_ST. CUTHBERT'S_

 _A NOVEL_

 _ROBERT E. KNOWLES_

 [Illustration]

 _New York Chicago Toronto_ _FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY_ _London and Edinburgh_

 Copyright, 1905, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

 First Edition, September, 1905. Second Edition, October, 1905. Third Edition, October 15, 1905. Fourth Edition, November 1905. Fifth Edition, December 1905. Sixth Edition, April, 1906. 

 New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street

_To The Canadian Pilgrim Fathers_

_CONTENTS_

 I THE TURN OF THE TIDE 9

 II A MAN WITH A SECRET 20

 III OUR MUTUAL TRIAL 26

 IV OUR MUTUAL VERDICT 34

 V MY KIRK SESSION 42

 VI THE FIRST PARISH ROUND 50

 VII "THE CHILD OF THE REGIMENT" 58

 VIII "A NEW FOOT ON THE FLOOR" 64

 IX "ANGELS UNAWARES" 73

 X MY PIOUS PROFLIGATE 78

 XI PLUCKING A FIERY BRAND 88

 XII "BY THAT SAME TOKEN" 98

 XIII WITH THE WORKMEN 106

 XIV WITH THE EMPLOYERS 119

 XV A BOLD PROPOSAL 128

 XVI GEORDIE'S OOT-TURN 141

 XVII "NOO, THE IN-TURN" 154

 XVIII HOW ELSIE WON THE GATE 159

 XIX A MAIDEN'S LOVE 175

 XX A FATHER'S CRUCIFIXION 187

 XXI THE OLD PRECENTOR'S NEW SONG 199

 XXII "THE MILLS OF THE GODS" 215

 XXIII A MAIDEN PRIESTESS 229

 XXIV THE SWEET SUNNY SOUTH 241

 XXV ST. CUTHBERT'S SECOND CALL 258

 XXVI LOVE'S SINGING SACRIFICE 276

 XXVII THE HIDDEN CRUCIFIX 290

XXVIII THE HEATHERY HILLS 300

 XXIX "AND ALL BUT HE DEPARTED" 311

 XXX LOVE'S VICTORY OVER SIN 323

 XXXI LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER ALL 330

_ST. CUTHBERT'S_

I

_The TURN of The TIDE_

"If you don't get the call you needn't come back here, " said my wife tome as I stood upon the door-sill, bag in hand, and my hard-bought ticketin my pocket. 

"Well, dear one, I would be sure of it if they could only see theperquisite that goes along with me. "

"You must be more serious, Tom, if you expect great calls; but comeinside a minute till I say good-bye. When you brought me first to Canadawe had half a dozen good-byes to every one farewell. Good-bye again, andif they don't call you they will deserve what they lose. "

Thus spoke my wife, and thus was I despatched on the mission that wasbig with moment. 

It was a wondrous hour that brought to us the invitation which I was nowproceeding to accept. Not that we were unhappy because our salary wassmall; we had not lived by bread alone, and our souls were wellcontent. But my wife had delirious visions, which she affirmed were saneand reasonable, of her husband's coming yet into his own, and indulgedevery now and then in savage and delicious little declarations of thegreat misfit, which misfit was in my being the minister of a littlechurch which afforded a little salary and provoked a little fame. 

Her other days had been spent in luxury and amid the refinement and thepleasures which money only can provide. And when, our wedding daydrawing near apace, I sent her my budget letter, bitterly revealingimpecunious facts at which I had before but darkly hinted, and warningher of all the sacrifice which lay beyond, she replied with vehementrepudiation of any fears, and in that hour made me rich. 

"Cheese and kisses, " wrote she, "are considered good fare in my Southland for all who have other resources in their hearts. " And I mentallyaverred that half of that would be enough for me. 

And so we went ahead--oh, progressive step! And we were never pooragain. 

But there came a more heroic hour. It was hard, so hard to do, but thepressure rendered concealment quite impossible, for the note I hadendorsed was handed in for suit. So I told her one twilight hour thatour already limited income must be shared with an unromantic creditor. There was a little tightening of the lips, then of the arms, then ofthose mutual heart cords entangled in their eternal root. 

We were boarding then, three rooms in a family hotel, and when Ireturned next day at evening I found everything--books, furniture, piano--all moved to a room upon the topmost story. I was directedthither by the smiling landlord, more enlightened than I, and I enteredwith furtive misgivings in my soul and with visions of that spaciousSouthern home before my rueful eyes. 

But she was there, radiant and triumphant, still flushed with exerciseof hand and heart, viewing proudly her proof of a new axiom that two ormore bodies may occupy the same space at the selfsame time. 

"I am so glad you didn't come before, " she said. "I wanted to be allsettled before you saw it. This is just as good as we had before, andonly half the price. Isn't it cozy? And everything just fits. And we areaway from all the noise. And look at that lovely view. And now we canpay off that horrid note. Aren't you glad?"

"But, Emmeline, my heart breaks to see you caged like this. It is nobleof you, just like you, but I cannot forgive myself that I have broughtyou to this, " said I, my voice trembling with pain and joy. 

"Why, dear one, how can you speak like that? We have everything here, and each other too, and we shall be caged together. "

I kissed that girlish face again and blessed the gift of heaven, murmuring only, in tones that could not be heard, "He setteth thesolitary in families, " and as we went down together I wondered if thatsudden elevation had not brought us nearer heaven than we had beenbelow. 

It was largely owing to this lion-hearted courage that I now foundmyself swiftly borne towards the vacant pulpit which yawned in statelyexpectation of its weekly candidate. 

The invitation "to conduct divine services in St. Cuthbert's, whosepulpit is now vacant, " had come unsought from the kirk session of thatdistant temple. 

St. Cuthbert's was the stately cathedral of all adjoiningPresbyterianism. It was the pride and crown of a town which stood inprosperous contentment upon the verge of cityhood. Its history was greatand honourable; its traditions warlike and evangelical; its peopleintelligent and intense. Its vast area was famed for its throng of acuteand reflective hearers, almost every man of whom was a sermon taster, while its officers were the acknowledged possessors of letters patent tothe true ecclesiastical nobility. In my student days, medals andscholarships were never quoted among the trophies of our divinity men ifit could be justly said of any one that he had preached twice before thehard heads of St. Cuthbert's. This triumph was recited with the samereverent air as when men used to say, "He preached before the Queen. "

Some hundreds of miles must be traversed before I reached the place, butonly some four-and-twenty hours before I reached the time, of my trialsermons. Therefore did I convert my car into a study and my unsteadyknee into a desk, giving myself to the rehearsal of those discourses bywhich I was to stand or fall. Every weak hand thereof I laboured tostrengthen, and every feeble knee I endeavoured to confirm. And whatmotley hours were those I spent on that fast-flying train! All myreflections tended to devotion, but yet my errand was throbbing withambition. 

Whereupon I fell into a strange and not unprofitable reverie, painfullystriving to separate my thoughts, the sheep from the goats, and toreconcile them the one to the other. I knew well enough the human frameto be persuaded that ambition could not altogether be cast out from thespirit of a man, which led me to reflect upon its possible place andpurpose if controlled by a master hand beyond the hand of time. Istrove to discover my inmost motive, far behind all other aims, andconsoled myself with the hope that God might make it the dominant andsovereign one, to which all others might be unconscious ministers, evenas all other lesser ones obey the driving wheel. 

