropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. You are tired now. "

"Impropriety! it is not that I don't wish to go. I cannot bear thethought of going. "

"Nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. And Mr Ruthven will be hereby that time, and I depend on you to bring him. "

But if Allan's presence had depended on Lilias, Mrs Roxbury would nothave seen him in her splendid rooms that night. It was Mr Elphinstonethat reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, andit was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour ortwo, at the party. And they went together, a little constrained anduncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at theirease, and content with one another when they entered the room. Graemesaw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significantglance exchanged, as they made their way together to Mrs Roxbury. 

Lilias saw Graeme almost as soon. She was standing near thefolding-doors, seemingly much interested in what Mr Proudfute, herbrother's friend, was saying to her. 

"There, aunt, " said Lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "didI not tell you that my friend Miss Elliott would eclipse all hereto-night? Look at her now. "

"My dear, " said her aunt, "she does better than that. She is verylovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins allhearts. "

Lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catchher look. 

"My dear, " continued Mrs Roxbury, "I have news for you, but perhaps itis no news to you. Ah! he has found her. "

Mr Elias Green was at the moment, making his bow to Graeme. 

"There was no truth in the rumour, about him and little Miss Grove. MrGreen has more sense. Your friend is fortunate, Lilias. "

Lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could besaid, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed. 

"Aunt Roxbury does not know what she is talking about, " said she, to hercousin, as he led her away. "The idea of Mr Green's daring to lift hiseyes to Graeme Elliott. She would not look at him. "

"Mr Green is a great man in his own circle, I can assure you, " said MrRuthven. "Miss Elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally. "

"Do you think so? You know very little about her, if you think that, "said Lilias, impatiently. 

"I know Mr Green better than most people do, and I respect him--and heis very rich--"

"Oh! don't talk folly, " cried Lilias. "I have no patience with peoplewho think, because a man is rich--. But you don't know Graeme, cousinAllan--I thought--"

They were very near Graeme by this time. She turned at the moment, andgreeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. She noticedthe cloud on Lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; sheexpressed pleasure at the return of Mr Ruthven too, but she did notmeet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother Norman at astation by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he hadsent. He had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by thewords of Mrs Roxbury and Lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. But he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. It was not a pleasant moment, it wasa very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, Graemeplaced her hand on the willing arm of Mr Green, and walked away "like aqueen, " he said to himself, but to his cousin he said--

"My friend will be a very happy man, and _your_ friend may be happy too, let us hope. "

But Lilias never answered a word. She followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; andthen she said only, --

"I have made a great mistake. "

Had she made a mistake or had he? A mistake never to be undone, neveroutlived--a mistake for Graeme, for himself, perhaps for Lilias too. Itwas not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying itcould not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he wasvery gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve inthe future, if his loving care for her could avail. 

About this time Will was threatened with a serious illness. It did notprove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many whocalled, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obligedto see. In the silence of her brother's sick-room, Graeme looked agreat sorrow in the face. In other circumstances, with the necessitylaid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceivedherself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, istoo bitter to be accepted willingly. But the misery of those longsilent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed toteach her. 

In the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. She was hard and bitter to herself. She might have known, she thought, how it was with Allan and his cousin. During all those years in whichshe had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; andnow, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. It wasnatural that it should be so, and right. What was she, to think to comebetween them with her love?

She was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but herfeeling changed. Her heart rebelled against her own verdict. She hadnot acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. She had never thought ofharm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse ofthese months--the renewal of their old friendship. If she had sinnedagainst Lilias, it had been unconsciously. She had never thought ofthese things in those days. 

If she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not atall! How should she ever be able to see them again in the oldunrestrained way? How should she be able to live a life changed andempty of all pleasure?

Then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. Wouldnot the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love ofbrothers and sister, as ever? Hitherto their love had sufficed for herhappiness, and it should still suffice. The world need not be changedto her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. She could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because ofthis pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make thebest of, as she did of all other things that came upon her. 

As she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearilyenough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad inthem, there suddenly came back to her one of Janet's short, sharpspeeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild Mr Foster had aspired to be moreto her than a friend. 

"My dear, " she had said, "bide till your time comes. You are but awoman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life maybring. Love! Ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. Andif you get love for love, you'll thank God humbly for one of his bestgifts; and if you do not well, He can bring you through without it, asHe has done many a one before. But never think you can escape yourfate, and make the best of it when it comes. "

"And so my fate has found me, " murmured Graeme to herself. "This ispart of my life, and I must make the best of it. Well, he can bring methrough, as Janet said. "

"Graeme, " said Will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?"

Graeme started painfully. She had quite forgotten Will. Those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he wasasleep. 

"What were you thinking about? You smiled first, then you sighed. "

"Did I? Well, I was not aware that I was either smiling or sighing. Iwas thinking about Janet, and about something that she said to me once. "

She rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother asshe did so, and then she said sadly, --

"I am afraid you are not much better to-night, Will. "

"Yes; I think I am better. My head is clearer. I have been watchingyour face, Graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look. "

"I am tired, Will, but not ill. " Graeme did not like the idea of herface having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully. 

"I have been a great trouble to you, " said Will. 

"Yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. I hope you are not going to try mypatience much longer. "

"I don't know. I hope not, for your sake. " And then in a little Willadded, "Do you know, Graeme, I am beginning to be glad of this illnessafter all. "

Graeme laughed. 

"Well, if you are glad of it, I will try and bear it patiently a littlelonger. I daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong itchattering at this unreasonable hour. "

"I am not sleepy, " said Will, "and I am not restless either. I think Iam really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but youare tired. "

"I am tired, but I am not sleepy. Besides, if you are really better, Ican sleep for a week, if I like. So, if it be a pleasure to you, speakon. "

"What was it that Janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?"asked Will. 

Graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn ratherthan that, but she said, gently, --

"I think my smile must have been for what Janet said. I am sure Ilaughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. I suppose Isighed to think that what she said has come true. "

"What was it, Graeme?"

"Oh! I can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to usas we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate. "

"Our fate?" repeated Will. 

"Oh, yes! I mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can'tforesee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best ofthem when they come. "

"I don't think I quite understand you, Graeme. "

"No, I daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that youshould, --in the connection. But I am sure a great many pleasant thingsthat we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here. "

"And was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" askedWill. 

"No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and Idaresay I had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. We can't tellour trials at first sight, Will, nor our blessings either. Time changestheir faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. At any rate, Janet'sadvice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when theycome. "

"Yes;" said Will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet. 

"For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor toldyou you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you areprofessing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--gladeven at the illness that at first was so hard to bear. "

Will made a face at the gruel she presented. 

"I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, or theheadache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check before I needed it. Itis pleasant to be first, and I was beginning to like it. Now thisprecious month taken from me, at the time I needed it most, will put meback. To be sure, " added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not muchto be first among so few. But as Janet used to say, Pride is an illweed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in thepleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that itis only a means to an end. "

"Yes, " said Graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember. "

But it came into Will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readilyas usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling thatthey were such as he was not to be permitted to share. In a little hesaid, --

"Graeme; I should like very much to go home to Scotland. "

Graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully, --

"Yes, I have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but weshould find sad changes, I doubt. "

"But I mean I should like to go home soon. Not for the sake of Claytonand our friends there. I would like to go to fit myself better for thework I have to do in the world. "

"You mean, you would like to go home to study. "

"Yes. One must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grandthing to be `thoroughly furnished'. " There was a pause, and then headded, "If I go, I ought to go soon--within a year or two, I mean. "

"Oh, Will, how could I ever let you go away?"

"Why, Graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if itwere right. But I have not quite decided that it is not selfish in meto wish to go. "

"But why?" asked Graeme. 

"Partly because it would be so pleasant. Don't you remember how Janetused to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desirevery much. Perhaps I desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. And then the expense. It wouldbe too much to expect from Arthur. "

"But there is the Merleville money. It was meant for Arthur'seducation, and as he did not need it, it is yours. "

"No, that belongs to you and Rose. It would not be right to take that. "

"Nonsense, Will. What is ours is yours; if the expense were all! But Icannot bear to think of you going away, and Harry, too, perhaps. "

"Rose tells me that Harry is more bent on going West than ever. "

"Yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. I cannotunderstand why he should be so. Oh, I cannot feel hopeful about it. "

"Arthur thinks it may be a good thing for Harry, " said Will. 

"Yes, for some things I suppose so. But, oh! Will, I could not letHarry go as I could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--"

Graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she hadbeen struggling with for so long a time burst forth. She had neverspoken to Will of her fears for Harry, but he knew that they all had hadcause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his armover his sister's neck. She struggled with herself a moment, unable tospeak. 

"Graeme, " said Will, softly, "we cannot keep Harry safe from evil, andHe who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here. "

"I know it; I say it to myself twenty times a day. That is, I say it inwords; but I do not seem to get the comfort I might from them. "

"But, Graeme, Harry has been very little away this winter, and I hadthought--"

"I know, dear, and I have been quite hopeful about him till lately. But, oh, Will! it won't bear talking about. We can only waitpatiently. "

"Yes, Graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating toyourself Harry's danger, I think. What has happened to make you sofaint-hearted, dear?"

"What should have happened, Will? I am tired--for one thing--andsomething is wrong I know. "

She paused to struggle with her tears. 

"Somehow, I don't feel so anxious about Harry as you do, Graeme. Hewill come back again. I am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you. "

He paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly, --

"I have had many thoughts since I sat down here, Graeme. I think oneneeds--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back andto look forward. Things change to us; we get clearer and truer views oflife, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from theright and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how trueit is, that though we change God never changes. We get courage to lookour troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with God and them. "

Still Graeme said nothing, and Will added, --

"Graeme, you must take hope for Harry. And there is nothing else, isthere?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannotbring to the one place for light and help?"

She did not answer for a minute. 

"No, Will, I hope not. I think not. I daresay--I am quite sure thatall will be for the best, and I shall see at some time. "

Not another word was said till Graeme rose and drawing aside thecurtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak March morning. 

In a few more days Will was down-stairs again. Not in his accustomedcorner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by thefire, made much of by Rose and them all. It seemed a long time since hehad been among them. A good many things had happened during the monththat Graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. March, that had comein "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear andthe air was mild; spring was not far-away. The snow lay still insullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, andthe mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. But the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossingsand mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. Those who were weatherwise shook theirheads, declaring that having April in March would ensure March weatherwhen April came, or it might be even in May. So it might prove, butthere was all the more need, because of this, that the most should bemade of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet wasquite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to Will andGraeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began. 

Harry had quite decided to go West now, and was as eager and impatientto be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other futurethan that which awaited him there. That he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. That was atfirst, for it did not take Graeme long to discover that Harry was not sogay as he strove to appear. But her misgivings as to his departure werenone the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart thatshe listened to his plans. 

Perhaps it was in contrast to Harry's rather ostentations mirth that hisfriend Charlie Millar seemed so very grave on the first night that Willventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. Rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it byjoining in Harry's mirth. Charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. EvenHarry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shadinghis face with his hands. 

"I am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could seehow badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to Harry. "

Graeme forced herself to say it. Allan's name had not been mentionedamong them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come toseem strange and unnatural, and it made Graeme's cheeks tingle to thinkwhat might be the cause. So, looking into Charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. But Charlie did not answer, orGraeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again, --

"Is Mr Ruthven still in town?"

"Oh! yes. It is not likely he will leave again soon. "

"And your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? What onanxious time Miss Elphinstone must have had!"

"Yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely tolive for some time yet. But his mind is much affected. At least itseems so to me. "

"Poor Lilias!" said Graeme, "Is she still alone?"

"Oh, no. There is a houseful of them. Her aunt Mrs Roxbury is there, and I don't know how many besides. I declare, I think those women enjoyit. "

Graeme looked shocked. 

"Charlie means the preparations for the wedding, " said Rose. "It is totake place soon, is it not?"

"Within the month, I believe, " said Charlie, gravely. 

"So soon!" said Graeme; and in a little she added, "Is it not sudden?"

"No--yes, I suppose so. They have been engaged, or something like itfor some time; but the haste is because of Mr Elphinstone. He thinkshe cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of herhusband. Just as if Allan would not be her friend all the same. Itseems to me like madness. "

"And Lilias, " said Rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?"

"On the whole, I suppose so. But this haste and her father being soill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. She looksill, and anything but cheerful. "

"We have not seen your brother for a long time, " said Will. 

"I have scarcely seen him, either. He did not find matters much to hismind in C, I fear. Harry will have to keep his eyes open among thosepeople. "

"How soon will Harry have to go?" asked Rose. 

"The sooner the better, I suppose, " said Charlie, rising and walkingabout. "Oh! dear me. This is a miserable overturning that has comeupon us--and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly. "

"Harry will not have to go before Arthur comes back, I hope, " said Rose. 

"I don't know, indeed. When does he come?"

"Charlie, man, " said Harry, rising suddenly, "did I not hear youpromising Crofts to meet him to-night? It is eight o'clock. "

"No. I don't care if I never see Crofts, or any of his set again. Youhad much better stay where you are Harry. "

"Charlie, don't be misanthropical. I promised if you didn't. Comealong. No? Well, good-night to you all. Will, it is time you were inbed, your eyes are like saucers. Don't sit up for me, Graeme. "

Graeme had no heart to remonstrate. She felt it would do no good, andhe went away leaving a very silent party behind him. Charlie lingered. When Graeme came down-stairs after seeing Will in his room she found himstill sitting opposite Rose, silent and grave. He roused himself as sheentered. Graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat andher work, and prepared to be entertained. It was not an easy matter, though Charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, andGraeme tried to respond. She did not think of it at the time, butafterwards, when Charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful lookwith which the lad had regarded her. Rose too, hung about her, sayingnothing, but with eyes full of something to which Graeme would notrespond. One angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts werenot in anger. 

"These foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about Allan andme, --and I must undeceive them--or deceive them--"

"Graeme, " said Rose, softly, "if either of us wait for Harry it must beme, for you are very tired. "

"Yes, I am very tired. "

"Charlie said, perhaps he would take Harry home with him. Should wewait?" said Rose. 

"No. He may not come. We will not wait. I shall sleep near Will. Hecannot spare me yet. Now go, love. "

She kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer nolingering over the good-night. She was in no haste to go herself, however. She did not mean to wait for Harry, but when two hours hadpassed, she was still sitting where Rose had left her, and then Harrycame. 

But oh! the misery of that home-coming. Graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then sheheard Harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and thenstupidly insisting on refusing all further help. 

"Never mind, gentlemen--I can manage--thank you. "

There were two persons with him, Charlie Millar was one of them. 

"Hush, Harry. Be quiet, man. Are you mad? You will waken yoursister. "

The light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment onGraeme's pale face. 

"Oh! Miss Elliott, " said Charles, "I tried to keep him with me. He ismad, I think. Be quiet, Harry. "

Harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself andstaggered toward his sister. 

"I knew you would sit up, Graeme--though I told you not--and so I camehome. "

"Of course, you did right to come home. But hush, Harry! you will wakenWill. "

"Oh! yes! Poor Will!" he mumbled. "But Graeme, what ails you, that youlook at me with a face like that?"

"Miss Elliott, " entreated Charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothingwith him to-night. "

She went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly thehandle of Will's door till they passed. She stood there in the darknesstill they came out again and went down-stairs. Poor Harry lay mutteringand mumbling, entreating Graeme to come and see him before she went tobed. When she heard the door close she went down again, not into theparlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the roombeyond. 

"Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees andcovered her face. 

It was a dark hour. Her hope, her faith, her trust in God--all that hadbeen her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. The bitterwaters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nighoverwhelmed. 

"Oh papa! mamma! Oh Harry! Oh! my little brothers. "

"Miss Elliott, " said a voice that made her heart stand still, "Graeme, you must let me help you now. "

She rose and turned toward him. 

"Mr Ruthven! I was not aware--" said she, moving toward the doorthrough which light came from the parlour. 

"Miss Elliott, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I met yourbrother and mine by chance, and I came with them. You must not thinkthat I--"

"Thank you, you are very kind. "

Graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately. 

"You are very kind, " repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said. 

"Graeme, " said Mr Ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. Tell me what you wish. Must Harry stay or go?"

Graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands. 

"Oh! Harry! Harry!"

Mr Ruthven made one step toward her. 

"Miss Elliott, I dare not say to you that you think too severely ofHarry's fault. But he is young, and I do not really fear for him. Andyou have more cause to be hopeful than I. Think of your father, andyour father's God. Graeme, be sure Harry will come back to you again. "

Graeme sat still with her head bowed down. 

"Graeme--Miss Elliott. Tell me what you would have me do?"

Graeme rose. 

"You are very kind, " she repeated. "I cannot think to-night. We mustwait--till Arthur comes home. "

He went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood byher side again. 

"Graeme, " said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that youbelieve me to be your true and faithful friend. "

"Why should I not say it, Allan. You are my true and faithful friend, as I am yours. "

Her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. Heturned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his handand said, --

"Good-night. "

"Good-night, " said Graeme. 

"And you will see about Harry--what you wish for him?"

"Yes. Good-bye. "

He raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "Good-bye. "

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. 

The next few days were weary ones to all. Will had reached that stageof convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utteridleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself longwithout fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, Graeme'sspirits flagged sadly. She looked so exhausted and ill one day when thedoctor came in, that he declared that Will must be left to the tendermercies of Rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keenmorning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. It ispossible that solitude and her own thoughts did Graeme less good thanattendance on Will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed toknow everything; and even had he known all there was to account for herhot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could havesuggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. At any rate, Graeme was thankful for a few days' quiet, whether it wasgood for her or not; and in the mean time Rose and Will got on very wellwithout her. 

And Harry--poor, unhappy, repentant Harry, trying under a mask of sullenindifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance ofthat night--these were dreary days to him. Graeme never spoke to himabout that night. She had not the courage, even if she had felt hotthat it would be better not to do so. The preparations for hisdeparture went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether heshould go West after all. He said little about it himself, but thatlittle it was not pleasant for Graeme to hear. 

Much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation ofHarry, Mr Ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of hisdestination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until hisreturn. 

"He does not trust me. He does not think me fit to take charge of hisaffairs, " said Harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of Allan'sshare in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder thatit should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times onthe point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going hisown way. However, he forced himself to wait a little. 

"If I am sent West after all, well and good. If not I shall remain nolonger. The change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at leastI will make it so. I can't stay, and I won't. If he would but comeback and put an end to it all. "

And Harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonableabsence of Mr Ruthven. Poor Mr Elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. Lilias had much ado to keep himfrom saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggeratedthe few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, inorder to account to him for Allan's untimely devotion to business. Poorgirl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable andunreasonable amid the preparations of Mrs Roxbury, in a way thatshocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. She consideredit a very equivocal proof of Lilias' love to her father, that she shouldbe so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. There had beennothing that is proper on such an occasion, and Mrs Roxbury seemed benton fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. So, at last, Lilias wasfain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed moreand more closely in her father's room, and her aunt had her will in allthings that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholycircumstances was drawing near. 

"Graeme, " said Harry, one night, when they were sitting together afterthe rest had all gone up-stairs, "don't you think we have beenuncomfortable long enough? Don't you think you have given us enough ofthat miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? I think a change wouldbe agreeable to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate. "

Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could notsay a word. Then she said something about being tired and not verywell--and about its being impossible always to help one's looks. 

"Why don't you say at once that it is I who have made you so miserablethat you have lost all faith in me--that I am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say--you know very well. "

"Harry, " said she, gently, "I did not mean to say anything unkind. "

Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan. 

"If you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme! If you would onlytell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! I could bearthat; but your silence and that miserable face, I cannot bear. "

"I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. Ican only say, I have had less courage in thinking of your going away tofill an important and responsible situation, since that night. "

Harry groaned. 

"Oh! well; don't bother yourself about my going away, and myresponsibilities. The chances are some one else will have to fill theimportant situation. "

"Have you seen--has Mr Ruthven returned?"

"Mr Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I have not spokenwith him. It was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-nightabout that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. He wasengaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. Well, it doesnot matter. I shall take the decision into my own hands. "

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I mean, I shall give up my situation if he does not send me West--if hehesitates a moment about sending me, I shall leave his employment. "

"But why, Harry?"

"Because--because I am determined. Ruthven does not think me fit to beentrusted with the management of his affairs, I suppose. "

"Harry, " said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he does not?"

"Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be trusted here, and I leave. Graeme, you don't know what you are talking about. It isquite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make anydifference to Allan Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, heknows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If hehas nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he maythink himself fortunate. "

"Then, why do you say he does not trust you?"

"I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws backin this. Not that I care much. I would rather be in the employment ofsome one else. I shall not stay here. "

"Harry, " said Graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he hadthrown himself, "what has happened between you and Allan Ruthven. "

"Happened! What should have happened? What an absurd question to ask, Graeme. "

"Harry, why are you so determined to leave him? It was not so a littlewhile ago. "

"Was it not? Oh, well! I daresay not. But one wants a change. Onegets tired of the same dull routine, always. Now, Graeme, " added he, asshe made an incredulous gesture, "don't begin to fancy any mystery. That would be too absurd, you know. "

Graeme came and knelt close beside him. His face was turned away sothat she could not see it. Her own was very pale. 

"Harry, speak to me. Do you believe that Allan Ruthven is otherwisethan an honourable and upright gentleman in business and--in othermatters? Tell me, Harry. "

"Oh, yes! as gentlemen go. No, Graeme, that is not right. I believehim in all things to be upright and honourable. I think more highly ofhim than I did at first. It is not that. "

The colour came slowly back to Graeme's face. It was evident that Harryhad no foolish thoughts of her and Allan. In a little she said, --

"And you, Harry--you have not--you are--"

"I hope I am an honourable man, Graeme, " said Harry, gravely. "There isnothing between Mr Ruthven and me. I mean, he does not wish me toleave him. But I must go, Graeme. I cannot stay here. "

"Harry, why? Tell me. " Graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair. 

"It is nothing that I can tell, " said Harry, huskily. 

"Harry--even if I cannot help it, or remove it--it is better that Ishould know what is making you so unhappy. Harry, is it--it is notLilias?"

He did not answer her. 

"Harry, Harry! Do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too. "

She drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. In a littleshe said, --

"Brother, speak to me. What shall I say to you, my poor Harry?"

But Harry was not in a mood to be comforted. He rose and confrontedher. 

"I think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that I ama fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. You had better say that tome, Graeme. "

But something in his sister's face stopped him. His lips trembled, andhe said, --

"At any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable about. "

"Hush, Harry, " whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on hishands. "And Lilias?"

"Graeme, I do not know. I never spoke to her, but I hoped--I believedtill lately--. "

He laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. In a little he rousedhimself and said, --

"But it is all past now--all past; and it won't bear talking about, evenwith you, Graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthybrother had. It was only a dream, and it is past. But I cannot stayhere--at least it would be very much better--"

Graeme sighed. 

"Yes, I can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet--but you are right. It won't bear talking about. I have nothing to sayto comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less. "

No, there was nothing that Graeme could say, even if Harry would havelistened to her. Her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think ofcomfort for him; and so they sat in silence. It seemed to Graeme thatshe had never been quite miserable until now. Yesterday she had thoughtherself wretched, and now her burden of care for Harry was pressing withtenfold weight. Why had this new misery come upon her? She had beenunhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all herfears. 

In her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her withregard to her brother. She judged him by herself, forgetting thedifference between the woman and the man--between the mature woman, whohaving loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him. 

Sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die ofit. She took no such consolation to herself as that. She knew she mustlive the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then thescar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. She accepted the lot. She thought if the darkness of her life nevercast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, withGod's help, to be contented. 

But Harry--poor Harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how washe to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? Perhaps it was as wellthat in her love and pity for her brother, Graeme failed to see howdifferent it might be with him. Harry would hardly have borne to betold even by her that his sorrow would pass away. The commonplacessupposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, wouldhave been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister's lips, and itwas all the better that Graeme should sit there, thinking her own drearythoughts in silence. After the momentary pain and shame which thebetrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolationin the knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and I am afraid, ifthe truth must be told, that Graeme that night suffered more for Harrythan Harry suffered for himself. If she looked back with bitter regreton the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at leastless for her own sake than for his. If from the future that lay beforethem she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that musthenceforth be on her life, but because of something worse thandreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almostreckless, as he seemed to be to-night. She could not but see the dangerthat awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himselfamong strangers. How gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. She felt that going away now, he would have no shield against thetemptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would itbe really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home?Remembering her own impulse to be away--anywhere--to escape from thepast and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. Thatthe bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, butwould he wait with patience the coming of content. Alas! her fears werestronger than her hopes. Best give him into God's keeping and let himgo, she thought. 

"But he must not leave Mr Ruthven. That will make him no better, butworse. He must not go from us, not knowing whither. Oh, I wish I knewwhat to do!"

The next day the decision was made. It would not be true to say thatHarry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed asummons into Mr Ruthven's private room. There was more need forCharlie's "keep cool, old fellow, " than Charlie knew, for Harry had thatmorning told Graeme that before he saw her face again he would knowwhether he was to go or stay. In spite of himself he felt a littlesoft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of hisinterview, and he was glad that it was not his friend Allan, but MrRuthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom hefound awaiting him. He was busy with some one else when Harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice normanner changed as he turned to him. 

There was a good deal said about matters that Harry thought might verywell have been kept till another time; there were notes compared andletters read and books examined. There were some allusions to pasttransactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possiblewords, and in the quietest manner. Harry, replied, assented andsuggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as therewas nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interesthim. 

There came a pause at last. Mr Ruthven did not say in words that heneed not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turnedover a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. Indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in hisoccupation. Harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters hadmended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; thenhe said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he tooka great deal of pains to make it so, --

"Mr Ruthven, may I trespass a moment on your valuable time _now_?"

Mr Ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. Harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. Certainly, hehad time to attend to anything of importance that Mr Elliott might haveto say. 

"It is a matter of great importance to _me_, and I have been led tosuppose that it is of some consequence to you. The Western agency--"

"You are right. It is of great consequence to the firm. There is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding--"

"I beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing atonce, whether it is your pleasure that I should be employed in it. "

"Will a single day make much difference to you?" said Mr Ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as hemeant to be. 

"Excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. But, Mr Ruthven, it isbetter I should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer considerme fit for the situation. Allow me, then, to inform you that I wish--that I no longer wish to remain in your employment. "

"Harry, " said Mr Ruthven, gravely, "does your brother--does your sisterknow of your desire to leave me? Would they approve, if you were sentWest?"

"Pardon me, Mr Ruthven, that question need not be discussed. I must bethe best judge of the matter. As for them, they were at leastreconciled to my going when you--drew back. "

Mr Ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. He took up his bundle ofletters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now. 

"I understand you, sir, " said Harry, with a very pale face. "Allow meto say that as soon as you can supply my place--or at once, if youlike--I must go. "

But Mr Ruthven was not listening to him. He had turned over hisletters till a little note among them attracted his attention. He brokethe seal, and read it while Harry was speaking. It was very brief, onlythree words and one initial letter. 

"Let Harry go. G. "

He read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. Then he turnedto Harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door. 

"What is it, Harry? I did not hear what you were saying. "

"I merely said, sir, " said Harry, turning round and facing him, "that assoon as you can supply my place in the office, I shall consider myselfat liberty to go. "

"But why should you wish to go?"

"There are several reasons. One is, I shall never stay anywhere onsufferance. If I am not to be trusted at a distance, I shall certainlynot stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me. "

His own eye flashed as he spoke. 

"But, Harry, man, that is nonsense, you know. "

It was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and Harry was alittle thrown off his guard by the change in his tone. 

"I do not think it is nonsense, " said he. 

"Harry, I have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of theinterests of the firm. Let me say, once for all, that I should considerthem perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. Harry, the worldwould look darker to me the day I could not trust your father's son. "

Harry made no answer. 

"It is of you I have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed sounreasonable to you. Harry, when I think of the home you have here, andof the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish--wrong to wish to send you away. "

Harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about theimpossibility of staying always at home. 

"I know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home--such a home asyours--the better. When I think of my own life there, the firstmiserable years, and all the evil I have seen since--. Well, there isno use in going over all that. But, Harry, it would break your sister'sheart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like therest of us. "

There was nothing Harry could say to this. 

"So many fail in the struggle--so many are changed or ruined. And, dearlad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. Don'tbe angry, Harry, " for Harry started and grew red. "Even if that is notto be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. Ihave known and proved the world. What we call success in life, is notworth one approving smile from your sister's lips. And if you shouldfall, and be trodden down, how should I ever answer to her?"

He walked up and down the room two or three times. 

"Don't go, Harry. " For Harry had risen as though he thought theinterview was at on end. "You said, just now, that you must decide foryourself, and you shall do so. But, consider well, and consult yourbrother and sister. As for the interests of the firm, I have no fear. "

"I may consider it settled then, " said Harry, huskily. "Arthur wasalways of opinion that I should go, and Graeme is willing now. And thesooner the better, I suppose?"

"The sooner the better for us. But there is time enough. Do not behasty in deciding. "

"I have decided already, I thank you, sir--" He hesitated, hardlyknowing what to say more. 

"I hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. Remember, Harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my fulland entire confidence. I do not believe I shall have cause to regretit, or that you will fail me or disappoint me. "

Harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly hevowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressedshould never, for good cause, be withdrawn. 

And so the decision was made. After this the preparations did notoccupy a long time. The second day found Harry ready for departure. 

"Graeme, " said Harry, "I cannot be content to take away with me such amelancholy remembrance of your face. I shall begin to think you are notwilling that I should go after all. "

"You need not think so, Harry. I am sure it is best since you aredetermined. But I cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. Youwould not have me look joyful, when I am going to lose my brother?"

"No--if that were all. But you have often said how impossible it wasthat we should always keep together. It is only what we have beenexpecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. I shall be home often--once a year at the least; perhaps oftener. "

"Yes, dear, I know. "

"Well, then, I think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if Iwere worthy of it, which I very much doubt. "

Graeme's face did not brighten. In a little while her tears werefalling fast. 

"Graeme, what is it? There is some other reason for your tears, besidesmy going away. You do not trust me, Graeme, you are afraid. "

Graeme made an effort to quiet herself. 

"Yes, Harry, I am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity tosay so. You have hardly been our own Harry for a while, as you know, dear. And what will you be when you are far from us all? I am afraidto let you go from me, Harry, far more afraid than I should be forWill. "

Harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to beindignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a littlehe came and sat down beside his sister again. 

"I wish I could make you quite satisfied about me, Graeme. "

"I wish you could, dear. I will try to be so. I daresay you think meunreasonable, Harry. I know I am tired, and foolish, and all wrong, "said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears. 

"You look at this moment as though you had very little hope inanything, " said Harry, with a touch of bitterness. 

"Do I? Well, I am all wrong, I know. There ought to be hope andcomfort too, if I sought them right. I will try to leave you in God'skeeping, Harry, the keeping of our father's and our mother's God. "

Harry threw himself on his knees beside her. 

"Graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. If you onlyknew! Such things are thought nothing of. If I disgraced myself theother night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are notdisgraced. "

Graeme put her hand upon his lips. 

"But, Graeme, it is true. I must speak, I can't bear to have youfretting, when there is no cause. Even Allan Ruthven thought nothing ofit, at least, he--"

"Hush, Harry, you do not need Mr Ruthven to be a conscience to you. And it is not of the past I am thinking, but the future! How can I bearto think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger allthe greater because you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you, Harry. "

It was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. The words of anothercan never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor Harry'stemptation. So she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, andsat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. By and by he cameback to her side, again. 

"Graeme, " said he, gravely. "Indeed, you may trust me. The shame ofthat night shall never be renewed. You shall never have the same causeto be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again. "

She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. It was not that she was altogether hopelessabout her brother, but Harry understood it so. 

"Graeme, what shall I say to you? How shall I give you courage--faithto trust me? Graeme, I promise, that till I see you again I shall nottaste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. I solemnlypromise before God, Graeme. "

"Harry, " said his sister, "it is a vow--an oath, that you have taken. "

"Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do you trust me, Graeme? Give methat comfort before I go away. "

"I trust you, Harry, " was all she had voice to say. She clasped him andkissed him, and by and by she prayed God to bless him, in words such ashis mother might have used. And Harry vowed, with God's help, to betrue to himself and her. He did not speak the words again, but none theless was the vow registered in Heaven. 

That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. Next morningthere was little said by any one, and not a word by Graeme, but the lastglimpse Harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling andhopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before, --

"Harry, I trust you quite. "

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. 

The brilliant sunlight of a September morning was shining full into thelittle breakfast-room, where Graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. The morning paper was near her, butshe was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, andshe was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than thepale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. She wasgrave and quiet, but not in the least sad. Indeed, more than once, asthe voices of Rose and Arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile ofunmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. Presently, Arthurentered, and Graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers. 

"Your trip has done you good, Graeme, " said Arthur, as he sat downopposite to her. 

"Yes, indeed. There is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. Ihardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away inJune. "

Graeme, Rose, and Will, had passed the summer at Cacouna. Nelly hadgone with them as housekeeper, and Arthur had shut the house, and takenlodgings a little out of town for the summer. 

"I am only afraid, " added Graeme, "that all our pleasure has been at theexpense of some discomfort to you. "

"By no means, a change is agreeable. I have enjoyed the summer verymuch. I am glad to get home again, however. "

"Yes, a change does one good. If I was only quite at ease about onething, we might have gone to Merleville, instead of Cacouna, and thatwould have given Janet and a good many others pleasure. "

"Oh! I don't know, " said Arthur. "The good people there must haveforgotten us by this time, I fancy. There are no sea-breezes there, andthey were what you needed. "

"Arthur! Janet forgotten us! Never, I am quite sure of that. But atthe time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, I mean. Iquite shrunk from the thought of Merleville. Indeed, if you had notbeen firm, I fear I should not have had the sea-breezes. "

"Yes. You owe me thanks. You needed the change. What with Will'sillness, and Harry's going away, and one thing and another; you werequite in need of a change. "

"I was not well, certainly, " said Graeme. "Will has gone to the post, Isuppose?"

"Yes, " said Rose, who entered at the moment. "I see him coming up thestreet. "

"As for Rosie, " said Arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. "She has utterly ruined her complexion. Such freckles! such sunburning!and how stout she has grown!"

Rose laughed. 

"Yes, I know I'm a fright. You must bring me something, Arthur. Toilette vinegar, or something. "

"Oh! it would not signify. You are quite beyond all that. "

"Here comes Will, with a letter for each of us, I declare. "

Arthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. Graeme'swas laid down beside her, while she poured Will's coffee. Rose readhers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered acry of delight. 

"Listen all. No, I won't read it just yet. Arthur, don't you remembera conversation that you and I had together, soon after Sandy was here?"

"Conversation, " repeated Arthur. "We have talked, that is, you havetalked, and I have listened, but as to conversation:--"

"But Arthur, don't you remember saying something about Emily, and I didnot agree with you?"

"I have said a great many times, that I thought Emily a very prettylittle creature. If you don't agree, it shows bad taste. "

"I quite agree. I think her beautiful. She is not very little, however. She is nearly as tall as I am. "

"What is it, Rose?" asked Graeme, stretching out her hand for theletter. 

"You'll spoil your news, with your long preface, " said Will. 

"No, but I want Arthur to confess that I am wisest. "

"Oh! I can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but Ishould like to hear of this particular case. "

"Well, don't you remember saying that you did not think Sandy and Emilywould ever fall in love?"

"I remember no such assertion, on my part. On the contrary, I rememberfeeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far asSandy was concerned, poor fellow; and I remember saying, much to yourindignation, more's the pity. "

"Yes; and I remember you said it would be just like a sentimental littleblue, like Emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marrysome pale-faced Yankee professor. "

"You put the case a little strongly, perhaps, " said Arthur, laughing. "But, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. That was myopinion, I confess. "

"And they are going to be married!" exclaimed Graeme and Will in abreath. "How glad Janet will be!"

"Emily does not say so, in so many words. It won't be for a long timeyet, they are so young. But I am to be bridesmaid when the time comes. "

"Well, if that is not saying it!" said Will laughing. "What would youhave, Rosie?"

Graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, lookinga little pale and anxious. 

"What is it, Graeme? Nothing wrong, I hope. "

"No; I hope not. I don't know, I am sure. Norman says he is going tobe married. "

"Married!" cried Rose and Will. 

"To Hilda?" said Arthur. 

"Yes; but how could you have guessed?" said Graeme, bewildered. 

"I did not guess. I saw it. Why it was quite easy to be seen thatevents have been tending toward it all these years. It is all veryfine, this brother and sister intercourse; but I have been quite sureabout them since Harry wrote about them. "

"Well, Norman seems surprised, if you are not. He says, `You will bevery much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished thanI was myself. I did not think of such a thing; at least, I did not knowthat I was thinking of such a thing till young Conway, my friend, askedpermission to address my sister. I was very indignant, though, atfirst, I did not, in the least, know why. However, Hilda helped me tofind out all about it. At first I meant she should spend the winterwith you all I want very much that you should know each other. But, onthe whole, I think I can't spare her quite so long. Expect to see ustherefore in November--one flesh!'" There was much more. 

"Well done, Norman!" cried Arthur. "But, Graeme, I don't see what thereis to look grave about. She seems to be a nice little thing, and Normanought to know his own mind by this time. "

"She's a great deal more than a nice little thing, " said Graemeearnestly. "If one can judge by her letters and by Harry's descriptionof her--to say nothing of Norman's opinion--she must be a very superiorperson, and good and amiable besides. But it seems so strange, sosudden. Why, it seems only the other day since Norman was such a mereboy. I wish she could have passed the winter with us. I think, perhaps, I should write and say so. "

"Yes, if you like. But Norman must judge. I think it is the wisestthing for him. He will have a settled home. "

"I do believe it is, " said Graeme, earnestly. "I am very glad--or Ishall be in a little. But, just at first, it seems a little as thoughNorman would not be quite so much one of us--you know--and besides therereally is something odd in the idea of Norman's being married; now, isthere not?"

"I confess I fail to see it, " said Arthur, a little sharply. Graeme hadhardly time to notice his tone. An exclamation from Will startled her. 

"What is it, Will?" said Rose: "Another wedding?"

"You'll never guess, Rosie. Never. You need not try. "

"Is it Harry this time?" said Arthur, looking in from the hall with hishat on. 

"No. Listen, Arthur! Harry says, `What is this that Mr Green has beentelling me about Arthur and little Miss Grove? I was greatly amused atthe idea _their_ mutual admiration. Mr Green assures me that he hasthe best authority for saying that Arthur is to carry off the heiress. Charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. Tell Graeme, whenthat happens, I shall expect her to come and keep my house. '"

"They said Mr Green was going to carry off the heiress himself!"exclaimed Rose. 

"Listen!" continued Will. "`Unless, indeed, Graeme should make up hermind to smile on Mr Green and take possession of the "palatialresidence, " of which he has just laid the foundation near C---. '"

"Here is a bit for you, Graeme. Nobody is to be left out, it seems. Itwill be your turn next, Rosie, " said Arthur, as he went away laughing. 

"But that is all nonsense about Arthur and little Miss Grove?" saidRose, half questioningly. 

"I should think so, indeed! Fancy Arthur coming to that fate, " saidGraeme. "That would be too absurd. "

And yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and herrepetitions of "too absurd, " became very energetic in her attempts todrive it quite away. The thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the Grovecarriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the prettyFanny that she and Rose passed quite close to them unobserved. It wasrecalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of Mrs Gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. The Grovecarriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly towardit, she said:

"I don't know whether I ought to congratulate you or sympathise withyou. "

Graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, asshe answered:

"There is no haste. When you make up your mind as to which will be mostappropriate, you will be in time. "

"Ah! you are not to commit yourself, I see. Well, you are quite right. She is a harmless little person, I believe, and may turn out very wellif withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother. "

Something in Graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady more effectuallythan words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to theconversation. But Graeme could not forget it. Not that she believed inthe truth of what Mrs Gridley had hinted at, yet she could not helpbeing annoyed at it. It was rather foolish, she thought, for Arthur togive occasion for such gossip. It was so unlike him, too. And yet solittle was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind afriend as Mrs Gridley to keep the ball rolling. Very likely Arthurknew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passedthrough her mind, Graeme determined to tell him about it. 

But she did not; she could not do so--though why she could not was amystery to herself. Sometimes she fancied there was that in Arthur'smanner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when anopportunity seemed to offer. When he was not there, she was quite sureit was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of Grovementioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the Grovecarriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of themansion was in it. She never failed to lean forward and bow to themwith the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once Graeme wasleft standing looking in at a shop-window, while Arthur obeyed thebeckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. Sometimes thepretty Fanny was there; sometimes she was not. But her absence did notset Graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother. 

And yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousandtimes. What right had she to interfere, even in thought, with herbrother's friendship? If he admired Miss Grove, if even he wereattached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she couldinterfere--nothing to which she could even allude--until he should speakfirst. But then, of course, that was quite absurd! Miss Grove, thoughvery pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, wasno more worthy to be Arthur's wife--than--

Oh! of course it was all nonsense. No one had ever heard three words ofcommon sense from those pretty lips. She had heard Arthur say as muchas that himself. Miss Grove could dance and flirt and sing a little;that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that Arthurwould ever--

And yet Graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, butscarcely seeing the beautiful things in Savage's window, and sheinwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenienceof the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors downthe street. She had time to go over the same thoughts a good manytimes, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinentof Mrs Grove, and exceedingly foolish of Arthur, and exceedinglydisagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother's voicefrom her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her. 

"Mrs Grove wanted to speak to you, Graeme, " said he, with a littleembarrassment. 

"I could hardly be expected to know that by intuition, " said Graeme, coldly. 

"She beckoned. Did you not see?"

"She beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty withme. There is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, andnever will be, unless I have greatly mistaken her character. "

"Oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very littleabout her. She thinks very highly of you, I can assure you. "

"Stuff!" pronounced Graeme, with such emphasis that she startledherself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother. 

"I declare, Graeme, I thought for the moment it was Harry that spoke forMrs Gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. It did not sound theleast like you. "

Graeme laughed, too. 

"Well, I was thinking of Harry at the minute, and as for Mrs Gridley--Ididn't mean to be cross, Arthur, but something disagreeable that sheonce said to me did come into my mind at the moment, I must confess. "

"Well, I wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your wayhome, " said Arthur. "Wait till I see if there are any letters. None, Ibelieve. Good-bye. "

Mrs Gridley did not occupy Graeme's thoughts on her way home, yet theywere not very pleasant. All the way along the sunny streets she wasrepeating to herself, "so absurd", "so foolish", "so impertinent of MrsGrove", "so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip, " and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her afresh start again. The lady did not beckon this time, she only bowedand smiled most sweetly. But her smiles did not soothe Graeme's ruffledtemper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. For, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than tocall Arthur foolish, and Mrs Grove impertinent, and she would not thinkabout it any more. So she said, and so she repeated, still thinkingabout it more than was either pleasant or needful. 