I somehow felt that the vision of that radiant face at home, for whomambition sprung like a fountain, was in no wise inconsistent with theholiest work which awaited me on the morrow. 

At thought of her, my ambition, earth-born though it was, seemed to berobed in white and to be unashamedly ministering unto God. And I wasfain to believe at last that this very hope of a larger place was fromHimself, and that He was the shepherd of the sheep and of the goatsalike. Whereupon I fell upon my sermons afresh with a clearerconscience, which means a stronger mind, and swiftly prayed, even whileI worked, that the Lord of the harvest would winnow my tumultuousthoughts, garnering the wheat unto Himself and burning the tares withunquenchable fire. 

Onward rushed the hours, and onward rolled the train in its desperatestruggle with them, till the setting sun, victorious over both, remindedme that I would be in New Jedboro before the dusk deepened into dark. Then restored I my sermon notes, reburnished and repaired, to thetrusty keeping of my well-worn valise, settling myself for one of thosedelicious baths of thought to be truly enjoyed only on the farther sideof toil. 

I had but well begun to compose my mind and to forecast the probableexperiences of the morrow, when a rich Scotch voice broke in upon mewith the unmistakable inquiry, "And where micht ye be gaein?"

I responded with the name of New Jedboro, assuming the air of a man whowas bent only upon a welcome visit to long-separated friends. But I hadreckoned without my host. My interrogator was a Scot, with the Scot'sincurable curiosity, always to be estimated by the indifference of hisair. If his face be eloquent of profound unconcern, then may you knowthat a fever of inquisitiveness is burning at his heart. 

My questioner seemed to scarcely listen for my answer, yet a tutored eyecould tell that he was camping on my trail. 

His next interrogation was launched with courteous composure: "Ye'll no'be the man wha's expeckit in St. Cuthbert's ower the Sabbath?"

I now saw that this was no diluted Scotsman. Bred on Canadian soil, hewas yet original and pure. He had struck the native Scottish note, theecclesiastical. Like all his countrymen, he had a native taste for aminister. His instincts were towards the Kirk, and for all things akinto Psalm or Presbytery he intuitively took the scent. I have maintainedto this day that he sniffed my sermons from afar, undeceived by theworldly flavour of my rusty bag. 

I collected myself heroically, and replied that I was looking forward tothe discharge of the high duty to which he had referred. Upon thisadmission he moved nearer, as a great lawyer stalks his quarry in thewitness box. He eyed me solemnly for a moment, with the look of onetaking aim, and then said slowly--

"I'm no' an elder in that kirk. "

"Are you not?" said I, with as generous an intonation of surprise asconscience would permit. 

"I'm no' an elder, " he repeated. "But I gang till it, " he added. 

Then followed a pause, which I dared to break with the remark, "I amtold it is a spacious edifice. "

He merely glanced at me, as if to say that all irrelevant conversationwas out of place, and then continued--

"And I'm no' the precentor; I'm no' the man, ye ken, that lifts thetune. "

I nodded sympathetically, trying to convey my sense of the mistake thecongregation had made in its choice of both elders and precentor. 

"Ye wud say, to luik at me, that I'm no' an office-seeker, an' ye'rericht. But I haud an office for a' that. "

This time I smiled as if light had come to me, and as one who has beenreassured in his belief in an overruling Providence. 

"What office do you hold?" said I. 

"Ye wudna guess in a twalmonth. I'm no' the treasurer, as ye'rethinkin'--I'm the beadle. "

I uttered a brief eulogy upon the honour and responsibility of thatposition, pointing out that the beadle had a dignity all his own, aswell as the elders and other officers of the kirk. 

He endorsed my views with swift complacent nods. 

"That's what I aye think o' when I see the elders on the Sabbathmornin', " said he; "forbye, there's severals o' _them_, but wha everheard tell o' mair than ae beadle? And what's mair, I had raither be adoor-keeper in the Lord's hoose than dwall in tents o' sin. Them'sDauvit's words, and they aye come to me when I compare mysel' wi' theelders. "

I hurriedly commended his reference to the Scriptures, at the same timeavoiding any share in his rather significant classification, remarkingon the other hand that elders had their place, and that authority wasindispensable in all churches, and the very essence of the Presbyteriansystem. 

He interrupted me, fearing he had been misunderstood. 

"Mind ye, " he declared fervently, "I'm no' settin' mysel' up even wi'the minister. I regard him as mair important than me--far mairimportant, " he affirmed, with reckless humility, "but the elders, theyare juist common fowk like mysel'. An' at times they are mair thancommon. Me an' the minister bear a deal frae the elders. He aye bids meto bear wi' them, an' I aye bid him no' to mind. I tell him whiles thatwe'd meet an' we'd greet whaur the elders cease frae troublin'--them'sthe poet's words. "

We were now some two miles or so from the town and the church wherein heexercised his gifts and magnified his office; and my rugged friend, dismissing the elders for the time, reverted to the inquiry he had seenfit previously to ignore. 

"Ye were askin' me aboot the kirk. "

"Yes, " said I in a chastened voice, "I asked you if it was not verylarge. "

"Thae was no' yir exact words, but I ken yir meanin'. It's a gran' kirk, St. Cuthbert's, an' ye'll need to speak oot--no' to yell, ye ken, forI'm nigh deefened wi' the roarin' o' the candidates sin' oor kirk waspreached vacant by the Presbytery. Dinna be ower lang; and be sure toread a' the psalm afore ye sit doon, and hae the sough o' Sinai in yirdiscoorse, specially at the mornin' diet; an' aye back up the Scriptureswi' the catechism, an' hae a word or twa aboot the Covenanters, them assealed their testimony wi' their bluid, ye ken. Ye'll tak' ma advice askindly; it's mair than likely we'll never meet again gin the morrow'sgone. "

I thanked him for his counsel and reached for my bag, at the signal ofescaping steam. 

The car door had just closed behind me when I felt a hand upon my armand heard a now familiar voice--

"An' dinna pray ower muckle for yir ain devoted folk at hame; an' dinnaask the King an' Head o' the Kirk to fetch till us a wise under-shepherdo' the flock. "

With a word of additional acknowledgment I stepped on to the stationplatform, but my parley with a burly cabman was interrupted by the samevoice whispering in my ear--

"Ye micht mind the elders in yir prayer; gin they were led mair into thelicht it wad dae nae harm to onybody. "

II

_A MAN With a SECRET_

There was no one about the station to welcome me and none to direct, butthere were many to stare and wonder. 

The moderator of the vacant kirk had provided me with the address of thehouse to which he said I should repair. I was in no wise mortified bythis apparent lack of hospitality, for the aforesaid moderator hadreminded me in his postscript that the folk of St. Cuthbert's werenotoriously Scotch, untrained to any degree of devotion at thebeginning, but famous for the fervour of their loyalty at the close oftheir ministers' careers. 

Whether or not I should have any career at all amongst them was thesubject of my thoughts as I wended my way to "Inglewood, " for such wasthe melodious title of the house which was to be my home during mysojourn in New Jedboro. 

Beautiful for situation it proved to be, nestling among its sentinels ofoak, upon the highest hill of seven which garrisoned the town. The signsof wealth and good taste were everywhere about, and my probationer'sheart was beating fast when I pulled the polished silver knob whosepatrician splendour had survived the invasion of all electricalupstarts. 

I heard the answering bell far within, breaking again and again into itsstartled cry, and my soul answered it with peals of such humiliation asis known only to the man whose heart affords a home to that ill-matchedpair, the discomfiture of the candidate and the pride of thePresbyterian. 

The door was opened by the master of the house, Michael Blake, a man offorty-five or so, the wealthy senior of New Jedboro's greatestmanufacturing firm. 

I suppose he looked first at me, but my first sensation was of his keeneye swiftly falling on the shabby travelling-bag in my left hand, myright kept disengaged for any friendly overture which might await me. 

Oh, the shame and the anguish of those swift glances towards one'stravelling-bag! Can no kind genius devise a scheme for their temporaryconcealment such as the modern book agent has brought to its perfection, full armed beneath the treacherous shelter of his cloak?

I broke the silence: "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Blake?"

"Yes, that is my name, " responded a rich, soulful voice, resonant withthe finest Scottish flavour, "and what can I do for you, sir?"

Presuming that it would be hardly delicate for me to state theparticular duty I was expecting him to discharge, I betook myself to theassociation of ideas, and replied--

"I am to preach in St. Cuthbert's to-morrow, " hoping that this mightsuggest to him the information he had sought. 

Swift and beautiful was the transformation. The soul of hospitalityleaped from his face, stern and secretive though it was. His eye, whichhad seemed to hold my blushing bag at bay, turned now upon me with allthe music of a great welcome in its glance. He looked at me with thatfrank abruptness which true cordiality creates, and when he took my handin his my heart leaped to the warm shelter of its grasp. 

"I have been looking for you; you are welcome here, " he said, in thequietest of tones. He drew me gently within the massive door, and inthat moment I knew that I was in the custody of love. 

A grandfather's clock, proud and stately in its sense of venerablefaithfulness, was gravely ticking off the moments with hospitality inits tone. A pleasant-faced lassie showed me to my room, reminding methat the evening meal awaited my descent. 

My host justified my every impression. While we disposed of the plainbut appetizing fare, whose crown was the speckled trout which his skillhad lured from home, he submitted me to the kindliest ofcross-examinations concerning my past, my scholarship, my evangelicalpositions, my household, and much else that nestled among them all. Throughout, I felt the charm and the power of his gentleness, and underits secret influence I yielded up what many another would have sought invain. Some natures there are which search you as the sun lays bare theflowers, making for itself a pathway to their inmost heart, every petalopening before its siege of love. 

But reciprocity there was none. His lips seemed to stand like inexorablesentinels before his heart, in league with its great secret, theguardians of a past which no man had heard revealed. One or twotentative attempts to discover his antecedents were foiled by hischarming taciturnity. 

"I came from the old country many years ago, " was the only informationhe vouchsafed me. 

The evening was spent in conversation which never flamed but neverflagged. My increasing opportunity for observation served but to confirmmy conviction that I was confronted with a man who had one great andseparate secret hidden within the impenetrable recesses of a contriteheart. He said little about St. Cuthbert's or the morrow, his mostsignificant observation being to the effect that the serious-minded ofthe kirk were looking forward to my appearance with hopeful interest. 

After he had bidden me good-night, he again sought me in my chamber, interrupting the devotions which I was striving to conduct in oblivionof to-morrow and in the sombre light of the Judgment Day. 

"Will you do me a kindness in the kirk to-morrow?" he said, with almostpathetic eagerness. 

I responded fervently that nothing could be a greater kindness to myselfthan the sense of one bestowed on him. 

"Very well, then, will you give us the Fifty-first Psalm to sing at themorning service--it always seems to me that it is the soul's staplefood; and let us begin with the fifth verse--

 "'Behold, Thou in the inward parts With truth delighted art. '

It falls like water on the thirsty heart. And perhaps, if your previousselection will permit, you would give us in the evening the paraphrase--

 "'Come let us to the Lord our God With contrite hearts return. '

My mother first taught me that, " he added, with the first quiver of thelip I yet had seen, "and I have learned it anew from God. "

He then swiftly departed, little knowing that he had given me that nighta pillow for both head and heart. I fell asleep, his great quotationsand his earnest words flowing about my soul even as the ocean laves theshore. 

III

_OUR MUTUAL TRIAL_

The Sabbath morning broke serene and fair. Thus also awoke my spirit, still invigorated by its contact with one I felt to be an honest andGod-fearing man, whose ardour I knew was chastened by a long-wagedconflict of the soul. 

Our morning worship was led by Mr. Blake himself, who besought theDivine blessing upon the labours of him who was "for this day 'ourservant for Jesus' sake. '"

We walked to the church together, mingling with the silent and reverentmultitude pressing towards a common shrine. 

As he left me at the vestry door, he said earnestly--

"Forget that you are a candidate of St. Cuthbert's, and remember thatyou are a minister of God. "

The beadle recognized me with a confidential nod, inspected the pulpitrobe which I had donned, and taking up the "Books, " he led the way tothe pulpit steps with an air which might have provoked the envy of themost solemn mace-bearer who ever served his king. 

He opened the door, and then there appeared to my wondering view a seaof expectant faces, vast beyond my utmost dream. They were steeped insilence, a silence so intense that it left the impress on my mind of anocean, majestic in its heaving grandeur; for the stiller you find thesea of human faces the more reasonably may you dread the trough of humanwaves. 

The wonder of the reverent and the sneer of the scornful have alike beenprompted by the preaching of a candidate. Something strange andincongruous seems to pertain to the performance of a man whoseacknowledged purpose is the dual one of winning alike the souls and thesmiles of men. He seeks, as all preachers are supposed to do, the upliftof his hearers' souls, while his very appearance is a pledge of hisdesire to so commend himself as to be their favourite and their choice. Much hath been written, and more hath been said, of the humiliation towhich he must submit who occupies a vacant pulpit as the applicant for avacant kirk. 

But, whatever ground there be for these reflections, I felt the force ofnone of them that radiant Sabbath morning in St. Cuthbert's. MyCalvinism, which is regarded by those who know it not as dragonlike andaltogether drastic, proved now my comfort and my stay, and within itsvast pavilion I seemed to hide as in the covert of the Eternal. Forthere surged through heart and brain the stately thought that suchexperimental dealings between a minister and a people might besublimated before reverent eyes, hallowed as a holy venture, anddestined to play its part in the economy of God. 

His claim seemed loftier far than any obligation between my heart andman, and so uplifted was I by the sense of a commission which evencandidature could neither invalidate nor deform, that all sense ofservility, all cringing thought of livelihood, all fear of faltering andall faltering of fear, seemed to flee away even as the blasphemy ofdarkness retreats before the sanctities of the morn. In very truth Iforgot that I was a candidate of St. Cuthbert's and seemed but toremember that I was a minister of God. 

Whether my sermon was good or ill I could not then have told; but Icould well have told that a victorious secret is to him who strivesafter earnestness of heart, unvexed by the clamour of his own rebelliousand ambitious soul. 