One night, Charlie Millar paid them a visit. He made no secret of hisdelight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to dowith himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content orat his ease since he sat in Graeme's arm-chair three months ago. 

"One would not think so from the visits you have made us since we camehome, " said Graeme, smiling. "You have only looked in upon us. We werethinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortablearm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside. "

"Business, business, " repeated Charlie, gravely. "I assure you thatHarry out there, and I here, have had all that we have been able toattend to during the last three months. It is only to the unexpecteddelay of the steamer that I owe the leisure of this evening. "

"You expect us to believe all that, I suppose, " said Graeme, laughing. 

"Indeed, you may believe me, Miss Elliott. It is quite true. I can'tunderstand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long justnow. If he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want oftelling, I assure you. "

"You hear often from him, I suppose?"

"Yes. I had a note from Lilias the other day, in a letter I got from mymother. She sent `kind regards' to the Misses Elliott, which I take thepresent opportunity of delivering. "

"Business having hitherto prevented, " said Rose. 

"You don't seem to have faith in my business engagements, Miss Rose; butI assure you that Harry and I deserve great credit for having carried onthe business so successfully for the last three months. "

"Where is Mr Gilchrist?" asked Arthur. 

"Oh, he's here, there, and everywhere. But Mr Gilchrist is an `oldfogey, ' and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. It isnot easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; Ican't understand how Allan used to manage him so well. However, he hadunbounded confidence in Allan's powers, and let him do as he pleased. "

"And the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in thepowers of you and Harry?" said Arthur, laughing. "Upon the whole Ithink, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two ladsshould have some check upon you, now and then. "

"Not at all, I assure you, " said Charlie. "As for Harry--Miss Elliott, I wish I could tell you half the kind things I hear about Harry from ourcorrespondents out there. "

Graeme smiled brightly. She was permitting herself to rely entirelyupon Harry now. 

"But, Charlie, " said Will from his corner, "what is this nonsense youhave been telling Harry about Arthur and the beautiful Miss Grove?"

Charlie started and coloured, and so did Graeme, and both glancedhastily at Arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as Graeme was veryglad to perceive. 

"Nonsense!" said Charlie, with a great show of astonishment andindignation. "I don't understand you, Will. "

"Will, " said Rose, laughing, "you are mistaken. It was Mr Green whohad been hinting to Harry something you remember; you read it to us theother morning. "

"Yes, but Harry said that Charlie had been saying something of the samekind, " persisted simple Will, who never dreamed of making any one feeluncomfortable. 

"Hinting!" repeated Charlie. "I never hint. I leave that to MrsGridley and her set. I think I must have told Harry that I had seenArthur in the Grove carriage one morning, and another day standingbeside it talking to Miss Fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nicethings at Alexander's. "

Graeme laughed, she could not help it. 

"Oh, that terrible carriage!" said Rose. 

"A very comfortable and convenient carriage I found it, many a time, when I was staying at Mrs Smith's, " said Arthur, coolly. "Mrs Grovewas so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, andmuch obliged I was to her, some of those warm August mornings. "

"So you see, Will, " said Charlie, triumphantly, "I was telling Harry thesimple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting `nonsense, ' as youcall it. "

"I suppose that is what Mrs Gridley meant the other day when she noddedso significantly toward the Grove carriage, and asked whether she was tocongratulate us. "

Rose spoke with a little hesitation. She was not sure that her brotherwould be quite pleased by Mrs Gridley's congratulations, and he wasnot. 

"Oh! if we are to have Mrs Gridley's kind concern and interest in ouraffairs, we shall advance rapidly, " said he, a little crossly. "Itwould of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with thatprudent and charitable lady. "

"But as I did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters todiscuss there was no discussion, " said Graeme, by no means unwillingthat her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner andtone to Rose. 

"Oh! never mind, Graeme, " said Rose, laughing, "we shall have anotherchance of being congratulated, and I only hope Arthur may be herehimself. Mrs Gridley was passing when the Grove carriage stood at ourdoor this morning. I saw her while I was coming up the street. Shewill be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or hersympathy. "

"Was Mrs Grove here this morning?" enquired Arthur. "She must havegiven you her own message then, I suppose. "

"She was at the door, but she did not get in. I was out, and Graeme wasbusy, and sent her word that she was engaged. "

"Yes, " said Graeme, "I was helping Nelly, and I was in my old bluewrapper. "

"Now, Graeme, " said Will, "that is not the least like you. What about awrapper?"

"Nothing, of course. But a call at that hour is not at all timesconvenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate. "

"But perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship, "said Charlie. 

Graeme laughed. 

"I am very much obliged to her. But I think we could each make ahappier choice of friends. "

"She is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you, " said Arthur; "andshe can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses. "

"Well, I cannot imagine ever being charmed by her, " said Graeme, hastily. "There is something--a feeling that she is not sincere--thatwould spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as I amconcerned. "

"Smooth and false, " said Charlie. 

"No, Charlie. You are much too severe, " said Arthur. "Graeme's idea ofinsincerity is better, though very severe for her. And, after all, Idon't think that she is consciously insincere. I can scarcely tell whatit is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. I think it must beher taste for management, as Miss Fanny calls it. She does not seem tobe able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinksherself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well bysimply expressing her desires. After all, her manoeuvring is verytransparent, and therefore very harmless. "

"Transparent! Harmless!" repeated Charlie. "You must excuse me if Isay I think you do the lady's talents great injustice. Not that I haveany personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if I were to repeatthe current reports, Miss Elliott would call them gossip and repudiatethem, and me too, perhaps. She has the reputation of having the `wisdomof the serpent;' the slyness of the cat, I think. "

They all laughed, for Charlie had warmed as he went on. 

"I am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do withsuch a person, " said Rose. "I should feel as though I must be always onthe watch for something unexpected. "

"To be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be ratheruncomfortable--`for a continuance, ' as Janet would say. But I don't seethe necessity of that with Mrs Grove. I think it must be ratheragreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. Youshould hear Miss Fanny, when in some difficult conjunction ofcircumstances--she resigns herself to superior guidance. `Mamma willmanage it. ' Certainly she does manage some difficult matters. "

There was the faintest echo of mimicry in Arthur's tone, as he repeatedMiss Fanny's words, which Graeme was quite ashamed of being glad tohear. 

"It was very stupid of me, to be sure! Such folly to suppose thatArthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. No; Arthur's wifemust be a very different woman from pretty little Fanny Grove. I wish Iknew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. But there is nohaste about it. Ah, me! Changes will come soon enough, we need notseek to hasten them. And yet, we need not fear them whatever they maybe. I am very sure of that. But I am very glad that there is no harmdone. "

And yet, the harm that Graeme so much dreaded, was done before threemonths were over. Before that time she had it from Arthur's own lips, that he had engaged himself to Fanny Grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. She never quite knew how to receivehis announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful;and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a daysooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of Norman's stay. 

For Norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. Graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. She had expected to findher an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected tosee so charming and lovable a little lady. They all loved her dearlyfrom the very first; and Graeme satisfied Norman by her unfeigneddelight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, andyet so amiable and wise as well. 

And Graeme rejoiced over Norman even more than over Hilda. He was justwhat she had always hoped he might become. Contact with the world hadnot spoiled him. He was the same Norman; perhaps a little graver thanhe used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, andearnest, as the Merleville school-boy had been. 

How they lived over those old times! There was sadness in the pleasure, for Norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; andthe names of the dead were spoken softly. But the bitterness of theirgrief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefullynow. 

There was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of theirstay. "If Harry were only here!" was said many times. But Harry waswell, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was apleasure which lay not very far before them. Their visit came to an endtoo soon for them all; but Norman was a busy man, and they were to gohome by Merleville, for Norman declared he should not feel quite assuredof the excellence of his wife till Janet had pronounced upon her. Graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go toMerleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and thehope that they might go to Emily's wedding soon, decided her to remainat home. 

Yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very dayof their departure brought upon Graeme the pain which she had almostceased to fear. Arthur told her of his engagement to Miss Grove. Hisstory was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than wasat all natural for a triumphant lover. It did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. From the firstshock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, Graemeroused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a littleimpatiently--

"Of course, this will make no difference with us at home? You willnever _think_ of going away because of this, Rose and you?"

By a great effort Graeme forced herself to speak--

"Of course not, Arthur. What difference could it make? Where could wego?"

When Arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his toneshowed how much he was relieved by his sister's words. It was verygentle and tender too, Graeme noticed. 

"Of course not. I was quite sure this would make no change. Ratherthan my sisters should be made unhappy by my--by this affair--I would gono further in it. My engagement should be at an end. "

"Hush, Arthur! It is too late to say that now. "

"But I was quite sure you would see it in the right way. You always do, Graeme. It was not my thought that you would do otherwise. And it willonly be a new sister, another Rosie to care for, and to love, Graeme. Iknow you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to Roseand to us all. "

Graeme pressed the hand that Arthur laid on hers, but she could notspeak. "If it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child, "thought she. She almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, whenArthur said, --

"You must not be hard on her, Graeme. You do not know her yet. She isnot so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding littlething; and removed from her stepmother's influence and placed underyours, she will become in time all that you could desire. "

She would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfullyto his appeal, but she could not. Her heart refused to dictate hopefulwords, and her tongue could not have uttered them. She sat silent andgrave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knewwhether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his ownthoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy. 

That night Graeme's head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. Her brother was herideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on herpart could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. She shrank heartsick from the contemplation of thefuture, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, "How couldhe be so blind, so mad?" To her it was incomprehensible, that with hiseyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one whohad been brought up with no fear of God before her eyes--one whosehighest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions andfancies of the world. He might dream, of happiness now, but how sadwould be the wakening. 

If there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against herbrother's choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of yearsmight come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was nottill afterwards. None of these mingled with the bitter sadness andcompassion of that night. Her brother's doubtful future, the mistake hehad made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that mightbe wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was wellnigh lost. It was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos ofdoubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firmdetermination. She repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister'sside in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as partof her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep thevow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows mightdarken her brother's future, he should find her love and trust unchangedfor ever. 

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. 

Arthur Elliott was a young man of good intellect and superioracquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amountof penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found inconnection with superior intellect--common sense. He remembered hismother, and worshipped her memory. She had been a wise andearnest-minded woman, and one of God's saints besides. Living for yearsin daily intercourse with his sister Graeme, he had learnt to admire inher the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. Yetin the choice of one who was to be "till death did them part" more thansister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride anddelight, were made of no account. Flesh of his flesh, the keeper of hishonour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life'shappiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child. 

One who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells methat Arthur Elliott's is by no means a singular case. Quite as often asotherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lotwith women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and notalways unhappily. If, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slipfrom her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally herinferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. A woman, may, withsuch help as comes to her by chance, keep her _solitary_ way throughlife content. But if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, havegiven her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whoseguidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. For then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. Herintellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. What God has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss. 

But it _is_ possible for a man to separate his intellectual life fromthe quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. It is not alwaysnecessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or evenof the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. The rising doubt, whether the beloved one haveeyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with achill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come witha shock of pain. But when the shudder of the chill and the shock of thepain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before afair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voicemingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. He grows content intime with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upwardamid manly minds. When he returns to the quiet and comfort of hiswell-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none theless beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humblehousehold successes. The voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in thecradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchenand parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items ofharmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the lessdear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. The tendercare that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that hehas cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can haveno part. 

But this is a digression, and I daresay there are many who will notagree with all this. Indeed, I am not sure that I quite agree with allmy friend said on this subject, myself. There are many ways of lookingat the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, itwould appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or atleast to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of herhusband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assurehimself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyondthe daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtainingthe highest kind of domestic happiness. 

Charlie Millar's private announcement to his friend Harry of his brotherArthur's engagement, was in these words:

"The efforts of the maternal Grove have been crowned with success. Yourbrother is a captive soon to be chained--"

Charlie was right. His clear eye saw, that of which Arthur himselfremained in happy unconsciousness. And what Charlie saw other peoplesaw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expertfingers the wealthy Mr Green, the great Western merchant, and closethem so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was acircumstance that could not so easily be understood. Had theinteresting fact transpired, that the great Elias had not so muchslipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegantlanguage, "wriggled himself clear, " it might have been satisfactory tothe world in general. But Mr Green was far-away intent on moreimportant matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantitiesof pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent ageneral as Mrs Grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. Sheacted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it. 

When the pretty Fanny showed an inclination to console herself for thedefection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the smallattentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiledapproval. Fanny might do better she thought, but then she might doworse. Mr Elliott was by no means Mr Green's equal in the greatessentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a risingman as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerableconnections, --except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposedof. And then Fanny, though very pretty, was "a silly little thing, " shesaid to herself with great candour. Her beauty was not of a kind toincrease with years, or even to continue long. The chances were, if shedid not go off at once, she would stay too long. Then there were hersisters growing up so fast, mamma's own darlings; Charlotte twelve andVictoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, andat any rate, it would be a relief to have Fanny well away. 

And so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the Grovecarriage, and ate many a dinner in the Grove mansion, and roamed withthe fair Fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruitsof the Grove gardens, during the three months that his brother andsisters passed at the seaside. He made one of many a pleasant drivingor riding party. There were picnics at which his presence was claimedin various places. Not the cumbrous affairs which called intorequisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of theinvited guests--parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in onefavoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces ofthe town--but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in whichMrs Grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. Verycharming little fetes her guests generally pronounced them to be. Arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered intohis head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. He enjoyedthe companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasantcircumstances. He enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the bluewater, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birdsamid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at lastthe guardianship of the fair Fanny, generally his on those occasions;and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoymentof all those pleasant things. 

Everything went on naturally and quietly. There was no open throwingthem together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, oruncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. Quitethe contrary. If any watchful fairy had suggested to Arthur thepossibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a veryill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. Did not mamma keep watchfuleyes on Fanny always? Had she not many and many a time, interruptedlittle confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection ofwhich he was sometimes inclined to smile? Had she not at all times, andin all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her prettystep-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest?

And if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further toinsinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that theprudence of Mrs Grove was of another and higher kind, than a simpleyouth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yethave been accomplished. If it had been averred that mamma's faith, inher daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient topermit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have pausedto recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothingsfrom those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged thatmamma's faithlessness was not surprising. As to the ultimate success ofthe sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible mesheswhich were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter. 

But there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, andthey flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till Graemecame home from Cacouna, to play, in Mrs Grove's opinion, the part of avery bad fairy indeed. She was mistaken, however. Graeme took no partin the matter, either to make or to mar. Even had she been made awareof all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother's shortintimacy with the Groves, she never could have regarded the matter asone in which she had a right to interfere. So, if there came a pause inthe lady's operations, if Arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to noefforts of Graeme. If he began to settle down into the old quiet homelife, it was because the life suited him; and Graeme's influence wasexerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterlyfashion, with no reference to Mrs Grove, or her schemes. 

But that there came a pause in the effective operations of that cleverlady, soon became evident to herself. She could not conceal fromherself or Miss Fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window werenot so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. Not thatthis defection on Arthur's part was ever discussed between them. MrsGrove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. Fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. Indeed, she was very soon takingconsolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency intheir neighbourhood. But mamma did not believe in officers, at leastmatrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from anew flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. Besidesshe fancied that Mr Elliott's attentions had been observed, and she wasquite sure that his defection would be so, too. Two failures succeedingeach other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and "mardear Fanny's prospects. "

And so Mrs Grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. Another invitation was given, and it was accepted. In the single minutethat preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a seriesof decisive measures was carried into effect. With a voice thattrembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thankedher "dear friend" for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy thathad induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as hehad become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible Fanny. 

"Fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. But oh! MrElliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her toosensitive child was concerned?"

In vain Arthur looked the astonishment he felt. In vain he attempted toassure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention ofwithdrawing from their society--that he did not understand--that shemust be mistaken. The tender mother's volubility was too much for him. He could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on. 

Mr Elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappinesshe had caused. She quite freed him from all intention of wrong. Andafter all, it might not be so bad. A mother's anxiety might exaggeratethe danger; she would try and hope for the best. Change of scene mustbe tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to--in shortMr Elliott must understand--. And Mrs Grove glanced expressivelytoward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom Arthur beingunenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying ona pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation. 

But "pique and wounded pride!" He had never in all his life experienceda moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had thehonour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. Indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinnereffectually. Mrs Grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch-waterfor all he knew to the contrary. The motherly concern so freelyexpressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. How she could look her dear Fanny in the face, and talk, so softly onindifferent subjects, after having so--so unnecessarily, to say theleast, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. If, indeed, Miss Fanny had a secret. He wished very much not to believe it. Secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant threemonths' acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed. 

Not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had beenplaced on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attentionfrom the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn hiseyes to Miss Grove and the epaulets. The result of his momentaryobservation was the discovery that the young lady was looking verylovely, and not at all miserable. Greatly relieved, he ventured anappropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. He waslistened to with politeness, but not with Miss Fanny's usual amiabilityand interest, that was evident. 

By and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, andhere Miss Fanny was distant and dignified still. She gave brief answersto his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whomMrs Grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth withgreat energy about something she had found in a book. Arthur approachedthe centre-table, but Mrs Grove was too much occupied with CaptainStarr to include him in the conversation. Mr Grove was asleep in thedining-room still, and Arthur felt there was no help for him. MissFanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt atconversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to bepermitted to hand her to the piano. Miss Grove consented, still withmore than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a newsong that Captain Starr had sent her. She did sing it, very prettily, too. She had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, hermamma thought, within the last few days. Then she played a brilliantpiece or two; then Mrs Grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweetScottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a greatfavourite of Mr Elliott's, also. Then there were more Scottish airs, and French airs, and then there was a duet with Captain Starr, and mammawithdrew Mr Elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not inthe least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to thepiano, where the Captain's handsome head was at times in close proximitywith that of the fair musician. Then, when there had been enough ofmusic, Miss Grove returned to her embroidery, and Captain Starr held hercotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that Arthurhearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought hima great simpleton; and firmly believed that Miss Fanny listened from"pique or wounded pride, " or something else, not certainly because sheliked it. Not but that she seemed to like it. She smiled and respondedas if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to Mr Elliott a single glance. 

By and by Mr Grove came in and withdrew Mr Elliott to the discussionof the harbour question, and as Arthur knew everything that couldpossibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still ofwatching the pair on the other side of the table. It was very absurd ofhim, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the younglady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. It wasvery absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. Never, duringthe whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so muchoccupied with the pretty, silly little creature. 

It is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals andbridges, which Miss Fanny's working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary Point Saint Charles, past an imaginaryGriffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the towncouncil, or the commissioner for public works. It is quite possiblethat Mr Grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the newharbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts andfears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, thatthere was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing theprosperity of Mount Royal City, and of Canada. And if Mr Grove hadthat night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfactionof all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least hislearned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it. 

It was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew moreabsorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glanceas he bowed over Miss Fanny's white hand when he said good-night. Hehad one uncomfortable moment. It was when Mrs Grove hoped aloud thatthey should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone, --

"It would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite. "

He was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as theywalked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner onMiss Grove's "good points, " and wondered "whether the old chap had tinenough to make it worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression heseemed certain he had made. " He was uncomfortable when he thought aboutit afterward. What if "pique, or wounded pride, or disappointedaffection" should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away onsuch an ass! It would be sad, indeed. 

And then he wondered if Miss Grove really cared for him in that way. Surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on amere suspicion. As he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem morepossible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, andwhat with another, Miss Fanny began to have a great many of his thoughtsindeed. He visited Grove House a good many times--not to seem odd--andsaw a good deal of Miss Fanny. Mamma was prudent still, and wise, andfar-seeing, and how it came about I cannot tell, but the result of hisvisits, and the young lady's smiles, and the old lady's management wasthe engagement of these two; and the first intimation that Graeme had ofit was given by Arthur on the night that Norman went away. 

Time passed on. The wedding day was set, but there were many things tobe brought to pass before it should arrive. Graeme had to finish thetask she had set for herself on the night, when Arthur had bespoken herlove and care for a new sister. She had to reconcile herself fully tothe thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to hereasier as time went on. There were moments when she thought herselfcontent with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in amongthem of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of theirhappy life, when Miss Grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, andGraeme took hope for Arthur. This was generally on those occasions whenthey were permitted to have Fanny all to themselves, when she would comein of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in herpretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. At suchtimes she was really very charming, and flitted about their littleparlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with Rose in a way that quitewon her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother'schoice. 

But there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyondthe visit, or even to the end of it. On more than one occasion Graemehad dispatched Nelly as a messenger to Arthur, to tell him that Fannywas to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity ofher preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands;but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. For Fanny neverappeared agreeable to her in Arthur's presence; and what was worse tobear still, Arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, inthe presence of Miss Grove. The coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannicalways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited onlya little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to seeArthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields inappearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one'sauthority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but _really_ asthough her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of maturedeliberation, was more than Graeme could patiently endure. It wasirritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. The lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice thediscomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the follyof it all less distasteful to them: and at such times Graeme used tofear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the futurebefore them. 

And almost as disagreeable were the visits which Fanny made with herstepmother. These became a great deal more frequent, during the lastfew months, than Graeme thought at all necessary. They used to call ontheir way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made Graeme and Rose uncomfortable. The little airs of superiority, with which Miss Fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in thepresence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion madeby her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on thataccount. How would it be when Fanny's marriage should give herstepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? Atpresent, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive orcorrective, were received in silence, though resented in private withsufficient energy by Rose, and sometimes even by Graeme. But it couldnot be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate theinterference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said toherself many a time. 

It must be confessed that Graeme was a little unreasonable in her dreadand dislike of Fanny's clever stepmother. Sometimes she was obliged toconfess as much to herself. More than once, about this time, it wasbrought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment ofher, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength ofher feelings of dislike. Many times she found herself on the point ofdissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by Mrs Grove, withwhich she might have agreed had they come from any one else. It is trueher opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commendthemselves to Graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be moreintended by them than at first met the eye and ear. As Miss Fanny saidon one occasion, "One could never tell what mamma meant by what shesaid, " and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state ofexpectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in anyarrangement dependent on mamma. Yet, her schemes were generally quiteharmless. They were not so deep as to be dangerous. The littleinsincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the smalldeceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sendinginvitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and withskill and will to circumvent them. So Graeme said to herself many atime, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be madeuncomfortable still. 

The respect and admiration which Mrs Grove professed for Miss Elliottmight have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit forsincerity. They were too freely expressed to be agreeable under anycircumstances. Her joy that the Elliotts were still to form onehousehold, that her dear thoughtless Fanny was to have the benefit ofthe elder sister's longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, andher surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. It was so dearin Miss Elliott to consent to it. Another person might have resentedthe necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so longoccupied the first in her brother's house. And then to be superceded byone so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all mustacknowledge her dear Fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. MissElliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. How could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to havethe advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers wassure to be! She only hoped that Fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances inwhich she was to be placed. 

Graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her "wayward daughter" tended ratherto the encouragement of a "judicious resistance" than of "a proper andamiable submission" to the anticipated rule. But as a necessaryabdication of all household power made no part of Graeme's trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperousadministration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outwardevidence of discomfort and indignation. She was the better able to dothis, as she saw that the clever lady's declaration of her sentiments onthis subject, made Arthur a little uncomfortable too. He had a vagueidea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had notat first been so delightful to Mrs Grove. He had a remembrance thatthe doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intendedmarriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had beencoupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that thehappiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered verywell; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from hissisters to this end, he was very well assured. 

"However, it is all right now, " said Arthur, congratulating himself. "Graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma's twaddle, and thereis no fear as far as Fanny and she are concerned. "

The extent to which "mamma's twaddle" and other matters "put Graemeabout" at this time she concealed quite, as far as Arthur was concerned. The best was to be made of things now; and though she could not helpwishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, sheknew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced tomake use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept toherself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on. 

But her feelings changed somewhat. She did not cease to grieve insecret over what she could not but call Arthur's mistake in the choicehe had made. But now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitteramusement mingled with her sorrow. There seemed at times somethingludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he hadchosen. She was quite sure that Arthur would have smiled at the littlefollies and inconsistencies of Miss Grove, had he seen them in any oneelse. She remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled atthem in her. _Now_ how blind he was! All her little defects ofcharacter, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible tohim. She was very amiable and charming in his eyes. There were timeswhen one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest andmost sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views andassent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would havebeen amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those lookingon. 

Graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this--that it wasbetter so. If it was so that these two were to pass their livestogether, it was well that they should be blind to each other's faults. Somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when theirtastes, and talents, and tempers differed. If they loved one anotherthat was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that shedid not understand. At any rate, there was no use vexing herself aboutArthur now. If he was content, why should not she be so? Her brother'shappiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothingcould be changed now. 

But as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of whatthe future might bring to Rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadderdoubt. She called herself foolish and faithless--selfish even, andscolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away herfears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. WhenArthur should come quite to see with Fanny's eyes, and hear with herears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happilytogether as they had hitherto done? Fanny, kept to themselves, shethought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whoseprinciples and practice were so different from all they had been taughtto consider right, how might their lives be changed!

And so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. As a part of hermarriage-portion, Mr Grove was to present to his daughter one of thehandsome new houses in the neighbourhood of Columbus Square, and therethe young lady's married-life was to commence. The house was quite alittle fortune in itself, Mrs Grove said, and she could neitherunderstand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphantannouncement of its destination was received by the Elliotts. It isjust possible that Arthur's intimate knowledge of the state of hisfuture father-in-law's affairs, might have had something to do with hisgravity on the occasion. The troubles in the mercantile world, that hadnot left untouched the long-established house of Elphinstone & Company, had been felt more seriously still by Mr Grove, and a doubt as towhether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large anamount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter'sbenefit, could not but suggest itself to Arthur. He was not mercenary;it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree ofsatisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogetherundowered. But the state of Mr Grove's affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from hisbusiness, and Arthur might well look grave. 

Not that he troubled himself about it, however. He had never felt sogreatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel muchdisappointed when the prospect became doubtful. He knew that Miss Grovehad a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but hesaid to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than thatthere should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. So, if to MrsGrove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known themunificent intentions of Fanny's father, it was not for a reason that hechose to discuss with her. His remarks were reserved for Mr Grove'sprivate ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness. 

As for Graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change ofresidence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears fortheir future. If she had dreaded changes in their manner of lifebefore, how much more were they to be dreaded now? They might havefallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when Fanny hadquite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the homewhere they had all been so happy together. But there seemed little hopeof anything so pleasant as that now, for Fanny's handsome house was inquite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and thatwould make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all thisadded much to her misgivings for the future. 

"Fanny's house!" could it ever seem like home to them? Her thoughtsflew back to Janet and Merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding allthe pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemedpossible--nay best and wisest, for her and Rose to go away. 

"However, we must wait a while; we must have patience. Things mayadjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just now. "

In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will Graeme hadset herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "We must wait--we must have patience. " And she had more cause to be content with theprogress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for theills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, whatbetter, what more effectual than "patient waiting?"

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. 

"Are you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme. "

"I am very glad, Will. Why should you doubt it? You know I have not soheartsome a way of showing my delight as Rosie has. "

"No. I don't know any such thing. I can't be quite glad myself, till Iam sure that you are glad, too. "

"Well, you may be quite sure, Will. It is only my old perverse way oflooking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a darkside. It will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, Will. "

"Less like home than ever!" repeated Will. "Why, Graeme, that sounds asif you were not quite contented with the state of affairs. "

"Does it?" said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. 

"But, Graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. Fannyis very nice, and--"

"Yes, indeed, " said Graeme, heartily. "Everything has turned out muchbetter than we used to fear. I remember the time when I was quiteafraid of Fanny and her fine house--my old perversity, you see. "

"I remember, " said Will, gravely. 

"I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma Grove was aperfect night-mare to me. And really, she is well! she is not a veryformidable person, after all. "

"Well, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma Grove, " saidWill, with a shrug. 

"Oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of Master Tom. You will have to take him, Will. "

"Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than that forFanny's brother, without all this talk. "

"But then, without `all this talk, ' as you call it, you might not havediscovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to herEnglish friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles outof your way for the boy. "

"Oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Let her rest. "

"Yes, let her rest. And, Will, you are not to think I am not glad thatyou are going home. I would choose no other lot for you, than the onethat is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate thatthe field should be a Canadian one. "

"Of course. Canada is my home. "

"Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to be called to thatfield, when you are ready to be called. "

"But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that I am going home to learn from the `British. '"

"There is no fear. Sandy has completed the work which my father andJanet began. Mr Snow is tolerant of the North British, at any rate. What a pleasant life our Merleville life was. It seems strange thatnone of us, but Norman, has been back there. It won't belong now, however. "

"I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily's wedding. But I shall certainlygo and see them all, before I go to Scotland. "

"If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer there. "

"And leave Rose here?" said Will, in some surprise. 

"No. I wish to go for Rose's sake, as much as for my own. It seems asthough going to Merleville and Janet, would put us all right again. "

"I hope you may both be put right, without going so far, " said Will. 

"Do you know, Will, I sometimes wonder whether I can be the same personwho came here with Rose and you? Circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. I think I should come back to my old selfagain, with Janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way. "

"I don't think I understand you, Graeme. "

"Don't you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I havenot improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself. "

"What is wrong with you, Graeme. "

"I cannot tell you, Will. I don't know whether the wrong is with me, orwith matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it. "

"If I knew what is wrong I might try, " said Will, gravely. 

"Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?"

"If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty. "

"I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it. Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in yourillness, and Fanny in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work. "

"That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeepingnothing? It is all very well, Fanny's jingling her keys, and playinglady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. Iflast year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the samecomplaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you aregetting weary of the `woman's work, that is never done, ' is it, dear?"

"No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been verydifferent from all former years. I used to have something definite todo, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it. You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference. "

"I see one difference, " said Will. "You have the trouble, and Fanny hasthe credit. "

"No, Will. Don't say that I don't think that troubles me. It oughtnot; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to suppose she has theresponsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair toher. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel thetrouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learningnothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matterswhen she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is verytolerant of the `whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best ofeverything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding faultwith Fanny, and indeed, I don't wish to do anything so disagreeable. "

"I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them. "

"No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want itfor Rose. "

"But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away, --I mean, tostay always?"

"Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don't thinkit is that I am growing tired of `woman's work. ' It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life;stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But ofsuch trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiserand better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make ahappy home, and that was much. "

"You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme, --yourlove and care for us all. "

"No, Will. These are implied. It is the love and care that made allthese trifles really `woman's work. ' A poor dreary work it would bewithout these. "

"And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, andmake it work indeed?" said Will. 

"There is, indeed, Will. If I were only sure that it is my work. But, I am not sure. And it seems as though--somewhere in the world, theremust be something better worth the name of work, for me to do. " Andletting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberlessroofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond. 

"Oh! Will, " she went on in a little, "you do not know. You who haveyour life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it iswith me. You know the work before you is your work--given you by Godhimself. You need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. Andlook at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time withtrifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which dogood to no one. And all the time not knowing whether I ought to stay inthe old round, or break away from it all--never sure but that elsewhere, I might find wholesome work for God and man. "

Very seldom did Graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts intowords, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to putan end to their talk. But Will said, --

"Even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. Some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate `woman'swork' to do, --love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, withoutencroaching on Fanny's domain. "

He began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughingdeprecation at his sister, as he ended. She did not laugh. 

"I have thought of that, too. It seems so natural and proper, and inthe common course of things, that a woman should marry. And there havebeen times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, Ihave thought that any change would be for the better. But it would notbe right, unless--" she hesitated. 

"No, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we notreasonably hope that the right person may come?"

"We won't talk about it, Will. There must be some other way than that. Many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. I wish Icould do as the Merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep aschool. "

"But they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. And as for school-keeping--"

"It would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with God's help, Imight try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world betterfor my labour. "

"But you could not part from Rose, and Arthur could never be made to seeit right that you should go away, " said Will. 

"Rose should go with me. And Arthur would not like it at first, norFanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. And as to theschool, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds leftfor a woman to do, the more's the pity. "

"There is work enough of the best kind. It is the remuneration that isscant. And the remuneration could not be made a secondaryconsideration; if you left home. "

"In one sense, it ought to be secondary. But I think it must bedelightful to feel that one is `making one's living, ' as Mr Snow wouldsay. I _should_ like to know how it feels to be quite independent, Will, I must confess. "

"But Graeme, there is no need; and it would make Arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. Even to me, it sounds alittle like pride, or discontent. "

"Does it, Will. That is dreadful. It is quite possible that these evilelements enter into my vexed thoughts. We won't speak any more aboutit, Will. "

"But, why should we not speak about it? You may be quite right. At anyrate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexedthoughts to yourself. "

But, if Graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time justnow. There was a knock at the door, and Sarah, the housemaid, presentedherself. 

"If you please, Miss Graeme, do you think I might go out as usual. Itis Wednesday, you know. "

Wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in Sarah's kirk. She wasa good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular youngpreacher of the day. 

"If Nelly thinks she can manage without you, " said Graeme. 

"It was Nelly proposed it. She can do very well, unless Mrs Elliottbrings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late. "

"Well, go then, and don't be late. And be sure you come home with theShaws' Sarah, " said Miss Elliott. 

"They are late, " said Will. "I am afraid I cannot wait for dinner. Ipromised to be with Doctor D at seven. "

They went down-stairs together. Nelly remonstrated, with greatearnestness against Will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner. "

"Though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiledalready. The fowls werena much to begin with. It needs sense anddiscretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winnacome home at the right hour, must content themselves with thingsoverdone, or else in the dead thraw. "

"I am very sorry Will should lose his dinner, " said Graeme; "but theycannot be long in coming now. "

"There's no saying. They may meet in with folk that may keep them tosuit their ain convenience. It has happened before. "

More than once, when Fanny had been out with her mother, they had gonefor Arthur and dined at Grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. To have a success in her department rendered vain by careless orculpable delay, was a trial to Nelly at any time. And if Mrs Grove hadanything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater. 

For Nelly--to use her own words--had no patience with that "meddlesomeperson. " Any interference on her part in household matters, wasconsidered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladiesbefore Mrs Arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. Allhints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, wereutterly ignored by Nelly, when it could be done without positivedisobedience to Miss Graeme or Mrs Elliott. If direct orders made itnecessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent ofavailing herself of Mrs Grove's experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same timeirritating and amusing. 

She had no reason to suppose that Mrs Grove had anything to do with hervexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and followingGraeme into the dining-room, where Will sat contentedly eating his breadand cheese, she said, --

"As there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with otherfolks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, Miss Graeme. "

"We will wait a few minutes longer. There is no haste, " said Graeme, quietly. 

Graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came--solong that Nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, butshe did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as shewent, --

"I'll no vex her. She has her ain troubles, I daresay, with her youngbrother going away, and many another thing that I ken nothing about. Itwould ill set me to add to her vexations. She is not at peace withherself, that's easy to be seen. "

CHAPTER THIRTY. 

Graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a longtime, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled Will'spleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease. 

"For there is no good vexing him. He cannot even advise me; and, indeed, I am afraid I have not the courage really to go away. "

But she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat therewaiting for the rest in the gathering darkness. 

They came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with theair of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at theirleisure, accompanied--to Nelly's indignant satisfaction--by Mrs Grove. Graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastenedtoward the door. Rose came first, and her sister's question as to theirdelay was stopped by a look at her radiant face. 

"Graeme, I have something to tell you. What is the most delightful, andalmost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?"

Graeme shook her head. 

"I should have to consider a while first--I am not good at guessing. But won't it keep? Nelly is out of all patience. "

But Rose was too excited to heed her. 

"No; it won't keep. Guess who is coming--Janet!"

Graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

"Arthur got a letter from Mr Snow to-day. Read it. "

Graeme read, Rose looking over her shoulder. 

"I am very glad. But, Rosie, you must make haste. Fanny will be downin a minute, and Nelly is impatient. "

"No wonder! But I must tell her about Mrs Snow. "

And with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchenstairs. Nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if thesight of her bright face had not softened her. Regardless of the riskto muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayedpreparations. 

"Nelly! Who do you think is coming? You will never guess. I may aswell tell you. Mrs Snow!"

"Eh, me! That's news, indeed. Take care of the gravy, Miss Rose, dear. And when is she coming?"

There was not the faintest echo of rebuke in Nelly's tone. There was nopossibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even inthe presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. Besides, she hadthe greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a greatdesire to see her. She looked upon her as a wonderful person, andaspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set thegravy-dish on the table to hear more. 

"And when will she be coming?" she asked. 

"Some time in June. And, Nelly, such preparations as we shall have!But it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. We could not help it, indeed. "

"You dinna need to tell me that. I heard who came with you. Carry youup the plates, and the dinner will be up directly. "

"And so your old nurse is coming?" said Mrs Grove, after they had beensome time at the table. "How delightful! You look quite excited, Rose. She is a very nice person, I believe, Miss Elliott. " Graeme smiled. Mrs Grove's generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifoldvirtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, Mrs Grovecontinued. 

"We must think of some way of doing her honour. We must get up a little_fete_--a pic-nic or something. Will she stay here or at Mr Birnie's. She is a friend of his, I suppose, as Rose stopped him in the street totell him she is coming. It is rather awkward having such people stayingin the house. They are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannotdevote all one's time--"

Rose sent her a glance of indignation; Graeme only smiled. Arthur hadnot heard her last remark, so he answered the first. 

"I doubt such things would hardly be in Mrs Snow's way. Mrs Grovecould hardly make a lion of our Janet, I fancy, Graeme. "

"I fancy not, " said Graeme, quietly. 

"Oh! I assure you, I shall be willing to take any trouble. I trulyappreciate humble worth. We so seldom find among the lower classesanything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by thisperson to your family. You must tell me all about her some day, Rose. "

Rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation hadpassed, to make room for astonishment. Mrs Grove went on. 

"Didn't she leave her husband, or something, to come with you?Certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded--"

"By a pic-nic, " said Rose, as Mrs Grove hesitated. 

"Rose, don't be satirical, " said Arthur, trying not to laugh. 

"I am sure you must be delighted, Fanny--Arthur's old nurse you know. It need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. It is not youshe comes to see. "

"I am not so sure of that, " said Arthur, smiling across the table to hispretty wife. "I fancy Fanny has as much to do with the visit as any ofus. She will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look herprettiest, I can assure her. "

"And Janet was not Arthur's nurse, " said Rose. "Graeme was baby whenshe came first. "

"And I fancy nursing was but a small part of Janet's work in thosedays, " said Arthur. "She was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all inone. Eh, Graeme?"

"Ay, and more than that--more than could be told in words, " said Graeme, with glistening eyes. 

"And I am sure you will like her, " said Rose, looking straight into MrsGrove's face. "Her husband is very rich. I think he must be almost therichest man in Merleville. "

Arthur did not reprove Rose this time, though she well deserved it. Sheread her reproof in Graeme's look, and blushed and hung her head. Shedid not look very much abashed, however. She knew Arthur was enjoyingthe home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther. 

"Do you know, Fanny, " said Mrs Grove, in a little, "I saw Mrs Tilmanthis morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. She hasseen better days. It is sad to see a lady--for she seems to have beenquite a lady--so reduced. "

"And who is Mrs Tilman?" asked Arthur. 

Fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on. 

"She is a person Mrs Gridley was speaking to Fanny about--a very worthyperson indeed. "

"She was speaking to you, you mean, mamma, " said Fanny. 

"Was it to me? Well, it is all the same. She is a widow. She lived inQ---a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in Haughton Place. I don't know why she left. Some one married, I think. Since then shehas been a sick nurse, but it didn't agree with her, and lately she hasbeen a cook in a small hotel. "

"She seems to have experienced vicissitudes, " said Arthur, for the sakeof saying something. 

"Has she not? And a very worthy person she is, I understand, and anadmirable cook. She markets, too--or she did at Haughton House--andthat is such a relief. She must be an invaluable servant. "

"I should think so, indeed, " said Arthur, as nobody else seemed inclinedto say anything. 

Graeme and Rose were speaking about Janet and her expected visit, andFanny sat silent and embarrassed. But Nelly, busy in taking away thethings, lost nothing of what was said; and Mrs Grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetictable maid. An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to thestate of the overdone fowls, and Nelly "could put this and that togetheras well as another. " The operation of removing the things could not beindefinitely prolonged, however, and as Nelly shut the door Mrs Grovesaid, --

"She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. But you mustbe prompt if you wish to engage her. "

"Oh! there is no hurry about it, I suppose, " said Fanny, glancinguneasily at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. Mrs Grove was ratherin the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leavingGraeme out of the conversation. She was very willing to be left out. Besides, she never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of herstepmother. 

"Oh! but I assure you there is, " said Mrs Grove. "There are severalladies wishing to have her. Mrs Ruthven, among the rest. "

"Oh! it is such a trouble changing, " said Fanny, wearily, as if she hadhad a trying experience and spoke advisedly. 

"Not at all. It is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome, "said Mrs Grove, and she had a right to know. "I advise you not to letthis opportunity pass. "

"But, after all, Nelly does very well. She is stupid sometimes andcross, but they are all that, more or less, I suppose, " said Fanny. 

"You are quite right, Fanny, " said Arthur, who saw that his wife wasannoyed without very well knowing why. "I daresay Nelly is a betterservant--notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which wasour own fault, you know--than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be asecond Janet, yet--an institution, an established fact in the history ofthe family. We couldn't do without Nelly. Eh, Graeme?"

Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Rose answered for her. 

"No, indeed I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs Snow. "

"Very well, " said Mrs Grove. "Since Miss Elliott seems to be satisfiedwith Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a pity you had not knownsooner, Fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment forher. But she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate. "

Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkwardsilence followed her departure. 

"What is it all about! Who is Mrs Tilman?" asked Arthur. 

"Some one Mrs Grove has seen, " said Graeme, evasively. 

"But what about Nelly? Surely you are not thinking of changingservants, Graeme?"

"Oh! I hope not; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately--grumbled alittle--"

"Out of sorts, grumbled!" exclaimed Fanny, vexed that Mrs Grove hadintroduced the subject, and more vexed still that Arthur should haveaddressed his question to Graeme. "She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and I shall not bear it any longer. "

Poor little Fanny could hardly keep back her tears. 

"Impertinent to you, Fanny, " cried Graeme and Arthur in a breath. 

"Well, to mamma--and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, andmamma says Nelly has been long enough here. Servants always takeliberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon Graeme as mistressrather than me. She quite treats me like a child, " continued Fanny, herindignation increasing as she proceeded. 

"And, besides, " she added, after there had been a moment's uncomfortablesilence, "Nelly wishes to go. "

"Is Barkis willing at last?" said Arthur, trying to laugh off thediscomfort of the moment. 

Rose laughed too. It had afforded them all much amusement to watch theslow courtship of the dignified Mr Stirling. Nelly always denied thatthere was anything more in the gardener's attentions, than just thegood-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a longtime in coming to the point they all acknowledged. 

"Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it, " said Fanny. 

"Then, she must be going to her sister--the lady with a fabulous numberof cows and children. She has spoken about that every summer, more orless. Her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But shewill get over it. It is all nonsense about her leaving. "

"But it is not nonsense, " said Fanny, sharply. "Of course Graeme willnot like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, andmamma says I shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. And I think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance. "

"But how good a servant is she?" asked Arthur. 

"Didn't you hear what mamma said about her? And, of course, she hasreferences and written characters, and all that sort of thing. "

"Well, I think we may as well `sleep upon it, ' as Janet used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to-night, " said Arthur, takingup his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess. 

The rest sat silent. Rose was indignant, and it needed a warningglance, from Graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. Graemewas indignant, but not surprised. Indeed, Nelly had given warning thatshe was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think betterof it, and said nothing. 

She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. She felt thatthere was some truth in Fanny's declaration, that Nelly looked upon heras a child. She had Nelly's own word for that. She considered heryoung mistress a child to be humoured and "no' heeded" when any seriousbusiness was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out if leftto herself, at least she would not have resented it. 

The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the turn affairs hadtaken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things taketheir course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She felt that it would not be right to stand aside andlet Fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesomefolly of Mrs Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to Nelly, whohad served them so faithfully all those years. And yet, as she lookedat Fanny's pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to thepropriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say toherself, with a sigh, --

"We must have patience and wait. "

And the matter was settled without her interference, though not to hersatisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on her way to the country tomake acquaintance of her sister's cows and children, and the estimableMrs Tilman was installed in her place. It was an uncomfortable timefor all. Rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme wasannoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not see fit toconfine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to Mrs Elliottas she ought to have done. If half as earnestly and frankly as sheexpressed her sorrow for her departure, Graeme had expressed hervexation at its cause, Nelly would have been content. But Graeme wouldnot compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise themeddlesomeness of Mrs Grove in their affairs. And yet she could notbear that Nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, withsuch angry gloom in her kind eyes. 

"Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? or will you comeback to town and take another place? There are many of our friends whowould be very glad to get you. "

"I'm no' sure, Miss Elliott. I have grown so fractious and contrarylately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. And as to anotherplace--"

Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would have beenthat she could bear the thought of no other place. But she saidnothing, and went away--ran away, indeed. For when she saw thesorrowful tears in Graeme's eyes, and felt the warm pressure of herhand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when Graeme said:

"You'll let us hear from you, Nelly. You'll surely let us hear from yousoon?"

There was very little said about the new order of affairs. Theremonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never came. Mrs Grovecontinued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave Graeme out, and shewas quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved onsmoothly. Mrs Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A littlestout, a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and veryred in the face; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety of havingthe kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face asto induce Graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard whenFanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. She was avery good servant, if one might judge after a week's trial; and Fannymight have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a littleuncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler intheir domestic world. Mrs Tilman marketed, and purchased thegroceries, and that in so dignified a manner that Fanny almost wonderedwhether the looking over the grocer's book and the butcher's book mightnot be considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her remarksand allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her youngmistress wonderfully. She was almost ashamed of their limitedestablishment, in view of Mrs Tilman's magnificent experiences. Butthe dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, hadprofited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen uponher, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble spherein a most exemplary manner. 

To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with herless conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate shareof work was left to Sarah. But fortunately for her and the householdgenerally, Graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of otherpeople's duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domesticmachinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. Not that Nelly'sdeparture was no longer regretted; but in her heart Graeme believed thatthey would soon have her in her place again, and she was determinedthat, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in theirfamily life. 

For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that there should beno drawback to the pleasure of Mrs Snow's visit; and second, that MrsSnow should admire and love Arthur's wife. She had had serious doubtsenough herself as to the wisdom of her brother's choice, but she triedto think herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she couldnot bear to think that Janet should not be quite content. Not that shewas very much afraid. For Graeme's feelings toward Fanny had changedvery much since she had been one of them. She was not very wise orsensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and Graemehad come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illnessfrom which Fanny was not long recovered. Her faults, at least many ofthem, were those of education, which she would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortuneto witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced tothe influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it couldeasily be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, andFanny would improve in consequence. The vanity, and the carelessness ofthe feelings of others, which were, to Graeme, her worst faults, werefaults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whetherthe change was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire. 

But she was determined that her new sister should appear to the bestadvantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end thedomestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. So Mrs Tilman'sadministration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, andthe surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this greatdomestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on Fanny's part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Rosewas inclined to resent. Graeme did not resent it, and Rose was ready toforgive Fanny's triumph, since Fanny was so ready to share her delightat the thought of Mrs Snow's visit. As for Will, he saw nothing in thewhole circle of events to disturb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the McIntyre children and cowshad proved irresistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulatedhimself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmlybelieving in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubtingthat her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with anypossible domestic emergency. 

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. 

They came at last. Arthur and Will met them on the other side of theriver, and Graeme and Rose would fain have done the same, but because offalling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best forthem to go. 

It was a very quiet meeting--a little restrained and tearful just atfirst; but that wore away, and Janet's eyes rested on the bairns fromwhom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnestscrutiny. They had all changed, she said. Arthur was like his father;Will was like both father and mother. As for Rosie--

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " said Mrs Snow, "I think Rosie is nearly asbonny as her sister Marian, " and her eye rested on the girl's blushingface with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as forthe living. Graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in alittle she found herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had notchanged more than any of them. 

As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in thegeneral joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and ratherostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of thetravellers. She need not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Evennow she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr Snow, who was walkingoff his excitement in the hall. That there was admiration mingled withthe curiosity they expressed was evident, and Fanny relented. Whatmight soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before Janethad got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, MrSnow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities--good--and notso good--of the pretty little housekeeper. 

After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr Snow walked up and downthe gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join inthe conversation that went on within. Fanny, tired of the dignity ofhousekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside Graeme; and Janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested onthe pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention thanshe had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. Graemegrew silent too. Indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon;partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she wasnot always sure of her voice when she tried to speak. 

She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall intorecollections too tender to be shared by them all. Rose's extraordinaryrestlessness prevented that. She seemed to have lost the power ofsitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging aword with Fanny or Will, now joining in the conversation that was goingon between Mr Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hangingover Graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs Snow's side; and allthe time with a face so radiant that even Will noticed it, and begged tobe told the secret of her delight. 

The truth was, Rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she was shy of confessing itto herself, but as the time of Mrs Snow's visit approached, she had notbeen quite free from misgivings. She had a very distinct recollectionof their friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quiteimpossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a littledisappointing--not to themselves. Janet would always be Janet to them--the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her littlefinger than there was in ten such fine ladies as Mrs Grove. But Rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles andforced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too, when all thisworth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with noclaim to consideration on account of externals. 

But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in her fullbrown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in avelvet arm-chair, Rose's misgivings gave place to triumphantself-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it couldnot well be shared. She had assisted at the arrangement of the contentsof the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might havehelped her a little. 

"A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs andhandkerchiefs of lawn--is not little Emily a darling to make her motherlook so nice? And such a beauty of a shawl!--that's the one Sandybrought. "

And so Rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback tomar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet as she sat in thearm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on Graemeand the pretty creature at her feet. All Rosie's admiration was forMrs Snow. 

"Is she not just like a picture sitting there?" she whispered to Will, as she passed him. 

And indeed Rosie's admiration was not surprising; she was the very Janetof old times; but she sat there in Fanny's handsome drawing-room, withas much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen longago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-tableto Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been "usedwith" fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels withher over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes. 

And yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet was one ofthose whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a justappreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances nopower over their unchanging worth. 

That Mr Snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within fourwalls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, who, in the opinion ofthose who knew him best, "had the faculty of doing 'most anything, " hadcertainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. The hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when theinterest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny sufferedconstant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. Ajudicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for hisperambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his ownland, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrowlimits. So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made longbefore, that Will should show him Canada. 

Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr Snow's ideas of the countryhad been got from the careful reading of an old "History of the Frenchand Indian War. " Of course, by this time he had got a little beyond thebelief that the government was a military despotism, that the city ofMontreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circularenclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted inan exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of theAborigines. Still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to saydisparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited theamusement of Will and the indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarksindicative of a low opinion of things in general in the Queen'sdominions. So when he proposed that Will should show him Canada, Roselooked gravely up and asked, --

"Where will you go first, Will? To the Red river or Hudson's Bay or toNova Scotia? You must be back to lunch. "

They all laughed, and Arthur said, --

"Oh, fie, Rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits ofCanada!--such ignorance!"

"They are in the Queen's dominions, though, and Mr Snow wants to seeall that is worth seeing on British soil. "

"Well, I guess we can make out a full day's work in Canada, can't we?It is best to take it moderate, " said Mr Snow, smiling benignly onRose. He was tolerant of the young lady's petulance, and not so readyto excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listenedto her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see. 

He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must be confessedthat just at first Arthur was a little disappointed in him. He had onlya slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of himfrom the others that he had looked forward with interest to making theacquaintance of the "sharp Yankee deacon. " For Harry had a good storyabout "Uncle Sampson" ready for all occasions, and there was no end tothe shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quotefrom his lips. But Harry's acquaintance had been confined to the firstyears of their Merleville life, and Mr Snow had changed much sincethen. He saw all things in a new light. Wisdom and folly had changedtheir aspect to him. The charity which "believeth and hopeth allthings, " and which "thinketh no evil, " lived within him now, and madehim slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foiblesof others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the ladslong ago. Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severelytoo, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, asWill had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of"showing him Canada, " but he far more frequently surprised them all byhis gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and byhis quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw. 

The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and itsenvirons. With the town itself he was greatly pleased. The great greystone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to thepeople accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength andpermanence. But as he was usually content with an outside view of thebuildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive throughthe streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came thewharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. All thesepleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, whenopportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which heconsidered the Montrealers "a _leetle_ behind the times. " On the whole, however, his appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiringand sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under thecircumstances. 

"You've got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one's ideas ofwhat a river ought to be--broad and deep and full, " he said to Arthurone day. "It kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grandand powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea. "

"Yes, it is like your Father of Waters, " said Arthur, a little surprisedat his tone and manner. 

"One wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and such things atthe first glimpse of that. I didn't see it the day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we stood looking down upon it, Icouldn't but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever sincecreation, I suppose, or ever since the time of Adam and Eve--if the dateain't the same, as some folks seem to think. "

"I always think how wonderful it must have seemed to Jacques Cartier andhis men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest oneither shore, " said Rose. "No wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the China seas. "

"A wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them inthat, " said Arthur. "The sad pity is, that it is not available forcommerce for more than two-thirds of the year. "

"If ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will dosomething towards making this a place of importance in this part of theworld, though the long winter is against, too. "

"Oh! the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit will not beconfined to us. The Western trade will be benefited as well. What doyou think of your Massachusetts men, getting their cotton round thisway? This communication with the more northern cotton growing States ismore direct by this than any other way. "

"Well, I ain't prepared to say much about it. Some folks wouldn't thinkmuch of that. But I suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow. "

But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasureas the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond themountain, as far as the eye could reach. Of the mountain itself, he wasa little contemptuous in its character of mountain. 

"A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost tothe top of it! Why, our sheep pasture at Merleville is a deal more likea mountain than that. It is only a hill, and moderate at that. Youmust have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call _that_ one. You've forgotten all about Merleville, Rosie, to be content with thatfor a mountain. "

While, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely onthe want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content"to putter along" as their fathers had done, with little desire to availthemselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern scienceand art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. In Merleville, everyman who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest insowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, thatcould be made available on hill or meadow. If the strength and patienceso freely expended among the stony New England hills, could but beapplied to the fertile valley of the Saint Lawrence, what a garden itmight become! And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of thecontented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of affairs establishedby their fathers. 

One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of the mountaintoward the western end. They had a fair day for a fair sight, and whenMr Snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond bothrivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wonderingadmiration. Above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely bythe snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, tobreak into flakes of silver near the far horizon. 

Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure withwhich June loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. There wereno waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Faras the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses. 

Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faintsound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them. 

"I suppose the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must have been likethis, " said Mr Snow, as he gazed. 

"Yes, the Promised Land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks ofwater, " said Will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderfulpicture. Could they ever gaze enough? Could they ever weary themselvesof the sight? The shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made thebeauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rosein pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go. 

"I wouldn't have missed _that_ now, for considerable, " said Mr Snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this waspart of the sightseeing that he had set himself. "No, I wouldn't havemissed it for considerable more than that miserable team'll cost, " addedhe, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat thedrowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. Will smiled, andmade no answer. He was not a vain lad, but it is just possible thatthere passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of hisfriend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all theafternoon. To Will's imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of itsprimeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He wasone of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imagination, he saw the forestfall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westwardto die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. Then histhoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vaguedream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when thelovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. Andcoming back to actual life, with an effort--a sense of pain, he said tohimself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pureas his. 

But Will was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, that summerafternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply anddemand, of profit and loss, found no place. He passed the pleasant houron that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched outbefore them, a very land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of theOttawa, as over the river of Death, into a land visible and clear to theeye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad byhis side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the DivineCompanionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the Divine Exemplar. 

Will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, nowand then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of hisfriend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of thepleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and thelad's heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was atoken of the shining of God's face upon his servant, and he longed for aglimpse of that which his friend's eyes saw. A word might have won forhim a glimpse of the happiness; but Will was shy, and the word was notspoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with thesmile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from himthan that any experience of his should be of value to another. And sothey fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where thelighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight. 

That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, Mr Snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. It was aportrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than MrSnow had ever known him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, andhad been sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likenesshad been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it had been a greatpleasure and surprise. She was never weary of looking at it, and evenMr Snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, wasstrangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he rememberedso well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back of achair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usualaround him. In a little, Rose came and stood beside him. 

"Do you think it is very like him?" asked she. 

"Well, " said Mr Snow, meditatively, "it's like him and it ain't likehim. I love to look at it, anyhow. "

"At first it puzzled me, " said Rose. "It seemed like the picture ofsome one I had seen in a dream; and when I shut my eyes, and tried tobring back my father's face as it used to be in Merleville, it would notcome--the face of the dream came between. "

"Well, there is something in that, " said Mr Snow, and he paused amoment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. "No, it won't do that for me. It would take something I hain't thoughtof yet, to make me forget his face. "

"It does not trouble me now, " said Rose. "I can shut my eyes, and seehim, Oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and outunder the trees, and as he lay in his coffin--" She was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. Mr Snow turned, andlaying his hand on her bright head, said softly, --

"Yes, dear, and so can I, If we didn't know that it must be right, wemight wonder why he was taken from us. But I shall never forget him--never. He did too much for me, for that. He was the best friend I everhad, by all odds--the very best. "

Rose smiled through her tears. 

"He brought you Mrs Snow, " said she, softly. 

"Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. It was throughhim that I made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even_she_ is--and that is saying considerable, " added he, turning his eyestoward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair. 

"Were you speaking?" said Mrs Snow, looking up at the sound of hisvoice. 

"Yes, I was speaking to Rosie, here. How do you suppose we can everpersuade her to go back to Merleville with us?"

"She is going with us, or she will soon follow us. What would Emilysay, if she didna come?"

"Yes, I know. But I meant to stay for good and all. Graeme, won't yougive us this little girl?"

Graeme smiled. 

"Yes. On one condition--if you will take me too. "

Mr Snow shook his head. 

"I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We should haveother conditions to add to that one. "

"Yes, " said Arthur, laughing. "You would have to take Fanny and me, aswell, in that case. I don't object to your having one of them at atime, now and then, but both of them--that would never do. "

"But it must be both or neither, " said Graeme, eagerly, "I couldna'trust Rosie away from me. I havena these sixteen years--her whole life, have I, Janet? If you want Rosie, you must have me, too. "

She spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. Indeed, soearnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not faraway. The others saw it, and were silent, but Fanny who was not quickat seeing things, said, --

"But what could we do without you both? That would not be fair--"

"Oh! you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you. At any rate, Rosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to any one who won't haveme, too. She is all I shall have left when Will goes away. "

"Graeme would not trust Rosie with Arthur and me, " said Fanny, a littlepettishly. "There are so many things that Graeme don't approve of. Shethinks we would spoil Rose. "

Janet's hand touched hers, whether by accident or design Graeme did notknow, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to herlips, and she only said, laughingly, --

"Mrs Snow thinks that you and Arthur are spoiling us both, Fanny. "

Janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, strokingGraeme's bowed head, --

"I dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but I have seenworse bairns. "

After this, Mr Snow and Will began the survey of Canada in earnest. First they went to Quebec, where they lingered several days. Then theywent farther down the river, and up the Saguenay, into the very heart ofthe wilderness. This part of the trip Will enjoyed more than hisfriend, but Mr Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged theirstay for his sake. Then they went up the country, visiting the chieftowns and places of interest. They did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons andstages, through a farming country, in which, though Mr Snow saw much tocriticise, he saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many aquiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many apleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated ondoor-steps, or by the kitchen-fire. 

Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, notwithout a certain reserve. That a "live Yankee, " cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the solepurpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, andinhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like tocommit themselves at the first glance. Will's frank, handsome face, andsimple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and Mr Snow's kindly advances were seldom long withstood. But theresometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when hehad succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and makesome startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of somepatent medicine or new invention--perhaps one of those wonderfullabour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, orcommented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of allpossible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most ofthe pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. If he did notalways agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes offarming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of Glengarryand the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practicethan "so had their fathers said and done before them, " and theirdiscussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the Americanfrankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom onthe continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five. 

Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He was, to acertain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices ofeach from the other's point of view, and so to enjoy with double zestthe discussion of subjects which could not fail to present suchdissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developedunder circumstances and influences so different. This power helped himto make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to bothjuster notions of each other's theory and practice than their ownexplanations could have done. By this means, too, he won for himself areputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, whichsurprised no one so much as himself. They would have liked to lingerfar longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, forthe days were hastening. 

Before returning home, they visited Niagara, that wonderful work of God, too great and grand, as Mr Snow told Rosie, to be the pride of onenation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the twogreatest nations in the world. This part of the trip was for Will'ssake. Mr Snow had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for Will's benefit, butthose were not the parts which Mr Snow enjoyed least, as he said to hiswife afterwards. 

"It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and Will's, too. Ifever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. It was worth going, justto see his pleasure. "

When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it wasproposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part ofCanada, known as the Eastern Townships. Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they could give it. Passing in through MissisquoiCounty to the head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a fewdays on it, and along its shores. Their return was by a circuitouscourse across the country through the County of Stanstead, in the midstof beautiful scenery, and what Mr Snow declared to be "as fine afarming country as anybody need wish to see. "

This "seeing Canada" was a more serious matter than he had at firstsupposed, Mr Snow acknowledged to the delighted Rose. It could not bedone justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcilehimself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that theparts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was. 

"Canada will be heard from yet, I expect, " said he, one night when theyhad returned home. "By the time that you get some things done that youmean to now, you'll be ready to go ahead. I don't see but you have asgood a chance as ever we had--better, even. You have got the sameelements of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a freepress, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount ofwater-power. Then for inhabitants, you've got the Scotchman, cautiousand far-seeing; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, butearnest; you've got the Englishman, who'll never fail of his aim forwant of self-confidence, anyhow; you've got Frenchmen, Germans, and asprinkling of the dark element out west; and you've got what we didn'thave to begin with, you've got the Yankee element, and that isconsiderable more than you seem to think it is, Rosie. "

Rose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to allow herself tobe drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night. 

"Yes, " continued he, "the real live Yankee is about as complete a man asyou'll generally meet anywhere. He has the caution of the Scot, totemper the fire of the Irishman, and he has about as good an opinion ofhimself as the Englishman has. He'll keep things going among you. He'll bring you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let youfall back again. Yes; if ever Canada is heard from, the Yankee willhave something to do with it, and no mistake. "

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. 

In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over thosewho were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at thecontinued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman's department. Graeme tookno notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, rememberingthings forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, andmaking, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rosesung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of hersuperfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of awedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow wascalmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Throughthe pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but onethought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that herbairns were as good and happy as they ought to be. 

The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her hadmade Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It wasbecause she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; butit was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that hadchanged her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother'sdeath, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had beentoo much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient naturemight have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved familycircle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had notfollowed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that theirdear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of theterrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her firstwinter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worsethan the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for thepresence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, tocast in her lot with others--that between her and them should lie milesand miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed thanthese, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could beotherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knewthere could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow shouldfall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace andhappiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neitherbelieved nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields andhills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselvesin gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she laystill, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer offaith, than of despair. 

And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watchedher with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did shewake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the voidmight be filled, that in God's good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart. 

And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. Thesick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the lightgrew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old householdways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not beleft undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quitethe old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, andher chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had noneto chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and muchlove. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all thebairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God'speace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed awayfrom the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks andcorners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grewcontent in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, thoughshe might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgotthem. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, andtrue. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, dayby day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that thechildren of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be. 

Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easilycontent with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in theirhome. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment ofgenial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and onlypleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, thelittle acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the takingcheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant lifewas subject to--if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw. 

But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts soshallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease couldgive. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice throughthese tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strongtemptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "For, " saidshe to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bedwithout a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them--and no help. " She was content with no such evidence of happiness orgoodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less lovingeyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed attimes in Graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and thenrested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, asthey all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, butshe knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving homecircle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm oflove was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing intrifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens forgood or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one wholoved them less. 

For Will she had no fear. He was his father's own son, with hisfather's work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And forArthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother--the father andbrother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were strongerthan her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked. 

"He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I'll no deny, " said she to herhusband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their ownapartment. "And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and forthe honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He'll maybe getthem, and maybe no'. But if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, andif he gets them not, he'll get something better. I have small fear forthe lad. He minds his father's ways and walk too well to be longcontent with his own halting pace. It's a fine life just now, with folklooking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it. There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father'sson. "

And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them allat last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that theywere kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God'skeeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have allthat even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left hernothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she cameto be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words andways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat. 

As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was forfrom being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creatureproved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of thefamily than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had sheseen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce herfrivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herselfsaying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration couldnot have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur's wife, andArthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on thecontrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues thatever had made his father a model in Janet's admiring eyes, and it seemeda bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, andpondered, and watched, and put Fanny's beautiful face and winningmanners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evidentdefects, and said to herself, though Arthur's wife was not like Arthur'smother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties ofexcellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted inthe choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be;and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of hermusings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a littleimpatient sigh. 

"I needna wonder at it. Love is blind, they say, and goes where it issent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humblegoodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happinessit brings; and Mr Arthur is no' above making a mistake. Though how heshould--minding his mother as he does--amazes me. But he's wellpleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and Miss Graeme is no'ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. Still I canna but wonder afterall is said. "

And she still wondered. There were in her vocabulary no gentler namesfor the pretty Fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and evenafter a glimpse or two of her stepmother, Janet's candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all theallowance that was to be made. She could not realise how impossible itwas, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as Mrs Groveshould have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realisingthat her worst faults were those of education, which time, andexperience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, attimes, little hope of Fanny's future worth or wisdom. 

That is, she would have had little hope but for one thing--Graeme hadfaith in Fanny, that was clear. Love might blind Arthur's eyes to herfaults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but itwould not do that for Graeme; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even attimes when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable toher husband. She was patient and forbearing towards her faults, andsmiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which Roseopenly, and even in Arthur's presence, never failed to resent. Indeed, Graeme refused to see Fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge thatshe saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to herbrother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the loveand forbearance due to a younger sister. 

And that Fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trustedGraeme was very evident. There was confidence between them, to acertain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, Janet took courageto hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it wasgiven her to see, and to hope also that Arthur might not one day findhimself disappointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matterwere all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitudeof their chamber. She was slow to commit herself to Graeme, and Graemewas in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife. 

They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their Merleville lifewas gone over and over during these quiet summer days. 

The talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary ofit. And Mrs Snow had much to tell them about the present state oftheir old home; how the old people were passing away, and the youngpeople were growing up; how well the minister was remembered therestill, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among themagain; and then Sandy and Emily, and the approaching wedding made anendless subject of talk. Rose and Fanny never wearied of that, and MrsSnow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear. 

And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, and Graeme wasleft alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed betweenthem. Graeme told her more of their family life, and of their firstexperiences than she had ever heard before. She told her of herillness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as towhether it had been wise for them all to come to burden Arthur. Shetold her of Harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all thesehad given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she neednever fear for him for the same cause more. They rejoiced together overHilda, and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in thelad when he had saved the little German girl from the terrible fate thathad overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had whenhe refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. This was all to be rejoiced over now. No doubt the care and pains whichNorman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done muchto correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt herlove and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. So theysaid to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in viewof the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember ofone and all. 

And Will, who seemed to be Graeme's own more than either of the otherbrothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watchedover him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a littleover him, in private with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hearand triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and shewas not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to hisfuture. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and thoughJanet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentletenderness that only quickened their flow. 

And now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, Janetfancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadowover Graeme's life, but she was never sure. It was not to be spokenabout, however, nothing could be clearer than that. 

"For a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift ofitself without help in a while. And if it is no' a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. And time heals many a wound that the touchof the kindest hand would hurt sorely. And God is good. " But all thiswas said in Janet's secret prayer. Not even her husband shared herthoughts about Graeme. 

"What a dismal day it is!" said Fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain. 

It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to theirrefreshment; and in the city street, out upon which Fanny looked, it wasworse. Now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtainsclosely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doingbattle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these didnot brighten the scene any. 

It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was during the timeof Mr Snow and Will's first trip, and Arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. A household ofwomen is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but ahousehold suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so inthose circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be mostsuccessfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and nowonder that Fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable stateof mind. 

Graeme and Rose were not uncomfortable. Rose had a way of putting asidedifficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to becomeso engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of whatwas going on about her, and all Fanny's exclamations of discontent werelost on her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and MrsSnow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, butshe came into the room in time to hear Fanny exclaim petulantly, --

"And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That would have beensomething to look forward to. And no one can possibly call. Even MrGreen would be better than nobody--or even Charlie Millar. "

"These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you, " saidRose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to Mrs Snow. 

"Are you not tired playing Rose, " said Fanny, fretfully. 

"By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. I think thismarch is charming. Come and try it. "

"No, I thank you. If the music does not disturb Mrs Snow, _I_ don'tmind it. "

"I like it, " said Mrs Snow. "The music is cheerful this dull day. Though I would like a song better. "

"By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this twoor three times more. "

"Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean, " said Fanny. "There's no end to Rose's playing when she begins. "

Then she wandered into the back parlour again. 

"Are you going to write all day, Graeme?"

"Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "Ihave been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, butI'll soon be done now. "

"My dear, " said Mrs Snow, "dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and Ienjoy the music. "

"Oh! dear! I wish it didn't rain, " said Fanny. 

"My dear, the earth was needing it, " said Mrs Snow, by way of sayingsomething, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over. "

"I believe Graeme likes a rainy day, " said Fanny. "It is very stupid, Ithink. "

"Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, whichis agreeable. "

Fanny shrugged her shoulders. 

"It is rather dismal to-day, however, " said Graeme. "You look cold withthat light dress on, Fanny, why don't you go and change it?"

"What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come, I'm sure. "

"You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help, " said Graeme;turning to her letter again. 

"And my dear, might you no' take a seam? It would pass the time, if itdid nothing else, " said Mrs Snow. 

But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wishto interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how thelittle lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on insilence. 

"Make something nice for tea, " suggested Rose, glancing over hershoulder. 

"That is not necessary _now_, " said Fanny, shortly. 

"Oh! I only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time, " said Rose. 

It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching MrsSnow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinkingher own thoughts about "Mrs Arthur. " She rose at once, and shuttingher desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with ashiver:--

"It _is_ dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wantsto come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor weepussy. "

"Graeme, don't you wish Arthur were coming home, " said Fanny, hangingabout her as she had a fashion of doing now and then. 

"Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would make him vain ifhe knew how much we missed him. Go and change your dress, dear, andwe'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in thefirelight, and then we won't miss him so much. "

"Fire!" repeated Rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments ofthe grate with which she had taken so much pains. "Who ever heard of afire in a grate at this time of the year?"

But Rose was overruled. They had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many differentthings. Janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of howshe had "wearied for them" when they first left Merleville, and by andby Rose said, --

"But that was all over when Sandy came. "

"It was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'llmind yourselves. I was quite content before that time, but of course itwas a great thing to me, the coming of my Sandy. "

"Oh! how glad you must have been!" said Rose. "I wish I had been thereto see. Tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you. "

"I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything at all. And hejust said, `Well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine oftears in his bonny blue e'en, " said Janet, with a laugh that might veryeasily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever I carried athankful heart to a throne of grace, I did that night. "

"And would you have known him?" asked Rose, gently. 

"Oh! ay, would I. No' but what he was much changed. I wouldna have_minded_ him, but I would have kenned him anywhere. "

Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on. 

"I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew afraid as thetime drew near. Either, I thought, he winna like my husband, or theywinna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find iteasy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, Ithought. You see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraidof myself, and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he should beto me all that I desired. But when he came, my fears were set at rest. He is an honest, God fearing lad, my Sandy, and I need say nae mairabout him. "

"And so clever, and handsome! And what did Mr Snow say?"

"Oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with Sandy'sheartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to myself, many a time, to seethem together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. All my fears wererebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I mayhave a thankful heart. "

"And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?"

"Oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. It would have been veryungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him--Mr and MrsGreenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and plenty besides. He madehimself very useful to Mr Greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a cleverlad, my Sandy. It's on his business that he's West now. But he'll soonbe home again. "

"And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other at first, andwhat they thought of each other. "

"I canna do that, for I wasna there to hear. Emily saw my Sandy beforeI saw him myself, as you'll mind I told you before. "

"And was it love at first sight?" asked Fanny. 

"And did the course of true love for once run smooth, " said Rose. MrsSnow smiled at their eagerness. 

"As for the love at first sight--it came very soon to my Sandy. I amno' sure about Emily. As for its running smooth, there was a wee whileit was hindered. They had their doubts and fears, as was natural, andtheir misunderstandings. But, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sitby and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on before theysaw it themselves, I think. It was like a story out of a book, to watchthem; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when I was young--thesweet old Scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, I fear. Inever saw the two together in our garden, but I thought of the song thatbegins, --"

 "Ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew, Garred ilka thing look bonny--"

"Ah! Well, God has been good to them, and to us all. "

"And Mr Snow was well pleased, of course, " said Fanny. 

"Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his heart on itfrom the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado to keep him fromseeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help thema wee, which never does, you ken. Folk must find out such things forthemselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with thevery best will. Oh ay, he was well pleased. "

"And it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. I daresaywe shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved. "

"It is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. It was ay a bonnyplace, you'll mind. And it _is_ improved, doubtless, for her fatherthinks there is nothing too good for Emily. "

"And Oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. If we trust ouraffairs in God's hand, He'll `bring it to pass, ' as he has said. And ifwe are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happenin the end. "

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. 

"Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?"

The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as hepaused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaninghis elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might havesuggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he hadmentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face toanother turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no onein particular, no one answered for a minute. 

"Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?" he repeatedimpressively, fixing Will with his eye. 

"Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West, " said theliteral Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true andcomprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deaconall the information desired. 

"He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a reallive Yankee ever encountered in these parts, --cool, sharp, far-seeing, --"

Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly inthe midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in theeye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by atouch from Rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real liveYankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company. 

"Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?" saidArthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "Why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, heknows the market value of every article and object, animate andinanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of thetruth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehensionneed be entertained as to the safety of the dollars. "

"And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about thevanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitorycontent, " said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose. 

"Quite true, Charlie, " said Arthur; "if Mr Green has ever had anydoubts about the almighty dollar being the `ultimate end, ' he has nursedor combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicateany such wavering of faith. "

"Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material andmoral, " said Charlie. "When he enters a room, you can see by his lookthat he is putting a price on all things in it--the carpet andcurtains--the books and pretty things--even the ladies--"

"Yes, " continued Arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it wouldbe--Mrs Snow worth so much--naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she issomehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciatedetails that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuableof all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shiningthings on her head. "

"The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself, "interposed Charlie. 

"Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all thesame the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind theidea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn'thave a chance with him. You needn't frown, Rosie, you haven't. Whetherit is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, orthe general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developingin your character lately, I can't say, but nothing can be plainer, thanthe fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impressionon him. "

"A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the generalimpression that he is made of cast iron, " said Charlie. 

"Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you, " said Rose, as soon as shewas permitted to speak. "You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly hecared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says thathis hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has avery kind heart. "

"Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can't speak for that. Ihave never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to thatparticular. I didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry's authority and yours. "

"You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie getsbeyond his depth. He has nothing to say. "

"Especially tender hearts, " said Charlie; "I have had a littleexperience of a flinty article or two of that sort. "

"Charlie, I won't have you two quarrelling, " said Graeme, laughing. "Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they havebeen saying, " she added, turning to Mr Snow. "Mr Green is a real liveYankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hardperhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about hismother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told meabout the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the logschool-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in myopinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money. "

"But, who is he?" asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested;His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself onthe window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly, --

"Oh, he is a rich merchant--ever so rich. He is going to give upbusiness, and travel in Europe. "

"For the improvement of his mind, " said Arthur. 

"I don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what helikes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tellsme. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor. "

"I want to know?" said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny's triumphant climax, asshe gave it, with great gravity. 

"He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott, "said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say muchmore. 

"Do tell?" said Mr Snow. 

"A singular and eccentric person you see he must be, " said Will. 

"A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don't frown, Miss Rose. MrsGrove's statement proves my assertion, " said Charlie. 

"If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday, " saidMrs Grove. "I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. Isee many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expectyou _all_. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope. "

"But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us, "said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, thatthe lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she wasspeculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table. 

"Pray, don't mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a familyparty. I shall be quite disappointed if I don't see you all. Thegarden is looking beautifully now. "

"And one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can't youspeak a good word for me, " whispered Charlie. 

"Thank you, " said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. "I have been longingto show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over. "

"Oh, no!" said Arthur. "There are any number left; and Charlie, man, besure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will bedelightful by moonlight, won't it, Rosie?"

Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken byArthur. "So unlike him, " she thought. Mr Millar's coming would makethe enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she mightask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "andhave it over, " as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said, --

"Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest. "

Charlie would be delighted, and said so. 

"But the flute, " added he to Rose. "Well, for that agreeable fictionyour brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeedcharming. "

Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove's intention to distinguishherself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret ofher dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with aneagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sittingat table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length oftime, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was asacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined tomake often. 

A dinner _en famille_, however, with the dining-room windows open, andthe prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very differentmatter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rosearrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintendthe toilette of Mrs Snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of herbest black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in astate of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole partyset off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances asthey passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display ofsilver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on anextensive scale. 

"If she has spoiled Janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot ofstupids, it will be too bad, " whispered Rose. 

It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were tobe "put over, " on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny's old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As tomaking it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, sucha thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even inthe most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, andso could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, theladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, andthe gentlemen soon followed. 

It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insectsto be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows onthe lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of athousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, inbeauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but itwas very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and itwas with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left theothers on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in theshade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the rosesthe children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind thehouse, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulatingherself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beautiesto the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed outto the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as hewalked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, toremark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow'sgentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingeredwith an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowersfamiliar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year. 

"It minds me of the Ebba Gardens, " said she, after a little. "Not thatit is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on alevel, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, MissGraeme. "

They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view ofthe whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and herethey sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heardbelow. 

"No, " said Graeme, "I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember theavenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after thefirst turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, orwhether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful. "

"It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after goingin at the gate, before the lake came in sight. "

"Perhaps so. But I don't think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mindthe lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, andthe branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don't youmind?"

"Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place, " said Janet, with a sigh. 

"But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quitewell see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half solarge as Merleville Pond. "

"It wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said Mr Snow. 

"It did for want of a bigger, you know, " said Graeme, laughing. "Itmade up in beauty what it wanted in size. "

"It was a bonny spot, " said Mrs Snow. 

"And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, Ishut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. Iwonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard suchsinging of birds since then. "

"No, there are no such singing birds here, " said Mrs Snow. "I used tomiss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of thecushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here. "

"Ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme, "said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife'svoice when she spoke of "home. " Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said, --

"No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish manya pleasant note among the American birds--not like our own linties athome, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding. "

"The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonderif I ever shall hear it again!" said Graeme, with a sigh. "You willhear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you couldtake me too. " Will smiled. 

"I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But Idon't remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except ourown house and garden, and your mother's cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind thelast time we were there well. "

"I mind it, too, " said Mrs Snow, gravely. 

"And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should havemy ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what Ihave been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so manylovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them lesslovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things, " saidGraeme. 

"I wouldna fear anything of that kind, " said Mrs Snow; "I mind them allso well. "

"Do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said Will. "Wouldnot you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?"

"No, lad, " said Mrs Snow, emphatically. "I have no wish ever to goback. "

"You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different fromthe old `Steadfast'. "

"I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But whyshould I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like tosee the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to goback. "

There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating lookwas stealing, said, --

"I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant nowand then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. Iwouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quitecontent. "

Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. Therecould be no doubt of _his_ content, or Mrs Snow's either, Graemeacknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet'slot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, andhow long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years ofpatient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the firstmonths in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. Andyet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities thathad made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness ofher husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life hadbrought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme askedherself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regretthe irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayedthat it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those olddays before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. How longit seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would sheever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancyherself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, andinterests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature;how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had growncontent?

"What are you thinking about, Graeme?" said Will, who, as well as MrSnow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started. 

"Oh! of a great many things. I don't know why it should have come to mymind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago--anIndian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, Isuppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it wasthat day!"

"And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a lookas I passed out. I mind it, very well, " said Mr Snow. 

"I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it?How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?"

"I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all thechanges that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you firstheard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it. "

"And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of thestairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day, " said MrsSnow. 

"Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our ownMenie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don't think I have been quite at peace with myself since thatnight. "

"Miss Graeme! my dear, " expostulated Mrs Snow. 

"No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad ofone thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you--I am afraid I never did--how glad Iam now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed--in takingJanet from us, I mean?"

She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He didnot turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with agrave smile. 

"I don't think you ever told me in words. "

"No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; itis only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happierwith you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost ashappy as she deserves to be. "

"I reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a greatdeal, " said Mr Snow, gravely. 

"No, I know that--I am sure of that. And I am glad--so glad, that itreconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same toher as we used to be, and that is saying much. "

"Ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" saidMr Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. They were quite aloneby this time. Will had obeyed the call of the children, and was goneaway. 

"No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her willingly, by wordor deed, so you must let me say how very glad I am we lost her, for hersake. And when I remember all that she has lived through--all thesorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and howlittle she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power tomake others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makesme less afraid. "

His eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, toGraeme. 

"What is it, dear?" he asked. "Is there anything I may not know?"

"No. Only I am glad for Janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because--"

It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others werecoming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendlinesswith which it seemed to be Mrs Grove's intention on the occasion todistinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would beMrs Grove's first remark. 

"Ah! I see you have an eye for the beautiful. "

She had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her onthat very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there withouthearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there werestrangers there too. It was varied a little, this time. 

"You see, Mr Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the beautiful. I knewwe should find her here, with her friends. "

The rest was as usual. 

"Observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views aboutthe place. There is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. The scene is quitea pastoral one, you see. Can you imagine anything more tranquil? Itseems the very domain of silence and repose. "

The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise madeby Charlie Millar and Will, and the young Groves, as they ran along thebroad walk full in sight. 

"It is a bonny, quiet place, " said Mrs Snow. 

"The garden is not seen at its best now, " continued Mrs Grove. "Thebeauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have notmany summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season. "

"It looks first-rate, " said Mr Snow. 

"It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it oughtto be kept, " continued Mrs Grove. "I sometimes think it is not rightto spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to theeye. "

Mrs Grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought"the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience. 

"There is something in that, " said Mr Snow, meditatively; "but a placelike this ought to be a great deal more than that, I think. "

"Oh! I expect it pays, " said Mr Green. "To people who are fond ofsuch things, I expect there is more pleasure to be got for the samemoney from a garden than from 'most any other thing. "

"To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk--to one's friends, "suggested Mrs Snow. 

"I was calculating that, too, " said Mr Green. "The pleasure one'sfriends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if thefolks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. _That_ pays. "

"If we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of thebeautiful things God has made, the better and the happier we will be, "said Mr Snow. "It will pay in that way, I guess. "

He turned an inquiring look on Mr Green, as he spoke, but thatgentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on thesubject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on tillthey rested on the face of his wife. 

"Yes, " said, she, softly, "the more we see of God's love and wisdom inthe beautiful things He has made, the more we shall love Him, and inloving Him we shall grow like Him. "

Mr Snow nodded. Mr Green looked curiously from one to the other asthey spoke. 

"I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens andpleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, Mr Green, " saidMrs Grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a seriousturn on this occasion. She flattered herself that she had already wonthe confidence and admiration of Mr and Mrs Snow, by herwarmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views andopinions. Whether Mr Green would be so fortunate was questionable, soshe went on quickly, --

"Miss Elliott, Mr Green has been telling me about his place as we comeup the garden. It must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on theborders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire. "

Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she should respondto the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent impliedin a hesitating "Indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped. 

"There must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of aprairie. It must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don'tyou think so, Miss Elliott?"

"I don't know, " said Graeme, hesitatingly. "For a place of residence, Ishould suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried. "

"Of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such aresidence as Mr Green's--I forget what style of architecture it is. "

But Mr Green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and saidnothing about it. He only knew that people called his house a veryhandsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would"pay. "

"Oh! you cannot tell yet, " said Mrs Grove. "That will dependaltogether on circumstances. It is quite time that you were settlingdown into a quiet family man. You have been roaming about the worldquite long enough. I don't at all approve of the European trip, unless, indeed--"

She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that Mr Greenlooked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps. 

"Miss Elliott, " continued Mrs Grove, bent on carrying out her laudableintention of drawing Graeme into the conversation, "have you quitedecided on not accompanying your brother?"

"Accompanying Will? Oh! I have never for a moment thought of such athing. The expense would put it quite out of the question, even ifthere were no other reasons against it. "

"Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fancied I heard yousay how much you would like to go. I thought you longed for a chance tosee Scotland again. "

"I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I should like tovisit Scotland very much, and other countries, too. And I intend to doso when I have made my fortune, " added she, laughing. 

"Or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would itnot?" asked Mrs Grove. 

"Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes my fortune for me, Ishall visit Europe. I think I may promise that. "

"Have you ever been West, yet, Miss Elliott? You spoke of going at onetime, I remember, " said Mr Green. 

"Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fireside. I havevery much wished to visit my brother Norman. I daresay Rose and I willfind ourselves there some day, " added she, turning to Mr Snow. 

"Unless we keep you in Merleville, " said he, smiling. 

"Oh! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions youknow. "

"How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you?" asked Mrs Grove, reproachfully. 