The congregation was vast and reverent as befitted the purpose of thehour; the most careless eye could mark the strong and reflective cast ofthose Scottish faces, whose native adamant was but little softened bytheir sojourn beneath Canadian skies. Reverence seemed to clothe theseworshippers like a garment. They were as men who believed in God, whereby are men most fearsome and yet most glorious to look upon. It wasthe fearsomeness of such a face, garrisoned in God, which had beat backthe haughty gaze of Mary when she met the eye of Knox, burning with afire which no torch of time had kindled. 

And when they sang their opening hymn, they seemed to stride upwards asmountaineers, for they lifted up their eyes as men who would cast themdown again only before God Himself. From word to word they climbed, andfrom line to line, as though each word or line were some abutting cragof the very hill of God. Besides, the psalm they sung was this--

 "I to the hills will lift mine eyes From whence doth come mine aid. "

Their intensity steadied my very soul. They seemed to look at me as ifto say, "We are in earnest if you are; our kirk is vacant but our heartsare full, " and the pulpit in which I stood, and in which many a haplessman had stood before, was hallowed by its solemn garrison of waitingsouls, and redeemed of all taint of treason towards its sacred trust. 

When I called them unto prayer, they answered as the forest answerswhen the wind brings it word from heaven, save some venerable few whorose erect (as was their fathers' way), standing like sentinel oaks amidlesser trees, they also bending with an obeisance prompted from within. It seemed not hard to lead these earnest hearts in prayer--they seemedthe rather to lead my soul as by a more familiar path; or, to state thetruth more utterly, their devoutness seemed to bear me on, as the deepocean bears itself and its every burden towards the shore. 

This intensity of worship pervaded its every act. They joined in thereading of the Word as those who must both hear and see it forthemselves, their books opening and closing in unison with the largerone which decked their pulpit like a crown. 

Even when the collection was taken up they maintained their loftiness ofpoise. It had been often told me that Scotch folk contribute to anoffering with the same heroism wherewith their ancestors opened theirunshrinking veins, doling forth their money, like their blood, with amartyr's air. But although I remarked that some Scottish eyes followedtheir departing coins with glances of parental tenderness, there was yeta solemn stateliness about the operation which greatly won me, eventhose who dedicated the homeliest copper doing it unabashedly, as if tothe Lord, and not unto men. 

We closed with the penitential psalm which Mr. Blake had asked, and itsgreat words seemed charged with the strong reality of men who believedin sin with the same old-fashioned earnestness as marked their faith inGod, the two answering the one to the other as deep calleth unto deep, eternally harmonious as they are. 

The congregation swayed slowly down the aisle, Scottishly cold andstill, like the processional of the ice in the spring-time. Theyreminded me of noble bergs drifting through the Straits of Belle Isle. It was a Presbyterian flood, and every man a floe. But I suspectedmightily that they were nevertheless the product of the spring, andsomehow felt that they dwelt near the confines of the summer. The firewhich warmed their hearts had touched my own, and in that very momentwherein they turned their backs upon me, I pursued them withsurrendering tenderness, and coveted for my own the rugged faithfulnesswhich hath now enriched these many golden years. 

One or two turned to glance at me, but when their gaze met mine theydespatched their eyes on some impartial quest, as if caressing theirnoble church or looking for some lingering friend. 

The precentor, whose place was in a kind of songster's pulpit just belowme, was wreathed in the complacent air of a man who has discharged alofty duty and has done it well. He had borne himself throughout as thereal master of the entire service, and as one who had ruled from anuntitled throne. He cast me one or two swift glances, such as wouldbecome an engineer who had brought his train or a pilot who had broughthis ship to the desired haven. I returned his overture with a look ofhumble gratitude, and he thereupon relaxed as one well content with whatwas his hard-earned due, but nothing more. I have well learned sincethen that by so much as one values one's peace, by that much must onereverence the precentor. 

When I regained the vestry I found it peopled with six or seven elders(a great and sweltering population), but no word of favour or approvalescaped a single Scottish lip. Their hour had not yet come; but I knewit not, and was proportionately cast down by what seemed to me a silentrhetoric of scorn. But it was the will of heaven to somewhat set asidewhat I unknowingly estimated to be the verdict of indifference. Thebeadle, as one with whom I had had a past, beckoned me without, whispering that a "wumman body, " a stranger, desired to speak with me inan adjoining room. 

Her story was short and sad; her request, the sobbing entreaty of abroken heart that I would pray for her darling and her prodigal, herfirst-born, wandering in that farthest of all countries which liesbeyond the confines of a mother's ken. I answered her with a glancewhich owned the kinship of her tears, and pledged it with a hand which, thank God, has ever found its warmest welcome in the hand of woe. Then Iwent back to the vestry unafraid. "For what, " thought I, "can theseelders do either for me or against me, if I am really a priest unto Godfor one mother's son? This woman has evidently forgotten that I am acandidate of St. Cuthbert's, and has remembered only that I am aminister of God. "

IV

_OUR MUTUAL VERDICT_

The evening service was like unto that of the morning, the onlydifference being that I saw this sturdy folk, mountain-like, in thelight of the setting, instead of the rising sun. But still no word orhint revealed to me the favour or disfavour with which my efforts hadbeen received by the people of St. Cuthbert's, save only that one manventured to remark that I had brought him in mind of Thomas Chalmers. 

I hurriedly exclaimed, "Is that so?" in a tone which all too plainlyimplored him to go on. 

"Yes, " said he. "When ye blawed yir nose, if ma een had been shut, I cudhae swore it was Chammers, " whereupon the last state of me was worsethan the first. 

But I was a little comforted in overhearing one Scot say to another asthey passed me on their homeward way, "He's no' to be expeckit to preachlike yon man frae Hawick, " to which the other replied, and I caught hisclosing words, "But there was a bit at the end that wasna bad. "

This was but a thin gruel to satisfy one's wondering soul, but it wasshortly thickened by the beadle. He was waiting for us at Mr. Blake's, wishing instruction about some task that fell within his duties, but hemanaged to have a word with me--

"I canna tell what waits ye, but, gin ye'd like to see through themanse, I'll tak' ye through the morn. "

I thanked him, declining, but secretly blessed him and inwardlyrejoiced. 

At worship that night my gentle host read the story of the prodigal, andwhen we knelt to pray he repeated twice, "I will arise and go unto myFather, " and in the pause I felt that the wave of some besetting memorywas beating on the shore; more and more was it borne in upon me thatthis man had a past, shared only by himself and God and some one elseunknown. 

The morning witnessed my departure from New Jedboro, and from the windowof the train I watched its fast-retreating hills, so often trodden by mesince with the swinging stride of joy, or clambered with the heavy stepof care. 

There is neither time nor space to set down in detail all that followed. Let it suffice to say that while they were musing the fire burned, andthe good folk of St. Cuthbert's slowly and solemnly resolved to call meto their ancient church. 

They were scandalized by a report, which spread with pestilential ease, that I had known my wife but three short weeks when I asked her to walkthe long walk with me. This and other rumours provoked them to despatcha sage and ponderous officer to the distant scene of my labours, that hemight investigate them on the spot. He came, he saw, he was conquered. My wife lassoed him at a throw. He went home in fetters, his eloquencealone unloosed. Long before the night on which they should meet to call, he had brandished his opinion as to the wisdom of my delirious haste. 