"Oh! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don't think we are absolutelynecessary to her happiness. "

"Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. We cannotexpect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, I know. "

"Especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion, " saidGraeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to Mrs Snow. "Let us walk, again. What can Will and the children be doing? Somethingextraordinary, if one may judge by the noise. "

Mrs Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remarkto Mr Snow on the exceeding loveliness of Miss Elliott's dispositionand character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, andespecially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with herold friend. 

"And with you, too, " she added; "I scarcely can say which she honoursmost, or on which she most relies for counsel. "

"There, " said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "I have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. Onecan see what _he_ wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for hisadvantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought tothank me for the chance. "

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. 

Why Mrs Grove thought Mr Green might need an opening for anything hehad to say to Mr Snow did not appear, as he did not avail himself ofit. It was Mr Snow who spoke first, after a short silence. 

"Going to give up business and settle down. Eh?"

"I have thought of it. I don't believe I should enjoy life half as wellif I did, however. "

"How much do you enjoy it now?" inquired Mr Snow. 

"Well, not a great deal, that is a fact; but as well as folks generallydo, I reckon. But, after all, I do believe to keep hard to work isabout as good a way as any to take comfort in the world. "

Mr Green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and plucking a twigfrom the root of a young cedar, began fashioning it into an instrumentslender and smooth. 

"That is about the conclusion I have come to, " repeated he; "and Iexpect I will have to keep to work if I mean to get the good of life. "

"There are a good many kinds of work to be done in the world, " suggestedMr Snow. 

Mr Green gave him a glance curious and inquiring. 

"Well, I suppose there are a good many ways of working in the world, butit all comes to the same thing pretty much, I guess. Folks work to geta living, and then to accumulate property. Some do it in a large way, and some in a small way, but the end is the same. "

"Suppose you should go to work to spend your money now?" suggested MrSnow, again. 

"Well, I've done a little in that way, too, and I have about come to theconclusion that that don't pay as well as the making of it, as far asthe comfort it gives. I ain't a very rich man, not near so rich asfolks think; but I had got a kind of sick of doing the same thing allthe time, and so I thought I would try something else a spell. So Irather drew up, though I ain't out of business yet, by a great deal. Ithought I would try and see if I could make a home, so I built. But ahouse ain't a home--not by a great sight. I have got as handsome aplace as anybody need wish to have, but I would rather live in a hotelany day than have the bother of it. I don't more than half believe Ishall ever live there long at a time. "

He paused, and whittled with great earnestness. 

"It seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a man has workedhard half his life and more to make property, that he shouldn't be ableto enjoy it when he has got it. "

"What do you suppose is the reason?" asked Mr Snow, gravely, but withrather a preoccupied air. He was wondering how it was that Mr Greenshould have been betrayed into giving his dreary confidences to acomparative stranger. 

"Well, I don't know, " replied Mr Green, meditatively. "I suppose, forone thing, I have been so long in the mill that I can't get out of theold jog easily. I should have begun sooner, or have taken work andpleasure by turns as I went along. I don't take much comfort in whatseems to please most folks. "

There was a pause; Mr Snow had nothing to say in reply, however, and ina little Mr Green went on:

"I haven't any very near relations; cousins and cousin's children arethe nearest. I have helped them some, and would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to be helped, but they don't seem very nearto me. I enjoy well enough going to see them once in a while, but itdon't amount to much all they care about me; and, to tell the truth, itain't much I care about them. If I had a family of my own, it would bedifferent. Women folks and young folk enjoy spending money, and Isuppose I would have enjoyed seeing them do it. But I have about cometo the conclusion that I should have seen to that long ago. "

Without moving or turning his head, he gave his new friend a look out ofthe corner of his eyes that it might have surprised him a little to see;but Mr Snow saw nothing at the moment. To wonder as to why this newacquaintance should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding afeeling of pity for him--a desire to help him--and he was consideringthe propriety of improving the opportunity given to drop a "word inseason" for his benefit. Not that he had much confidence in his ownskill at this sort of thing. It is to be feared the deacon looked onthis way of witnessing for the truth as a cross to be borne rather thanas a privilege to be enjoyed. He was readier with good deeds than withgood words, and while he hesitated, Mr Green went on:

"How folks can hang round with nothing particular to do is what I can'tunderstand. I never should get used to it, I know. I've madeconsiderable property, and I expect I have enjoyed the making more thanI ever shall enjoy the spending of it. "

"I shouldn't wonder if you had, " said Mr Snow, gravely. 

"I _have_ thought of going right slap into political life. I might havegot into the Legislature, time and again; and I don't doubt but I mightfind my way to Congress by spending something handsome. That might beas good a way to let off the steam as any. When a man gets intopolitics, he don't seem to mind much else. He has got to drive rightthrough. I don't know how well it pays. "

"In the way of comfort, I'm afraid it _don't_ pay, " said Mr Snow. 

"I expect not. I don't more than half think it would pay _me_. Politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our country. I don'tbelieve I should ever get to see my way clear to go all lengths; and Idon't believe it would amount to anything if I could. Besides, if a manexpects to get very far along in _that_ road, he has got to take a fairstart in good season. I learnt to read and cypher in the old logschool-house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on Sundayafternoons, and that is about all the book-learning I ever got. Ishouldn't hardly have an even chance with some of those college-bredchaps, though there are _some_ things I know as well as the best ofthem, I reckon. Have you ever been out West?"

"I was there once a good many years ago. I had a great notion of goingto settle there when I was a young man. I am glad I didn't, though. "

"Money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it used to be, "said Mr Green. "But there is chance enough, if a man has a head forit. I have seen some cool business done there at one time and another. "

The chances in favour of Mr Snow's "word in season" were becomingfewer, he saw plainly, as Mr Green wandered off from hisdissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of his business-life; so, with a great effort, he said:

"Ain't it just possible that your property and the spending of it don'tsatisfy you because it is not in the nature of such things to givesatisfaction?"

Mr Green turned and looked earnestly at him. 

"Well, I have heard so, but I never believed it any more for hearing itsaid. The folks that say it oftenest don't act as if they believed itthemselves. They try as hard for it as any one else, if they are to bejudged by their actions. It is all right to say they believe it, Isuppose, because it is in the Bible, or something like it is. "

"And you believe it, not because it is in the Bible, but because you arelearning, by your own experience, every day you live. "

Mr Green whistled. 

"Come, now; ain't that going it a little too strong? I never said Ididn't expect to enjoy my property. I enjoy it now, after a fashion. If a man ain't going to enjoy his property, what is he to enjoy?"

"All that some people enjoy is the making of it. You have done that, you say. There is less pleasure to be got from wealth, even in the mostfavourable circumstances, than those who haven't got it believe. Theywho have it find that out, as you are doing. 

"But I can fancy myself getting all the pleasure I want out of myproperty, if only some things were different--if I had something else togo with it. Other folks seem to take the comfort out of theirs as theygo along. "

"They seem to; but how can you be sure as to the enjoyment they reallyhave? How many of your friends, do you suppose, suspect that you don'tget all the satisfaction out of yours that you seem to? Do you supposethe lady who was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has any idea that it is only a weariness to you?"

"I was telling her so as we came along. She says the reason I don'tenjoy it is because there is something else that I haven't got, thatought to go along with it and I agreed with her there. "

Again a furtive glance was sent towards Mr Snow's thoughtful face. Hesmiled and shook his head. 

"Yes, it is something else you want. It is always something else, andever will be till the end comes. That something else, if it is everyours, will bring disappointment with it. It will come as you don'texpect it or want it, or it will come too late. There is no goodtalking. There is nothing in the world that it will do to make aportion of. "

Mr Green looked up at him with some curiosity and surprise. Thissounded very much like what he used to hear in conference meeting longago, but he had an idea that such remarks were inappropriate out ofmeeting, and he wondered a little what could be Mr Snow's motive forspeaking in that way just then. 

"As to making a portion of it, I don't know about that; but I do knowthat there is considerable to be got out of money. What can't it get?Or rather, I should say, what can be got without it? I don't say thatthey who have the most of it are always best off, because other thingscome in to worry them, maybe; but the chances are in favour of the manthat has all he wants to spend. You'll never deny that. "

"That ain't just the way I would put it, " said Mr Snow. "I would saythat the man who expects his property to make him happy, will bedisappointed. The amount he has got don't matter. It ain't in it togive happiness. I know, partly because I have tried, and it has failedme, and partly because I am told that `a man's life consisteth not inthe abundance of the things that he possesseth. '

"Well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't one man inten thousand who believes it, or at least who acts as if he believed it?Why is all the world chasing after wealth, as if it were the one thingfor body and soul? If money ain't worth having, why hasn't somebodyfound it out, and set the world right about it before now?"

"As to money not being worth the having, I never said that. What I sayis, that God never meant that mere wealth should make a man happy. Thathas been found out times without number; but as to setting the worldright about it, I expect that is one of the things that each man mustlearn by experience. Most folks do learn it after a while, in one wayor other. "

"Well, " said Mr Green, gravely, "you look as if you believed what yousay, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty well too. If it ain'tyour property that makes you happy, what is it?"

"It ain't my property, _sartain_, " said Mr Snow, with emphasis. "Iknow I shouldn't be any happier if I had twice as much. And I am sure Ishouldn't be less happy if I hadn't half as much; my happiness rests ona surer foundation than anything I have got. "

He paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right word tosay--something that might be as "a fire and a hammer" to the softeningand breaking of that world-hardened heart. 

"He _does_ look as if he believed what he was saying, " Mr Green wasthinking to himself. "It is just possible he might give me a hint. Hedon't look like a man who don't practise as he preaches. " Aloud, hesaid, --

"Come, now, go ahead. What has cured one, may help another, you know. Give us your idea as to what is a sure foundation for a man'shappiness. "

Mr Snow looked gravely into his face and said, "Blessed is the man who feareth the Lord. "

"Blessed is the man whose trust the Lord is. "

"Blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin iscovered. "

"Blessed is the man to whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity, in whosespirit there is no guile. "

Mr Green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. It came into his mindthat if there was happiness to be found in the world, this man had foundit. But it seemed a happiness very far-away from him--quite beyond hisreach--something that it would be impossible for him ever to find now. The sound of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of aSabbath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to him, andjust for a moment he realised their unchangeable truth, and for thatmoment he knew that his life had been a failure. A pang of regret, alonging for another chance, and a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for an instant and then passed away. He rose fromhis seat, and moved a few paces down the walk, and when he came back hedid not sit down again. His cedar twig was smoothed down at both endsto the finest possible point, and after balancing it for a minute on hisforefingers, he tossed it over his shoulder, and shutting his knife witha click, put it in his pocket before he spoke. 

"Well, I don't know as I am much better off for that, " said he, discontentedly. "I suppose you mean that I ought to get religion. Thatis no new idea. I have heard _that_ every time I have gone to meetingfor the last thirty years, which hasn't been as often as it might havebeen, but it has been often enough for all the good it has done me. " Helooked at Mr Snow as if he expected him to make some sort of a reply, but he was silent. He was thinking how vain any words of his would beto convince him, or to show him a more excellent way. He was thinkingof the old time, and of the talk wasted on him by the good people whowould fain have helped him. At last he said, gravely:

"It wouldn't amount to much, all I could say to you, even if I was goodat talking, which I ain't. I can only tell you that I never knew whatit was to be satisfied till I got religion, and I have never beendiscontented since, and I don't believe I ever shall again, let whatwill happen to me. "

He paused a moment, and added, --

"I don't suppose anything I could say would help you to see things as Iwish you did, if I were to talk all night. Talk always falls short ofthe mark, unless the heart is prepared for it, and then the simplestword is enough. There are none better than the words I gave you aminute ago; and when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just you try what trust in the Lord will do. "

Nothing more was said. The sound of approaching footsteps warned themthat they were no longer alone, and in a little Mrs Elliott and Rosewere seen coming up the walk, followed by Arthur and Captain Starr. They were discussing something that interested them greatly, and theirmerry voices fell pleasantly on the ear. Very pretty both young ladieslooked, crowned with the roses they had been weaving into wreaths. Thegrave look which had settled on Mr Green's face, passed away as hewatched their approach. 

"Pretty creatures, both of them, " remarked he. "Mrs Elliott appearswell, don't she? I never saw any one improve so much as she has done inthe last two years. I used to think her--well not very superior. "

"She is a pretty little thing, and good tempered, I think, " said MrSnow, smiling. "I shouldn't wonder if our folks made something of her, after all. She is in better keeping than she used to be, I guess. "

"She used to be--well, a little of a flirt, and I don't believe she hasforgot all about it yet, " said Mr Green, nodding in the direction ofCaptain Starr, with a knowing look. The possibility of a marriedwoman's amusing herself in that way was not among the subjects to whichMr Snow had given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply. 

"And the other one--she understands a little of it, too, I guess. "

"What, Rosie? She is a child. Graeme will teach her better than that. She despises such things, " said Mr Snow, warmly. 

"She don't flirt any herself, does she?" asked Mr Green, coolly. "MissElliott, I mean. "

Mr Snow turned on him astonished eyes. "I don't know as I understandwhat you mean by flirting. I always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, something unbecoming in any woman, married or single. Graeme ain't one of that sort. "

Mr Green shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "Oh! as to its beingwrong, and so forth, I don't know. They all do it, I guess, in one wayor other. I don't suppose Miss Graeme would go it so strong as thatlittle woman, but I guess she knows how. "

The voice of Rose prevented Mr Snow's indignant reply. 

"But, Arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. Of course you wouldadmire Fanny's most, and as for Captain Starr, he is--"

"He is like the ass between two bundles of hay. "

"Nonsense, Arthur. Fanny, let us ask Mr Snow, " said Rose, springingforward, and slightly bending her head. "Now, Uncle Sampson, which isprettiest? I'll leave the decision to you. "

"Uncle Sampson" was a very pleasant sound in Mr Snow's ears, and nevermore so, than when it came from the lips of Rose, and it was with aloving as well as an admiring look that he answered--

"Well I can't say which is the prettiest. You are both as pretty as youneed to be. If you were as good as you are pretty!"

Rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited. 

"I mean our wreaths. Look, mine is made of these dear little Scotchroses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. Fanny's, you see, are allopen roses, white and damask. Now, which is the prettiest?"

She took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly. 

"Yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. I think, now, Ishould admire Mrs Elliott's most, " said Mr Green, gravely. 

They both curtseyed to him. 

"You see, Rosie, Mr Green has decided in my favour, " said Fanny, triumphantly. 

"Yes, but not in favour of your wreath. The others thought the same, but I don't mind about that. It is our wreaths I want to know about. Let us ask Graeme. "

But Graeme did not come alone. The little Groves came with her, andWill and Charlie followed, a rather noisy party. The little girls weredelighted, and danced about, exclaiming at the beauty of the flowerycrowns; and in a little, Miss Victoria was wearing that of Rose, andimitating the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that musthave encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate success in life. The other begged piteously for Fanny's, but she was too well aware ofits charming effect on her own head to yield at once to her entreaties, and, in the midst of the laughing confusion that accompanied thecarrying of the child's point, Graeme and Mrs Snow, who confessedherself a little tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. Mrs Grove and Mr Proudfute entered with them, and the others disposed, themselves in groups about the door. Mr Green stood leaning on thedoor-post looking in upon them. 

"Miss Elliott, " said Mr Proudfute, presently, "what has become of youfor a long time? I have hardly seen you for years--for a year atleast--and we used to meet so often. " Graeme laughed. 

"I have seen you a great many times within a year. I am afraid mysociety doesn't make the impression on you it ought. Have you forgottenyour New Year's visit, and a visit or two besides, to say nothing ofchance meetings in the street and in the market?"

"Oh, but excuse me. I mean we have not met in society. You have beenmaking a hermit of yourself, which is not very kind or verycomplimentary to your friends, I assure you. "

"I am very glad to hear you say so, " exclaimed Mrs Grove. "That is asubject on which Miss Elliott and I never agree--I mean the claimssociety has upon her. If she makes a hermit of herself, I assure youshe is not permitted to do so without remonstrance. "

"Your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally held, " saidGraeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conversation, and more vexedstill with Mrs Grove's interference. "What does the ballad say?

 "`A scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, And water from the spring. '

"I am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me. "

"Oh! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion, " said MrsGrove. "Still, as ladies are supposed to have a fancy for going toextremes, Miss Elliott's taste for quietness is the most desirableextreme of the two. "

The remark was addressed to Mr Green, who was an interested listener, but Mr Proudfute answered it. 

"I am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. I can understand howthose who have an opportunity of daily or frequent intercourse with MissElliott should be content to think so; but that she should withdrawherself altogether from society, should not be permitted. What charmingparties, I remember, we used to enjoy. "

"Mr Proudfute, " said Graeme, gravely, "look at Mrs Snow's face. Youare conveying to her the idea that, at one time, I was quite given up tothe pursuit of pleasure, and she is shocked, and no wonder. Now, my ownimpression is, that I was never very fond of going into society, as youcall it. I certainly never met you more than two or three times--atlarge parties, I mean. "

Mr Proudfute bowed low. 

"Well, that shows how profound was the impression which your societymade on me, for on looking back I uniformly associate you with all thepleasant assemblies of the season. You went with us to Beloeil, did younot?"

Graeme shook her head. 

"Well, no wonder I forget, it is so long ago, now. You were at MrsRoxbury's great affair, were you not? It happened not long before MrElphinstone's death. Yes, I remember you were there. "

"Yes, I remember you were kind enough to point out to me the beauties ofthat wonderful picture, in the little room up-stairs, " said Graeme, smiling. 

"Yes, you were ill, or slightly unwell, I should say, for you recoveredimmediately. You were there, Mr Green, I remember. It was a greataffair, given in honour of Miss Elphinstone and your friend Ruthven. By-the-by, Miss Elliott, they lay themselves open to censure, as well asyou. They rarely go out now, I hear. "

"I am to be censured in good company, it seems, " said Graeme, laughing. 

"I suppose you see them often, " continued he. "You used to be quiteintimate with my pretty cousin--I call her cousin, though we are onlydistantly connected. She is a very nice little woman. "

"Yes. I believe you used to be very intimate with them both, " said MrsGrove, "and there has hardly been any intercourse since Fanny'smarriage. I have often wondered at and regretted it. "

"Have you?" said Graeme, coldly. "We have had little intercourse withmany old friends since then. "

"Oh! yes, I daresay, but the Ruthvens are very different from most ofyour old friends, and worth the keeping. I must speak to Fanny aboutit. "

"We saw Miss Elphinstone often during the first winter after her return. That was the winter that Mr Proudfute remembers as so gay, " saidGraeme. "Did I ever tell you about the beginning of Rosie'sacquaintance with her, long before that, when she wandered into thegarden and saw the gowans?"

"Yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter, " said Mrs Snow. 

"I never shall forget the first glimpse I got of that bunch of flowers, "said Graeme, rather hurriedly. "Rose has it yet among her treasures. She must show it you. "

But Mrs Grove did not care to hear about Rosie's flowers just then, andrather perversely, as Graeme thought, reverted to the falling away oftheir old intimacy with the Ruthvens, and to wonder at its cause; andthere was something in her tone that made Mrs Snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon her, and helped Graeme to answer very quietly andcoldly to her remark:

"I can easily see how marriage would do something towards estrangingsuch warm friends, when only one of the parties are interested; but youwere very intimate with Mr Ruthven, as well, were you not?"

"Oh! yes; more so than with Miss Elphinstone. Mr Ruthven is a very oldfriend of ours. We came over in the same ship together. "

"I mind him well, " interposed Mrs Snow; "a kindly, well-intentioned ladhe seemed to be. Miss Rose, my dear, I doubt you shouldna be sittingthere, on the grass, with the dew falling, nor Mrs Arthur, either. "

A movement was made to return to the house. 

"Oh! Janet, " whispered Graeme, "I am afraid you are tired, mind as wellas body, after all this foolish talk. "

"By no means, my dear. It wouldna be very edifying for a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. He seems a decent, harmlessbody, that Mr Proudfute. I wonder if he is any friend of DrProudfute, of Knockie?"

"I don't know, indeed, " said Graeme, laughing; "but if he is a greatman, or connected with great folk, I will ask him. It will be an easyway of giving him pleasure. "

They did not make a long evening of it. Mr Green was presented by MrsGrove with a book of plates, and Graeme was beguiled to a side-table toadmire them with him. Mr Proudfute divided his attention between themand the piano, to which Rose and Fanny had betaken themselves, till atthe suggestion of Mrs Grove, Arthur challenged him to a game of chess, which lasted all the evening. Mrs Grove devoted herself to Mrs Snow, and surprised her by the significant glances she sent now and then inthe direction of Graeme and Mr Green; while Mr Grove got Mr Snow intoa corner, and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on theharbour question to a new and interested auditor. 

"Rose, " said Fanny, as they sat together the next day after dinner, "what do you think mamma said to me this morning? Shall I tell you?"

"If it is anything particularly interesting you may, " said Rose, in atone that implied a doubt. 

"It was about you, " said Fanny, nodding significantly. 

"Well, the subject is interesting, " said Rose, "whatever the remarkmight be. "

"What is it, Fanny?" said Arthur. "Rose is really very anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent. I daresay it was someappropriate remark's on her flirtation with the gallant captain, lastnight. "

"Mamma didn't mention Captain Starr, but she said she had never noticedbefore that Rose was so fond of admiration, and a little inclined toflirt. "

Rose reddened and bit her lips. 

"I am much obliged to Mrs Grove, for her good opinion. Were there anyother appropriate remarks?"

"Oh! yes; plenty more, " said Fanny, laughing. "I told mamma it was allnonsense. She used to say the same of me, and I reminded her of it. Itold her we all looked upon Rose as a child, and that she had no idea offlirting--and such things. "

"I hope you did not do violence to your conscience when you said it, "said Arthur, gravely. 

"Of course not. But still when I began to think about it, I could notbe quite sure. "

"Set a thief to catch a thief, " said her husband. 

Fanny shook her finger at him. 

"But it wasn't Captain Starr nor Charlie Millar mamma meant. It was MrGreen. "

The cloud vanished from Rosie's face. She laughed and clapped herhands. Her brothers laughed, too. 

"Well done, Rosie, " said Arthur. "But from some manoeuvring I observedlast night, I was led to believe that Mrs Grove had other views for thegentleman. "

"So she had, " said Fanny, eagerly. "And she says Rose may spoil all ifshe divides his attention. It is just what a man of his years is likelyto do, mamma says, to fall in love with a young girl like Rosie, andGraeme is so much more suitable. But I told mamma Graeme would neverhave him. "

"Allow me to say, Fanny, that I think you might find some more suitablesubject for discussion with Mrs Grove, " said Rose, indignantly. Arthurlaughed. 

"You ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken in yourwelfare, and for Graeme's, too. I am sure Mr Green would be highlyflattered if he could be aware of the sensation he is creating amongus. "

"Mr Green admires Graeme very much, he told mamma; and mamma says hewould have proposed to her, when he was here before, if it had not beenfor Mr Ruthven. You know he was very intimate here then, and everybodysaid he and Graeme were engaged. Mamma says it was a great pity he didnot. It would have prevented the remarks of ill-natured people when MrRuthven was married--about Graeme, I mean. "

"It is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat anything ofthat sort in Graeme's hearing, " said Arthur, very much annoyed. 

"Oh! don't be alarmed. Graeme is too well accustomed by this time, toMrs Grove's impertinences, to allow anything she says to trouble her, "said Rose, with flashing eyes. 

Mrs Snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young girl, who hadrisen in her indignation. 

"Sit down, my dear, " she whispered. 

"Nonsense, Rosie, " said her brother; "there is nothing to be vexedabout. How can you be so foolish?"

"Indeed, " said Fanny, a little frightened at the excitement she hadraised, "mamma didn't mean anything that you wouldn't like. She onlythought--"

"We had better say nothing more about it, " said Arthur, interruptingher. "I dare say Graeme can manage her own affairs without help fromother people. But there is nothing to be vexed about, Rosie. Don't puton a face like that about it, you foolish lassie. "

"What is the matter here, good people?" said Graeme, entering at themoment. "What are you quarrelling about? What ails Rosie?"

"Oh! Mrs Grove has been giving her some good advice, which she don'treceive so meekly as she might, " said Arthur. 

"That is very ungrateful of you, Rosie, " said her sister. Mrs Grove'sinterference didn't seem a sufficient matter to frown about. 

"How is she now, my dear?" inquired Mrs Snow, by way of changing thesubject. 

_She_ was Mrs Tilman, who had of late become subject to sudden attacksof illness, "not dangerous, but severe, " as she herself declared. Theyhad become rather frequent, but as they generally came on at night, andwere over before morning, so that they did not specially interfere withher work, they were not alarming to the rest of the household. Indeed, they seldom heard of them till they were over; for the considerate MrsTilman was wont to insist to Sarah, that the ladies should not bedisturbed on her account. But Sarah had become a little uncomfortable, and had confessed as much to Graeme, and Graeme desired to be told thenext time she was ill, and so it happened that she was not present whena subject so interesting to herself was discussed. 

"Is Mrs Tilman ill again?" asked Fanny. "How annoying! She is notvery ill, I hope. "

"No, " said Graeme, quietly; "she will be better to-morrow. "

That night, in the retirement of their chamber, Mr and Mrs Snow werein no haste to begin, as was their custom, the comparing of notes overthe events of the day. This was usually the way when anything not verypleasant had occurred, or when anything had had been said that it wasnot agreeable to recall. It was Mr Snow who began the conversation. 

"Well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when his wife satdown, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles inboxes and drawers. 

"Oh! I think little of it--just what I have ay thought--that yon is ameddlesome, short-sighted woman. It is a pity her daughter hasna thesense to see it. "

"Oh! I don't think the little thing meant any harm. But Rosie flaredright up, didn't she?"

"I shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth inthe accusation--about her love of admiration, I mean. But Mrs Arthuris not the one that should throw stones at her for that, I'm thinking. "

"But about Graeme! She will never marry that man, will she?"

"He'll never ask her, " said Mrs Snow, shortly. "At least I think henever will. "

"Well, I don't know. It looked a little like it, last night and come tothink of it, he talked a little like it, too. "

"He is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask invain. He may, but I dinna think it. "

"Well, perhaps not. Of course, I could see last night, that it was allfixed, their being together. But I thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn't liked it. "

"Hoot, man! She thought nothing about it. Her thoughts were far enoughfrom him, and his likes, and dislikes, " said Mrs Snow, with a sigh. 

"As a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out when a man caresfor them, and he showed it plainly to me. I guess she mistrusts. "

"No, a woman kens when a man his lost his heart to her. He lets her seeit in many ways, when he has no thought of doing so. But a woman is notlikely to know it, when a man without love wishes to marry her, till hetells her in words. And what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of hisfellow men left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a thought on aworldling like him?"

Mr Snow was silent. His wife's tone betrayed to him that something wastroubling her, or he would have ventured a word in his new friend'sdefence. Not that he was inclined to plead Mr Green's cause withGraeme, but he could not help feeling a little compassion for him, andhe said:

"Well, I suppose I feel inclined to take his part, because he makes methink of what I was myself once, and that not so long ago. "

The look that Mrs Snow turned upon her husband was one of indignantastonishment. 

"Like you! You dry stick!"

"Well, ain't he? You used to think me a pretty hard case. Now, didn'tyou?"

"I'm no' going to tell you to-night what I used to think of you, " saidhis wife, more mildly. "I never saw you on the day when you didna thinkmore of other folks' comfort than you thought of your own, and thatcouldna be said of him, this many a year and day. He is not a fit matefor my bairn. "

"Well--no, he ain't. He ain't a Christian, and that is the first thingshe would consider. But he ain't satisfied with himself, and if anybodyin the world could bring him to be what he ought to be, she is the one. "And he repeated the conversation that had taken place when they wereleft alone in the summer-house. 

"But being dissatisfied with himself, is very far from being a changedman, and that work must be done by a greater than Graeme. And besides, if he were a changed man to-night, he is no' the man to win MissGraeme's heart, and he'll no ask her. He is far more like to ask Rosie;for I doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amusement. "

"Oh! Come now, ain't you a little too hard on Rosie, " said Mr Snow, expostulatingly. He could not bear that his pet should be found faultwith. "I call _that_ as cruel a thing as a woman can do, and Rosiewould never do it, I hope. "

"Not with a conscious desire to give pain. But she is a bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they all do sooner or later; andfew make so good a use of such power as they might do;" and Mrs Snowsighed. 

"You don't think there is anything in what Mrs Grove said about Graemeand her friend I have heard so much about?" asked Mr Snow, after apause. 

"I dinna ken. I would believe it none the readier that yon foolishwoman said it. "

"She seems kind of down, though, these days, don't she? She's graverand quieter than she used to be, " said Mr Snow, with some hesitation. He was not sure how his remark would be taken. 

"Oh! well, maybe. She's older for one thing, " said his wife, gravely. "And she has her cares; some of them I see plainly enough, and some ofthem, I daresay, she keeps out of sight. But as for Allan Ruthven, it'snot for one woman to say of another that, she has given her heartunsought. And I am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is oneof those that need fear no evil. "

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. 

"It is a wonder to me, Miss Graeme, " said Mrs Snow, after one of theirlong talks about old times--"it is a wonder to me, that mindingMerleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you shouldnever have thought it worth your while to come back and see us. "

"Worth our while!" repeated Graeme. "It was not indifference thathindered us, you may be sure of that. I wonder, myself, how it is wehave never gone back again. When we first came here, how Will, andRosie, and I, used to plan and dream about it! I may confess, now, howvery homesick we all were--how we longed for you. But, at first, theexpense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. We were very near going once ortwice. "

"And when was that?" asked Mrs Snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over Graeme. She did not answer immediately. 

"Once was with Norman and Hilda. Oh! I did so long to go with them! Ihad almost made up my mind to go, and leave Rosie at home. I was glad Ididn't, afterward. "

"And why did you not?" demanded her friend. 

"For one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and I didnot like to leave home again; Arthur did not encourage me to go. It wason the very night that Norman went away that Arthur told me of hisengagement. "

"I daresay you did right to bide at home, then. "

"Yes, I knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very muchto go. I had the greatest desire to go to you. I had no one to speakto. I daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if I could havetold you all about it. "

"My dear, you had your sister. "

"Yes, but Rosie was as bad as I was. It seemed like the breaking up ofall things. I know now, how wrong and foolish I was, but I could nothelp being wretched then. "

"It was a great change, certainly, and I dinna wonder that the prospectstartled you. "

Mrs Snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; andforgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden herheart to her friend, Graeme went on rapidly, --

"If it only had been any one else, I thought. We didn't know Fanny verywell, then--hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolouslittle thing, so different from what I thought Arthur's wife should be;and I disliked her stepmother so much more than I ever disliked any one, I think, except perhaps Mrs Page, when we first came to Merleville. Doyou mind her first visit with Mrs Merle, Janet?"

"I mind it well, " said Mrs Snow, smiling. "She was no favourite ofmine. I daresay I was too hard on her sometimes. "

Graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "thesmith's wife" had experienced at Janet's hands in those early days. Thepause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversationfrom Arthur and his marriage to Merleville and the old times. Janet didnot try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered somenew items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she askedquietly, --

"And when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?"

"Oh! that was before, in the spring. Arthur proposed that we should goto Merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. It was on myaccount; I was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what Ineeded. "

"The breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, I daresay. I wonder you didn't come then. "

"Oh! I could not bear the thought of going then. I was ill, and goodfor nothing. It would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. I think I should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if Arthur hadnot insisted, and the doctor too. "

Unconsciously Graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend justwhat was in her heart. 

"But what ailed you?" asked Mrs Snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded Graeme there were some things that could not be told evento her friend. 

"What ailed you?" repeated Mrs Snow. 

"I can't tell you. An attack of the nerves, Nelly called it, and shewas partly right. I was tired. It was just after Will's long illness, and Harry's going away, and other things. "

"I daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder, " said MrsSnow, tenderly. 

"Yes, about Harry. I was very anxious. There were some doubts abouthis going, for a while. Mr Ruthven hesitated, and Harry chafed andvexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time atlast, " added Graeme, with a great sigh. 

"Did Mr Ruthven ken of Harry's temptation? Was it for that hehesitated?" asked Mrs Snow. 

"I cannot say. Oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. But I don't think hehesitated altogether because of that. As soon as he knew that we werequite willing--Arthur and I--he decided at once. Mr Ruthven was verykind and considerate through it all. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " said Mrs Snow, with some hesitation, "did youever think there was anything between your brother Harry and hismaster's daughter--the young lady that Allan Ruthven married--or was itonly Sandy's fancy?"

Graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend. 

"Sandy! Did he see it? I did not think about it at the time; butafterward I knew it, and, oh! Janet, you cannot think how it added tomy wretchedness about Harry. "

"My bairn! There have been some rough bits on the road you have beentravelling. No wonder your feet get weary, whiles. "

Graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon herfriend's lap. In a little she said, --

"How I longed for this place! I had no one to speak to. I used tothink you might have helped and comforted me a little. "

She did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. Janet'skind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by Graemeraised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faintsmile, --

"And so Sandy saw poor Harry's secret? I did not, at first. I supposelittle Emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then. "

"Yes, Sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when therecame word of her marriage. Sandy never thought of Allan Ruthven and hiscousin coming together. "

Graeme rose and took her work again. It was growing dark, and shecarried it to the window and bent over it. 

"Was it for her money--or why was it?"

"Oh! no. I never could think so. She was a very sweet and lovelycreature; we loved her dearly, Rose and I. They had been engaged a longtime, I believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. That wasbecause of her father's illness. He died soon after, you remember. "

"Yes, I remember. Well, I didna think that Allan Ruthven was one to letthe world get a firm grip of him. But folk change. I didna ken. "

"Oh! no, it was not that, " said Graeme, eagerly. "Indeed, at that timeMr Elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. He had met with greatlosses, Harry says, and Arthur thought that nothing but Mr Ruthven'shigh character and great business talents could have saved the firm fromruin. Oh! no; it was not for money. "

"Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it. I am glad that AllanRuthven hasna changed. I think you said he hasna changed?"

"At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thought him just thesame. "

"Maybe it was her that wanted the money? If her father was introuble--"

"No, oh! no! You could never have such a thought if you had ever seenher face. I don't know how it happened. As all marriages happen, Isuppose. It was very natural; but we won't speak about it. "

"They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think you said you seldomsee them now. "

"We don't see them often. They have been out of town a good deal, andwe have fallen a little out of acquaintance. But we have done that withmany others; we have made so many new acquaintances since Arthur'smarriage--friends of Fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seemsquite the same as it used to do. If Mr Ruthven knew you were in town, I am sure he would have been to see you before now. "

"I am no' wearying to see him, " said Mrs Snow, coldly. "But, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it inthe dark?"

Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soonit grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. So she began tomove about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and thebooks and papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displacedand arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick andrestless. When there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood stillwith an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend werewatching her, and then moved to the other end of the room. 

"My dear, " said Mrs Snow, in a little, "how old are you now?"

Graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat. 

"Oh! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point when ladiesdon't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if youwould stop to consider a minute. "

"And what point may that be, if I may ask?"

"Oh! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to shake her headover me, and to call me an old maid. "

"Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives, " said Janet, scornfully. "There must be near ten years between you and Rose. "

"Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. I _am_growing old. "

"What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be thebonny creature she is to-day?"

"Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be nowonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankeredwee fairy she used to be?"

"I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worstof times, " said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme's bowedhead. 

"I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since thosedays, and yet it seems like yesterday. " And Graeme sighed. 

"Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, mybairn?" said Mrs Snow, softly. 

"No, rather because so many of them lie before me, " said Graeme, slowly. "Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that arepast. "

"We may all say that, dear, " said Mrs Snow, gravely. "None of us havedone all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words arenot natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. Youmay not have time to grow weary of them. "

"That is true, " said Graeme. "And I ought not to grow weary, be theymany or few. "

There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme. 

"Janet, " said she, "do you think I could keep a school?"

"A school, " repeated Mrs Snow. "Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if youput your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some onwhat kind of a school it was, too, I daresay. "

"You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn alivelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don't mean that I couldtake charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But Icould teach classes. I know French well, and music, and German alittle. "

"My dear, " said Mrs Snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in yourhead? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?"

"To Arthur? No, I haven't spoken to him. He wouldn't like the idea atfirst, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to itin time. "

"You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? Imean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing--"

"Oh! yes, it is not that I don't know. Our expenses are greater thanthey used to be--double, indeed. But there is enough, I suppose. It isnot that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly. "

"What is it then, dear child?" asked her friend. 

But Graeme could not answer at the moment. There were many reasons whyshe should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yetshe did not know how to tell her friend. They were all plain enough toher, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing ofJanet, even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it wasnatural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimlesslife, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman shecould name was toiling bravely at. But with Janet's kind hand on herhead, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she wasconstrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restlessdiscontent might never have found her. To herself she was willing toconfess it. Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "With God's help I can bear it. " She declared to herself that it waswell to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she couldfind work to do. But, that Janet should look upon her with pitying orreproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to herfaithful old friend than spoken words could have told. 

"What is it my dear?" said Mrs Snow. "Is it pride or discontent, or isit something worse?" Graeme laughed a little bitterly. "Can anythingbe worse than these?"

"Is it that your brother is wearying of you?"

"No, no! I could not do him the wrong to think that. It would grievehim to lose us, I know. Even when he thought it was for my happiness togo away, the thought of parting gave him pain. "

"And you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of hisbairn-wife vex you?"

Graeme was silent a moment. She did not care to enter upon the subjectof Arthur's wife just at this time. 

"I don't think you quite understand Fanny, Janet, " said she, hesitating. 

"Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to deal with have notbeen of her kind. I have had no experience of the like of her. "

"But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at aglance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. I love herdearly. And, Janet, I don't think it is quite kind in you to think thatI grudge Fanny her proper place in her own house. I only wish that--"

"You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you arewilling to let her. I wish that, too. And I am very far from thinkingthat you grudge her anything that she ought to have. "

"Oh! Janet, " said Graeme, with a sigh, "I shall never be able to makeyou understand. "

"You might try, however. You havena tried yet, " said Janet, gently. "It is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother'swinning, is it?"

"I don't think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers that whatbelongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when that is true, it maybe better, for many reasons, that I should eat bread of my own winningthan of his. Everybody has something to do in the world. Even richladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, andthe claims of society to satisfy, and all that. An idle life like mineis not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it. I ought not tobe idle. "

"Idle! I should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the houserather than at yours. You used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but Isee none of it now. You are ay busy at something. "

"Yes, busy about something, " repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. "Butabout things that might as well be left undone, or that another might doas well. "

"And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best andthe busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no' to saybut we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But itis no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, I'll allow. "

"Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I mayhave some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem tothink it, " said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and despondingtone. 

"My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am onlysaying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitableto anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, andno' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is apleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate. "

"Fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. But that is onemore reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, aswell as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to beingwithout us in time. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your fathersaid to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away. "

"About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me. "

"Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to yourbrothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had beenspared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourselfthan of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would makeyou give up the trust your father left to you. "

"But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, thethought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing andglad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the endsmeet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would sooncontent himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it maybe years before this can be Will's home again. It may never be hishome, nor Harry's either. "

"My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will's, too, while it is yours. Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if youwere only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I putit to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companionship of yonbairn suffice for his happiness?"

"It ought to do so. A man's wife ought to be to him more than all therest of the world, when it is written, `A man shall leave all, andcleave to his wife. ' Married people ought to suffice for one another. "

"Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother's house for ahouse of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems tohave set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sureof it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brotherneeds you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. Sheloves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate ofyou. "

Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that shecould not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? Sherose with a sigh. 

"It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let mesay one thing. You are not to think it is because of Fanny that I wantto go away. At first, I was unhappy--I may say so, now that it is allover. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn't thinkFanny good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for awhile it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny was not so considerateas she might have been, about our old friends, and about householdaffairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosiegot vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; andwe were very uncomfortable for a while. I don't think Fanny was so muchto blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of thehouse was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not. I can see that now. "

"Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good deal of it wasmy fault. I think I was patient and forbearing, and I am quite sure Igave Fanny her own place from the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partlyfor other reasons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, likeRosie, you know. Fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, everything goes on just as itought with us. There is no coldness between us, and you must not thinkthere is, or that it is because of Fanny I must go away. "

She paused, and began to arrange the lamp. 

"Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left, " said MrsSnow; and in a little Graeme came and sat down again. 

"And about Fanny's not being good enough for Arthur, " she went on. "Ifpeople really love one another, other things don't seem to make so muchdifference. Arthur is contented. And Janet, I don't think I amaltogether selfish in my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my ownsake. I think it would be better, for them both to be left to eachother for a little while. If Fanny has faults, it is better that Arthurshould know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to havepatience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. It ispartly for them, as well as for Rose and me. For myself, I must have achange. "

"You didna use to weary for changes. What is the reason now? You maytell me, dear, surely. There can be no reason that I may not know?"

Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of Graeme. 

"Oh! I don't know: I cannot tell you, " she cried, with a suddenmovement away from her friend. "The very spirit of unrest seems to havegotten possession of me. I am tired doing nothing, I suppose. I wantreal earnest work to do, and have it I will. " She rose hastily, but satdown again. 

"And so you think you would like to keep a school?" said Mrs Snow, quietly. 

"Oh! I don't know. I only said that, because I did not know what elseI could do. It would be work. "

"Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. AndI daresay it is no better than it is called. But, my dear, if it is thework you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of thisgreat town, you might find something to do, some work for the Lord, andfor his people. Have you never thought about working in that way, dear?"

Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had she grieved over theneglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes andalleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. Often had the faintinghearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained andcomforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. There were many humbledwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. This was not the work that was to make her lifeworthy, the work for God and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly, --

"It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have little time thatis not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it canhardly be called work. I cannot tell you, but what with the littlethings to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagementsof one kind or other, little time is left. I don't know how I couldmake it otherwise. My time is not at my own disposal. "

Mrs Snow assented, and Graeme went on. 

"I suppose I might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, andall that sort of thing, but I don't think I am suited for it, and thereare plenty who like it. However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse. Don't you mind, Janet, how Mrs Page used to labour with me about thesewing meetings. "

"Yes, I mind, " said Mrs Snow, with the air of one who was thinking ofsomething else. In a little she said, hesitatingly:

"Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing betweenliving in your brother's house, and keeping a school. Have you neverglanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of yourown to keep. "

Graeme laughed. 

"Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it. But thepossibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to takeit into account in making plans for the future. "

"And wherefore not?" demanded Mrs Snow. 

"Wherefore not?" echoed Graeme. "I can only say, that here I am at sixand twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increasewith the years, after that. Fanny's fears on my account have somefoundation. Janet, do you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing?

 "`The lads that cast a glance at me I dinna care to see, And the lads that I would look at Winna look at me. '

"Well, dear, you mustna be angry though I say it, but you may be owerill to please. I told you that before, you'll mind. "

"Oh! yes, I mind. But I convinced you of your error. Indeed, I lookupon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so youmustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for I amgoing to prove to you and Fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, byno means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary. "

"But, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to besetting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. Itis no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to hersorrow; but--"

"But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face againstanything; but why should you blame me for what I canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. They saymarried-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy anduseful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be deniedher. "

"But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--himthat Rosie was telling me of?"

"Rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. Nothingparticular ailed me at him. I liked him very well till--. But we won'tspeak of it. "

"Was he not good enough? He was a Christian man, and well off, andwell-looking. What said your brother to your refusal?" persisted Janet. 

"Oh! he said nothing. What could he say? He would have known nothingabout it if I had had my will. A woman must decide these things forherself. I did what I thought right. I could not have done otherwise. "

"But, my love, you should consider--"

"Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very neardoing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur's friend, and because itseems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and becauseI was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, andnothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying `Yes, ' and goingwith him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen otherswhom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?"

"That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. Icanna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where theheart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are morekinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of truelove; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart andfancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for thelike of that. "

"Have I?" said Graeme. "I ought to have at my age. "

It was growing quite dark--too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme'stroubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of hervoice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many anothertoken. 

"My dear, " said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of thefancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desiredat any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great powerand sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, andas you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. TheLord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but tomany a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitterpain, for which there is no help but just to `thole it, ' as they say. "

She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply. 

"Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to anotherwho is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness tothose who have the fear of God before their eyes, and it is justpossible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken. "

"It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I'llkeep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead foranother time, you ken. "

She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness andpain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herselfup to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laidher hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said, --

"My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think Ican have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinnadoubt me, dear?"

"I am not vexed, Janet, " said she. "And who could I trust if I doubtedyou?"

"And you are not to think that I am meaning any disrespect to your newsister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna find you quite contenthere. And when I think of the home that your mother made so happy, Icanna but wish to see you in a home of your own. "

"But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world, "Graeme forced herself to say. 

"No, love, nor the chief thing--that is true, " said Mrs Snow. 

"And even if it were, " continued Graeme, "there is more than one way tolook for happiness. It seems to me the chances of happiness are not sounequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed. "

"You mayna be the best judge of that, " said Mrs Snow, gravely. 

"No, I suppose not, " said Graeme, with a laugh. "But I have no patiencewith the nonsense that is talked about old maids. Why! it seems to bethought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by peoplebegin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. Inthis very room I have heard shallow men and women speak in that way ofsome who are doing a worthy work for God and man in the world. "

"My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in thewrong places. Why should you be surprised at that?"

"But, Janet, more do it than these people. Don't you mind, the otherday, when Mrs Grove was repeating that absurd story about Miss Lester, and I said to her that I did not believe Miss Lester would marry thebest man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned thelaugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earthwasna in her offer. "

"But, Miss Graeme, I meant no reflection on your friend, though I saidthat. I saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and I thought it a pity to waste good earnestwords on yon shallow woman. "

"Well, " said Graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on hermind that you thought her right and me wrong. "

"That is but a small matter. And, my dear, I am no' sure, and you cannabe sure either, that Mrs Grove was altogether wrong. If, in her youth, some good man--not to say the best man on the face of the earth--hadoffered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?"

"There!--that is just what I dislike so much. That is just what MrsGrove was hinting with regard to Miss Lester. If a woman lives single, it is from necessity--according to the judgment of a discriminating andcharitable world. I _know_ that is not the case with regard to MissLester. But even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signifiedhis approbation of her--if she were an old maid from dire necessity--does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?--that life has beento her a failure?

"If she has failed in life; so do God's angels. Janet, if I could onlytell you half that she has done! I am not intimate with her, but I havemany ways of knowing about her. If you could know all that she has donefor her family! She was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a verydelicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell toher when she was quite a girl. Then when her father failed, she openeda school and the whole family depended on her. She helped her sisterstill they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and nowshe is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. Herfather was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived inher home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she hadher school. And she has prepared many a young girl for a life ofusefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. Half ofthe good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. And tohear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronisingor their disparaging remarks upon her! It incenses me!"

"My dear, I thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallowwoman can say. "

"But she is not the only one. Even Arthur sometimes provokes me. Because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, hejestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a goodspeculation for some needy old gentleman. And because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted thatshe makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothingloth. It is despicable. "

"But, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved thatshe would marry. She has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, andshe may have many years before her. Why should she not marry?"

"Don't speak of it, " said Graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, asyou say, why should she not? But that is not the question. What Ideclare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honouredone--and a happy one too. Who can doubt it? There is no married womanof my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. And the highplace she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as MrsDale, though she were to marry the Reverend Doctor to-night, but for theblessed success that God has given her in her work as a single woman. "

"I believe you, dear, " said Mrs Snow, warmly. 

"And she is not the only one I could name, " continued Graeme. "She ismy favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnestnature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. But I know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing awork, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. Some of themare doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are onlyhumble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens ornurseries--women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting nameof `old maid, ' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they aredoing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a marriedwoman in her sphere. Why should such a woman be pitied or despised, Iwonder?"

"Miss Graeme, you look as though you thought I was among the pitiers anddespisers of such women, and you are wrong. Every word you say in theirpraise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. But that doesnaprove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married andsingle life are equal. "

"It goes far to prove it--the chances of usefulness, at any rate. "

"No, my dear, because I dare say, on the other hand, many could be toldof who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to gethappiness in it as well. Put the one class over against the other, andthen consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason thanfrom the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the manyunhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is thenatural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she _does_fail in life, who falls short of that. In a certain sense, I say. "

"But it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be anobject of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!"

"Whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. That depends onherself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many singlewomen who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. But, mydear, what I say is this: As the world is, it is no easy thing for awoman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can getbetter from her husband than from any other friend. And though it is asingle woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with God'shelp, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman wouldchoose. My saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whomyou justly give so high a place, how it was with them. Was it their ownfree choice that put them where they are? If they speak the truth, theywill say `No. ' Either no man asked them--though that is rare--or elsein youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. They had afather and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsakefor a stranger. Or they gave their love unsought, and had none to givewhen it was asked. Or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiledthem away, or death divided them. Sometimes a woman's life passesquietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one dayshe wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledgethat her youth is past--that she is an `old maid. ' And if a chanceoffer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold onthe hand that is held out to her--so feared is she of the solitary lifebefore her. "

"And, " said Graeme, in a low voice, "God is good to her if she has not asadder wakening soon. "

"It is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what I was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she findsherself alone in life. Sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down andcounts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. It is not every wise manthat can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in anunlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or arenever seen at all. It is possible that such a woman may have the senseto see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain andshame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband;and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from allothers, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. But does that end the pain? Does it makeher strong to say it? May not the slight implied in being overlookedrankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? I am afraid themany single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving nosympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. My dear, folkmay say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission--andgreat nonsense they have spoken of late--but every true woman kens wellthat her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is tofind her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. Thereare exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. Thoughwhy I should be saying all this to you, Miss Graeme, my dear, is mairthan I ken. "

There was a long silence after this. Mrs Snow knew well that Graemesat without reply because she would not have the conversation come backto her, or to home affairs, again. But her friend had something more tosay, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she couldnot leave it unsaid. 

"We were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honouredto do. It is a great work, and she is a noble woman. God bless her!And, dear, though I dinna like the thought of your leaving yourbrother's house, it is not because I dinna think that you might put yourhand to the same work with the same success. I am sure you could do, inthat way, a good work for God and man. It is partly that I am shy ofnew schemes, and partly because I am sure the restlessness that isurging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because I think youhave good and holy work laid to your hand already. Whatever you maythink now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and willbe all their lives, because of you. 

"I'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. The change woulddo you good. You will come with us, or you will follow after, if youlike it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see yourbrother Norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. Butthis is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. And, mybairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were ofa lighter nature. But it will pass. Whist! my darling, " for Graeme hadrisen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "Whist, love; I am notasking about its coming or its causes. I am only bidding you havepatience till it pass away. "

Graeme sat down again without a word. They sat a long time quitesilent, and when Graeme spoke, it was to wonder that Arthur and theothers were not come home. 

"They must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over bythis time. They will be as hungry as hawks. I must go and speak toSarah. "

And she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, thatthe friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed herin her time of need. 

"But I must go all the same. I cannot stay to die by slow degrees, ofsloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. Oh me! And Ithought the worst was past, and Janet says it will never be quite past, till I am grown old. "

And Janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, thatin trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. Sheknew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, andyet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. She knewthat Graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, andthat she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her. 

"For, what could I say? I couldna bid her go. What good would that do, when she carries her care with her? And it is not for the like of herto vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. I ken her betterthan she kens herself. Oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfortI can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. Well, there is One she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and He can comforther. "

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. 

The only event of importance that occurred before Mrs Snow went away, was the return of Nelly. She came in upon them one morning, as they sattogether in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could beeasily accounted for at the first moment. And then she told them shewas married. Her sudden departure had been the means of bringing MrStirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and hehad followed her to her sister's, and "married her out of hand. " Ofcourse, she was properly congratulated by them all, but Rose wasinclined to be indignant. 

"You promised that I was to be bridesmaid, and I think it is quite toobad that you should disappoint me, " said she. 

"Yes, I know I promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. Ithought your own turn might come first, Miss Rose, He didna seem in ahurry about it. But his leisure was over when I was fairly away out ofreach. So he came after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, butback I must go with him. He couldna see what difference a month or twocould make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister andthe rest up there--they sided with him. And there was reason in it, Icouldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had itover, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. Hemade small count of any preparations; so you see, Miss Rose, I couldnawell help myself; and I hope it will all be for the best. "

They all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. But, thoughcongratulating Mrs Stirling heartily, Graeme was greatly disappointedfor themselves. She had been looking forward to the time when, MrsTilman's temporary service over, they should have Nelly back in her oldplace again; but the best must be made of it now, and Nelly's pleasuremust not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. So she entered, with almost as much eagerness as Rose, into a discussion of the plans ofthe newly married pair. 

"And is the market garden secured?" asked she. "Or is that to comelater?"

"It will not be for a while yet. He is to stay where he is for thepresent. You will have heard that Mr Ruthven and his family are goinghome for a while, and we are to stay in the house. I am to have thecharge. It will be something coming in through my own hands, which willbe agreeable to me, " added the prudent and independent Nelly. 

The meeting of Mrs Snow and Mrs Stirling was a great pleasure to themboth. They had much to say to one another before the time of MrsSnow's departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance withFanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. Shecame to have a great respect for Mrs Stirling's sense and judgment, aswell as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. One ofthe few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding presentfor the bride, and Rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decideupon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and "goodproperty to have, " as Mr Snow justly remarked, whether they used themor not. 

The day of departure came at last. Will, Graeme, and Rose went withthem over the river, and Fanny would have liked to go, too, but she hadan engagement with Mrs Grove, and was obliged to stay at home. Arthurwas to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but thatwas doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he wentaway. There was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and Graeme made hasteto get a seat with Mrs Snow, in a quiet corner out of the way. 

"Look, Graeme, " said Rose. "There is Mr Proudfute, and there are theRoxburys, and ever so many more people. And there is Mr Ruthven. Iwonder if they are going away to-day. "

"I don't know. Don't let us get into the crowd, " said Graeme, ratherhurriedly. "We shall lose the good of the last minutes. Stay here amoment, Will, and see whether Arthur comes. I will find a seat for MrsSnow. Let us get out of the crowd. "

It was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quiteclose by the party towards which Rose had been looking, and which Graemehad intended to avoid. 

"Who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?" asked MrsSnow, with much interest. "You bowed to her, I think. "

"Yes. That is Mrs Ruthven. I suppose they are going away to-day. Ishould like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people withher, and I am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. Ah! she hasseen Rosie. They are coming over here. "

She rose and went to meet them as they came near. 

"You have never seen my baby, " said Mrs Ruthven, eagerly. "And I wantto see Mrs Snow. "

Graeme took the little creature in her arms. 

"No, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more thanonce--and now you are going away. "

"Yes, we are going away for a little while. I am so glad we have metto-day. I only heard the other day that Mrs Snow had come, and I havenot been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, I am sovery glad to see you, " added she, as she took Janet's hand. "I haveheard your name so often, that I seem to know you well. "

Mrs Snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, thatsmiled so sweetly up into hers. 

"I have heard about you, too, " said she, gravely. "And I am very gladthat we chanced to meet to-day. And you are going home to Scotland?"

"Yes, for a little while. I have not been quite well, and the doctoradvises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, I hope, orat the latest, in the spring. "

There was not time for many words. Arthur came at the last minute, andwith him Charlie Millar. He held out his arms for the baby, but shewould not look at him, and clung to Graeme, who clasped her softly. 

"She has discrimination, you see, " said Charlie. "She knows who is bestand wisest. "

"She is very like what Rosie was at her age, " said Mrs Snow. "Don'tyou mind, Miss Graeme?"

"Do you hear that, baby!" said Charlie. "Take heart. The wee whiteLily may be a blooming rose, yet--who knows?"

"You have changed, " said Mrs Snow, as Mr Ruthven came up to her withWill. 

"Yes, I have changed; and not for the better, I fear, " said he, gravely. 

"I do not say that--though the world and it's ways do not often change aman for the better. Keep it out of your heart. "

There was only time for a word or two, and Graeme would not lose thelast minutes with their friend. So she drew her away, and turned herface from them all. 

"Oh, Janet! Must you go? Oh! if we only could go with you! But thatis not what I meant to say. I am so glad you have been here. If youonly knew how much good you have done me!"

"Have I? Well, I am glad if I have. And my dear, you are soon tofollow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a littlewhile to the old place, and the old ways. God has been very good to youall. "

"Yes, and Janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. Forgetall the discontented foolish things I have said. God _has_ been verygood to us all. "

"Yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust Him. And you must watchover your sister, your sisters, I should say. And Rose, dear, you arenever to go against your sister's judgment in anything. And my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. God be with you. "

Mr Snow and Will made a screen between them and the crowd, and Janetkissed and blessed them with a full heart. There were only a fewconfused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. And then Graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of LiliasRuthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; andshe felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the manyfriends who were watching them as they went away. And then they turnedto go home. There was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of whichthe rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to theother side. But Graeme stood looking away from them all, and from thecity and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. Her eyes wereturned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and shewas saying to herself, --

"I _will_ take heart and trust Him, as Janet said. He _has_ been goodto us all I will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull andprofitless to me. God will accept the little I can do, and I _will_ becontent. "

Will and Charlie Millar left them, after they had passed through astreet or two. 

"We might just as well have gone to Merleville with them, for all thedifference in the time, " said Rose. 

"But then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment ofJanet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. It was a much better wayfor us to wait. "

"Yes. And for some things it will be better to be there after thewedding, rather than before. But I don't at all like going back to anempty house. I don't like people going away. "

"But people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will begood for us both, before we go away, " said Graeme. 

But the quiet was not for that day. On that day, two unexpected eventsoccurred. That is, one of them was unexpected to Graeme, and the otherwas unexpected to all the rest. Mr Green proposed that Miss Elliottshould accompany him on his contemplated European tour; and MrsTilman's time of service came to a sudden end. 

As Graeme and Rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the Grove carriage standing at their door. 

"_That_ does not look much like quiet, " said Rose. "However, it is notquite such a bugbear as it used to be; don't you remember, Graeme?"

Rose's fears were justified. They found Fanny in a state of utterconsternation, and even Mrs Grove not quite able to conceal how muchshe was put about. Mrs Tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, andeven the undiscerning Fanny could not fail to understand the nature ofher illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottlelying on the bed beside her. Mrs Grove was inclined to make light ofthe matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in afault, on occasion; but Graeme put her very charitable suggestions tosilence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper's former illnesses. This was not the first fault of the kind, by many. 

There were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it wouldbe wise to record. Mrs Grove professed indignation that the "mistressof the house" should have been kept in ignorance of the state ofaffairs, and resented the idea of Fanny's being treated as a child. ButFanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future shewould leave her to the management of her own household affairs; andGraeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doingthis, she would be quite safe and right. 

Of course, after all this, Fanny could not think of going out to passthe afternoon, and Graeme had little quiet that day. There werestrangers at dinner, and Arthur was busy with them for some time after;and when, being at liberty at last, he called to Graeme that he wantedto see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered withimpatience. 

"Oh! Arthur, I am very tired. Won't it keep till morning? Do let MrsTilman and domestic affairs wait. "

"Mrs Tilman! What can you mean, Graeme? I suppose Mrs Grove has beenfavouring the household with some advice, has she?"

"Has not Fanny told you about it?" asked Graeme. 

"No. I saw Fanny was in tribulation of some kind. I shall hear it allin good time. It is something that concerns only you that I wish tospeak about. How would you like to visit Europe, Graeme?"

"In certain circumstances I might like it. "

"Mr Green wished me to ask the question--or another--"

"Arthur, don't say it, " said Graeme, sitting down and turning pale. "Tell me that you did not expect this. "

"I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise. He meant tospeak to you himself, but his courage failed him. He is very much inearnest, Graeme, and very much afraid. "

"Arthur, " said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think this is myfault? If I had known it should never have come to this. "

"He must have an answer now. "

"Yes, you will know what to say to him. I am sorry. "

"But, Graeme, you should take time to think. In the eyes of the worldthis would be a good match for you. "

Graeme rose impatiently. 

"What has the world to do with it? Tell me, Arthur, that you do notthink me to blame for this. "

"I do not think you intended to give Mr Green encouragement. But Icannot understand why you should be so surprised. I am not. "

"You have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement hasnot been from _me_. It cannot be helped now. You will know what tosay. And, Arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me. "

"Then, there is nothing more to be said?"

"Nothing. Good-night. "

Arthur was not surprised. He knew quite well that Mr Green was notgood enough for Graeme. But, then, who was? Mr Green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was notvery young now. If she was ever to marry, it was surely time. And whyshould she not?

He had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he hadnot found it easy to do. Well, she was old enough and wise enough toknow her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without thehelp of his position and his great wealth, Mr Green was certainly not avery interesting person; and probably Graeme had done well to refusehim. He pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but whenhe went up-stairs, Fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager. 

"Well, what did Graeme say? Has she gone to bed?"

Arthur was rather taken aback. He was by no means sure that it would bea wise thing to discuss his sister's affairs with his wife. Fanny wouldnever be able to keep his news to herself. 

"You ought to be in bed, " said he. 

"Yes, I know I ought. But is she not a wretch?"

"Graeme, a wretch!"

"Nonsense, Arthur! I mean Mrs Tilman. You know very well. "

"Mrs Tilman! What has she to do with it?"

"What! did not Graeme tell you?"

And then the whole story burst forth--all, and a good deal more than hasbeen told, for Fanny and Rose had been discussing the matter in privatewith Sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been keptquiet so long. 

"The wretch!" said Arthur. "She might have burned us in our beds. "

"Just what I said, " exclaimed Fanny, triumphantly. "But then, Sarah wasthere to watch her, and Graeme knew about it and watched too. It wasvery good of her, I think. "

"But why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary towait and watch, as you call it? Why was she not sent about herbusiness? Why was not I told?"

"Sarah told us, it was because Miss Elliott would not have Mrs Snow'svisit spoiled; and _Rose_ says she wanted everything to go smoothly, sothat she should think I was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. I am very much afraid I am not. "

Arthur laughed, and kissed her. 

"Live and learn, " said he. 

"Yes, and I shall too, I am determined. But, Arthur, was it not verynice of Graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? Especially whenmamma had got Nelly away and all. "

"It was very nice of her, " said Arthur. 

"And mamma was very angry to-day, and Graeme said--no, it was mamma whosaid she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and Graeme saidthat would be much the best way. "

"I quite agree, " said her husband, laughing. 

"But, Arthur, I am afraid if it had not been for Graeme, things wouldhave gone terribly wrong all this time. I am afraid, dear, I _am_rather foolish. "

"I am sure Graeme does not say so, " said Arthur. 

"No. She does not say so. But I am afraid it is true all the same. But, Arthur, I do mean to try and learn. I think Rose is right when shesays there is no one like Graeme. "

Her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these thingsmuch more than he said to his wife. It would be a different home tothem all. Without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret Graeme's decision with regard toMr Green and his European tour. 

In the meantime, Graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with hersister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, withtroubled eyes, out into the night. That was at first, while herconversation with her brother remained in her mind. She was annoyedthat Mr Green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blameherself for it. Now, as she was looking back, she said she might haveseen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of MrGreen and his hopes. She saw now, that from various causes, with whichshe had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, andfallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware ofwhile the time was passing, and she could see where he might have takenencouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had beenso. But she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself topity him very much. 

"He will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others farbetter fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than Icould ever have done; and, so that Arthur says nothing about it, thereis no harm done. "

So she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. And there was something else quite past and done with. 

"I am afraid I have been very foolish and wrong, " she said, letting herthoughts go farther back into the day. She said it over and over again, and it was true. She had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. Never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought Harry home, had Graeme touched the hand or met theeye of Allan Ruthven. She had frequently seen Lilias, and she had notconsciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. In those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she hadgiven him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain andshame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grownmorbid over the fear. To-day she had seen him. She had clasped hishand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knewit was well with her. They were friends whom time, and absence, andperhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always. 

She did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; butshe was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of Allanand Lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish andwrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. Shetold herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare ablessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home againthe old glad time would come back. 

"I am glad that I have seen them again, very glad. And I am glad intheir happiness. I know that I am glad now. "

It was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingeredstill, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, ofall that the future might bring. Her thoughts were hopeful ones, and asshe went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating Janet'swords, and making them her own. 

"I will take heart and trust. If the work I have here is God-given, Hewill accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and Iwill take heart and trust. "

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. 

If, on the night of the day when Janet went away, Graeme could have hada glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might haveshrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. And yet when twoyears and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, anddisappointments, over the change and separation which the time hadbrought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. They had not been eventful years--that is, they had been unmarked by anyof the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wontto take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good orevil fortune. But Graeme had only to recall the troubled days that hadbeen before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her oldfriend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some ofthose she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thankedGod, for contentment and a quiet heart. 

That which outwardly characterised the time to Graeme, that to which shecould not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which shecould look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. Atfirst all things had happened as had been planned. They made theirpreparations for their long talked of visit to Merleville; they enjoyedthe journey, the welcome, the wedding. Will went away, and then theyhad a few quiet, restful days with Janet; and then there came from homesad tidings of Fanny's illness--an illness that brought her in a singlenight very near to the gates of death, and Graeme did not need herbrother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. Thesummons came during a brief absence of Rose from Merleville, and was tooimperative to admit of Graeme's waiting for her return, so she was leftbehind. Afterwards, when Fanny's danger was over, she was permitted toremain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother Normaneast, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclinationto go, prevailed over Graeme's unwillingness to consent, and thesisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. Thehope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciledGraeme to the thought, but when spring came, Fanny was not well enoughto be left, nor would Norman consent to the return of Rose; and so forone reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters metagain. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many anxious hours camein the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares andtroubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last. 

The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was rather a drearyone. The restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of herhealth necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to Fanny; andGraeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But allthis changed as the hour of Fanny's trial approached--the hour that wasto make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out of the entire trustwhich Fanny had come to place in her sister Graeme, grew the knowledgeof a higher and better trust. The love and care which, during thosedays of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were madeprecious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a lovewhich can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object--a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyondlife. And so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the futureceased to terrify her. Loving life, and bound to it by ties that grewstronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, thatdeath might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace sosweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near. 

Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had lingered in herheart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in Fanny'skeeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear ofcommon life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and hergraceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. Through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of herillness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to hercomplaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful timewas over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet alittle awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, hesoothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, toGraeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed totake possession of him when he was not by her side. One does not needto be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; andFanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind, growing worthier of it every day. 

Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much Arthurneeded the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. Life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becomingcontent with its routine of business and pleasure. The small successesof his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were indanger of being prized at more than their value, and of making himforget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life wasneeded. These hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of restand peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truerestimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced himto compare them with those things over which the world has no power!Fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. The confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to himfor solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about mattersof which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. Listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her wordssuggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which hisfather had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which hehad aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during thosedays. 

They helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped himmost, and Graeme helped them both. These were anxious days to her, buthappy days, as well. In caring for these two, so dear to her in seekingfor them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this timemight not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, sheforgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking theirhappiness found her own. 

This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed for, soprecious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. Fanny hoveredfor a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a newlife, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had beenbefore. 

That summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before theyreturned home, to Merleville, where Arthur joined them. It was a timeof much pleasure and profit to them all. It did Arthur good to standwith his sister beside the two graves. They spoke there more fully andfreely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to doin the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnestthoughts and high resolves to both. Viewed in the light which shonefrom his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to Arthurmean and worthless. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amidthe bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presentedthemselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and hisreason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper andholier meaning to him. 

Janet never spoke to Graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "It is allcoming right with my bairn, " she said, softly, to herself, the veryfirst glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching herduring these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content withher life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. Andas the days went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched Fannygentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to Graeme, and trustingand honouring her entirely, --a Fanny as different as could well beimagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so oftenexcited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "Itis coming right with them all. "

Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, toArthur and Fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. ToGraeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, butArthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. Will wasstill in Scotland, to stay for another year, at least Harry had been athome several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now therewas a prospect that he would be at home always. A great change hadtaken place in his affairs. The firm of Elphinstone and Company nolonger existed. It was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be asprosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm ofElliott, Millar and Company. Mr Ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment ona firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. Helived in Scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. He hadsince succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to theinheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with hismother and his little daughter, he resided. Either, it was said, hisuncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, orhe had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did notintend to return to Canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeplyregretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestlyremonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he haddetermined not to engage in business again. 

Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. Up to the timeof his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love offun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, andsuccessful in it. When he came back, he seemed older than those yearsought to have made him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promisedamusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. He was quietand observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when theywere assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views andopinions of others; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been soready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himselfinto the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. Even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, buthe fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though itwas not just the old place. 

Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her prideand delight in him. Arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked hissister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, Mr EliasGreen, in more than in success. 

"He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims ofsociety, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to benatural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the course of fifteen ortwenty years, we shall have him building a `palatial residence', andboring himself and other people, like our respected friend. You seem tobe a little discontented with the prospect, Graeme. "

"Discontented!" echoed Graeme. "It is with you, that I am discontented. How can you speak of anything so horrible? You don't know Harry. "

"I know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as Harry's. Success, of course, and a measure ofsatisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. No, you need notlook at Harry's friend and partner. He is `tarred with the same stick, 'as Mrs Snow would say. "

Harry's friend and partner, laughed. 

"Mrs Snow would never say that about Mr Millar, " said Graemeindignantly, "nor about Harry either; and neither of them will come to afate like that. "

"They may fail, or they may marry. I was only speaking of the naturalconsequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing interveneto prevent such a conclusion. "

"Harry will never grow to be like Mr Green, " said Fanny, gravely. "Graeme will not let him. "

"There is something in that, " said Arthur. 

"There is a great deal in that, " said Mr Millar. 

"There are a great many to keep Harry from a fate like that, besidesme, " said Graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving andgenerous nature. "

She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for. 

"Graeme, " said Fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose Arthur is in earnest. He thinks there is no one like Harry. "

Arthur laughed. 

"I don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyondspoiling, and Graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, Iam afraid. "

"If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago, " saidGraeme, laughing. 

"Oh! that is quite another matter; but as to Harry, it is a good thingthat Rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him awhile, " added he, as his brother came into the room. "And you will doyour best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteractyour influence. "

"What is it all about?" said Harry. "Are you spoiling your son, Fanny?Is that the matter under discussion?"

"No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and I. We admire you quitetoo much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for Rose. "

"As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have commencedalready, if admiration will do it, " said Harry. "If one is to believewhat Norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there. "

"So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped, " said Graeme, with a little vexation. It was not Harry's words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders. 

"Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don't think she tried to help it. Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour--hervocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather. "

"Harry, don't! I can't bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way. "

"Oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if youdon't believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the lastbit of news of Rosie. "

Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he metGraeme's eye. 

"I don't understand you, Harry--the least in the world, " said he. 

"Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland'sletter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much. "

"Mr Green!" repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath. 

"Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said Graeme, indignantly. 

"The idea of Rose ever looking at him!" said Fanny. 

"Oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm, " said Harry. "She might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation--"

"Harry, " said Fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the Englishlanguage that Graeme hates it is that. Don't say it again, I beg. "

Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed and anxious. 

"Miss Elliott, " said Charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "I hope youdon't think me capable of discussing--or permitting--. I mean, in theletter to which Harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. Youhave received a wrong impression. I am the last person in the worldthat would be likely to offend in that way. "

"Charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, Graeme, youare as bad. Of course, Rosie's name was not mentioned; but I know quitewell, and so do you, who `La belle Canadienne' was. But no harm wasmeant, and none was done. "

"It would be rather a good joke if Rosie were to rule in the `PalatialResidence' after all, wouldn't it?" said Arthur, laughing. 

"Arthur, don't! It is not nice to have the child's name coupled with--with any one, " said Graeme. 

"It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped, " said Harry. "It is thepenalty that very pretty girls, like Rose, have to pay for theirbeauty--especially when they are aware of it--as Rose has good right tobe by this time. Small blame to her. "

"And I don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, Graeme, " said Arthur. "A great deal more than the coupling of namesmight happen without Rosie being to blame, as no one should know betterthan you. "

"Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more aboutit, " said Graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. By and by Harryand his friend and partner rose to go. They lived together, now, in thehouse behind the willow trees, which Rose had taken such pleasure inwatching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, though aless fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunateenough to have the efficient and kindly Nelly as housekeeper, andgeneral caretaker still, and she magnified her office. 

Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and then Mr Millarapproached Graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced anduncertain, --

"I ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. I don'tthink you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that woulddisplease you. Won't you just say so to me?"

"Charlie! I know you could not. You are one of ourselves. "

Charlie's face brightened. Of late it had been "Mr Millar, " mostly--not that Graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him lessfrequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. But this time itwas, "Charlie, " and he was very much pleased. 

"You have been quite a stronger, lately, " she went on; "but now thatMrs Elliott is better and Rose coming home, we shall be livelier andbetter worth visiting. We cannot bring the old times quite back, evenwith Harry and Rose, but we shall always be glad to see you. "

She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the sameway; but he was grave, and did not use many words. 

"I hope there is nothing wrong, " said Graeme, observing his changinglook. 

"Nothing for which there is any help, " said he. "No there is nothingwrong. "

"I am ready, Charlie, " said Harry, coming forward. "And Graeme, you arenot to trouble yourself about Rose's conquests. When she goes to herown house--`palatial' or otherwise--and the sooner the better for allconcerned--you are coming to take care of Charlie and me. "

"There may be two or three words to be said on that subject, " saidArthur, laughing. 

"I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object; you have hadGraeme all your life--at least for the last seven years. I should liketo hear you, just. I am not joking, Graeme. "

Graeme laughed. 

"There is no hurry about it, is there? I have heard of people changingtheir minds; and I won't set my heart on it, in case I should bedisappointed. "

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. 

So Rose came home at last. Not just the Rose who had left them, nowmore than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. Her brothersthought her greatly changed and improved. She was more womanly, anddignified, and self-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wonderingand pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sistershould come back to her just what she was when she went away. 

She would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it soplainly. But Arthur declared that she had become Americanised to anastonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that animprovement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. Harry agreedwith him, without the reservation; for Harry admired the Americanladies, and took in good part Rose's hints and congratulations withregard to a certain Miss Cora Snider, an heiress and a beauty of C---. "A trifle older than Harry, " explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme;"but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things`being agreeable. '"

"Of course, " said Harry, with a shrug that set Graeme's fancy at restabout Miss Cora Snider. 

In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back intotheir old ways again. Rose's dignity and self-reliance were for herbrothers and her friends generally. With Graeme she was, in a day ortwo, just what she had been before she went away--a dear child andsister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and caredfor always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister'sloving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She was very fond ofNorman and Hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them;but there was no one like Graeme, and there was no place like home. Soshe fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Rosie ofold times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her childhaving been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. It was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would lether be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. Admired she mighthave been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quiteunspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, Graeme said to herself, with asense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the timewent on. 

"It amuses me very much to hear Arthur say I am changed, " said Rose, oneday, when the sisters were sitting together. "Why, if I had come home astrong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would havebeen nothing to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which Idaresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blindwhere she was concerned. But what have you being doing to Fanny, Graeme?"

"Rose, my dear, " said Graeme, gravely, "Fanny has had a great deal ofsickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, I am sure;and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?"

"Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is concerned. Forthe better! I should think so. But then I fancied that Fanny was justthe one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as Janet wouldsay; and I confess, when I heard of the arrival of young Arthur, I wasafraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might notbe easier to live with. "

"Now, Rosie, that is not quite kind. "

"But it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and what Isaid to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, andall that, but I thought that was just your way of seeing things; younever would see Fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first. "

Graeme shook her head. 

"I think you must have forgotten about the very first. We were bothfoolish and faithless, then. It has all come right; Arthur is veryhappy in his wife, though I never thought it could be in those days. "

There was a long pause after that, and then Rose said, --

"You must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when shewas so long ill that first winter. I ought to have been here to helpyou, and I should have been, if I had known. "

"I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, or toendure. I am none the worse for it all. "

"No, " said Rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then satdown again. Graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. Rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something, --

"I think you have changed--improved--almost as much as Fanny, thoughthere was not so much need. "

Graeme laughed, too. 

"There was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. I amglad you see any. "

"I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, I am sure, "said Rose, as Fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "Ithink I see an intention on your part to become stout. I don't objectto a certain roundness, but it may be too decided. "

"Graeme too stout! How can you say such things, Rosie?" said Fanny, indignantly. 

"She is not so slender as when I went away. "

"No, but she was too slender then. Arthur thinks she is growinghandsomer, and so do I. "

"Well, perhaps, " said Rose, moving believe to examine Graeme critically;"still I must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness--andother things. "

"It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny, " said Graeme, laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with. "

"Fanny, " said Rose, "don't contradict her. She says that on purpose tobe contradicted. A middle-aged look, is it? I dare say it is!"

"A look of contentment with things as they are, " said Graeme. "There isa look of expectation on most _young_ faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. I mean, of course, with single women. I supposeit is that with me; or, do I look as if I were settling down contentwith things as they are?"

"Graeme, " said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in myhearing, I should say it sounded a little like affectation. "

"I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying itto me?"

"But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear, " said Fanny. 

"How old are you, Graeme?" said Rose. "Middle-aged, indeed!"

"Rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? Shallyou not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?"

"Certainly not; by no means; I have no such intention, unless, indeed--. But we won't speak about such unpleasant things. Fanny, shan't I takethe baby while you do that?"

"If you would like to take him, " said Fanny, with some hesitation. 

Baby was a subject on which Rose and Fanny had not quite come to amutual understanding. Rose was not so impressed with the wonderfulattractions of her son as Fanny thought she ought to be. Even Graemehad been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, andexpostulated with her on the subject. But Rose had had a surfeit ofbaby sweetness, and, after Hilda's strong, beautiful boys, Fanny'slittle, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and shemade no secret of her amusement at the devotion of Graeme, and theraptures of his mother over him. But now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had neverheard before. Fanny was delighted. Happily Graeme prevented thequestion that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of hernephews, by saying, --

"Well done, Rosie! If only Harry could hear you!"

"I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you both over thislittle mortal. You should see Hilda. Does not she preserve herequanimity? Fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any oneelse, with her permission. "

"I thought--I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda as a modelmother, " said Fanny, doubtfully. 

"And a fond mother, " said Graeme. 

"She _is_ a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise, " said Rose, nodding her head. "I say no more. "

"Fanny dear, we shall have to learn of Rose. We are very inexperiencedpeople, I fear, " said Graeme, smiling. 

"Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should seeHilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her secondwill soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she hadbegun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring everywhim?"

And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts ofthings about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his AuntGraeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, tosay to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious. 

"Rose, " said she, "tell me about Hilda's way. I want to have the verybest way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learnand to do right!"

Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of theFanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and satplaying with the child's clasping fingers. 

"She thinks I will never be like Hilda, " said Fanny, dolefully, toGraeme. 

Rose shook her head. 

"There are not many like Hilda; but I don't see any reason why youshould not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. You have as good a teacher. No, don't look at Graeme. I know what youmean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are moreof us who could say the same--except for making her vain. It is thisyoung gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you. "

And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graemeand Fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense. 

"I'll tell you what, Fanny, " said she, looking up in a little. "It isthe mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to dowith it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Thinkof my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself. "

"But, Rosie, dear, " said Graeme, still laughing, "Solomon has nothing tosay about such infants as this one. "

"Has he not? Well, that is Hilda's mistake, then. She is responsiblefor my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freelyis entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and youwill understand all about it. "

"I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply. "

"Yes, it _is_ wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, willyou? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. Imean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangementsNorman may have made. "

"I don't think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn't, and Fanny, " said Graeme, smiling. 

"Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant toseparate you and me shall prosper, " said Rose, with more heat than theoccasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previouslydiscussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and wassilent a moment, then she said, --

"I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville, to Emily's wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for youand me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not setour hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knewbest what is for our own happiness. "

"Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to beyour first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are tobe mine. "

"Graeme, " said Fanny, earnestly, "I don't think Rose is spoiled in theleast. "

Fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were neverunkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sisterto the other. 

"I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?" saidRose, laughing. 

"No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harrysaid you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--"

Rose shrugged her shoulders. 

"Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him onthat subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman's. You must notmind what Harry says about me, Fanny, dear. "

"But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was notnice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there wassomething said about Mr Green. And he thought--one of them thoughtthat you--that he--I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme?You were here as well as I. "

"I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice, " said Graeme. "I don't quite remember about it. There was nothing worth rememberingor repeating. "

"I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once, "said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see. 

"Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure. "

"And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke aboutMr Green, " said Fanny, "and about the `palatial residence, ' and howRose, if she liked, might--"

Rose moved about impatiently. 

"I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussionof anything of that sort with a stranger, " said she, angrily. 

"My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harrywas right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that yourconscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?"

Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, Rose said, with an effort, --

"Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about. "

"Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I wastoo anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind methat you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and whomight, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for yoursister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that youneed care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have saidanything in Mr Millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a littleout of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did notconsider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not verywell hear. "

"It seems it was he who had most to say. "

"No. You are mistaken. Fanny did not remember correctly. It waseither Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. Idon't think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would bethe last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don't seewhy you should be angry about it, dear Rosie. "

"I am not angry. Why should I be angry?" But she reddened as she metGraeme's eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise. 

"Harry is--is unbearable sometimes, " said Rose. "Fancy his taking me totask about--about his friend--Oh! there is no use talking about it. Graeme, are you going out?"

"Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. Theremust be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of youas possible. You must not be vain when I say so. "

"That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don't let usspeak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either. "

But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioningHarry with regard to Rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thoughtbetter of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again toRose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, andonce, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance anddignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would haveliked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidentlyexcellent friends. 

How exactly like the old time before Arthur's marriage, and before Willor Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming homeof Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with asense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peacethat comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrowsanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how toestimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of pastpain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the contentthat comes to us from God, out of disappointment and sorrow, is oursbeyond loss, because it is God-given, and we need fear no evil. 

So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret forthe past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy homelife, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyondher deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to bereturned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of suchduties, during Rose's absence, and Fanny's illness, took pleasure ingoing with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes forother reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rosecame out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in herintercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, exceptthe difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no meansso in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas andopinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or ofdefending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeingthis during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpsethat greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she metcondescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the sereneair with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its causewas best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change inher, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldomwent to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthurthat Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large andagreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not thatthere were very many of these. Fanny was perfectly well now, andenjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not sonecessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she madeno secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in herdevotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, andGraeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time attheir disposal. 

For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of herbrother's household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrewfrom the bearing of responsibility where household matters wereconcerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, onArthur's wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or indeed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress ofthe house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means soeasy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was verymuch in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due tothe mistress of the house, were Fanny's. These could not, she being inhealth and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutualinjury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated withoutdanger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see without usingmany words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have hadduring the first year of her married-life. For Fanny had now entireconfidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best toprofit by her teaching:

It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched overboth with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree theyoung mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best andsurest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. And every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all wascoming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of allwisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotionto the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in thegreater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as aresult of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also;a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her ownfailures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attainsuccess, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had onlycared to seem. 

Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he was with themvery often. Mr Millar did not quite fall into the place which Harry'sfriend Charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoymentof the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was notbecause he enjoyed it less than in the old times. He had only changedsince then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. Hisbrother's determination not to return to Canada had been a greatdisappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. Circumstances hadmade the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and itwas hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they hadbeen beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had hoped for along time that Allan might come back after a year or two; for his estatewas by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary ofa life of inactivity, and return to business again. He was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked inthe way of making money, Charlie thought, and he could not be satisfiedwith his decision. But Will, who had visited Allan lately, assuredCharlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quietcountry life, and that though he might visit Canada, there was littlechance of his ever making that country his home again. 

"I should think not, indeed, " said Arthur, one night, as they werediscussing the matter in connection with Will's last letter. "You don'tdisplay your usual good judgment, Charlie, man, where your brother isconcerned. Why should he return? He is enjoying now, a comparativelyyoung man, all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty orthirty years of hard labour--a competency in society congenial to him. Why should he wait for this longer than he need?"

"Twenty or thirty years!" said Harry. "Not if I know it. You arethinking of old times. But I must say I agree with Charlie. It isstrange that Mr Ruthven should be content to sit down in comparativeidleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. And to tell you the truth, I never thought him one to be satisfied witha mere competency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become arich, man--a great merchant. "

"It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a greatmerchant in your presence, Harry, " said Rose, "but one would think thelife of a country gentleman preferable in some respects. "

"I don't think Allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman--inthe dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. His place isvery beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to theposition of one of the great landed proprietors. "

"Oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. It is the landthat his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to beproud of, and to give position, Rose thinks, " said Arthur. 

"His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. It was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by Allan'suncle within ten years. "

"Yes, with the good money of a good merchant, " said Harry. 

"And did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said Arthur. 

"No, I think not. Allan never has said any such thing as that to me, orto my mother. "

"Still he may think it his duty to live there. "

"I don't know. It is not as though it were a large estate, with manytenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. I think the lifesuits him. My mother always thought it was a great disappointment tohim to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life ofbusiness. He did not object decidedly. There seemed at the timenothing else for him to do. So he came to Canada. "

"I daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. I wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, Charlie. "

"I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don't think it is soaltogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it would be betterfor him to come here, at least for a time. He might always have thegoing home to look forward to. "

"I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the activelife he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an oldfogey, vegetating there, " said Harry. 

"But I think you are hard on yourself, Mr Millar, calling itselfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you, " said Graeme, smiling. "I could find a much nicer name for it than that. "

"I would like him to come for his own sake, " said Charlie. "As for me, I was just beginning to know him--to know how superior he is to mostmen, and then I lost him. " He paused a moment--

"I mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shallfind it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived togetherand loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. I shall see him if Igo home next summer, and I don't despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least. "

"Will says he means to come some time. Perhaps he will come back withyou, or with Will himself, when he comes, " said Rose. 

"Oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less, " said Arthur. "It is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it waswhen we came over. Of course he may come any month. I don't understandyour desolation, Charlie. "

Charlie laughed. "When is Will coming?"

"It does not seem to be decided yet, " said Graeme. "He may come in thespring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have anopportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. It seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge thedelay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily andpleasantly. "

"What if Will should think like Mr Ruthven, that a life at home is tobe desired? How would you like that, girls?" said Harry. 

"Oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. There isno family estate in his case, " said Rose, laughing. 

"Who knows?" said Arthur. "There may be a little dim kirk and alow-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. That would seem to be the mostappropriate inheritance for his father's youngest son. What would yousay to that Graeme?"

"I would rather say nothing--think nothing about it, " said Graeme, hastily. "It is not likely that could ever happen. It will all bearranged for us, doubtless. "

"It was very stupid of you, Harry, to say anything of that sort toGraeme, " said Rose. "Now, she will vex herself about her boy, as thoughit were possible that he could stay there. He never will, I know. "

"I shall not vex myself, indeed, Rosie--at least I shall not until Ihave some better reason for doing so, than Harry's foolish speeches. Mr Millar, you said you might go home next summer. Is that somethingnew? Or is it only new to us?"

"It is possible that I may go. Indeed, it is very likely. I shall knowsoon. "

"It depends on circumstances over which he has no control, " said Harry, impressively. "He has my best wishes, and he would have yours, Graeme, I think, if you knew about it. "

"He has them, though I don't know about it, " said Graeme. "I haveconfidence in him that he deserves success. "

"Yes, it is safe to wish him success--if not in one thing, in another. I am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but I think I knowwhat is good for him. "

"Rosie, " said Fanny, suddenly, "Mr Millar can set us right now. I amglad I thought of it. Mr Millar, is Mrs Roxbury your aunt, or onlyyour brother's?"

"I am afraid it is only Allan who can claim so close a relationship asthat. I don't think I can claim any relationship at all. I should haveto consider, before I could make it clear even to myself, how we areconnected. "

"It is much better not to consider the subject, then, " said Arthur, "asthey are rather desirable people to have for relations; call themcousins, and let it go. "

"But at any rate she is not your aunt, and Amy Roxbury is not yourcousin, as some one was insisting over Rose and me the other day. Itold you so, Rosie. "

"Did you?" said Rose, languidly. "I don't remember. "

"It was Mrs Gridley, I think, and she said--no, it must have been someone else--she said you were not cousins, but that it was a veryconvenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances. "

"Very true, too, eh, Charlie, " said Arthur, laughing. 

"I should scarcely venture to call Miss Roxbury cousin, " said Charlie. 

"She is very nice, indeed, " pursued Fanny. "Rose fell in love with herat first sight, and the admiration was mutual, I think. "

Rose shrugged her shoulders. 

"That is, perhaps, a little strong, Fanny, dear. She is very charming, I have no doubt, but I am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations asI used to be. "

"But you admired her very much. And you said she was very like LilyElphinstone, when you first saw her. I am sure you thought her verylovely, and so did Graeme. "

"Did I?" said Rose. 

"She is very like her, " said Mr Millar. "I did not notice it till hermother mentioned it. She is like her in other respects, too; butlivelier and more energetic. She is stronger than Lily used to be, andperhaps a little more like the modern young lady. "

"Fast, a little, perhaps, " said Arthur. 

"Oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. She isself-reliant. She has her own ideas of men and things, and they are notalways the same as her mamma's. But she is a dutiful daughter, and sheis charming with her little brothers and sisters. Such a number thereare of them, too. "

Charlie spoke eagerly, looking at Graeme. "You seem deeply interestedin her, " said Arthur, laughing. 

Harry rose impatiently. 

"We should have Mrs Gridley here. I never think a free discussion ofour neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principleswithout her valuable assistance. Your _cousin_ would be charmed to knowthat you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, Ihave no doubt, Charlie. "

"But she is not his cousin, " said Fanny. "And Harry, dear, you areunkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of Mr Millar. Of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say youare a little unreasonable, not to say cross. " And Rose smiled verysweetly on him as she spoke. 

Harry did look cross, and Charlie looked astonished. Graeme did notunderstand it. 

"Was that young Roxbury I saw you driving with the other day?" askedArthur. "He is going into business, I hear. "

"It was he, " said Charlie. "As to his going into business, I cannotsay. He is quite young yet. He is not of age. Are you going, Harry?It is not very late yet. "

They did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure afterthat. He was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate Harry, Graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good manyallusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. Then theyhad some music. Rose sat at the piano till they went away, playingpieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she satdown again, and played on still. 

"What put Harry out of sorts to-night?" asked Arthur. 

"Was he out of sorts?" asked Graeme, a little anxiously. 

Rose laughed. 

"I shall have to give Harry some good advice, " said she; and that wasthe last word she said, till she said "good-night. "

"There is something wrong, " said Graeme to herself, "though I am sure Icannot tell what it is. In old times, Rosie would have burst forth withit all, as soon as we came up-stairs. But it is nothing that cantrouble her, I am sure. I hope it is nothing that will trouble her. Iwill not fret about it beforehand. We do not know our troubles from ourblessings at first sight. It ought not to be less easy to trust for mydarling than for myself. But, oh! Rosie, I am afraid I have been at myold folly, dreaming idle dreams again. "

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. 

Graeme had rejoiced over her sister's return, "heart-free andfancy-free, " rather more than was reasonable, seeing that the danger toher freedom of heart and fancy was as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable anywhere, and, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. A very little thing had disturbed her sense ofsecurity before many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingling ofanxiety and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain andfoolish her feeling of security had been. It was the look that had comeinto Charlie Millar's face one day, as his eye fell suddenly on the faceof Rose. Graeme's heart gave a sudden throb of pain and doubt, as shesaw it, for it told her that a change was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made it seem to her a change to be dreaded. 

There had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, in which theywere all supposed to be much interested, because Master Albert Grove wasone of the runners, and had good hope of winning a silver medal whichwas to be the prize of the foremost in the race. Graeme and Rose hadcome with his little sisters to look, on, and Rose had grown as eagerand delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious of theadmiration in Charlie's eyes, and of the shock of pain that thrilled ather sister's heart. It was more than admiration that Graeme saw in hiseyes, but the look passed, and he made no movement through the crowdtoward them, and everything was just as it had been before, except thatthe thought had come into Graeme's mind, and could not quite beforgotten again. 

After that the time still went quietly on, and Charlie came and went, and was welcomed as before; but Graeme looking on him now withenlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw, more and more clearly everyday, the secret that he did not seem in haste to utter. And every dayshe saw it with less pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, forthe time when the lover's word should change her sister's shy andsomewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what could not butbe precious, Graeme thought, though still unknown or unacknowledged. And then the mention of Amy Roxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into the knowledge that she had been dreaming. 

"Rose, " said she, after they had been up-stairs for some time, and wereabout to separate for the night, "what was the matter with Harry thisevening?"

"What, indeed?" said Rose, laughing. "He was quite out of sorts aboutsomething. "

"I did not think he knew the Roxburys. He certainly has not known themlong, " said Graeme. 

"No, not very long--at least, not Miss Amy, who has only just returnedhome, you know. But I think she was not at the root of his trouble; atleast, not directly. I think he has found out a slight mistake of his, with regard to `his friend and partner. ' That is what vexed him, " saidRose. 

"I don't know what you mean?" said Graeme, gravely. "I should thinkHarry could hardly be seriously mistaken in his friend by this time, andcertainly I should not feel inclined to laugh at him. "

"Oh! no. Not _seriously_ mistaken; and I don't think he was so muchvexed at the mistake, as that I should know it. "

"I don't understand you, " said Graeme. 

"It does not matter, Graeme. It will all come out right, I daresay. Harry was vexed because he saw that I was laughing at him, and it isjust as well that he should be teased a little. "

"Rose, don't go yet. What is there between you and Harry that I don'tknow about? You would not willingly make me unhappy, Rose, I am sure. Tell me how you have vexed each other, dear. I noticed it to-night, andI have several times noticed it before. Tell me all about it, Rose. "

"There is nothing to tell, Graeme, indeed. I was very much vexed withHarry once, but I daresay there was no need for it. Graeme, it is sillyto repeat it, " added Rose, reddening. 

"There is no one to hear but me, dear. "

"It was all nonsense. Harry took it into his head that I had nottreated his friend well, when he was out West, at Norman's, I mean. Ofcourse, we could not fall into home ways during his short visit there;everything was so different. But I was not `high and mighty' with him, as Harry declared afterwards. He took me to task, sharply, and accusedme of flirting, and I don't know what all, as though that would help hisfriend's cause, even if his friend had cared about it, which he did not. It was very absurd. I cannot talk about it, Graeme. It was allHarry's fancy. And to-night, when Mr Millar spoke so admiringly of AmyRoxbury, Harry wasn't pleased, because he knew I remembered what he hadsaid, and he knew I was laughing at him. And I fancy he admires thepretty little thing, himself. It would be great fun to see the dearfriends turn out rivals, would it not?" said Rose, laughing. 

"But that is all nonsense, Rose. "

"Of course, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end. That is justwhat I think, and what I have been saying to you. So don't let us sayor think anything more about it. Good-night. "

"Good-night. It will all come right, I daresay;" and Graeme put it outof her thoughts, as Rose had bidden her do. 

After this, Harry was away for a while, and they saw less of Mr Millar, because of his absence, Graeme thought. He must have more to do, as thebusy time of the coming and going of the ships was at hand. So theirdays passed very quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, butthey were happy days for all that; and Graeme, seeing her sister'shalf-veiled pleasure when Charlie came, and only half consciousimpatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself as she repeated, "Itwill all come right. "

It was a fair April day; a little colder than April days are generallysupposed to be, but bright and still--just the day for a long walk, allagreed; and Rose went up-stairs to prepare to go out, singing out of alight heart as she went. Graeme hastened to finish something that shehad in her hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, andbefore Rose came down with her hat on, another came; and the one thatcame last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, and Harry'saversion, Mrs Gridley. Rose had reconciled herself to the loss of herwalk, by this time, and listened amused to the various subjectsdiscussed, laying up an item now and then, for Harry's special benefit. There was variety, for this was her first visit for a long time. 

After a good many interesting excursions among the affairs of theirfriends and neighbours, she brought them back in her pleasant way totheir own. 

"By the by, is it true that young Roxbury is going into business withMr Millar and your brother?"

"We have not bees informed of any such design, " said Rose. 

"Your brother is away just now, is he not? Will he return? Young menwho have done business elsewhere, are rather in the habit of calling ourcity slow. I hope your brother Harry does not. Is young Roxbury totake his place in the firm, or are all three to be together?"

"Harry does not make his business arrangements the subject ofconversation very often, " said Graeme, gravely. 

"He is quite right, " said Mrs Gridley. "And I daresay, young Roxburywould not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father's moneymight. However, some of _that_ may be got in a more agreeable way. MrMillar is doing his best, they say. But, Amy Roxbury is little morethan a child. Still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out verywell. Am I not to see Mrs Elliott, to-day? She is a very devotedmother, it seems. "

"She would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home. "

"And she is quite well again? What a relief it must be to you, " saidMrs Gridley, amiably. "And you are all quite happy together! Ithought you were going to stay at the West, Rose?"

"I could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me. "

"And are you going to keep house for Harry, at Elphinstone house, or isMr Millar to have that?"

And so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away. 

"What nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!" said Rose. 

"Worse than nonsense, I am afraid, sometimes, " said Graeme. "Really, Harry's terror of her is not surprising. Nobody seems safe from hertongue. "

"But don't let us lose our walk, altogether. We have time to go roundthe square, at any rate. It is not late, " said Rose. 

They went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of Mrs Gridleyand her news behind them. They met Fanny returning home, before theyhad gone far down the street. 

"Come with us, Fanny. Baby is all right. Are you tired?" said Rose. 

"No, I am not tired. But is it not almost dinner time? Suppose we goand meet Arthur. "

"Well--only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer uptoward S street. However, we can go home that way. There will be timeenough. How delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in thehouse!"

"And after Mrs Gridley, " said Graeme, laughing. 

"Have you had Mrs Gridley?" said Fanny. 

"Yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. Is it not nice to be out?I would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, and go up the streetas she does. "

Fanny laughed. "Wouldn't all the people be amazed? Tell me what newsMrs Gridley gave you. "

Rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily. 

"All that, and more besides, which Graeme will give you, if you are notsatisfied. There is your husband. I hope he may be glad to see usall. "

"If he is not, he can go home by himself. "

Arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of theircoming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might lastlonger. 

"Very well, one at a time be it, " said Rose. "Come, Fanny, he thinks itpossible to have too much of a good thing. Let him have Graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves. "

They went away together, and Arthur and Graeme followed, and so ithappened that Graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she sawsomething that brought some of Mrs Gridley's words unpleasantly to hermind. They had turned into S street, which was gay with carriages, andwith people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance beforethem under the trees, when Arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, shesaw Miss Roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode Mr Millar. Shewas startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return Miss Roxbury'sbow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before shenoticed that her brother was speaking to her. He was saying somethingabout the possible admission of young Roxbury into the new firm, aproposof the encounter of Mr Millar and Amy. 

"Harry is very close about his affairs, " said Graeme, with a littlevexation. "Mrs Gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. I am not sure that I did not deny it, decidedly. It is ratherawkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know themourselves. "

"Awkward, indeed!" said Arthur, laughing. "But then this partnership ishardly our affair, and Mrs Gridley is not all the town, though she isnot to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and shetells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. It would do well for some things. "

But Graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. She was wondering whether Rose had seen Charles Millar and Miss Roxbury, and hoping she had not. And then she considered a moment whether shemight not ask Arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she couldnot do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying hersister. And yet, how foolish such a thought was; for Rose had nothingto betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. She repeated itmore firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street whereFanny and Rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrilytogether. If Rose felt any vexation, she hid it well. 

"I will ask Fanny whom they met. No, I will not, " said Graeme, toherself, again. "Why should Rose care. It is only I who have beenfoolish. They have known each other so long, it would have happenedlong ago, if it had been to happen. It would have been very nice forsome things. And it might have been, if Rose had cared for him. Hecared for her, I am quite sure. Who would not? But she does not carefor him. I hope she does not care for him. Oh! I could not go throughall that again! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

It was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed whatGraeme was thinking. She started a little when her sister said, --

"Graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a newvelvet jacket?"

"Not very extravagant just to wish for one, " said Graeme, dubiously. Rose laughed. 

"I might as well wish for a gown, too, while I am wishing, I suppose, you think. No, but I do admire those little jackets so much. I mightcut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, andsomething lighter and less expensive would do. It wouldn't take much, they are worn so small. What do you think about it, Graeme?"

"If you can afford it. They are very pretty, certainly. "

"Yes, are they not? But, after all, I daresay I am foolish to wish forone. "

"Why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, I daresay we canmanage it between us. "

"Oh! as to setting my heart on it, I can't quite say that. It is notwise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of getting--or on thingsthat perish with the using--which is emphatically true of jackets. Thisone has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, consideringthe cost, " added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve. 

There was no time for more. 

"Here we are, " said Fanny, as they all came up to the door. "Howpleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. We willall come to meet you again, dear. I only hope baby has been good. "

"She did not see them, " said Graeme, to herself, "or she does not care. If she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless--. Iwill watch her. I shall see if there is any difference. But she cannothide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. I am quite sure of that. "

If there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or lesscheerful, it certainly was not Rose. She was just what she always was. She was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide;nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as shesometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. She was just as usual. She came into Graeme's room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. She did not stay very long, but she did nothurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full ofthe velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite soeagerly about it as she had done at first. Still it was an importantmatter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went awayshe laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so muchabout so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think heraltogether vain and foolish. And then Graeme said to herself, again, that Rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful. 

Glad and thankful! Yet, Graeme watched her sister next day, and formany days, with eyes which even Fanny could see were wistful andanxious. Rose did not see it, or she did not say so. She was not sadin the least degree, yet not too cheerful. She was just as usual, Graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; andso she was, as far as any one could see. 

When Mr Millar called the first time after the night when Graeme hadmet him with Miss Roxbury, Rose was not at home. He had seen her goinginto the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told MrsElliott, when she wondered what had become of her. She did not come intill late. She had been beguiled into playing and singing any number ofduets and trios with the young Gilberts, she said, and she had got a newsong that would just suit Fanny's voice, and Fanny must come and try it. And then, she appealed to Arthur, whether it was a proper thing for hiswife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her intriumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wantedmamma. She was just as friendly as usual with Mr Millar during theshort time he stayed after that--rather more so, perhaps, for shereminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. He brought it the very next night, but Rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. She was not "making believe, " Graeme assuredherself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her handswere hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. In a day ortwo Harry came home, and Mr Millar came and went with him as usual, andwas very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to allappearance everything went on as before. 

"Graeme, " said Fanny, confidentially, one night when all but Rose weresitting together, "I saw the _prettiest_ velvet jacket to-day! It wastrimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. I asked the price. "

"And were astonished at its cheapness, " said Harry. 

"For baby, I suppose?" said Arthur. 

"For baby! A velvet jacket! What are you thinking of, Arthur?" saidFanny, answering her husband first. "No, Harry, I was not astonished atthe cheapness. But it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering. "

"And it is for baby's mamma, then, " said Arthur, making believe to takeout his pocket book. Fanny shook her head. 

"I have any number of jackets, " said she. 

"But, then, you have worn them any number of times, " said Harry. 

"They are as good as new, but old-fashioned? Eh, Fanny?" said herhusband. 

"Three weeks behind the latest style, " said Harry. 

"Nonsense, Arthur! What do you know about jackets, Harry? But, Graeme, Rosie ought to have it. You know, she wants one so much. "

"She spoke about it, I know; but I don't think she really cares for one. At any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one. "

"Of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get, "said Fanny, wisely. "But she would like it, all the same, I am sure. "

The velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with muchinterest; but Rose had given up all thought of it with great apparentreluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. Judgingfrom what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, Fanny doubted the sincerity of Rose's resignation. 

"I believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she saysnothing, " continued she. 

"Vexing her, " repeated Graeme. "What do you mean, Fanny? What have youseen?"

"Oh! I have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. But I know Ishould be vexed if I wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; atleast I should have been when I was a young girl like Rose, " addedFanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen thefolly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. Theothers laughed. 

"And even later than that--till baby came to bring you wisdom, " said herhusband. 

"And it would be nice if Rosie could have it before the Convocation, "continued Fanny, not heeding him. "It would just be the thing with hernew hat and grey poplin. "

"Yes, " said Graeme, "but I don't think Rosie would enjoy it unless shefelt that she could quite well afford it. I don't really think shecares about it much. "

"I know what you mean, Graeme. She would not like me to interfere aboutit, you think. But if Arthur or Harry would have the sense to make hera present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and notbecause she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice. "

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma, " saidHarry. "A regular manager. "

Fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma's wisdom andmanagement were not admired. Graeme hastened to interfere. 

"It is very nice of you to care so much about it, Fanny. You know Roseis very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, Harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for thejacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. I am not sure, however. I have my misgivings. "

And not without reason. Rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but nottoo liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care wereneeded, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. But morethan once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to Fanny, inher attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to herbrothers, or by drawing on her own means. Even from Graeme, she wouldonly accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on thelittle shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to theutmost limit. 

But there was no difficulty this time. It all happened naturallyenough, and Rose thanked Harry with more warmth than was necessary, inhis opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of Graeme. 

"I saw one on Miss Roxbury, " said Harry, "or, I ought to say, I saw MissRoxbury wearing one; and I thought it looked very well, and so didCharlie. "

"Oh!" said Rose, with a long breath. "But then you know, Harry dear, that I cannot pretend to such style as Miss Roxbury. I am afraid youwill be disappointed in my jacket. "

"You want me to compliment you, Rosie. You know you are a great dealprettier than little Amy Roxbury. But she is very sweet and good, ifyou would only take pains to know her. You would win her heartdirectly, if you were to try. "

"But then I should not know what to do with it, if I were to win it, unless I were to give it away. And hearts are of no value when given bya third person, as nobody should know better than you, Harry, dear. ButI shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more goodbrothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well Ilook in mine. It is very nice, and I thank you very much. "

But she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, Graeme couldnot help thinking. 

"Of course, she did not really care much to have it. She does not needto make herself fine. I daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. Itis well she can enjoy something else besides finery. "

They all went to the Convocation, and Rose wore her new jacket, and hergrey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. The ladies wentearly with Arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tediouswaiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so manypeople coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. Fanny enjoyedthis part of the affair very much, and Rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, Fanny whisperedthat there was Harry, with Miss Roxbury. 

"I thought Harry was not coming, " said she. 

"I suppose, he was able to get away after all, " said Graeme, and shelooked round for Mr Millar. He was not to be seen, but by and by Harrycame round to them, to say that there were several seats much betterthan theirs, that had been reserved for the Roxbury party, because MrRoxbury had something to do with the College, and Mrs Roxbury wantedthem to come round and take them, before they were filled. 

"Oh! how charming!" said Rose. "If we only could. We should be quiteamong the great people, then, which is what I delight in. "

"I thought you were not coming, Harry, " said Graeme. 

"I was afraid I could not get away, but I made out to do so. No, not atCharlie's expense. There he is now, speaking to Mrs Roxbury, andlooking about for us, I daresay. "

"Well, Fanny, you go on with Harry, and Graeme and I will follow, " saidRose. "It would not do to separate, I suppose? Are you sure there isroom for all, Harry?"

"Quite sure. No fear; we will make room. "

So Harry gave his arm to Fanny, and Graeme rose to follow them, thoughshe would much rather have stayed where she was. When she reached theother end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but Rosehad not moved. She could not catch her eye, for her attention wasoccupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and Graeme couldnot linger without losing sight of Harry and Fanny, for the people werecrowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students wereleft vacant. So she was obliged to hasten on. 

"I will send Harry back for her, " said Graeme, to herself. "Or, perhaps, when Arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. We havemade a very foolish move for all concerned, I think. But Rosie seemedto like the idea, and I did not care. I only hope we are not separatedfor the whole affair. "

But separated for the whole affair they were. Arthur returned, but itwas not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he hadleft his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it wouldnot be easy to get away again. So as he could see and hear very wellwhere he was, and as Rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, andwith the companionship of her little friend, Miss Etta Goldsmith, hecontented himself where he was. 

Miss Goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma asdoctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till "dear Dick, "had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. And after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had biddenfarewell to each and all, in English so flowing and flowery, that shewas amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmatesfor the applause, which they did not spare. Rose sat beside the eagerlittle girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that Arthur leanedover, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. Thenshe brightened. 

"There is great deal more of it, is there not? I must not be tired yet. Why don't you find your way over to Fanny and Graeme?"

"Where are they? Ah! yes, I see them over there among the great folks--and Harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. And that bonnylittle Amy is not far-away, I'll venture to say. No. I shall staywhere I am for the present. "

Miss Goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybodyor anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. And so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about andenjoy herself. And to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, therewas a great deal worth seeing. 

"How beautifully the ladies are dressed! How pretty the spring fashionsare! I feel like an old dowdy! Who is that lady in blue? What a loveof a hat! And your jacket! It is a beauty!"

It was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations thatRose listened to all that was going on. There was a good deal more tobe said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boastit seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. Then theyhad some Latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by thePrincipal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and thentheir orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery English. And"will it ever be done?" thought Rose, with a sigh. 

It was not "just the thing, " all this discussion of hats and fashions;but little Miss Goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and Rose answered as silently, with anod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were notthe only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of theDean, and the prosing of the Chancellor, Rose thought to herself; as sheglanced about. Arthur whispered that the Chancellor surpassed himselfon the occasion, and that even the Dean was not very prosy, and Rose didnot dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? Shebrightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go. 

"Go and find Fanny and Graeme, " said she to her brother. "Dr Goldsmithwill take care of his sister and me. "

Dr Goldsmith was nothing loth, and Rose was so engaged in offering hercongratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding tothe greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, thatshe did not notice that Graeme and Mr Millar were waiting for her atthe head of the stairs. There was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. The Roxbury carriage was amongthe rest, and Miss Roxbury was sitting in it, though Rose could not helpthinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on withthe rest, as Harry was so bold as to propose. They were waiting for MrRoxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words. 

"I will walk on with the Goldsmiths. I have something to say to Etta, "said Rose, and before Graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer atall, she was gone. The carriage passed them, and Miss Roxbury leanedforward and bowed and smiled, and charmed Miss Goldsmith with her prettymanner and perfect hat. In a little, Harry overtook them. Rosepresented him to Miss Goldsmith, and walked on with the Doctor. At thegate of the college grounds, their ways separated. 

"Mr Elliott, " said Miss Goldsmith, "your sister has almost promised tocome and visit us when I go home. I do so want papa and mamma to seeher. Brother Dick goes home to-morrow, but I am going to stay a day ortwo, and then I want Rose to go with me. Do try and persuade MissElliott to let her go. "

Harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had nodoubt Graeme would be happy to give Rose the pleasure, and then they gotaway. 

"Papa, and mamma, and brother Dick. I declare it looks serious. Whatare you meditating, now, Rosie, if I may ask?"

"My dear Harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you knowyou deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. The idea of your takingGraeme and Fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! I don't knowwhat I should have done if Arthur had not come back. To be sure I hadEtta Goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. I don't think her bigbrother is so very ugly if he hadn't red hair. And he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. His papa andmamma must be delighted. But it was very shabby of you, Harry, to goand leave me alone; was it not, Arthur?"

"But, you might have come, too, " said Fanny. "I thought you werefollowing us. "

"And so did I, " said Graeme. 

"Well, dear little Etta Goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. I did not feel sufficiently strong-minded toelbow my way through the crowd alone, or I might have followed you. "

"I did not miss you at first, " said Harry, "and then I wanted Charlie togo for you, but--"

"He very properly refused. Don't excuse yourself, Harry. And I had setmy heart on comparing jackets with Miss Roxbury, too. "

"Why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?" said Harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister's reproaches. He had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for beingso stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself, --

"Why didn't you wait and speak to her at the door?"

"Oh! you know, I could not have seen it well then, as she was in thecarriage. It is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don't youthink? And, besides, it would not have been quite polite to theGoldsmiths, " added she, severely. "You know they befriended me when Iwas left alone. "

"Befriended you, indeed. I expected every minute to see your feathertake fire as he bent his red head down over it. I felt like giving hima beating, " said Harry, savagely. Rose laughed merrily. 

"My dear Harry! You couldn't do it. He is so much bigger than you. Atleast, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say. "

"But it is all nonsense, Rose. I don't like it. It looked to me, andto other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leavethe rest, and go away with that big--big--"

"Doctor, " suggested Rose. 

"And we shall have all the town, and Mrs Gridley, telling us next, thatyou--"

"Harry, dear, I always know when I hear you mention Mrs Gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent. _I_ leave _you_. Quite the contrary. And please don't use that naughty word in connection with my nameagain, or I may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not beagreeable to you. Dear me, I thought you were growing to be reasonableby this time. Don't let Graeme see us quarrelling. "

"You look tired, dear, " said Graeme, as they went up-stairs together. 

"Well, it was a little tedious, was it not? Of course, it wouldn't doto say so, you know. However, I got through it pretty well, with littleEtta's help. Did you enjoy the Roxbury party much?"

"I kept wishing we had not separated, " said Graeme. "Oh! yes, I enjoyedit. They asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. It is not to be a party. Harry is to dine here, and go with us, and sois Mr Millar. "

"It will be very nice, I daresay, only I am so very tired. However, weneed not decide till after dinner, " said Rose. 

After dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, andshe had a headache, besides. 

"I noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon, " said Arthur. "Don'tgo if you are tired. Graeme, what is the use of her going if she doesnot want to?"

"Certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. But I think youwould enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might comehome early. "

"Oh! I enjoy regular parties only too well. I will go if you wish it, Graeme, only I am afraid I shall not shine with my usual brilliancy--that is all!"

"I hope you are really ill, " said Harry. "I mean, I hope you are notjust making believe to get rid of it. "

"My dear Harry! Why, in all the world, should I make believe not well`to get rid of it, ' as you so elegantly express it? Such great folks, too!"

"Harry, don't be cross, " said Fanny. "I am sure I heard you say, a dayor two since, that Rose was looking thin. "

"Harry, dear!" said Rose, with effusion, "give me your hand. I forgiveyou all the rest, for that special compliment. I have had horriblefears lately that I was getting stout--middle-aged looking, as Graemesays. Are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only makingbelieve?"

"I didn't intend it as a compliment, I assure you. I didn't think youwere looking very well. "

"Did you not? What would you advise? Should I go to the country; orshould I put myself under the doctor's care? Not our big friend, whomyou were going to beat, " said Rose, laughing. 

"I think you are a very silly girl, " said Harry, with dignity. 

"You told me that once before, don't you remember? And I don't thinkyou are at all polite, --do you, Fanny? Come up-stairs, Graeme, and Iwill do your hair. It would not be proper to let Harry go alone. He isin a dreadful temper, is he not?" And Rose made a pretence of beingafraid to go past him. "Mr Millar, cannot you do or say something tosoothe your friend and partner?"

Harry might understand all this, but Graeme could not, and she did notlike this mood of Rose at all. However, she was very quiet; as shedressed her sister's hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in theafternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. But she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if Graemecould only go this once without her, she would be so glad. Graeme didnot try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep atonce, if she were left at home, and then she went away. 

She did not go very cheerfully. She had had two or three glimpses ofher sister's face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall withHarry, before Miss Goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences toRose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her oldmisgivings that there was something troubling her darling. She was notable to put it away again. The foolish, light talk between Rose andHarry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sistergood-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by herwords. But she only said, "good-night, and go to sleep, " and then wentdown-stairs with a heavy heart. She wanted to speak with Harry aboutthe sharp words that had more than once passed between him and Rose oflate; but Mr Millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and itwas with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered Mr Roxbury'shouse. 

The drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little todistinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. Yet when Graemestood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with thelady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood therebefore, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hotwith the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. It was onlyfor a moment, and it was not for herself. The pain was crossed by athrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her thatfor herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her ownlife, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of thattroubled time. She had known this before, and the knowledge came hometo her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden ofdread of what might lie in the future for her sister. 

It did not leave her all the evening. She watched the pretty, gentleAmy, flitting about among her father's guests, with a feeling which, butfor the guileless sweetness of the girl's face, the innocentunconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown tobitterness at last. She watched her ways and words with Mr Millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admirationand attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from Rose. But she watched in vain. Amy was sweet and modest with him as withothers, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweetand modest, and unconscious, still. 

"She is very like Lily Elphinstone, is she not?" said her brother Harryin her ear. 

She started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove hereyes from the young girl's face. 

"She is very like Lily--in all things, " said Graeme; and to herself sheadded, "and she will steal the treasure from my darling's life, as Lilystole it from mine--innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still--and from Harry's, too, it may be. "

And, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's face; butHarry was no longer at her side. Mr Millar was there, and his eyes hadbeen following hers, as Harry's had been. 

"She is very sweet and lovely--very like Lily, is she not?" hewhispered. 

"Very like her, " repeated Graeme, her eyes closing with a momentaryfeeling of sickness. 

"You are very tired of all this, I am afraid, " said he. 

"Very tired! If Harry only would take me home!"

"Shall I take you home? At least, let me take you out of the crowd. Have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? Shall I takeyou up-stairs for a little while. "

Graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. It was all so like what had been before--the lights, and the music, andthe hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was nowfor Rose, and so much worse to bear. Still in a dream, she went frompicture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and shesat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayedwith all her heart, for it was Rosie's face that looked down at her fromthe canvas; it was Rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealingeyes. 

"Anything but this great sorrow, " she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. Not very far, however. At thefirst sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again. 

"That is a very sad picture, I think, " she said, coming back with aneffort to the present. "I have seen it once before. "

Charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. Animpulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. Scarceknowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it withinhis arm, he raised it to his lips. 

"Miss Elliott, " murmured he, "_you_ will never take your friendship fromme, whatever may happen?"

She was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in thecrowd again. What was he thinking of! Of Allan and the past, or ofRose and Amy and the future? A momentary indignation moved her, but shedid not speak, and then little Amy was looking up in her face, ratheranxiously and wistfully, Graeme thought. 

"You are not going away, Miss Elliott, are you?" said she. 

"I am very tired, " said Graeme. "Oh! here is my brother. I am verysorry to take you away, Harry, but if you don't mind much, I should liketo go home. Will you make my adieux to your mother, Miss Roxbury?--No, please do not come up-stairs. I would much rather you did not. Good-night. "

"You might at least have been civil to the little thing, " growled Harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. Graeme laughed. 

"Civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "Oh!Harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed toknow. But, indeed, I did not mean to be uncivil to the child. "

"Then you were uncivil without meaning it, " said Harry, sharply. 

Graeme was silent a moment. 

"I do not choose to answer a charge like that, " said she. "I beg yourpardon, Graeme, but--"

"Harry, hush! I will not listen to you. "

They did not speak again till they reached home. Then Graeme said, --

"I must say something to you, Harry. Let us walk on a little. It isnot late. Harry, what is the trouble between you and Rose?"

"Trouble!" repeated Harry, in amazement. "Do you mean because shefancied herself left alone this afternoon?"

"Of course I do not mean that. But more than once lately you havespoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which Iam ignorant--something that must have happened when you were away fromhome--at the West, I mean--something which I have not been told. "

"Graeme, I don't understand what you mean. What could possibly havehappened which has been concealed from you? Why don't you ask Rose?"

"Because I have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, andnow I prefer to ask you. Harry, dear, I don't think it is anything veryserious. Don't be impatient with me. "

"Has Rose been saying anything to you?"

"Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. You accused her oncein my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of--of flirting, inshort--"

"My dear Graeme! I don't think I ever made any such assertion--at leastin a way that you or Rose need to resent--or complain of. "

"Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. Harry, dear, what isit? Don't you remember one night when something was said about MrsGridley--no, don't be impatient. You were annoyed with Rose, then, andit was not about anything that was said at the time, at least I thoughtnot. I don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns Roseis a great matter to me. She is more to me than any one. "

"Graeme, " said Harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that I love Rose lessthan you do. I think I know what you mean, however. I annoyed her onceby something I said about Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I amsure she does not care about that now. "

"About Charlie!" repeated Graeme. 

"Yes; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious matter toCharlie when you and Rose went away that time. He was like a man lost. And I do believe she cared for him, too--and I told him so--only she wassuch a child. "

"You told him so!" repeated Graeme, in astonishment. 

"I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in such a way, so--somiserable; and when he went West last winter, it was more to see Rosethan for anything else. But he came back quite downhearted. She was somuch run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that hesaid very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, I tookher to task sharply about it. "

"Harry! How could you?"

"Very easily. It is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loosewith a man's heart, and such a man as Charlie. And I told her soroundly. "

"And how did she take it?" asked Graeme, in a maze between astonishmentand vexation. 

"Oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interferencerudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offendedprincess--and I rather think I had the worst of it, " added Harry, laughing at the remembrance. "But I don't bear malice, and I don'tthink Rose does. "

"Of course, she does not. But Harry, dear, though I should not callyour interference impertinent in any bad sense, I must say it was not avery wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. I don't believeMr Millar ever said a word to her about--about his feelings, and youdon't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold herabout--any one. "

"Now; Graeme, don't be missish! `Never said a word!'--Why, a blind manmight have seen it all along. I know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her. "

"No wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told soin words; at least she ought not, " said Graeme, gravely. 

"Oh, well!--there is no use talking. Perhaps I was foolish; but I loveCharlie, dearly. I daresay Rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some ofher admirers do, and you may agree with her. But I tell you, Graeme, Charlie is pure gold. I don't know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded--unless it is our own Will;and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may bechanged by this time. But I can swear for Charlie. "

"You don't need to swear to me, Harry. You know well I have alwaysliked Charlie. "

"Well, it can't be helped now. Charlie has got over it. Men _do_ getover these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time, "added Harry, meditatively. "I was rather afraid of Rosie's coming home, and I wanted Charlie to go to Scotland, then, but he is all right now. Of course you are not to suppose that I blame Rose. Such things willhappen, and it is well it is no worse. It is the way with those girlsnot to know or value true worth because they see it every day. "

"Poor Charlie!" said Graeme, softly. 

"Oh, don't fret about Charlie. He is all right now. He is not the manto lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her ownmind. `There's as good fish in the sea, ' you know. If you are going tobe sorry for any one, let it be for Rosie. She has lost a rare chancefor happiness in the love of a good man. "

"But it may not be lost, " murmured Graeme. 

"I am afraid it is, " said Harry, gravely. "It is not in Rose to dojustice to Charlie. Even you don't do it, Graeme. Because he livesjust a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, likeother men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is oneof a thousand. As for Rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she islooking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when itis laid at her feet. I only hope she won't wait for the `hats till theblue-bonnets go by, ' as Janet used to say. "

"As I have done, you would like to add, " said Graeme, laughing, for herheart was growing light. "And Harry, dear, Rosie never had anybody'sheart laid at her feet. It is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend. "

"Oh! well. It doesn't matter. She will never have it now. Charlie isall right by this time. Her high and mighty airs have cured him, andher flippancy and her love of admiration. Fancy her walking off to-daywith that red-headed fool and quite ignoring Mrs Roxbury and herdaughter, when they--Miss Roxbury, at least--wanted to see her to engageher for this evening. "

"He is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair, " said Graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "TheGoldsmiths might have called her `high and mighty' if she had left themand gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those`fine carriage people. ' She could only choose between the two parties, and I think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going onwith her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined tosuppose. "

"She need not have been rude to the Roxburys, however. Charlie noticedit as well as I. "

"I think you are speaking very foolishly, Harry, " said Graeme. "What dothe Roxburys care for any of us? Do you suppose Mrs Roxbury wouldnotice a slight from a young girl like Rose. And she was not rude. "

"No, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that I was amazed, and so was Charlie, I know, though he did not say so. "

"Nonsense, Harry! Rose knows them, but very slightly. And what has MrMillar to do with it?"

"Mr Millar!" exclaimed Harry. "Do be reasonable, Graeme. Is it not ofMr Millar that we have been speaking all this time? He has everythingto do with it. And as for not knowing them. I am sure Rose was atfirst delighted with Miss Roxbury. And Amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, I know. But Rose is such a flighty, flippantlittle thing, that--"

"That will do, Harry. Such remarks may be reserved for Mr Millar'shearing. I do not choose to listen to them. You are very unjust toRose. "

"It is you who are unjust, Graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out oftemper, which does not often happen with you. I am sure I don'tunderstand it. "

Graeme laughed. 

"Well, perhaps I am a little out of temper, Harry. I know I amdreadfully tired. We won't say anything more about it to-night, exceptthat I don't like to have Rose misunderstood. "

"I was, perhaps, a little hard on Rosie, once, but I don't think Imisunderstand her, " said Harry, wisely. "She is just like other girls, I suppose; only, Graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking thatmy sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal betterin every way. And I shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is allright with Charlie. "

But was it all right with Charlie? Graeme's talk with Harry had notenlightened her much. Had pretty, gentle Amy Roxbury helped Charlie "toget over it;" as Harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? Or didCharlie still care for Rose? And had Rose ever cared for him "in thatway?" Was Rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as Harrydeclared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventfullife? Was it this that had brought over her the change which could notbe talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believedin, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and verysad? Or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadowover the life of her young sister? Even in her thoughts, Graeme shrunkfrom admitting that Rose might be coming to the knowledge of her ownheart too late for her happiness. 

"I will not believe that she has all that to pass through. It cannot beso bad as that. I will have patience and trust. I cannot speak to her. It would do no good. I will wait and trust. "

Graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of hersleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through hermind, could only end in this: "I will wait and trust. "

CHAPTER FORTY. 

Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxietiesthat had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by babykisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with hernephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smilingdown upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her hearthopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, andwondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child inthe wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears ofthankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning. 

"I could not have borne it, " she said to herself. "I am afraid I nevercould have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. Iam content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anythingthe years have brought to me. But Rosie--. Ah! well, I might haveknown! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were tocome. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake. "

She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there. 

"`The early bird, ' you know, Graeme, " said he. "I have been tellingRosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home. "

"But he won't tell me what it was all about, " said Rose. 

"I cannot. I don't know myself. I have an idea that you had somethingto do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of thecircumstances, as the newspapers say. "

"It is not absolutely necessary that you should, " said Graeme, smiling. 

"I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme. "

"I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being verycross last night, however. "

"It was he who was cross, I daresay, " said Rose. "You brought him awaybefore supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay verylong, Harry?"

"Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?"

"No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threateningto beat some one. "

Harry shrugged his shoulders. 

"Now, Graeme, don't you call that flippant? Is it anything about thebig doctor, Rosie?"

"You won't beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, ifyou have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much whereshe is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing tocome here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasureout of everything. Mayn't she come?"

"Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know hervery much. "

"And is the big brother to come, too?" asked Arthur. 

"No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch herhere?"

"But what about `papa and mamma, ' to whom you were to be shown? Thecunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, onsome of the rest of us. "

Rose laughed. 

"Don't be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticatedwith us. And I intend to show myself to `papa and mamma' later, if youdon't object. "

"There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge. "

"Tell us about the party, Harry, " said Fanny. 

"It was very pleasant. I don't think Graeme enjoyed it much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people therethan we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, Ithought. "

"You are degenerating, Harry, " said his brother. "I thought you werebeyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would havefound it slow, to say the least. "

"And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme, "said Rose. 

"Oh! she didn't. I went back again. "

They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed. 

"Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?" asked he. 

"Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the littlething. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all. "

"It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer, " said Graeme. 

"Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy, " said Harry. 

"Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta andI. "

Miss Goldsmith's visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, butquite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had ratherunfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might notprove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because theland was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the incomejust to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if theyonly had a little more money, Etta added gravely. 

Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of thechildren were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstandingthe hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed. 

Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure justto drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look inat the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little tospend. An hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wanderingabout the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing downon the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and receivedthem; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped herfriend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, andpresents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught hernew patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gaveher a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and sobe able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. Inshort, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work ofsome sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way. 

Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, andso were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls wereoccupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for afew days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longerthan that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confinedher to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hidefrom herself that she ought to go home. 

"I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. Ithink papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, andcontented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh!Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!"

"I should like it very much, indeed, " said Rose. 

"Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn'tmind that. Miss Elliott, don't you think you could spare Rose to me fora few days?"

Graeme shook her head. 

"I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen verylittle of her for a long time, I think. "

Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "Nonsense, Etta, " saidRose; "she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And Ishould like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of theyear to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?"

Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among thefirst June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did notrecover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She islanguid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graemeproposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. Etta was enchanted. 

"I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, andteaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am afoolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeedI know. "

"Don't be silly, Etta, " said Rose. "You are a great deal wiser andbetter, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, oram like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodnesslip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit ofthem; but pray don't make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know meso well. "

No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for thefirst time of Rose's intention to go with her. Harry did not hear itwith pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was alittle bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked somuch, and then Rose went away for a few minutes. 

"Graeme, " said Harry, "what is all this about? It seems to me Roseought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freakis this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, andnonsense?"

"If it is a freak, it is mine, " said Graeme, quietly. "Rose needs achange. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am veryglad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith. "

"A change, " repeated Harry. "Why could she not go with Fanny to theseaside, if she needs a change?"

"But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home beforethat time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope. "

"A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the goingat all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme. "

"You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should careso much about it. "

"Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not troublemyself about it, " said Harry, sulkily. 

"What has happened to you, Harry?" said Fanny. "You are not likeyourself, to-night. "

"He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times, " said Graeme. "Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like thereasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately. "

"I was just thinking so, " said Mr Millar. 

"Why should not Rosie go?" persisted Fanny. "I think it must be a verystupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, whyshould she not go?"

"I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of, " said Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too. 

"I don't think it is a laughing matter, " growled Harry. "How would youlike it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?"

Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. "It would bejust like a silly girl like Rose, " continued Harry, gloomily. 

"Harry, " said Graeme, "I think you are forgetting what is due to yoursister. You should be the last person to couple Rose's name with thatof any gentleman. "

"Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you arespoiling Rosie--"

"Harry! be quiet. I don't choose to listen to you on that subject. "

"I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie'sconquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable, " said Arthur. 

"Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming, Charlie? I must go. "

He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Rose, are you comingdown again? I must go. "

Rose came flying down. 

"Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don't becross with me, Harry. " And greatly to his surprise, as she put her armsaround his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek. 

"Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn't mean to be cross, Rosie, mydarling. "

But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears. 

"Rosie, dear, " whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish--" Rose wipedher eyes. 

"Don't go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don't tellGraeme that I am so silly. She wouldn't like it at all. "

"Graeme is as silly as you are, " growled Harry. 

Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with MissGoldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the littlesisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then shesaid:

"I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take greatcare of her, I assure you. "

"Since I am too silly to take care of myself, " said Rose. 

They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it wassome time before Harry and his friend went away. 

"I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose, " said Mr Millar. "Ishall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose. "

"You go in the first steamer, then?"

"I don't know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided. "

"Of course, he goes by the first steamer, " said Harry. "He should havegone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple amatter. "

Rose opened her eyes very wide. 

"Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said Fanny. 

"Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled, " saidRose. "I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you. "

"I understand Harry, " said his friend. 

"You don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye, dear, silly, little Rose. "

"Good-bye, Harry. Don't be cross. "

"Rose, " said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "Ithink it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night. "Rose laughed. 

"He seems quite afraid of him, " continued Graeme. 

"And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never wouldhave told me about Harry. "

"No. But I am just a little afraid for him. "

"You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, Iknow, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have agreat mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not totell it again; at least, not yet. "

"Well, " said Graeme. 

"If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harryshould get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harrythinks I cannot manage my own affairs, " added Rose, a vivid colourrising on her cheeks. "And he has a mind to help me. He has not helpedme much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that. "

"What is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked Graeme. 

"I don't know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you. Graeme, the big doctor is engaged. "

"Well, " said Graeme. 

"It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interferesomewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, asEtta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased forall that, poor dear little thing. See that you don't tell Harry. "

"Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister. 

"Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it isI to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is afoolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, andhas two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harryto fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tellhim, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I haveanother reason. Good-night, dear. "

And so they went away in the morning. Rose's visit to the country wasquite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith's to the town, judgingfrom the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. Thecountry was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city whocould leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled withaccounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints ofwork done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, ofhay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to theperfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters thathad anything to do with it. 

At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lakefar-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout inabundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhapstwo, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all thechildren as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soonafter, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had goneto the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. MrMillar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen himbefore he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, "What a pity! If I hadonly known, I could so easily have come!" That was all. 

How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like thecoming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the housein the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till nightbrought the brothers home. 

"What happy, happy days they were!" said Rose, with a sigh. 

"They _were_ happy days, " said Graeme. "Very happy days. "

She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nordid she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longerand more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to besaid? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, andeven before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peacewith herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether thestruggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether allthese and something more had to do with it, she could only wait tilltime, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell. 

For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which hersister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. Shewould not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that itwas her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, thatmade the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless orbrooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day mightbring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by somesudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with aneffort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not tooeager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting;and Graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed torequire, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw throughit all, and how she grieved and suffered with her. 

And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritableand exacting, and "ill to do with, " as Janet would have said, Graemestood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger andself-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with herfor long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go byherself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when thefever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that wouldhave made her laugh if all had been well with her. 

It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they couldsee; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentarybelief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was littlecause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness orrestlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when acheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation orpleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, andwaiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to hersister her knowledge that something was amiss with her. 

For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she hadshrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallenon the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or woundedpride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and changemight not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to bespoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said toherself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silentlife she had lived unsuspected among them all. 

Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. Thatwas never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened toRose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers hadbeen changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and shewas younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, "of a lighternature. " Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that thecloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all thissorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew thatwhatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summerdays a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so shewaited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might comewiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting hersomewhere in the world. 

"Graeme, " said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a longtime silent together, "suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hildathis fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose. "

"Would you like it?" asked Graeme, a little surprised. 

"Yes. For some things I would like it;" and Graeme fancied there wassuppressed eagerness in her manner. "It is a better season to go, forone thing--a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change ofclimate better, they say. "

"But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, andFanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--asif your home was with Norman. "

Rose shrugged her shoulders. 

"Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances areit may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, Ihave been considering the matter for some time past. "

"Nonsense! Don't talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wishedme to promise that we should always remain together, and I have nothought of going West to stay very long. "

"And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being hereso long. "

"Not at you, Rosie. "

"No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Whynot?"

Graeme looked up, a little startled. 

"I don't understand you, Rose. "

Rose laughed. 

"No, you don't. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one wayin which a woman can have a home according, to the generally receivedopinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should bebeyond that by this time, Graeme, " added Rose, a little scornfully. 

Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on. 

"It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make ahome to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. Itis so different there. You ought to go there just to understand howvery different it is. "

"If we needed a home, " said Graeme. "But, Rose, I am content with thehome we have. "

"Content!" repeated Rose, impatiently. "There is surely somethingbetter than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose andwalked about the room. 

"Content is a very good thing to have, " said Graeme, quietly. 

"Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is thegood of such a life as we are living now?--as I am living, I ought tosay. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us;though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean?A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting andhousekeeping, if Fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick ofthe thought of it all. "

Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she hadbeen as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and thoughshe smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protestagainst the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, mether sister's with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthfulimpatience and jealousy, was quick to resent. 

"Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all, " she went on. "But _you_ ought toknow better, Graeme, " added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so thather sister need not know that it was very near being tearful. 

"But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if youcould have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of yourown, and being independent? Have you any plan?"

Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience. 

"There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I canhave no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--"Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, forthough Graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them thatlooked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on thepicture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the pastor the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this neweagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. Howeverit might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by suddenimpatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts. 

"What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. Idon't think I quite understand what you were saying last, " said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes. 

"For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for thissudden wish for a new life, " said she to herself. If she had done whatshe longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child inher arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, solong ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; shewould have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet hadnot dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience withherself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of hersummer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day morebeautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to heryoung, affrighted eyes. 

But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubleswhich she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her withtender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothinghad happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breakingup of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to bethought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few stitchescarefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said, --

"And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do. "

The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she hadsaid them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on herlap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that Rose could notunderstand. 

"You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at mein that strange way?" said she, pettishly. 

"I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking anyother than my usual way. I was saying to myself, `Has the poor childgot to go through all that for herself, as I have done?' Oh! Rosie, dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts onthat very subject!"

"Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don't begin in thatdiscouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. Iknow all that, already. "

"We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate, " said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what mightbe said, since all could not be spoken between them. 

"Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about itthere. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them outthere, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do inHilda's house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could gosoon. "

And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way oflife in their brother Norman's house--Hilda's housekeeping, and her waywith her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, forthis time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in theworld. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harryand letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:

"I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, `waiting at the pool, ' asHannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and putsthoughts into people's heads, as though--. It would be different, if wewere living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry doeverything for us?"

"Yes, I remember. When Fanny first came, I think I had as many thoughtsabout all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night. "

"And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose, " said Rose. "And you were content ever after. "

"No. I don't think she helped me much, at the time. But her greatdoctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. Shesaid that out of it all would come content, and so it has. "

"That was not saying much!" said Rose. 

"No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better thanif I had got my own way. "

"But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. That is begging the question, as Harry would say. "

"But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself, and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far fromthinking it that night, as I mind well. "

There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice. 

"It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for therest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I thinkwith you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life forthemselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we mighttry. "

Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while, --

"Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janetsaid to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tellyou all she said to me? I don't think I ever did. I felt then, just asyou do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than yousuppose; and I opened my heart to Janet--I mean, I told her how sick Iwas of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how itall might be changed, if only I could find real work to do--"

And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them thatnight, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about thepropriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman;and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt atplayfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that wentbefore. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as thoughshe meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant verymuch to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on itas a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayingswere household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because ofthe honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister's face andmanner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a pagein her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonderand sadness. 

"I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me, "she went on. "I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thoughtshe could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought thatFanny's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, andit was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience andrestlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfil papa's lastwish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when thenecessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for_me_, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I didnot think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circumstanceswere too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it isbetter for us all that I have been at home all those years. Fanny and Ihave done each other good. It has been better for us all. "

She paused a moment, and then added, --

"Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into theworld, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, andwon, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and Itogether, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as forGod's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. Without separating from the others, I mean. "

But Rose's face clouded again. 

"There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their ownplace and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity tolook for them--the necessity of making a living, I mean. There areother necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, Isuppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I knowthat I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though Idon't suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now tocare for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It isdifferent with you, who really are good for something, and who have doneso much, for Arthur and Fanny, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! I know there is no use talking. Icould never make you understand--There, I don't want to be naughty, andvex you--and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?"

She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting herarms round her, said softly, --

"Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better thanyou believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see itthen, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe allthat is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if I am wrong, and ifit be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--I mean, if it is right--circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, andit will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, atany rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make adifference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good inmy saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comeshome. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should bedelayed longer than we hope now. I don't like to think of any plan foryou and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things mayhappen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled Iwas at that time. I don't like to think of it even now--and it is allpast--quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if wecan, and, darling, you must have patience. "

All this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then Rosesaid, --

"Well--yes--I suppose we must wait for Will. "

But she did not say it cheerfully, and Graeme went on, after a little:

"And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiettime like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for workof some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of God's will in somepeculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by beinganxious about the future, or regretful over the past. It will all comeright, love, you may be sure of that. "

The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry's voice was heard, andRose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affectingsurprise. 

"So you are here at last, Harry? Are there any letters to-night?"

Yes, there were letters. Harry had read his, and gave them the newswith a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. His friendand partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayedholiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run toParis, perhaps even to Rome. 

"With whom do you think, Graeme?" added he, his face clearing upsuddenly. "With his brother Allan, and our Will. Won't they help oneanother to have a good time? Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, Imust say. It was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go atall, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. That isalways the way. I wonder when I shall have my holiday? `The willinghorse, ' you know, Rosie. "

"It is very hard on you, Harry, dear. But I fancied you had a littletrip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. Was that in the interest ofyour friend?"

"Hem! Yes--indirectly. I did enjoy it. Fanny says she has had a verypleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, Rosie, it is timeyou were going. They seem to have a very nice set of people there. Ithink if you were to go at once, I would take a run down with you--nextweek, perhaps. I think you would enjoy it. "

"I thank you, Harry, dear. But, you know, Fanny's taste and mine aredifferent. I don't always fancy _her_ pleasant people. And I shouldnot think of taking you away on my account. "

"Not at all. I shall go, at any rate. But I want you to go, Rosie, fora reason I have. And I promise you won't regret it. I wish Graemewould go, too. "

"It would be charming if we could all go together, " said Rose. "But itwould be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now. "

"I enjoyed it very much, " said Harry. "One gets to know people so muchbetter in such a place, and I am sure you would like the Roxburys, Rosie, if you would only take pains to know them. "

"My dear Harry! think what you are saying! Would they take pains toknow me? They are Fanny's nice people, are they? Yes, I suppose so. However, I don't believe Graeme will care to go. "

Graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter. 

"It is from. Mr Snow, " said she, with a pale face. 

"Bad news?" asked Harry. 

It was bad news, indeed. It told, in Mr Snow's brief way, that, withina few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for sometime, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; andthe letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result. 

"It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _She_says it will be all right whichever way it turns. God bless you all. Emily will tell you more. "

"Harry, " said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. "I must go to Janet. "

"It would be a comfort to her if you could, " said Harry, gravely. 

"And to me, " said Graeme. "I shall go early to-morrow. "

There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussionabout the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away. Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the doorclosed after him, she said, softly, --

"Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet timehas been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?" she pleaded; "youwill never go and leave me here?"

So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and thenext morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in theirhearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and theysaid to one another many times that day, that the words of their dearold friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble thathad fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. 

CHAPTER FORTY ONE. 

September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on thehills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the primeof summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of thesouth room fell on Mrs Snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breezeof June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold roseup amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shiftingsparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshinewithout a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that slopedtowards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of theMerle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busylabour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the greenof the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. Therewere glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, butthere was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scenenow so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with asense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face andin her folded hands. 

It showed in Mr Snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over theedge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, andshe was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles whichweekly enriched the columns of _The Puritan_, but the look that wascoming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which shewas wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand. 

"Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence. 

Mr Snow smiled. 

"Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess, "said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to lookout of the window. 

"It is a bonny day, " said Mrs Snow, softly. 

"Yes, it is kind of pleasant. "

There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not neededbetween these two by this time. They had been passing through weeks ofsore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been thesuffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawnvery near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; andworse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day. 

But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was comingback to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousnessof returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scenemore beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her withthankful joy. 

"I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day likethis, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it. "

"It is good to see you sitting there, " said Mr Snow, for answer. 

"Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do little elsefor the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, I'm afraid, " addedshe, with a sigh. 

Mr Snow smiled. 

"You know better than that, " said he. "I don't suppose it seems much toyou to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to haveyou, if it is only to look at. "

"I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as God wills, " saidhis wife, gravely:

"I was willing you should go--yes, I do think I was willing you shouldgo. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength outof me, " said he, with a shudder. "It makes me kind of sick to thinkabout it, " added he, rising and moving about. "I believe I was willing, but I am dreadful glad to see you sitting there. "

"I am glad to be here, since it is God's will. It is a wonderful thingto stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn backagain. I think the world can never look quite the same to eyes thathave looked beyond it to the other side. But I am content to be here, and to serve Him, whether it be by working or by waiting. "

"On the very brink, " repeated Mr Snow, musingly. "Well, it _did_ looklike that, one while. I wonder if I was really willing to have you go. It don't seem now as if I could have been--being so glad as I am thatyou did not go, and so thankful. "

"I don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing youas I do, and myself as well, I wonder less at the willingness than atthe gladness. "

This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr Snow did notanswer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, tillMrs Snow spoke again. 

"I thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite frompain before the end; but, to-day, I feel as if my life was really comingback to me, and I am more glad to live than I have been any day yet. "

Mr Snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. Itwas not easy for him to speak at the moment. 

"If it were only May, now, instead of September! You always did findour winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many monthsof the year. I do dread the winter for you. "

"Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the best of it anyway. I am thankful for ease from pain. That is much. "

"Yes, " said Mr Snow, with the shudder that always came with theremembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank God for that. I ain't agoing to fret nor worry about the winter, if I can help it. I am goingto live, if I can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the gracethat is given me; but if I _could_ fix it so that Graeme would see itbest to stop here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I expect. "

"But she has said nothing about going away yet, " said Mrs Snow, smilingat his way of putting it. "You must take the grace of her presence, dayby day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure. "

"We never can tell how things are going to turn, " said Mr Snow, musingly. "There is that good come out of your sickness. They are bothhere, and, as far as I see, they are content to be here. If we couldprevail on Will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, I don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make theirhome, here always--right here in this house, I mean--only it would be'most too good a thing to have in this world, I'm afraid. "

"We must wait for the leadings of Providence, " said his wife. "Thisfield, as you call it, is no' at Will's taking yet. What would yourfriend, Mr Perry, think if he heard you? And as for the others, wemust not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers wouldlike. But, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to havethem here, greater than I can put in words; and I know you are aspleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me, " added Mrs Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "It might have been sodifferent. "

"Oh! come, now. It ain't worth while, to put it in that way at thistime of day. I don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but I do thinkthey are about as nigh to me as they are to you. I really do. "

"That's saying much, but I'll no' gainsay it, " said Mrs Snow, smiling. "They are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. But I doubtwe canna hope to keep them very long with us. "

"It is amazing to me. I can't seem to understand it, or reconcile itto--. "

Mr Snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he waswont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would likewhat he was going to say, and then added:

"However, she don't worry about it. She is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and I rather seem to remember that you used to worry alittle about her when they were here last. "

"About Miss Graeme, was it?" said Mrs Snow, with a smile; "maybe I did. I was as good at that as at most things. Yes, she is content withlife, now. God's peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. I neednot have been afraid. "

"Rosie's sobered down some, don't you think?" said Mr Snow, with somehesitation. "She used to be as lively as a cricket. Maybe it is onlymy notion, but she seems different. "

"She's older and wiser, and she'll be none the worse to take a sobererview of life than she used to do, " said Mrs Snow. "I have seen nothingbeyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. But I have beenso full of myself, and my own troubles of late, I may not have takennotice. Her sister is not anxious about her; I would have seen that. The bairn is gathering sense--that is all, I think. "

"Well! yes. It will be all right. I don't suppose it will be more thana passing cloud, and I might have known better than to vex you with it. "

"Indeed, you have not vexed me, and I am not going to vex myself withany such thought. It will all come right, as you say. I have seen hersister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dryland now. `And hath set my feet upon a rock, and established mygoings, '" added Mrs Snow, softly. "That is the way with my bairn, Ibelieve. Thank God. And they'll both be the better for this quiettime, and we'll take the good of it without wishing for more than iswise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. See, they are coming downthe brae together. It is good to see them. "

The first weeks of their stay in Merleville had been weeks of greatanxiety. Long after a very difficult and painful operation had beensuccessfully performed, Mrs Snow remained in great danger, and the twogirls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, tothe exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. To Mr Snow itseemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, andJanet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness ofthe presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, fortheir sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away tounseen worlds. 

By a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up theburden of her life again. Not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near tothe attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide God's time. 

After that the days followed one another quietly and happily, withlittle to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits ofthe neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. ToGraeme it was a very peaceful time. Watching her from day to day, herold friend could not but see that she was content with her life and itswork, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on herearlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightnessof her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. Graeme was, inJanet's eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought tobe. If she could have wished anything changed, it would have been inher circumstances, not in herself. She was not satisfied that to hershould be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own--thefirst and dearest to some one worthy of her love. 

"And yet who knows?" said she to herself. "One can never tell in whichroad true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only alittle way, to wish for anything that God has not given her. `Acontented mind is a continual feast, ' says the Book. She has that. And`Blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart. ' Whatwould I have? I'll make no plans, and I'll make no wishes. It is allin good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, I am sure of that. As for her sister--. Well, I suppose there will ay be something in thelot of those we love, to make us mindful that they need better help thanours. And it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that goodguidance will come to her as to the rest. "

Still, after her husband's words, Mrs Snow regarded Rose's movementswith an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge evento herself. It was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, tobe otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. She was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but thatwas not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible ofthe responsibilities that life brings to all. It was natural that itshould be so, and well that it should be so. It was matter forthankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, lookingon life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor beso bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. She was quieterand graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing therehad been sickness and anxiety in the house. 

She was cheerful and busy too, Mrs Snow saw, accomplishing wonderfulthings in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under thedirection of Hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that waswinning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exactinghousekeeper. She took great interest in out-of-door affairs, goingdaily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearingbeyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters ledhim, which ought to have contented Mr Snow, his wife thought, and whichmight have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in itall. 

By and by Mrs Snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughterthat had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. More than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in Graeme's eyesas they followed her sister's movements, and she had much ado to keepfrom troubling herself about them both. 

They were sitting one day together in the south room which looked outover the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. Rose was in thegarden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between theflower-beds, and Mrs Snow, as she watched her, wondered within herselfwhether this would be a good time to speak to Graeme about her sister. Before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by Hannah'svoice coming round the corner--

"Rose, " it said, "hadn't you just as leives do your walking rightstraight ahead? 'Cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and goover to Emily's and borrow some yeast. I don't calculate, as a generalthing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat's been andkeeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and I want alittle to set some more to rising. "

"Hannah, " said Rose, with a penitent face, "I am afraid it was my fault. I left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it awayas I ought. I am very sorry. "

"Well, I thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn't me, "said Hannah, grimly. "That jug has held the yeast in this house sinceGrandma Snow's time, and now it's broke to forty pieces. "

"Oh, I am so sorry!" said Rose. 

"Well, I guess it don't matter a great sight. Nobody will worry aboutit, if I don't, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. But I guessyou'd better tell Emily how it happened. I'd a little rather whatborrowing there is between the two houses should be on t'other side. Iwouldn't have asked you, only I thought you'd rather go than not. Thatwalking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever youundertook. But don't you go if you don't want to. "

Rose shrugged her shoulders. 

"Oh! I'll go, and I'll tell Mrs Nasmyth how it happened, and that itwas my fault and the cat's. Mrs Snow, " said she, presenting herself atthe window, "did you hear what Hannah has been saying? I have brokenGrandma Snow's yeast jug into forty pieces, and I am to go and confessto Emily, and get some yeast. "

"I thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was yourfault not putting it in its place. However, there is no great harmdone, so that you get more yeast to Hannah. "

"And let Emily know that it is my fault and not Hannah's that more yeastis needed. Graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?"

"You can go and do Hannah's errand, now, and I will stay with Mrs Snow, and we will walk together later, " said Graeme. 

"And you might bring wee Rosie home with you, if her mother will spareher, and if she wants to come. But there is no doubt of her wishing tocome with you. "

"Is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with suchtroubled e'en?" asked Mrs Snow, after a moment's silence. 

"Troubled e'en!" repeated Graeme. "No, I don't think there is anythingthe matter with her. Do you? Why should you think there is anythingthe matter with her, Janet?"

"My dear, I was only asking you; and it was because of the look that yousent after her--a look that contradicts your words--a thing that doesnaoften happen with you, be it said. "

"Did I look troubled? I don't think there is any reason for it onRosie's account--any that can be told. I mean I can only guess at anycause of trouble she may have. Just for a minute, now and then, I havefelt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because I thinkthere is anything seriously wrong with Rosie, or indeed anything thatwill not do her good rather than harm. But oh, Janet! it is sad that wecannot keep all trouble away from those we love. "

"I canna agree with you, my dear. It would be ill done to keep anythingfrom her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. Butwell or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vexyourself more than is needful. "

"But I do not, indeed. Just now it was her restless, aimless walking upand down that vexed me. I am foolish, I suppose, but it always does. "

"I daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles, " said Mrs Snow, gravely. "I mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. But if you don't like it in yoursister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-likemanner. "

"Hannah has done it for me this time--I am not sure, however. " ForRosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towardsthe village, "thinking her own thoughts, doubtless, " Graeme said toherself. 

"She's waiting for some one, maybe. I daresay Sandy has sent some onedown to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostlycome. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, " continued Mrs Snow, in a little, "it is timeyou were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you'll be expected todo, now that I am better. It will be a while, before you'll get overall the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will liketo be overlooked. "

"Oh, I don't know!" said Graeme. "It is not just like last time, whenwe were strangers and new to the people. And we have seen almosteverybody already. And I like this quiet time much best. "

"But, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likesand dislikes now. And it will be good for Rosie, and you mustna tell methat you are losing interest in your Merleville friends, dear! Thatwould be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you. "

"No, indeed! I have not lost interest in my Merleville friends. Therewill never be any place just like Merleville to me. Our old life herealways comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. I can hardlyremember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, Janet--tillthe very end. "

"My dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had;but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. There was the going away of the lads, for one thing. I mind well youthought those partings hard to bear. "

"Yes, I remember, " said Graeme, gravely, "but even then we hoped to meetagain, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make usafraid. "

"My dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. If youmean for Rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations thatfall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; butshe is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, _you_have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to liebefore her, and she ay will have you to guide her. And looking at you, love, and knowing that the `great peace, ' the Book speaks about, is inyour heart and in your life, I have no fear for your sister, after allthat has come and gone to you. "

Graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently, --

"I am not afraid. I cannot think what I have said, Janet, to make youthink I am afraid for Rosie. "

"My dear, you have said nothing. It was the wistful look in your e'enthat made me speak to you about her. And besides, I have noticed Rosiemyself. She is not so light of heart as she used to be. It may be theanxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or itmay be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. But whatever it is, I am not afraid for Rose. I am only afraid thatyou may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. There can be nogood in that, you know well. "

"But I am not vexing myself, Janet, indeed. I will tell you what I knowabout it. Do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, whenyou came to see us, and how it seemed to me that I must go away? Well, Rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to havework, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of heruseless life, as she calls it. It has come on her sooner than it cameon me, but that is because the circumstances are different, I suppose, and I hope it may pass away. For, oh! Janet, I shrink from thestruggle, and the going away from them all; and I have got to that timewhen one grows content with just the little things that come to one'shand to do, seeing they are sent by God, as well as nobler work. But itis not so with Rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, Janet, that I follow herwith anxious eyes. "

There was no more said for a moment. They were both watching Rose, whostill stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill. 

"She doesna look like one that has much the matter with her, " said MrsSnow. "Miss Graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? Why hasthis feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, ifit is a question that I ought to ask?"

"Janet, I cannot tell you. I do not know. I can but guess at itmyself, and I may be all wrong. And I think, perhaps, the best help wecan give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. Sometimes I have thought it might all be set right, if Rose would onlyspeak; but one can never be sure, and I think, Janet, we can only waitand see. I don't believe there is much cause for fear, if only Rosewill have patience. "

"Then, wherefore should you look so troubled? Nothing but wrong-doingon your sister's part should make you look like that. " For there weretears in Graeme's eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked bothanxious and afraid. 

"Wrong-doing, " repeated she, with a start. Then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. Was it "wrong-doing" in a woman to lether heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? If this wasindeed the thing that had happened to Rose? Or was it "wrong-doing" tocome to the knowledge of one's heart too late, as Harry had once hintedmight be the end of Rosie's foolish love of admiration?

"Wrong-doing, " she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation ather heart. "No, that must never be said of Rose. It must be one of thesmall tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself Janet, a little ago. And it won't do to discussit, anyway. See, Rose has opened the gate for some one. Who is comingin?"

"My dear, " said Mrs Snow, gravely, "it was far from my thought to wishto know about anything that I should not. It is Sandy she is openingthe gate for, and wee Rosie. He has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well. "

"But, Janet, " said Graeme, eagerly, "you know I could not mean that Icould not tell you if I were ever so willing. I do not know. I canonly guess; but as for `wrong-doing'--"

"My dear, you needna tell me that. Sandy, man, it must seem astrange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying thechild that way on your horse before you--you that have wagons of onekind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. Is it safe forthe bairn, think you? Do you like that way of riding, my wee Rosie?"

"Yes, gamma, I 'ike it, " lisped the two years old Rosie, smilingbrightly. 

"It is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. And as for whatthe village folk may think, that's a new thing for you to ask. It isthe best and pleasantest way in the world for both Rosie and me. " Andlooking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting beforehim, it was not to be for a moment doubted. 

"It must be delightful, " said Rose, laughing. "I should like a ridemyself, wee Rosie. "

"And why not?" said Mrs Snow. "Sandy, man, it is a wonder to me thatyou havena thought about it before. Have you your habit here, my dear?Why should you no' bring young Major or Dandy over, saddled for MissRose? It would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in aday like this. "

"There is no reason in the world why I should not, if Miss Rose, wouldlike it. "

"I would like it very much. Not that I need the good of it especially, but I shall enjoy the pleasure of it. And will you let wee Rosie comewith me. "

"If grandma has no objections, " said Sandy, laughing. "But it must be_old_ Major, if you take her. "

"Did ever anybody hear such nonsense?" said Mrs Snow, impatiently. "But you'll need to haste, Sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away. "

"Yes, I should not wonder. I saw Mr Perry coming up the way with abook in his hand. But I could bring young Major and Dandy too, and MissRose needn't be kept at home then. "

Rose laughed merrily. 

"Who? The minister? Oh! fie, Sandy man, you shouldna speak suchnonsense. Wee Rosie, are you no' going to stay the day with Miss Graemeand me?" said Mrs Snow. 

Graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer tomove. 

"Will you bide with grannie, wee Rosie?" asked her father, pulling backher sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall overher rosy face. 

"Tum adain Grannie, " said the little girl, gravely. She was too wellpleased with her place to wish to leave it. Her father laughed. 

"She shall come when I bring over Dandy for Miss Rose. In the meantime, I have something for some one here. "

"Letters, " said Graeme and Rose, in a breath. 

"One a piece. Good news, I hope. I shall soon be back again, MissRose, with Dandy. "

Graeme's letter was from Will, written after having heard of his sistersbeing in Merleville, before he had heard of Mrs Snow's recovery. Hehad thought once of coming home with Mr Millar, he said, but hadchanged his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation hehad received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. He was staying at present with Mrs Millar, who was "one of a thousand, "wrote Will, with enthusiasm, "and, indeed, so is, her son, Mr Ruthven, but you know Allan, of old. " And then he went on to other things. 

Graeme read the letter first herself, and then to Mrs Snow and Rose. In the midst of it Mr Snow came in. Rose had read hers, but held it inher hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss Will's. 

"It is from Fanny, " said she, at last. "You can read it to Mrs Snow, if you like, Graeme. It is all about baby and his perfections; ornearly all. I will go and put on my habit for my ride. Uncle Sampsoncome with me, won't you? Have you anything particular to do to-day?"

"To ride?" said Mr Snow. "I'd as lieve go as not, and a littlerather--if you'll promise to take it moderate. I should like the chaisefull better than the saddle, I guess, though. "

Rose laughed. 

"I will promise to let _you_ take it moderate. I am not afraid to goalone, if you don't want to ride. But I shouldn't fancy the chaiseto-day. A good gallop is just what I want, I think. "

She went to prepare for her ride, and Graeme read Fanny's letter. Itwas, as Rose had said, a record of her darling's pretty sayings anddoings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happinessof being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. Thenthere were a few words at the end. 

"Harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you maysee Norman and Hilda, before you see home again. Harry says it is quiteabsurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him oflate. I hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner hasreturned. He has been quite too much taken up with his little Amy, tothink of us. However, I promised Mr Millar I would say nothing of thatbit of news. He must tell you about it himself. He has a great deal ofScottish news, but I should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and Ithink it is quite possible that Harry may fulfil his threat, and comefor you himself. But I suppose he will give you fair warning, " and soon. 

Graeme closed the letter, saying nothing. 

"It is not just very clear, I think, " said Mrs Snow. 

"Is it not?" said Graeme. "I did not notice. Of course, it is allnonsense about Harry coming to take us home. "

"And who is little Miss Amy, that she speaks of? Is she a friend ofyour brother Harry? Or is she Mr Millar's friend? Mrs Arthur doesnaseem to make it clear?"

"Miss Amy Roxbury, " said Graeme, opening her letter again. "Does shenot make it plain? Oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. Isuppose Harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and livewith him if Mr Millar goes elsewhere. Indeed, I don't understand itmyself; but we shall hear more soon, I daresay. Ah! here is Rosie. "

"And here is Dandy, " said Rose, coming in with her habit on. "And hereis wee Rosie come to keep you company while I am away. And here is MrSnow, on old Major. Don't expect us home till night. We shall have aday of it, shall we not?"

They had a very quiet day at home. Wee Rosie came and went, and toldher little tales to the content of her grandmother and Graeme, who mademuch of the little girl, as may well be supposed. She was a bonnylittle creature, with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showingalready some of the quaint, grave ways that Graeme remembered in hermother as a child. 

In the afternoon, Emily came with her baby, and they were all happy andbusy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. At least, theynever spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. But, when Graemeread the letters again to Emily, Mrs Snow noticed that she did not readthe part about their going West, or about little Amy, or about Harry'scoming to take them home. But her eye lingered on the words, and herthoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, andby the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her prettychild's play with the little ones. But never a word was spoken aboutanything sad. And, by and by, visitors came, and Mrs Snow, beingtired, went to lie down to rest for a while. But when Rose and Mr Snowcame home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them. 

CHAPTER FORTY TWO. 

"I want to know! Now do tell; if there ain't mother standing at thegate, and opening it for us, too, " exclaimed Mr Snow, in astonishmentand delight. "That is the farthest she's been yet, and it begins tolook a little like getting well, now, don't it?"

"I hope nothing has happened, " said Rose, a little anxiously. 

"I guess not--nothing to fret over. Her face don't look like it. Well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don't you? You lookfirst-rate. "

"I am just as usual, " said Mrs Snow, quietly. "But what has kept youso long? We were beginning to wonder about you. "

"Has anything happened?" said Rose, looking over Mrs Snow's head, at alittle crowd of people coming out at the door. 

"We have visitors, that is all. The minister is here, and a friend ofyours--your brother Harry's partner. He has brought news--not bad news, at least he doesna seem to think so, nor Miss Graeme. I have hardlyheard it myself, yet, or seen the young man, for I was tired and had tolie down. But you'll hear it yourself in due time. "

Rose reined her horse aside. 

"Take care, dear, " said Mrs Snow, as she sprung to the ground withoutassistance. "There is no need for such haste. You might have waitedfor Sandy or some one to help you, I think. "

"What is it, Graeme?" said Rose, for her sister looked flashed andexcited, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks she was sure. Butshe did not look anxious--certainly not unhappy. 

"Rosie, dear, Charlie has come. "

"Oh! Charlie has come, has he? That is it, is it?" said Rose, with along breath. 

Yes, there was Mr Millar, offering his hand and smiling--"exactly likehimself, " Rose thought, but she could not tell very well, for her eyeswere dazzled with the red light of the setting sun. But she was veryglad to see him, she told him; and she told the minister she was veryglad to see _him_, too, in the very same tone, the next minute. Therewas not much time to say anything, however, for Hannah--whose patiencehad been tried by the delay--announced that tea was on the table, in atone quite too peremptory to be trifled with. 

"Rose, you are tired, I am sure. Never mind taking off your habit tillafter tea. "

Rose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride. 

"For I left Mr Snow at Major Spring's, and went on a long way bymyself, and it is just possible, that, after all, you are right, and Ihave gone too far for the first ride; for see, I am a little shaky, "added she, as the teacup she passed to Mr Snow trembled in her hand. 

Then she asked Mr Millar about the news he had brought them, andwhether all were well, and a question or two besides; and then she gaveherself up to the pleasure of listening to the conversation of theminister, and it came into Graeme's mind that if Harry had been there hewould have said she was amusing herself with a little seriousflirtation. Graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not makeher angry as it would have made Harry; for though she said little, except to the grave wee Rosie Nasmyth, whom she had taken under hercare, she looked very bright and glad. Rose looked at her once ortwice, a little startled, and after a while, in watching her, evidentlylost the thread of the minister's entertaining discourse, and answeredhim at random. 

"I have a note from Harry, " said Graeme, as they left the tea-table. "Here it is. Go and take off your habit. You look hot and tired. "

In a little while the visitors were gone and Mr Millar was being putthrough a course of questions by Mr Snow. Graeme sat and listened tothem, and thought of Rose, who, all the time, was sitting up-stairs withHarry's letter in her hand. 

It was not a long letter. Rose had time to read it a dozen times over, Graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason she could not havetold to any one, which she did not even care to make very plain toherself. Mr Snow was asking, and Mr Millar was answering, questionsabout Scotland, and Will, and Mr Ruthven, and every word that was saidwas intensely interesting to her; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and put in a word now and then that showed how much she cared, she wasconscious all the time, that she was listening for the sound of amovement overhead, or for her sister's footstep on the stair. By andby, as Charlie went on, in answer to Mr Snow's questions, to tell aboutthe state of agriculture in his native shire, her attention wanderedaltogether, and she listened only for the footsteps. 

"She may perhaps think it strange that I do not go up at once. Idaresay it is foolish in me. Very likely this news will be no more toher than to me. "

"Where is your sister?" said Mrs Snow, who, as well as Graeme, had beenattending to two things at once. "I doubt the foolish lassie has tiredherself with riding too far. "

"I will go and see, " said Graeme. 

Before she entered her sister's room Rose called to her. 

"Is it you, Graeme? What do you think of Harry's news? He has not lostmuch time, has he?"

"I was surprised, " said Graeme. 

Rose was busy brushing her hair. 

"Surprised! I should think so. Did you ever think such a thing mighthappen, Graeme?"

This was Harry's letter. 

 "My Dear Sisters, --I have won my Amy! You cannot be more astonished than I am. I know I am not good enough for her, but I love her dearly, and it will go hard with me if I don't make her happy. I only want to be assured that you are both delighted, to make my happiness complete. "

Throwing her hair back a little, Rose read it again. This was not quiteall. There was a postscript over the page, which Rose had at firstoverlooked, and she was not sure that Graeme had seen it. Besides, ithad nothing to do with the subject matter of the note. 

"Did the thought of such a thing ever come into your mind?" asked sheagain, as she laid the letter down. 

"Yes, " said Graeme, slowly. "It did come into my mind more than once. And, on looking back, I rather wonder that I did not see it all. I canremember now a good many things that looked like it, but I never wasgood at seeing such affairs approaching, you know. "

"Are you glad, Graeme?"

"Yes, I am glad. I believe I shall be very glad when I have had time tothink about it. "

"Because Harry's happiness won't be complete unless you are, you know, "said Rose, laughing. 

"I am sure Harry is quite sincere in what he says about it, " saidGraeme. 

"It is not to be doubted. I daresay she is a nice little thing; and, after all, it won't make the same difference to us that Fanny's comingdid. "

"No, if we are to consider it with reference to ourselves. But I thinkI am very glad for Harry's sake. "

"And that is more than we could have said for Arthur. However, there isno good going back to that now. It has all turned out very well. "

"Things mostly do, if people will have patience, " said Graeme, "and I amsure this will, for Harry, I mean. I was always inclined to like littleAmy, only--only, we saw very little of her you know--and--yes, I am sureI shall love her dearly. "

"Well, you must make haste to tell Harry so, to complete his happiness. And he is very much astonished at his good fortune, " said Rose, takingup the letter again. "`Not good enough for her, ' he says. That is thehumility of true love, I suppose; and, really, if he is pleased, we maybe. I daresay she is a nice little thing. "

"She is more than just a nice little thing. You should hear what MrMillar says of her. "

"He ought to know! `Poor Charlie, ' as Harry calls him in the pride ofhis success. Go down-stairs, Graeme, and I will follow in a minute; Iam nearly ready!"

The postscript which Rose was not sure whether Graeme had seen, said, "poor Charlie, " and intimated that Harry's sisters owed him muchkindness for the trouble he was taking in going so far to carry them thenews in person. Not Harry's own particular news, Rose supposed, buttidings of Will, and of all that was likely to interest them from bothsides of the sea. 

"I would like to know why he calls him `poor Charlie, '" said Rose, witha shrug. "I suppose, however, we must all seem like objects ofcompassion to Harry, at the moment of his triumph, as none of us havewhat has fallen to him. "

Graeme went down without a word, smiling to herself as she went. Shehad seen the postscript, and she thought she knew why Harry had written"poor Charlie, " but she said nothing to Rose. The subject ofconversation had changed during her absence, it seemed. 

"I want to know! Do tell!" Mr Snow was saying. "I call thatfirst-rate news, if it is as you say, Mr Millar. Do the girls know it?Graeme, do you know that Harry is going to be married. "

"Yes, so Harry tells me. "

"And who is the lady? Is it anyone we know about? Roxbury, " repeatedMr Snow, with a puzzled look. "But it seems to me I thought I hearddifferent. I don't seem to understand. "

He looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she could helphim. 

"That's not to be wondered at, " said she, smiling. "It seems MissGraeme herself has been taken by surprise. But she is well pleased forall that. Harry has been in no great hurry, I think. "

"But that ain't just as I understood it, " persisted Mr Snow. "Whatdoes Rose say? She told me this afternoon, when we were riding, something or other, but it sartain wa'n't that. "

"It could hardly be that, since the letter came when you were away, andeven Miss Graeme knew nothing of it till she got the letter, " said MrsSnow, with some impatience. 

"Rosie told me, " went on Mr Snow. "Here she is. What was it you weretelling me this afternoon about--about our friend here?"

"Oh! I told you a great many things that it would not do to repeat, "and though Rose laughed, she reddened, too, and looked appealingly atGraeme. 

"Wasn't Roxbury the name of the lady, that you told me was--"

"Oh! Uncle Sampson! Never mind. "

"Dear me, " said Mrs Snow, "what need you make a mystery out of suchplain reading. Miss Graeme has gotten a letter telling her that herbrother Harry is going to be married; and what is there so wonderfulabout that?"

"Just so, " said Mr Snow. He did not understand it the least in theworld, but he understood that, for some reason or other, Mrs Snowwanted nothing more said about it, so he meant to say no more; and, after a minute, he made Rose start and laugh nervously by the energywith which he repeated, "Just so;" and still he looked from Graeme toMr Millar, as though he expected them to tell him something. 

"Harry's letter gives the news, and that is all, " said Graeme. 

"But I cannot understand your surprise, " said Mr Millar, not to MrSnow, but to Graeme. "I thought you must have seen it all along. "

"Did you see it all along?" asked Mr Snow, looking queer. 

"I was in Harry's confidence; but even if I had not been, I am sure Imust have seen it. I almost think I knew what was coming before he knewit himself, at the very first. "

"The very first?" repeated Graeme. "When was that? In the spring?Before the time we went to Mrs Roxbury's, on the evening of theConvocation?"

"Oh! yes! long before that--before Miss Rose came home from the West. Indeed, I think it was love at first sight, as far as Harry wasconcerned, " added Mr Millar, with an embarrassed laugh, coming suddenlyto the knowledge of the fact that Mr Snow was regarding him withcurious eyes. But Mr Snow turned his attention to Rose. 

"What do _you_ say to that?" asked he. 

"I have nothing to say, " said Rose, pettishly. "I was not in Harry'sconfidence. "

"So it seems, " said Mr Snow, meditatively. 

"I am sure you will like her when you know her better, " said Mr Millar. 

"Oh! if Harry likes her that is the chief thing, " said Rose, with ashrug. "It won't matter much to the rest of us--I mean to Graeme andme. "

"It will matter very much to us, " said Graeme, "and I know I shall loveher dearly, and so will you, Rosie, when she is our sister, and I meanto write to Harry to-morrow--and to her, too, perhaps. "

"She wants very much to know you, and I am sure you will like eachother, " said Mr Millar looking deprecatingly at Rose, who was not easyor comfortable in her mind any one could see. 