"But did he mak' his choice so redeek'lus sudden?" he was asked. 

"I dinna ken, " he answered tropically, "and I dinna care. If he bidedthree weeks, he bided ower lang. I kent that fine when ance I saw her. Noo, I pit it till ye, gin ye were crossin' a desert place, an' ye sawthe Rose o' Sharon afore ye, wad ye no' pluck it gin ye micht, and pluckit quick? I pit it till ye. " And they answered him not a word, for thereis no debater like the heart. 

I was told in after days that my historic friend the beadle canvassedfor me night and day, laying mighty stress upon the fact that he knew mewell, since he had travelled with me, assuring every ear that I was"uncommon ceevil, " and proudly laying bare the independent scorn withwhich I had met his proposition to inspect the manse. 

"But we micht get him yet, " he concluded, "gin we gang richt aboot it. "

These testimonials, together with his plaintive appeal to be relieved ofthe responsibility which the absence of a fixed minister threw uponhimself, went far to confirm the wavering. 

Nor shall I linger to trace the workings of that ponderous machinerywhereby I was at last installed as the minister of St. Cuthbert'sChurch. Even the great assemblage which gathered to welcome us, with itsinfinite introductions, its features social, devotional, anddeputational, its addresses civic and ecclesiastical, must be dismissedwith a word. 

It reminded me of nothing so much as of the launching of a ship, andbeneath all its tumult of artillery there thrummed the deep undertone ofjoy. For St. Cuthbert's, contrary to its historic way, had parted withits last minister, a man of great ability, amid the smoke of battle, andhe had gone forth as Napoleon went, with a martial record which thecorroding years even yet have scarcely tarnished. Fierce had been thefight, the factions grimly equal, and beclouded with a sublime confusionas to which side had been led by heaven and which by Belial. On thispoint, even now, they do not exactly see eye to eye. 

And this deep joy, whose untiring hum (joy's native voice) had entwineditself with every exercise of our exultant gathering was born of theassurance of returning harmony and the welcome calm which follows thedeparting storm. The gentle vines of peace were beginning to clothetheir scarred and disfigured Zion. 

St. Cuthbert's hailed that night as the hour of its convalescence. Inconsequence, every speech, even those from dry and desiccated lips, wascoloured with the melody of hope. Even hoary jokes and ancestralstories, kept for tea-meetings as hard tack is kept for the army andnavy, were disinfected by the kindly flavour which brooded like an Aprilcloud. 

And now it is my purpose to set down as best I may some of the featuresof my life, and a few of my most vivid observations among theseremarkable folk. 

The greater number of them had been born in bonnie Scotland, and all ofthem, even those who had never seen their ancestral home, spoke andlived and thought as though they had just come from the heathery hills. They were sprung from the loins of heroes, the stalwart pioneers fromRoxburghshire and Ayrshire and Dumfries, and many another noble spotwhose noblest sons had gone forth to earth's remotest bound, flamingwith love of liberty and God. Seventy years before they had settledabout New Jedboro, thinking of the well-loved Scottish town whose nameit bore. 

Soon the echoing forest bowed before their gleaming axes, and they madethe wilderness to blossom like the rose. Comfort, and even wealth, cameto them at the imperious beck of industry. Stern and earnest, reckoningfrivolity a sin, finding their pleasure in a growing capacity forself-denial and a growing scorn of needless luxury, they cherished intheir blood the iron which had been bequeathed by noble sires. 

Hand in hand with God like sons of Knox, they built the school and thechurch with the first-fruits of their toil, disporting themselves againin their unforgotten psalms, worshipping after the dear-bought manner oftheir fathers, not a few of whom had paid the price of blood, nor deemedit sacrifice. 

Like draws to like, they say. With St. Cuthbert's this had certainlybeen the case; for every minister who had served them heretofore hadbeen both born and educated in their motherland. 

Three had they had. The first was the Reverend John Grant, Doctor ofDivinity, from Greenock; the second, the Reverend James Kay, fromAberdeen; the third, my immediate predecessor, the Reverend HenryAlexander from Glasgow. 

Like a mountain peak towered the memory of their first minister, a manof gigantic power, scholarly and profound, grimly genial, carrying withhim everywhere the air of the Eternal. He was as eloquent almost ashuman lips can be, magnetic to the point of tyranny, and grandlyindependent of everything and every one but God. His fame covered Canadalike a flood. American colleges sought the honour of their laurel on hisbrow, and from one of the best he accepted his Doctor's hood. Citycongregations coveted him with pious envy, but he hearkened to few andcoquetted with none. He had assumed the cure of St. Cuthbert's when itwas almost entirely (as it was still considerably) a countrycongregation, revelling in solitude and souls, both of which were nearerhere to Nature's heart than amid the sweltering throng. Here hecherished his mighty heart and gave eternal bent to hearts only lessmighty than his own. 

 "Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed nor wished to change his place. "

Throughout my ministry in St. Cuthbert's the mention of his name was thesignal for a cloud of witnesses. Forty years had elapsed since thecountryside followed him to his grave, shrouded in gown and bands, aregalia more than royal to their loving eyes. But they had guarded hismemory with the vigilance which belongs only to the broken heart, andthe traditions of his greatness were fresh among them still. 

"I likit the ither twa fine, " said a shrewd sermon taster to me soonafter my arrival, "but their sermons didna plough the soul like theDoctor's; we hae na had the fallow grun' turned up sin' he dee'd. "

And so said, or thought, they all. 

V

_My KIRK SESSION_

He would need a brave and facile pen who would venture to portray thekirk session of St. Cuthbert's Church. For any kirk session is far fromcommonplace, let alone the session of such a church as mine. Kirksessions are the bloom of Scottish character in particular and the crownand glory of mankind in general. Piety, sobriety, severity, these arethe three outstanding graces which they illustrate supremely; butinterlocked with these are many other gifts and virtues in varyingdegrees of culture. 

In St. Cuthbert's, the pride of eldership was chiefly vested in theirwives and daughters. 

"Ye mauna be ower uplifted aboot yir faither's office, " was theoft-repeated admonition of the elder's wife to the elder's children, andthe children were not slow to remark that her words were one part rebukeand ten parts pride. For to mothers and bairns alike he appeared as oneof God's kings and priests when he walked down the aisle with thevessels of the Lord. 

Many of these men were poor, grandly and pathetically poor, but nonewas poor enough to appear at the sacramental board without his "blacks, "radiant with the lustre of open love and sacred sacrifice. This Iafterwards learned was their wives' doing, and marvellous in my eyes. Ahme! How many a decently apparelled husband, how many a white-robedchild, has come forth out of great tribulation not their own. Indeed, uncounted multitudes there are who shall walk in white before the throneof God, whose robes the secret sacrifice of loving hearts hath whitenedas no fuller of earth can whiten them. 