"Just tell me one thing, Rose, " said Mr Snow. "How came you to supposethat--"

But the question was not destined to be answered by Rose, at least notthen. A matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for thedoor opened suddenly, and Hannah put in her head. 

"Where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, Rose? I have taken as manysteps as I want to after it; if you had put it back in its place itwould have paid, I guess. It would have suited _me_ better, and I guessit would have suited better all round. "

Her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decidedcrossness. Rose was a little hysterical, Graeme thought, or she neverwould have laughed about such an important matter in Hannah's face. ForHannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and shewas not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as noone knew better than Rose. And before company, too!--company with whomHannah had not been "made acquainted, " as Hannah, and the sisterhoodgenerally in Merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. It was dreadfultemerity on Rose's part. 

"Oh! Hannah, I forgot all about it. "

But the door was suddenly closed. Rose hastened after her in haste andconfusion. 

Mr Snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware thatanything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to MrMillar, and said, --

"I understood that it was you who was--eh--who was--keeping company withMiss Roxbury?"

"Did you think so, Miss Elliott, " said Charlie, in some astonishment. 

"Mr Snow, " said his wife, in a voice that brought him to her side in aninstant. "You may have read in the Book, how there is a time to keepsilence, as well as a time to speak, and the bairn had no thought ofhaving her words repeated again, though she might have said that toyou. "

She spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and Mr Snowwould have looked penitent, if he had not looked so bewildered. Raisingher voice a little, she added, --

"You might just go out, and tell Hannah to send Jabez over to Emily'sabout the yeast, if she has taken too many steps to go herself; for MissRose is tired, and it is growing dark;--and besides, there is no callfor her to go Hannah's messages--though you may as well no' say that toher, either. "

But the door opened, and Rose came in again. 

"I can't even find the jug, " she said, pretending great consternation. "And this is the second one I have been the death of. Oh! here it is. I must have left it here in the morning, and wee Rosie's flowers are init! Oh! yes, dear, I must go. Hannah is going, and I must go with her. She is just a little bit cross, you know. And, besides, I want to tellher the news, " and she went away. 

Mr Snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compromising himself, went and sat down beside his wife, to be out of the temptation to do itagain, and Mr Millar said again, to Graeme, very softly this time, --

"Did you think so, Miss Elliott?"

Graeme hesitated. 

"Yes, Charlie. I must confess, there did, more than once, come into mymind the possibility that Harry and his friend and partner might findthemselves rivals for the favour of the sweet little Amy. But you mustremember, that--"

But Charlie interrupted her, eagerly. 

"And did--did your sister think so, too? No, don't answer me--" addedhe, suddenly rising, and going first to the window to look out, andthen, out at the door. In a little Graeme rose, and went out too, andfollowed him down the path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. There was no time to speak, however, before they heard the voices ofRose and Hannah, coming toward them. Hannah was propitiated, Graemeknew by the sound of her voice. Mr Millar opened the gate for them topass, and Graeme said, "You have not been long, Rosie. "

"Are you here, Graeme, " said Rose, for it was quite dark, by this time. "Hannah, this is Mr Millar, my brother Harry's friend and partner. "And then she added, with great gravity, according to the most approvedMerleville formula of introduction, "Mr Millar, I make you acquaintedwith Miss Lovejoy. "

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Millar. I hope I see youwed, " said Miss Lovejoy, with benignity. If Mr Millar was not quiteequal to the occasion, Miss Lovejoy was, and she said exactly what wasproper to be said in the circumstances, and neither Graeme nor Roseneeded to say anything till they got into the house again. 

"There! that is over, " said Rose, with a sigh of relief. 

"The getting of the yeast?" said Graeme, laughing. 

"Yes, and the pacification of Miss Lovejoy. "

It was not quite over, however, Graeme thought in the morning. For Roseseemed to think it necessary to give a good deal of her time tohousehold matters, whether it was still with a view to the good humourof Hannah or not, was not easy to say. But she could only give adivided attention to their visitor, and to the account of all that heand Will had done and enjoyed together. Graeme and he walked up anddown the garden for a while, and when Mrs Snow had risen, and was inthe sitting-room, they came and sat down beside her, and, after a time, Rose came too. But it was Graeme who asked questions, and who drew MrMillar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, and howWill had improved in all respects, and how like his father all the oldpeople thought him. Even Mrs Snow had more to say than Rose, especially when he went on to tell about Clayton, and the changes thathad taken place there. 

"Will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the placesdistinctly; and was very loth to confess that he had been mistaken. Isuppose, that his imagination had had as much to do with his idea of hisnative place, as his memory, and when, at last, we went down the glenwhere your mother used to live, and where he distinctly remembered goingto see her with you, not long before you all came away, he acknowledgedas much. He stepped across the burn at the widest part, and then hetold me, laughing, that he had always thought of the burn at that place, as being about as wide as the Merle river, just below the mill bridge, however wide that may be. It was quite a shock to him, I assure you. And then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, looked old, andsmall, and queer, when he came to compare them with the pictures of themhe had kept in his mind, all these years. The garden he remembered, andthe lane beyond it, but I think the only things he found quite as heexpected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane, " and onCharlie went, from one thing to another, drawn on by a question, put nowand then by Graeme, or Mrs Snow, whenever he made a pause. 

But all that was said need not be told here. By and by, he rose andwent out, and when he came back, he held an open book on his hand, andon one of its open pages lay a spray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spotwhere their mother lay. And when he had laid it down on Graeme's lap, he turned and went out again. 

"I mind the spot well, " said Mrs Snow, softly. 

"I mind it, too, " said Graeme. 

Rose did not "mind" it, nor any other spot of her native land, nor theyoung mother who had lain so many years beneath the drooping ivy. Butshe stooped to touch with her lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her cheek down on Graeme's knee, and did not speak aword, except to say that she had quite forgotten all. 

By and by, Mr Snow came in, and something was said about showingMerleville to their visitor, and so arranging matters that time shouldbe made to pass pleasantly to him. 

"Oh! as to that, he seems no' ill to please, " said Mrs Snow. "MissGraeme might take him down to the village to Mr Greenleaf's and youngMr Merle's, if she likes; but, as to letting him see Merleville, Ithink the thing that is of most importance is, that all Merlevilleshould see him. "

"There is something in that. I don't suppose Merleville is any more tohim than any other place, except that Harry and the rest had their homehere, for a spell. But all the Merleville folks will want to see _him_, I expect. "

Rose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be called for thepurpose. 

"Well, I calculate that won't be necessary. If he stays over Sunday, itwill do as well. The folks will have a chance to see him at meeting, though, I suppose it won't be best to tell him so, before he goes. Doyou suppose he means to stay over Sunday, Rosie?"

"I haven't asked him, " said Rose. 

"It will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long he stays, "said Mrs Snow. "I daresay he will be in no hurry to get home, for aday or two. And Rosie, my dear, you must help your sister to make itpleasant for your brother's friend. "

"Oh! he's no' ill to please, as you said yourself, " answered Rose. 

It was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part in the way ofamusing him, might have sooner fallen under general notice. They walkeddown to the village in the afternoon, first to Mr Merle's, and then toMr Greenleaf's. Here, Master Elliott at once took possession of Rose, and they went away together, and nothing more was seen of them, till teahad been waiting for some time. Then they came in, and Mr Perry camewith them. He stayed to tea, of course, and made himself agreeable, ashe always did, and when they went home, he said he would walk with thempart of the way. He had most of the talk to himself, till they came tothe foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good-night. Theywere very quiet the rest of the way, and when they reached home, thesisters went up-stairs at once together, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seemed in a great hurry to go down again. 

"Rose, " said Graeme, in a little, "where ever did you meet Mr Perrythis afternoon? And why did you bring him to Mr Greenleaf's with you?"

"I did not bring him to Mr Greenleaf's. He came of his own free will. And I did not meet him anywhere. He followed us down past the mill. Wewere going for oak leaves. Elliott had seen some very pretty onesthere, and I suppose Mr Perry had seen them, too. Are you coming down, Graeme?"

"In a little. Don't wait for me, if you wish to go. "

"Oh! I am in no haste, " said Rose, sitting down by the window. "Whatare you going to say to me, Graeme?"

But if Graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say it then. 

"I suppose we ought to go down. "

Rose followed her in silence. They found Mr and Mrs Snow alone. 

"Mr Millar has just stepped out, " said Mr Snow. "So you had theminister to-night, again, eh, Rosie? It seems to me, he is gettingpretty fond of visiting, ain't he?"

Rose laughed. 

"I am sure that is a good thing. The people will like that, won'tthey?"

"The people he goes to see will, I don't doubt. "

"Well, we have no reason to complain. He has given us our share of hisvisits, always, " said Mrs Snow, in a tone that her husband knew wasmeant to put an end to the discussion of the subject. Graeme was not soobservant, however. 

"It was hardly a visit he made at Mr Greenleaf's to-night. He came injust, before tea, and left when we left, immediately after. He walkedwith us to the foot of the hill. "

"He was explaining to Elliott and me the chemical change that takesplace in the leaves, that makes the beautiful autumn colours we wereadmiring so much, " said Rose. "He is great in botany and chemistry, Elliott says. "

And then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, and found them underthe oak trees behind the mill, and what talk there had been about thesunset and the leaves, and a good deal more. Mr Snow turned an amusedyet doubtful look from her to his wife; but Mrs Snow's closely shutlips said so plainly, "least said soonest mended, " that he shut hislips, too. 

It would have been as well if Graeme had done so, also she thoughtafterwards; but she had made up her mind to say something to her sisterthat night, whether she liked it or not, and so standing behind her, asshe was brushing out her hair, she said, --

"I think it was rather foolish in Mr Perry to come to Mr Greenleaf'sto-night, and to come away with us afterwards. "

"Do you think so?" said Rose. 

"Yes. And I fancied Mr and Mrs Greenleaf thought so, too. I saw themexchanging glances more than once. "

"Did you? It is to be hoped the minister did not see them. "

"Merleville people are all on the watch--and they are so fond oftalking. It is not at all nice, I think. "

"Oh, well, I don't know. It depends a little on what they say, " saidRose, knotting up her hair. "And I don't suppose Mr Perry will hearit. "

"I have commenced wrong, " said Graeme to herself. "But I must just saya word to her, now I have began. It was of ourselves I was thinking, Rose--of you, rather. And it is not nice to be talked, about. Rosie, tell me just how much you care about Mr Perry. "

"Tell me just how much _you_ care about him, dear, " said Rose. 

"I care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not be annoyed ormade unhappy. Do you really care for him, Rosie?"

"Do you, Graeme?"

"Rose, I am quite in earnest. I see--I am afraid the good foolish manwants you to care for him, and if you don't--"

"Well, dear--if I don't?"

"If you don't, you must not act so that he may fancy you do, Rose. Ithink there is some danger in his caring for you. "

"He cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, Graeme, and withbetter reason. "

"Dear, I have not thought about his caring for either of us till lately. Indeed, I never let the thought trouble me till last night, after MrMillar came, and again, to-night. Rosie, you must not be angry withwhat I say. "

"Of course not. But I think you must dispose of Mr Perry, before youbring another name into your accusation; Graeme, dear, I don't care apin for Mr Perry, nor he for me, if that will please you. But you arenot half so clever at this sort of thing as Harry. You should havebegan at once by accusing me of claiming admiration, and flirting, andall that. It is best to come to the point at once. "

"You said you would not be angry, Rose. "

"Did I? Well, I am not so sore about it as I was a minute ago. Andwhat is the use of vexing one another. Don't say any more to-night. "

Indeed, what could be said to Rose in that mood. So Graeme shut herlips, too. 

In the mean time Mr Snow had opened his, in the privacy of theirchamber. 

"It begins to look a little like it, don't it?" said he. 

He got no answer. 

"I'd a little rather it had been Graeme, but Rosie would be a sightbetter than neither of them. "

"I'm by no means sure of that, " said Mrs Snow, sharply. "Rosie's no' agood bairn just now, and I'm no' weel pleased with her. "

"Don't be hard on Rosie, " said Mr Snow, gently. 

"Hard on her! You ought to have more sense by this time. Rosie's no'thinking about the minister, and he hasna been thinking o' her tilllately--only men are such fools. Forgive me for saying it about theminister. "

"Well, I thought, myself, it was Graeme for a spell, and I'd a littlerather it would be. She's older, and she's just right in every way. Itwould be a blessing to more than the minister. It seems as though itwas just the right thing. Now, don't it?"

"I canna say. It is none the more likely to come to pass because ofthat, as you might ken yourself by this time, " said his wife, gravely. 

"Oh, well, I don't know about that. There's Aleck and Emily. "

"Hoot, fie, man! They cared for one another, and neither Miss Graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man--for the minister, Imean. "

"You don't think him good enough, " said Mr Snow, discontentedly. 

"Nonsense! I think him good enough for anybody that will take him. Heis a very good man--what there is o' him, " added she, under her breath. "But it will be time enough to speak about it, when there is a chance ofits happening. I'm no weel pleased with Rosie. If it werena that, as arule, I dinna like to meddle with such matters, I would have a word withher myself. The bairn doesna ken her ain mind, I'm thinking. "

The next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent Mr Snow fromfulfilling his promise to take Mr Millar to see some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make Mr Nasmyth's a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home again, Mrs Snow took the opportunity to say aword, not to Rose, but to Graeme, with regard to her. 

"What ails Rosie at your brother's partner, young Mr Millar?" askedshe. "I thought they would have been friends, having known one anotherso long. "

"Friends!" repeated Graeme. "Are they not friends? What makes youspeak in that way, Janet?"

"Friends they are not, " repeated Mrs Snow, emphatically. "But whetherthey are less than friends, or more, I canna weel make out. Maybe youcan help me, dear. "

"I cannot, indeed, " said Graeme, laughing a little uneasily. "I amafraid Charlie's visit is not to give any of us unmingled pleasure. "

"It is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and I canna but think--mydear, you should speak to your sister. "

"But, Janet, Rosie is not an easy person to speak to about some things. And, besides, it is not easy to know whether one may not do harm, ratherthan good, by speaking. I _did_ speak to her last night about--aboutMr Perry. "

"About the minister! And what did she answer? She cares little abouthim, I'm thinking. It's no' pretty in her to amuse herself so openly athis expense, poor man, though there's some excuse, too--when he shows solittle discretion. "

"But, amusing herself, Janet! That is rather hard on Rosie. It is notthat, I think. "

"Is it not? What is it, then? The bairn is not in earnest. I hope itmay all come to a good ending. "

"Oh! Janet! I hope it may. But I don't like to think of endings. Rosie must belong to some one else some day, I suppose. The best thingI can wish for her is that I may lose her--for her sake, but it is not ahappy thing to think of for mine. "

"Miss Graeme, my dear, that is not like you. "

"Indeed, Janet, it is just like me. I can't bear to think about it. Asfor the minister--" Graeme shrugged her shoulders. 

"You needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. It will no'be him. If your friend yonder would but take heart of grace--I have myown thoughts. "

"Oh! I don't know. We need not be in a hurry. "

"But, dear, think what you were telling me the other day, about yoursister going out by herself to seek her fortune. Surely, that would befar worse. "

"But she would not have to go by herself. I should go with her, andJanet, I have sometimes the old dread of change upon me, as I used tohave long ago. "

"But, my dear, why should you? All the changes in our lot are in goodhands. I dinna need to tell you that, after all these years. And asfor the minister, you needna be afraid for him. "

Graeme laughed; and though the entrance of Rose prevented any more beingsaid, she laughed again to herself, in a way to excite her sister'sastonishment. 

"I do believe Janet is pitying me a little, because of the minister'sinconstancy, " she said to herself. "Why am I laughing at it, Rosie?You must ask Mrs Snow. "

"My dear, how can I tell your sister's thoughts? It is at them, she islaughing, and I think the minister has something to do with it, thoughit is not like her, either, to laugh at folk in an unkindly way. "

"It is more like me, you think, " said Rose, pouting. "And as for theminister, she is very welcome to him, I am sure. "

"Nonsense, Rose! Let him rest. I am sure Deacon Snow would think usvery irreverent to speak about the minister in that way. Tell me whatyou are going to do to-day?"

Rosie had plenty to do, and by and by she became absorbed in theelaborate pattern which she was working on a frock for wee Rosie, andwas rather more remiss than before, as to doing her part for theentertainment of their guest. She had not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and preoccupation were more apparent, because the rainkept them within doors. Graeme saw it, and tried to break through it orcover it as best she might. Mrs Snow saw it, and sometimes lookedgrave, and sometimes amused, but she made no remarks about it. As forMr Millar, if he noticed her silence and preoccupation, he certainlydid not resent them, but gave to the few words she now and then put in, an eager attention that went far beyond their worth; and had she been aprincess, and he but a humble vassal, he could not have addressed herwith more respectful deference. 

And so the days passed on, till one morning something was said by MrMillar, about its being time to draw his visit to a close. It was onlya word, and might have fallen to the ground without remark, as he verypossibly intended it should do; but Mr Snow set himself to combat theidea of his going away so soon, with an energy and determination thatbrought them all into the discussion in a little while. 

"Unless there is something particular taking you home, you may as wellstay for a while longer. At any rate, it ain't worth while to go beforeSunday. You ought to stay and hear our minister preach, now you've gotacquainted with him. Oughtn't he, Graeme?"

Graeme smiled. 

"Oh! yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as that is. "

"There are worse preachers than Mr Perry, " said Mrs Snow, gravely. 

"Oh! come now, mother. That ain't saying much. There ain't a greatmany better preachers in our part of the world, whatever they may bewhere you live. To be sure, if you leave to-night after tea, you cancatch the night cars for Boston, and stay there over Sunday, and haveyour pick of some pretty smart men. But you'd better stay. --Not butwhat I could have you over to Rixford in time, as well as not, if it isan object to you. But you better stay, hadn't he, girls? What do yousay, Rose?"

"And hear Mr Perry preach? Oh! certainly, " said Rose, gravely. 

"Oh! he will stay, " said Graeme, laughing, with a little vexation. "Itis my belief he never meant to go, only he likes to be entreated. Nowconfess, Charlie. "

CHAPTER FORTY THREE. 

"Eh, bairns! is it no' a bonny day!" said Mrs Snow, breaking intoScotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to thesisters, or when a little moved. "I ay mind the first look I got o' thehills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. We all came round the water on a Saturday afternoonlike this; and Norman and Harry took turns in carrying wee Rosie, and wesat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. Eh, bairns! if I could have but had a glimpse of all the years that havebeen since then, of all the `goodness and mercy' that has passed beforeus, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have beenrebuked!"

They were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at MrNasmyth's, and Mr Millar was with them. Nothing more had been saidabout his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, "hislooks belied him, " as Miss Lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watchedthem, all going up the hill together. They were going very slowly, because of Mrs Snow's lingering weakness. One of the few of the"Scotch prejudices!" that remained with her after all these years, wasthe prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of MrSnow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon. 

"It is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with thebairns, " said she, and she got her own way. 

It was a "bonny day, " mild, bright, and still. The autumnal beauty ofthe forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though Octoberwas nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselesslythrough the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the manywhich had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. Theyhad stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazingover the pond to the hills beyond, as Mrs Snow spoke. 

"Yes, I mind, " said Graeme. 

"And I mind, too, " said Rose, softly. 

"It's a bonny place, " said Mrs Snow, in a little, "and it has changedbut little in all those years. The woods have gone back a little onsome of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard havegrown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes. "

"The old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used, "said Rose, regretfully. 

"Ay, it has that. I mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when Ifirst saw it from the side of the water. That was before I had been init, or very near it. But I learnt to love it for better things thanstateliness, before very long. I was ill-pleased when they first spokeof pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that itis no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better. "

"Yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, withwallflowers and ivy growing over it, " said Graeme. 

"Yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowfulthings. The old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, formany a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the oldone had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner theforsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now. "

"Yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and flutteringshingles. But I wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. We shall never have any pleasantassociations with the new red brick affair that the Merleville peopleare so proud of. "

And so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightlyold meeting-house--things that had happened in the old time, when thebairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had akingdom to conquer, a crown to win. Those happy, happy days!

"Oh! well, " said Mrs Snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, "it'sa bonny place, and I have learnt to love it well. But if any one hadtold me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no otherplace in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been afoolishness in my ears. "

"Ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, Janet, thoughit was so merry to the boys and me, " said Graeme. "It would havecomforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with younow, and with Sandy. "

"I am not so sure of that, my dear. We are untoward creatures, at thebest, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked likebrightness then. No, love, the changes that seem so good and right tolook back upon, would have dismayed me, could I have seen them beforeme. It is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings. "

"Ah! if we could always do that!" said Graeme, sighing. 

"My bairn, we can. Though I mind, even in those old happy days, you hada sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow's burden to the burden ofto-day. But that is past with you now, surely, after all that you haveseen of the Lord's goodness, to you and yours. What would you wishchanged of all that has come and gone, since that first time when welooked on the bonny hills and valleys of Merleville?"

"Janet, " said Graeme, speaking low, "death has come to us since thatday. "

"Ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to begrieved for least of all. Think of them all these years, among thehills of Heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. And think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of hishaving speech with David, and Paul, and with our Lord himself--"

Janet's voice faltered, and Graeme clasped softly the withered hand thatlay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answeredSandy and Emily's joyful greeting at the door. 

Rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leavesbeneath the elms. Graeme came down again, there, and Mr Nasmyth cameto speak to them, and so did Emily, but they did not stay long; and byand by Rose was left alone with Mr Millar, for the very first timeduring his visit. Not that she was really alone with him, for all therest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the brightOctober sunshine. She could join them in a moment, she thought, notthat there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. All this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallenleaves toward the gate on which Mr Millar was leaning; and then she sawthat she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking himto let her pass. But, of course, there could be no occasion for that. 

"How clearly we can see the shadows in the water, " said she, for thesake of saying something. "Look over yonder, at the point where thecedar trees grow low. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see, " said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. "Rose, do you know why I came here?"

Rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were allsitting so quietly. 

"It was to bring us news of Will, wasn't it? And to see Merleville?"said she. 

Did she say it? Or had she only thought of it? She was not sure, aminute after, for Mr Millar went on as if he had heard nothing. 

"I came to ask you to be my wife. "

Did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all thetime? She did not know. She was not sure; but she stood before himwith downcast eyes, without a word. 

"You know I have loved you always--since the night that Harry took mehome with him. My fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. Rose, you must know I love you, dearly. I have only that to plead. Iknow I am not worthy of you, except for the love I bear you. "

He had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, andstrength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, brokenand hurriedly, and he repeated, --

"I know I am not worthy. "

"Oh! Charlie, don't say such foolish words to me. " And Rose gave him asingle glimpse of her face. It was only a glimpse, but his heart gave agreat leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate whichseparated them trembled, though Rose did not look up to see it. 

"Rosie, " he whispered, "come down to the brook and show me Harry'swaterfall. "

Rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears init; and when Charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she didnot withdraw it, and they went over the field together. 

Graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out ofsight, she turned her eyes toward Mrs Snow, with a long breath. 

"It has come at last, Janet, " said she. 

"I shouldna wonder, dear. But it is no' a thing to grieve over, if ithas come. "

"No. And I am not going to grieve. I am glad, even though I have toseek my fortune, all alone. But I have Will, yet, " added she, in alittle. "There is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. Iam sure of Will, at least. "

Mrs Snow smiled and shook her head. 

"Will's time will come, doubtless. You are not to build a castle foryourself and Will, unless you make room for more than just you two init, dear. "

Emily listened, smiling. 

"It would be as well to leave the building of Will's castle to himself, "said she. 

"Ah! yes, I suppose so, " said Graeme, with a sigh. "One must build forone's self. But, Emily, dear, I built Rosie's castle. I have wishedfor just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a longlong time. I have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castlewas to tumble down about my ears, but Charlie has put his hand to thework, now, in right good earnest, and I think my castle will stand. "

"See here, Emily, " said Mr Snow, coming in an hour or two later, "ifMr Millar thinks of catching the cars for Boston, this evening, you'llhave to hurry up your tea. "

"But he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing, " said Mrs Snow. "Dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the youngman, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for Boston. "

"Why no, mother, I ain't. He spoke about it this morning, himself, orI'm pretty sure I shouldn't. I'll be glad to have him stay, and morethan glad. "

"He is going to stay and hear the minister preach, " said Graeme. "Youknow you asked him, and I'm sure he will enjoy it. "

"He is a good preacher, " said Mr Snow, gravely. 

"And he's a good practiser, which is far better, " said his wife. "But Idoubt, deacon, you'll need to put him out of your head now. Look downyonder, and tell me if you think Rosie is likely to bide in Merleville. "

And the deacon, looking, saw Mr Millar and Rose coming slowly up thepath together, and a duller man than Mr Snow could hardly have failedto see how matters stood between them. Mr Millar was looking down onthe blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy andtriumphant, and, as for Rose, Mr Snow had never seen her look at all asshe was looking at that moment. 

"Well, " said his wife, softly. 

"Well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see, " said Mr Snow. He nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turnedhis eyes on Graeme. 

His wife smiled. 

"No, I am afraid not. Every one must build his own castle, as I heardher saying--or was it Emily? this very afternoon. But we needna troubleourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. It is allin good hands. "

"And, Rosie dear, all this might have happened at Norman's last year, ifonly Charlie had been bolder, and Harry not so wise. "

The sisters were in their own room together. A good deal had been saidbefore this time that need not be repeated. Graeme had made her sisterunderstand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterlywords about Charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother outof all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, Rose was ashappy, as happy could be. But when Graeme said this, she turned roundwith a very grave face. 

"I don't know, Graeme. Perhaps it might; but I am not sure. I did notknow my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is. "

"Harry will be glad, " said Graeme. Indeed, she had said that before. 

Rose laughed. 

"Dear, wise Harry! He always said Charlie was pure gold. "

"And so he is, " said Graeme. 

"I know it, Graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me. " And Roselaid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, with a little sob. "Ah! ifhe only knew, I am afraid--"

"Dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about Harry. Youlove one another, and you need not be afraid. "

They were silent for a long time after that, and then Rose said, flushing a little, --

"And, Graeme, dear, Charlie says--but I promised not to tell--"

"Well, you must not, then, " said Graeme, smiling, with just a littlethrob of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, Rose, andher hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than toher. 

"Not that it is a secret, Graeme, " said her sister, eagerly. 

"It is something that Charlie has very much at heart, but I am not sosure myself. But it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. Graeme, Charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you. "

Graeme laughed. 

"Except you, Rosie. "

"I am not good, Graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as youknow. But I will try and be good, now, indeed I will. "

"My darling, " murmured Graeme, "I am so glad for you--so glad andthankful. We ought to be good. God has been very good to us all. "

Of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sistersto their old friend. Mr Millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the Winter had quite set in before they went home. Mrs Snow waswell by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, andshe bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again. 

"But, whether or not, " said she, cheerfully, "I shall ay be glad andthankful for the quiet time we have had together. There are few who cansay of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life ortheir lot; but I do say that of all your father's bairns. No' but thatthere may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that I cannasee, and maybe some that I can see; but when the face is set in theright airt [direction] all winds waft onward, and that, I trust, is trueof you all. And, Rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a fullcup, as I have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, `Except theLord build the house, they labour in vain that build it, ' and, `thefoundation of God standeth sure. ' Miss Graeme, my dear, `They that waiton the Lord shall renew their strength, ' as you have learnt yourselflong syne. God bless you both, and farewell. "

They had a very quiet and happy winter. They had to make theacquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, Harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his littleAmy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon madeplain to him by Mrs Roxbury, that this was not for a single moment tobe thought of. Her daughter was very young, and she must be permittedat least one season to see something of society before her marriage. She was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for ason-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kindamong the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a _gentleman_, and she had other daughters growing up. Still it was right that Amyshould have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before theirrevocable step was taken. If Mrs Roxbury could have had her wayabout it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement hadbeen made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, asthat could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding. 

And so the pretty Amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and wasan acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. As for Harry, he sometimes wentwith her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at thestate of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which Amy's constancywas exposed. But they were not afraid for her. Every visit she madethem--and many quiet mornings she passed with them--they became moreassured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for theirbrother, and so they thought Harry unreasonable in his impatience, andtold him so, sometimes. 

"A little vexation and suspense will do Harry no harm, " said Arthur. "Events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. In he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to MissRoxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, andnow he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in everyparticular. A little suspense will do him good. "

Which was very hard-hearted on Arthur's part, as his wife told him. 

"And, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling Harry, " said Rose. "He knows quite well how it is to end. It is only a momentary vexation. And I don't say, myself, it will do Harry any harm to have hismasculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the barepossibility of disappointment. One values what it costs one sometrouble to have and to hold. "

"Rose, you are as bad as Arthur, " said Fanny. 

"Am I? Oh! I do not mean that Harry doesn't value little Amy enough;but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid totrust her among all those fine people who admire her so much. "

"It is you who are foolish, now, Rose, " said her sister. "Harry may beunreasonable, but it is not on that account; and Amy is a jewel tooprecious not to be guarded. No wonder that he grudges so much of hertime, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. But it willsoon be over now. "

"Who knows? `There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, ' youknow, " said Arthur. "Who knows but Harry may be the victim among us?Our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. Witness Rosie's success. It would make a little variety to have aninterruption. "

But Harry was not destined to be a victim. As the winter wore over, Mrs Roxbury relented, and "listened to reason on the subject, " Harrysaid; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usualoccupation in the Roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely tothrow Rosie's modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogetherin the shade. But Rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyedher pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of Harry'sbride. As for little Amy, she took the matter of the trousseau verycoolly. Mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, andenjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all wouldbe done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertionon her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted littlebride than she. 

At first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on thesame day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. It would beinconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away atthe same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would beshortened. And besides, the magnificence of the Roxbury plans, wouldinvolve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable orconvenient; and Rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to thehome Charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that Harry'smarriage should take place in the latter part of April, and the otherearly in the summer. 

But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard from himselffirst, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then aletter came from Mr Ruthven to Graeme, telling her that her brother wasill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not sayin so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only tooeasily inferred from his manner of writing. 

The next letter and the next, brought no better news. It was a time ofgreat anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of all. As the days went on, andnothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had notat once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. It was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; andshe said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at thelast. "

He would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and thismade their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. If she could havedone anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how itwas with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, itwould not have been so dreadful Graeme thought. Her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations andarrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all thatshe could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some ofthese very anxious days. 

She did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatlyin danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope andtrust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came fromMrs Snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, whichonly times of great trial had ever called forth from her. 

 "My bairn, " she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm? _Absolutely nothing_! Whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for yourself. I think he will be spared to do God's work for a while yet. But dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor I would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our Father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass. "

Their suspense did not last very long after this. Mr Ruthven's weeklyletters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon Will wrotehimself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend hadwatched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all thoseweeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possiblemoment, he had taken him home to his own house, where Mrs Millar, hismother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. There was no hope of his beingable to be home to Harry's marriage, but unless something should happento pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of Rosie Elliott, and the first of his new brother Charlie. 

There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over which she shedhappy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their oldfriend, "Brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaningand value of life. I am glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme, and for the sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do. "

After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. Itwas a very grand and successful affair, altogether. Amy and herbridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, andthat is saying a great deal. There were many invited guests, andsomehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually prettywedding, and Saint Andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had onlythe right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. Thebreakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride'stravelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of tasteand skill, as the bridal robe itself. 

Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused them not alittle by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an object of interest, avery secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate ofbridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, andunaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graemekissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear littlesister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked Godin her heart, for the happiness of her brother Harry. Yes, and for thehappiness of her brother Arthur, too, she added in her heart, and shegreatly surprised Fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing hersoftly many times. They were in one of the bay windows of the greatdrawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so thatthey were unobserved by all but Arthur. 

"Graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on thisauspicious occasion, " said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased. 

After this they had a few happy weeks. Rosie's preparations were bythis time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, andthey all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly from Will, or hisfriend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about theinvalid. They were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bitsof gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generallygiven by Will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified MrRuthven, whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almosta stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was said as tothe day when they expected to set sail. But before that time, greatnews had come from another quarter. Norman and his family were comingEast. A succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air thantheir home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all comingto take up their abode for a month or two, on the Gulf, up whichhealth-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. Graeme wasto go with them. As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but Graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to theWest, when their summer holiday should be over. 

This was Norman's view of the matter. Graeme's plans were notsufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, withregard to it. In the meantime, there were many preparations to be madefor their coming, and Graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so thatthey might be in time for the wedding. 

"And if only Will comes, we shall all be together again once more, " saidshe, with a long breath. 

"To say nothing of Norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, andFanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, Ithink, " said Rose. 

"We will have a house full and a merry wedding, " said Arthur. "Thoughit won't be as grand as the other one, Rosie, I'm afraid. If we onlycould have Mrs Snow here, Graeme?"

Graeme shook her head. 

"I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. Notthat she is ill, but Mr Snow thinks the journey would be too much forher. I am afraid it is not to be thought of?"

"Never mind--Charlie and Rosie can go round that way and get herblessing. That will be the next best thing to having her here. And bythe time you are ready for the altar, Graeme, Janet will come, you maybe sure of that. "

June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits wasnearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, whenshe had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on oneoccasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass theevening at Harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feelingof relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again inRosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for thepresent, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sureto happen before that time--Norman's coming, and Will's. They mightcome any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring thatWill's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he wasto sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gavea sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to theday, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened herfootsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might havearrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness andimpatience, and then she sighed. 

"There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least therewill be none for me, " she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "Whatwould I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safeand well at home again. "

But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had givenher; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. Shelaughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then shetook herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. Andthen, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of Norman and Hildaand their boys. 

"I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were tolose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blameCharlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were onlysafe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house isfull. My boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all thatI have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy weshall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my goinghome with Norman and Hilda--that must be decided later, as Will shallmake his plans. My boy!--how can I ever wait for his coming?"

It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lightswere not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices comingthrough the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone. 

"I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don't feel as though Icould make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wishSarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonderwho they are!"

Sarah's face was illuminated. 

"You have come at last, Miss Elliott, " said she. 

"Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? _You_are expected elsewhere. "

It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said, --

"Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand wasclasped in that of Allan Ruthven. 

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. 

The pleasant autumn days had come round again, and Mr and Mrs Snowwere sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together. Mr Snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and neededto rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in thehands of his "son, " as he never failed to designate Sandy, and partlybecause those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was ableto enjoy the rest he took. 

For that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to goodpeople, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things whichfor more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held sofirmly. With his eyes fixed on "the things which are before, " otherthings were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thusfalling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room sopleasant to them both. 

But the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on thisparticular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the moreplainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of hiswife. She was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husbandcould see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes thatrested on the scene without. But she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a littlesurprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the tablebeside him. 

"It ain't hard to see how all _that_ will end, " said he, in a little. 

"But, " said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, "you say it as ifit were an ending not to be desired. "

"Ah, well!--in a general way, I suppose it _is_, or most folks, wouldsay so. What do you think?"

"If _they_ are pleased, we needna be otherwise. "

"Well!--no--but ain't it a little sudden? It don't seem but the otherday since Mr Ruthven crossed the ocean. "

"But that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. The first timethey crossed it together. Allan Ruthven is an old friend, and MissGraeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly to any man. "

"Well! no, she ain't. But, somehow, I had come to think that she neverwould change her state; and--"

"It's no' very long, then, " said his wife, laughing. "You'll mind thatit's no' long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her toit. "

"And does it please you that Mr Ruthven has had better luck?"

"The minister never could have persuaded her. He never tried very much, I think. And if Allan Ruthven has persuaded her, it is because shecares for him as she never cared for any other man. And from all thatWill says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and I am gladfor her sake, glad and thankful. God bless her. "

"Why, yes, if she must marry, " said Mr Snow, discontentedly; "butsomehow it don't seem as though she could fit in anywhere better thanjust the spot she is in now. I know it don't sound well to talk aboutold maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; butGraeme did seem one that would `adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, andredeem the name. "

"That has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; andMiss Graeme will `adorn the doctrine' anywhere. She has ay had a usefullife, and this while she has had a happy one. But oh, man!" added MrsSnow, growing earnest and Scotch, as old memories came over her with asudden rush, "when I mind the life her father and her mother livedtogether--a life of very nearly perfect blessedness--I canna but be gladthat Miss Graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comeswith a home of one's own, where true love bides and rules. I ay mindher father and her mother. They had their troubles. They were whilespoor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but troublenever seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. And God'sblessing was upon them through all. But I have told you all this many atime before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as I am, of Miss Graeme. "

Yes, Mr Snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear itmany a time again, but he only smiled, and said, --

"And Graeme is like her mother?"

"Yes, she's like her, and she's not like her. She is quieter and no' socheery, and she is no' near so bonny as her mother was. Rose is morelike her mother in looks, but she doesna 'mind me of her mother in herways as her sister does, because, I suppose, of the difference that theage and the country make on all that are brought up in them. There issomething wanting in all the young people of the present day, that wellbrought up bairns used to have in mine. Miss Graeme has it, and hersister hasna. You'll ken what I mean by the difference between them. "

Mr Snow could not. The difference that he saw between the sisters wassufficiently accounted for to him by the ten year's difference in theirages. He never could be persuaded, that, in any undesirable sense, Rosewas more like the modern young lady than her sister. Graeme wasperfect, in his wife's eyes, and Rose was not quite perfect. That wasall. However, he did not wish to discuss the question just now. 

"Well! Graeme is about as good as we can hope to see in _this_ world, and if he's good enough for her that is a great deal to say, even if heis not what her father was. "

"There are few like him. But Allan is a good man, Will says, and he isnot one to be content with a false standard of goodness, or a low one. He was a manly, pleasant lad, in the days when I kenned him. I daresayhis long warstle with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless;but he's out of the world's grip now, I believe. God bless my bairn, and the man of her choice. "

There was a moment's silence. Mrs Snow turned to the window, and herhusband sat watching her, his brow a little clearer, but not quite clearyet. 

"She _is_ pleased. She ain't making believe a mite. She's like mostwomen folks in _that_, " said Mr Snow, emphasising to himself the word, as though, in a good many things, she differed from "women folk" ingeneral. "They really do think in their hearts, though they don'talways say so, that it is the right thing for girls to get married, andshe's glad Graeme's going to do so well. But, when she comes to thinkof it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing much of heragain, I am afraid she'll worry about it--though she sartain don't looklike it now. "

Certainly she did not. The grave face looked more than peaceful, itlooked bright. The news which both Rose and Will had intimated, ratherthan announced, had stirred only pleasant thoughts as yet, that wasclear. Mr Snow put on his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting them down, said, gravely, --

"She'll have her home a great way off from here. And maybe it'sfoolish, but it does seem to me as though it was a kind of a come down, to go back to the old country to live after all these years. "

Mrs Snow laughed heartily. 

"But then, it is no' to be supposed that she will think so, or heeither, you ken. "

"No, it ain't. If they did, they'd stay here, I suppose. "

"Well, it's no' beyond the bounds of possibility, but they may bide hereor come back again. But, whether they bide here or bide there, Godbless them both, " said Mrs Snow, with moistening eyes. 

"God bless them both!" echoed her husband. "And, which ever way it is, you ain't going to worry the least mite about it. Be you?"

The question was asked after a pause of several seconds, and Mr Snowlooked so wistfully and entreatingly into his wife's face, that shecould not help laughing, though there were tears in her eyes. 

"No, I am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. It is borne in uponme that this change is to be for the real happiness of my bairn, and itwould be pitiful in me to grudge her a day of it. And, to tell you thetruth, I have seen it coming, and have been preparing myself for it thiswhile back, and so I have taken it more reasonably than you have doneyourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, I must confess. "

"Seen it coming! Preparing for it!" repeated Mr Snow; but he inquiredno farther, only looked meditatively out of the window, and nodded hishead a great many times. By and by he said, heartily, --

"Well, if you are pleased, I am. God bless them. "

"God bless all the bairns, " said his wife, softly. "Oh, man! when Ithink of all that has come and gone, I am ready to say that `the Lordhas given me the desire of my heart. ' I sought His guidance aboutcoming with them. I had a sore swither ere I could think of leaving mymother and Sandy for their sakes, but He guided me and strengthened me, though whiles I used to doubt afterwards, with my sore heart wearyingfor my own land, and my own kin. "

Mr Snow nodded gravely, but did not speak, and in a little she went onagain:

"I sought guidance, too, when I left them, and now, looking back, Ithink I see that I got it; but, for a while, when death came, and theywent from me, it seemed as though the Lord had removed the desire of myeyes with a stroke, because of my self-seeking and unfaithfulness. Oh, man! yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. But Hedidna let me fall altogether--praise be to His name!"

Her voice shook, and there was a moment's silence, and then she added, --

"But, as for grieving, because Miss Graeme is going farther away, thanis perhaps pleasant to think about, when she is going of her own freewill, and with a good hope of a measure of happiness, that would beunreasonable indeed. "

"Now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, `Now, lettest thou thyservant depart in peace, ' it would seem about the right thing to do, "said Mr Snow, to himself, with a sigh. "When it comes to giving thebairns up, willing never to see them again, it looks a little as if shewas done with most things, and ready to go--and I ain't no ways ready tohave her, I'm afraid. "

The next words gave him a little start of surprise and relief. 

"And we'll need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she will be far-away. "

"Sartain!" said Mr Snow, eagerly. 

"Not that I think she'll be likely to forget us, " added his wife, with acatch in her breath. "She's no of that nature. I shouldna wonder ifshe might have some homesick thoughts, then, even in the midst of herhappiness, for she has a tender heart! But, if they love one another, there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing they havethe fear of God before their eyes. And, she may come back and end herdays on this side of the sea, yet, who knows?"

"I shouldn't wonder a mite, " said Mr Snow. 

"But, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and good, that is themain thing. And whiles I think it suits my weakness and my old agebetter to sit here and hear about the bairns, and think about them, andspeak to you about them and all that concerns them, than it would to beamong them with their youth and strength, and their new interests inlife. And then, they dinna need me, and you do, " added Mrs Snow, witha smile. 

"That's so, " said he, with an emphasis that made her laugh. 

"Well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about Miss Graeme andthe bairns. That is the last thing I am thinking of. Sitting here, andlooking over all the road we have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, I can see plainly that we were never left to choose, orto lose our way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the Angel ofthe Covenant, unseen then, and, God forgive us, maybe unthought of, butever there, watching over us, and having patience with us, and holdingus up when we stumbled with weary feet. And knowing that their facesare turned in the right way, as I hope yours is, and mine, it is no' forme to doubt but that He is guiding them still, and us as well, and thatwe shall all come safe to the same place at last. " She paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver in her voice, and then she added, --

"Yes. `The Lord hath given me the desire of my heart' for the bairns. Praise be to His name. "