My first meeting with the kirk session of St. Cuthbert's was anepoch-marking incident. Twenty-eight there were who sat about thesession-room, every man but one an importation from Caledonia's ruggedhills. Roxburgh's covenanting heroes, Wigtonshire's triumphant martyrs, Dumfriesshire and her Cameronians, with their great namesake's lionheart; Ayrshire, with her bloody memories of moor and moss-hags, ofquarry and conventicle, of Laud and liberty--all these had filteredthrough and reappeared in these silent and stalwart men. 

Of these eight-and-twenty faces at least one score had the cast ofmarble and the stamp of eternity upon them. I felt like a hillocknestling at the feet of lofty peaks, for I do make my oath that when youare begirt by men in whose veins there flows the blood of martyrs, whohave been slowly nurtured upon such stately doctrines as are their dailyfood, who actually believe in God as a living participator in theaffairs of time, whose mental pabulum has been Thomas Boston and SamuelRutherford and Philip Doddridge, and who have used these worthies but ashelps to climb that unpinnacled hill of the Eternal Word--when you getsuch men as these, multiplied a hundredfold by the stern consciousnessof a religious trust, if you are not then among the Rockies of flesh andblood, I am as one who sees men like walking trees, ignorant of the truealtitudes of human life. 

But I was yet to learn, and to learn by heart (the great medium of allreal character), that many a fragrant flower may bloom in secret cleftsof rock-bound hills, frowning and forbidding though they be. For Godloves to surprise us, especially in happy ways; and His is a sanguinesun. 

It should now be stated that I began my ministry in St. Cuthbert's withthe handicap of an Irish ancestry. How then was I to wear the hoddengray? Or how was I to commingle myself with that historic tide which Iwell knew the Scottish heart regarded as fed more than any other fromthe river that makes glad the city of God?

My every vein was already full to overflowing with Irish blood. Myfather was from Ballymena and my mother was from Cork, a solution whichno chemistry could cure. I was inclined by nature and confirmed bypractice towards a reasonable pride in my ancestral land. But odds wereagainst me. Even the mistress of my manse, whose judgment was wont totake counsel of her kindly heart, even she remonstrated when she firstdiscovered my nativity, and has never since been altogether thankful, though she strives hard to be resigned. 

"Why do you always flaunt your Irish origin?" she reasoned once. "If itis good stock, be modest about it; and if it is not, the less said thebetter. "

Then she remarked that she was no doubt prejudiced, for she had oncewitnessed the noble procession in New York on St. Patrick's Day; and sheadded that they all seemed to have mouths like the Mammoth Cave ofKentucky and complexions like an asphalt pavement under repairs. Mywife's power of detecting analogies was uncommonly acute. 

 * * * * *

When the session had been duly constituted, the minutes of the lastmeeting were read by the session clerk. It is probably quite within themark to say that all ecclesiastical officialdom can produce no otherdignitary with the same stern grandeur as pertains to the clerk of aScottish session. I have witnessed archbishops in their robes and withtheir mitres, and have marvelled at the gravity with which they clothedthe most ponderous frivolities, at their stately genuflections, at theswift shedding and donning of their bewildering millineries. I have seenGeneral Booth resplendent in his flaming clericals. I have even lookedon the bespangled Dowie, dazzling and bedazzled--but none of these hasthe majesty of poise, the aroma of responsibility, or the inexorable airof authority which mark the true-bred session clerk. 

The minutes having been read and hermetically sealed, I addressed theelders briefly, referring to my great duties and my poor abilities, after which I invited them to a general deliberation, and begged them toacquaint me with the mind and temper of the congregation, asking suchadvice as might be useful in entering upon my labours. 

"We bid ye welcome, moderator, " began the senior elder, by name SandyGrant, "an' we'll do what in us lies to haud up yir hands; ye're no' oorservant, but oor minister, and we're a' ready to do yir biddin', ginit's the will o' God. Ye're sittin' in a michty seat, moderator. It wasfrae that chair that oor first minister spak' till us in far itherdays. "

At this reference to the golden age, I saw a wave of tenderness breakover the faces of the older men. 

"Ay, I mind weel the nicht Doctor Grant sat amang us for the first time, as ye're sittin' noo. "

This time it was Ronald M'Gregor who had spoken, the love-light on whoseface even sixty winters could not disguise. 

"We'll never look upon his like again. Ye've mebbe watched the storm, sir, when it beat upon the shore. His style o' delivery was like theragin' o' the waves. Ye see that buik, moderator, yir haun's restin' onthe tap o't. Weel, he dune for sax o' them the while he was oorminister. We bocht the strongest bound o' them, but he banged them totatters amazin' fast. A page at a skite. Times it was like the driftin'o' the leaves in the fall. He was graun' on the terrors o' the law. Wehaena been what's to say clean uplifted wi' the michty truth o' thepunishment o' the lost sin' his mooth was closed in death, " and Ronaldsighed the sigh of the hungry heart. 

"Div ye no' mind the Doctor on the decrees, the simmer o' thecholera--div ye no' mind yon, Ronald?" said Thomas Laidlaw, swept intothe seething tide of reminiscence; but here the session clerk rose to apoint of order. 

"The members o' this court will address the moderator, " he said sternly. "Moreover, we are here for business, not for history. We might wellthink shame of ourselves, glorifying the old when we should bewelcoming the new. We're no' to be aye dwellin' amang the tombs" (thiswith a rise in feeling and a drop in language). "Besides, Doctor Grantwas no' a common man, and it's no becomin' to be comparin' common menalong wi' the likes o' him. "

So this, thought I, is the Scottish mode of paying compliments. I hadalways heard that their little tributes were more medicinal thanconfectionery. 

Then followed a painful calm, for Scottish calms are stormy things. 

It was Michael Blake who first resumed. 

"Let us forget the things which are behind, " he said, "if we only can, "and there was a wealth of agony in his words, "and let us press forthunto those things which are before. We greet you, moderator, as themessenger of peace, for we are all but sinful men and unworthy of thetrust we hold. I hope you will preach to us the grace of God, for wehave learned ourselves the terrors of the law. "

"I move that we adjourn, " interjected Ronald M'Gregor, alarmed for theretirement of Sinai, and fearful of a too early spring. 

"I second that, " said a rugged patriarch, hitherto silent. 

"But I hope the moderator 'll permit me to express the hope that he'llno' shorten up the services, and that he'll gie the young fowk mair o'the catechism than we hae been gettin', and mak' the sacraments mairsearchin' to the soul, " said Saunders M'Tavish. 

"Ye're oot o' order, " interrupted the clerk; "there's a motion toadjourn afore the Chair. "

"But I maun tak' ma staun, " exclaimed Saunders. 

"Ye mauna, " retorted the clerk, "ye maun tak' yir seat, " and Saundersdropped where he stood, while his fellow-elders looked into each other'sfaces as if to say that this thing might have befallen any one of them. 

VI

_The FIRST PARISH ROUND_

I soon began, of course, the visitation of my flock. Although my titleto youth was at that time undisputed, and although the unreflectivewould have labelled me "new school, " the importance of faithful visitingwas ever before my mind. 

The curate's place (unhappiest of men) had more than once been offeredme at the hands of portly ministers, prepared to deny themselves all thevisiting, they to take all the preaching and nearly all the salary, while their untitled slave was to deny himself the high joy of thepulpit, to starve on the salary's dregs, and to indulge himself royallyin a very carnival of unceasing visitation. These overtures I had hadlittle hesitation in declining, for observation had taught me that theslave's place soon makes the slave's spirit, unless that slavery be anindenture unto God, which is but the sterner name for liberty. 

Moreover, curates (especially Presbyterian, which implieth the greaterperversion) seemed to lack the breath of the uplands which the pulpitbreathes, and too often degenerate into society favourites, whoseflapping tails of black may be seen as these curates ring at fashionabledoors, where "five-o'clocks" within await the kid-gloved ministers ofmen who are supposed to be the stewards of eternal life. I had onceoverheard an enamelled queen of fashion declare, with much emotion, thattheir curate was indispensable to a high-class "at home, " and evenpanegyrize his graceful transportation of cups of tea, however full. 

Whereupon I forever swore that I would frizzle upon no such heathenaltar; I vowed to be either a minister or a butler--one thing or theother--but never a Right Reverend Butler, which is a monster and atongue-cheeked comedy to both God and man. 

As the minister of a vast congregation like St. Cuthbert's, I might onthe other hand have requested an assistant who should relieve me of thevisiting, leaving me only the duties of the pulpit, oceanic enough forany man. Indeed, one of the stalwarts had suggested this to me, averringthat I needed more time for my sermons, whereat I looked at him sharply;but his face was placid as a sea of milk, which is the way of Scotsmenwhen they mean to score. But this dual ministry was ever the object ofmy disfavour, for he preaches best who visits best, and the weeklygarner makes the richest grist for the Sunday mill. True and tendervisiting is the sermon's fuse, and what God hath put together no mancan safely put asunder. 

One of my first visits was to the farmhouse of Donald M'Phatter, abelated member of the fold, for he and his wife Elsie had not beshadowedSt. Cuthbert's door for many a year. This parochial policy had beensuggested to me by the beadle:

"Ye maun luik to the driftwood first--pit oot the laggin' log frae theshore, ye ken, " he said to me, following this up with an exhaustivenarrative of the raftsman's life which had once been his. 

I found Donald dour but deferential, full-armed against every appeal forhis reform. 

"I willna gang, " he exclaimed, "till ony kirk that pits oot the token[1]at the sacrament, and taks up wi' they bit cairds they're usin' the noo. Cairds at the sacrament! it's fair insultin' to the Almichty. "

[Footnote 1: A small piece of metal with the words "This do inremembrance of Me, " given in Scottish churches, before the Sacrament ofThe Supper, to those entitled to participate. ]

I parried the blow as best I could, and was on the verge of winning inthe argument when he suddenly took another tack. 

"Forbye, I hae dune ma duty. Didna I gang steady when the Doctor was oormeenister? Ilka Sabbath day I gaed an' hearkened till the graun' sermonstwa oors at a time, an' God grippit me thae days, an' He hasna loosenedHis haud o' me yet. Ance saved, aye saved. That's ma doctrine. Wha canslip awa frae grace, forbye it be thae Methody buddies an' itherArmenian fowk, an' there was na ane o' them in the parish in thedoctor's day. The fields was fine an' fu' o' wheat thae days, butthere's muckle mustard noo, I tell ye that. "

"But you will surely admit, Mr. M'Phatter, that the nourishment of yearsago will not suffice for to-day. Yesterday's dinner will not forestallthe necessity of the day that follows, " I urged, inwardly ashamed of thethreadbare argument. 

He saw its threadbareness too, for he retorted--

"That's a verra auld argyment; in fac', it's clean stale, if it's no'rotten. Doctor Grant wud hae sniffit at it. And what's mair, it's no' anargyment ava', for I hae mony a dinner o' the sermons that I gathered inthae far back days. I aye eat and sup off that when ye an' yir fowk'sfummlin' wi' yir cairds at the kirk. Bide a meenit. "

He hurried into an adjoining room, and soon returned with a sheaf ofrusty notes, clearing his throat awhile with the sound of a trumpetercalling to the fray. 

"I wasna ane o' the sleepin' kind; I aye paid attention in the hoose o'God. I only sleepit ance an' I cudna help it, for oor Jeanie was bornthat mornin'--an' that was a work o' needcessity. An' what's mair, Iaye took notes o' the discoorse, an' I hae them yet. 

"They's ma dinners noo, tae use yir word, minister--they's ma dinners, an' they hunger nae mair wha tak's them--saxteen or seventeen coorses, ilka ane o' them; nane o' yir bit lunches wi' napkins an' flowers andfinger bowls like ye hae the noo, no' worth the bit grace ye say owerthem--they's nane o' yir teas, tastin' an' sniffin', wi' sweeties an'sic like--they's meat, sir, strong meat for strong men, an' the bane'sin the baith o' them like. "

He stopped, as a cannon stops after it has fired, the aroma of battlestill pouring from its lips. 

"What are these papers in your hand?" I asked, not for information, butfor breath. (You have seen a caged canary leap from its perch to itsswing, and back again, when sorely pressed. ) He speedily closed thatdoor. 

"They, sir? Div ye no' ken what's they? They's Doctor Grant's heids andpertikklers. Doctor Grant's heids and pertikklers, I'm tellin' ye. A' o'them but ane is the heids an' pertikklers o' sermons that made St. Cuthbert's ring like the wood on an August nicht when the thunder roamsit. That ither ane he preach't in a graun city kirk wha soucht to gethim, and they cudna--an' it was croodit like the barn mou' whenharvest's dune, an' I was there masel', an' he kent me--an' I'm the manthat held his cane in ma haun the time he preach't, I'm tellin' ye. " AndDonald's withered face was now aglow with such a tenderness as onlybygone years can loan to age; his eyes were ashine with tears, each onethe home of sheeted days that had come back from the dead, and hisparted lips were drinking deep of the mystic tides of memory. 

 * * * * *

A rich mosaic was the visitation of this sterling race. The lovelyvalleys and the picturesque hills of their ancestral sires I have oftenroamed since then, but never have I seen the Scottish character in itshomely beauty as it appeared to me in their happy Canadian life amongthe cozy farmhouses of this fruitful countryside. The traditions oftheir native land were tenderly cherished by them all, and many were thestories they related of the old days in Scotland and of the day whereonthey looked their last upon the unforgotten heather. 

One of my first visits was to Mrs. Gavin Toshack, whom I found in areminiscent mood. 

"Ay, " she said, "we're a' Scotch aboot thae pairts; an' God keep us sae. There's been scarce a fly in the ointment, forbye Sandy Trother's wife, who gied him, an' gied us a', a heap o' tribble; but she was Irish, yeken. An' oor ministers hae a' been frae Scotland; but we had ane formebbe twa month or mair--nae oor ain minister, but only a kin' o'evangelist buddy. He was an Irish buddy tae, but there were severalsconverted. That was nae Irish wark whatever, but the grace o' God. Wewere na lang oot frae the auld country when he cam'; I mind fine. It wasin the year '37. We sailed frae Annan Water Foot in July, an' eightweeks or mair it took us afore we landit in Quebec. Then by canal andwagon till we reach't New Jedboro; 'twas a sair, weary ride. But thebreath o' freedom an' o' promise was in the air--an' we hae oor ain hamenoo an' twa hunner acres o' the finest land in a' the country. An' we'reindependent noo, wi' eneuch for a bite an' a sup till we hunger nae mairnor thirst ony mair. An' oor bairnies is a' daein' fine: Jamie's adoctor i' Chicago; an' oor Jeanie's mairrit on Allan Sutherland, him aswill be the new Reeve o' the coonty; an' Chairlie has a ranch i' Albertalike the Duke o' Roxburgh's estate; an' Willie'll hae oor ain land here, when we sleep aneath it. 

"I aften sit an' think we micht hae been aye herdin' sheep on theDumfries hills, wi' scarce eneuch to eat, wi' this man 'my Laird' an'yon man 'yir Grace' an' oor ain bairns little mair nor slaves. The dukewe knelt doon afore in Scotland aften paid mair for a racin' filly norwe paid for a' this bonnie land we ca' oor ain the day. Canada's naesae guid for earls an' lairds, but it's graun' for puir honest fowk. An'what's mair, " continued Mrs. Gavin, "we didna hae the preachin' i' theauld country we hae in Canada--leastwise, no' as graun' as we used tohae i' the time o' Doctor Grant. Div ye ken, sir, the grandest thing Iever heard come oot o' his mooth? No? Weel, it was this. He aye preach'tfearfu' lang, as ye've nae doot heard, an' at times the men fowk wadweary an' gang oot, some to tak' a reek wi' their pipes an' mair to gangower the way an' hae a drap juist to liven the concludin' heids o' thediscoorse (for they aye steppit back); but the Doctor didna seem tounderstaun'. Weel, ae day some o' them was stampin' doon the aisle, an'the Doctor, he juist stoppit an' sat doon, an' then he says, 'Ma freens, we'll bide a wee till the chaff blaws awa'. ' Losh, hoo they drappitwhaur they stood! There was nae mair gaun oot that day, I tell ye, normony a day. But mind ye, 'twas fearsome the time atween when he sat doonin the pulpit an' when he speakit oot like I telt ye; it was cleanfearsome. "

VII

"_The CHILD of The REGIMENT_"

My labours in St. Cuthbert's had covered but a few fleeting years (oh, relentless ticking of the clock! at once the harbinger and the echo ofeternity), when there came into our lives life's greatest earthly joy. Serene and peaceful our lives had been, every hour garlanded with loveand every year festooned by the Hand Unseen. 

Trials and difficulties there had been indeed, but they were as billowswhich carried in their secret bosom the greeting of the harbour and theshore. Even the roots of sorrow had been moistened by the far-off wellsof joy. To many a guest of God, disguised in the habiliments of gloom, we had turned a frowning face and had bidden such begone. But suchguests heeded not, pressing relentlessly in upon our trembling hearth, when lo! the passing days revealed their mission; we saw the face hiddenbeneath the sombre hood, and prayed the new-discovered guest to abidewith us unto the end. For God loveth the masquerade, and doth use iteverywhere. 

The way to hell appeareth glorious oftentimes, but the pathway unto lifeis robed in shadows and its sign-post is the cross--which things are amasquerade and to be witnessed every day; for in one single day allGod's great drama is rehearsed in miniature. 

Our manse was a pleasant place, and its site had been selected by someone with the nursery-heart. Spacious and genial was the old homelyhouse, with its impartial square. Rooms there were, and halls, waitingto echo back some voice uncoarsened by the clang of time and uncorrodedby the salt of tears. Rich terraces flowed in velvet waves down to thewaiting river, murmuring its trysting joy; a full-robed choir of oak andelm and maple kept their eternal places in a grander loft than man couldbuild them, while pine and spruce and cedar, disrobing never, butsnatching their bridal garments from the winter storm, swelled thesylvan harmony. 

Here came the crocuses and the snowdrops, trembling like the waifs ofwinter, and hither came the violet and the dandelion to reassure thesedaring pioneers; later on, the pansy and the rose utterly convinced themthat they had not lost their way, but had been guided by the pilgrims'Friend. 

But no child's voice had waked these sombre echoes, no child's gentlefeet had pressed this velvet sward; no radiant shadow such as childhoodalone can cast had flitted here and there beneath these lonely trees, nor had these flowers felt their life's great and only thrill in thetouch of a baby's dimpled hand. But that golden door at last swunggently open. That hour of ecstasy and anguish brought us life's crownand joy, and the hills of time, erstwhile green and beautiful, were nowradiant with a light kindled from afar. 

St. Cuthbert's rejoiced exceedingly when our little Margaret was givenunto us, but we knew it not at first, for Scotch joy is a deep andsilent thing, a fermentation at the centre rather than an effervescenceat the surface. For our Margaret was as one born out of due time, thefirst child whose infant cry had awakened the echoes of their ancientmanse, though seventy long years had flown since their first ministerhad come among them. Thus she became the child of the regiment and theysilently exulted. Jubilant, one hour after this new star had swung intothe firmament, I hoisted the Union Jack to the topmost notch of ourtowering flag-pole, and never has it flaunted its triumph morejubilantly since. 

The beadle reported to me afterwards that the other churches weremightily jealous of our late autumn bloom, and one of their devotees, anEpiscopalian, had asked him sneeringly--

"What's that flag doing there?"

"It's blawin' i' the wind, " retorted my diplomatic beadle. 

"It's nothing to be so joyful over, " urged the Episcopalian brother. 

"It's mair nor ever happened in yon kirk o' yours; an' it's mair norcould happen to the Pope o' Rome, wha's a true freen o' yours, I'mjalousin', " snorted my beadle back triumphantly; for William wasuncharitable, and despaired of all ritualists, the iron of covenantingprotest running hot within his blood. 

Nor were these the only swords that flashed above our Margaret's cradle;for a Methodist mother in Israel, hopeful of a sympathetic response fromElsie M'Phatter (the non-churchgoing one), ventured the comment thatsimilar events in her own brilliant maternal record had provoked nounseemly joy; to which Elsie responded tartly--

"I ken that fine, and it's very nat'ral, for ye've had mair nor maist;but gin ye hadna had ane for a maitter o' seventy year or mair, like us, wad ye no' hae been clean daft aboot it?" and the field thereafter wasElsie's own. 

 * * * * *

The Sabbath morning after Margaret's dawn St. Cuthbert's was full tooverflowing, as seemed to be every heart, especially every aged heart, finding its morning anew in the life of a little child. For the morningand the evening are wondrously alike. In summer especially, thesun-bathed mountains, the pendant dewdrop, the melodious silences--allthese belong so much to both alike that I find it hard to distinguishthe matins and the vespers of God's cathedral days. 

My voice trembled just a little as I gave out the psalm--

 "Such pity as a father hath Unto his children dear, "

but we sang it to the tune of "Dunfermline, " and soon I was borne out tosea upon its far-flung billows; for of a truth these old Scottish tuneshave the swing of eternity in them, and seem to grandly overlap thebourne of time and space. And when we prayed the only liturgy whichPresbyterians will own, I could not forbear to say "Our Father" twice, and lo! a strange thing happened unto me. For a great light seemed toshine upon the words, and that little helpless life at home within themanse, and its thrice-blessed cry, and its yearning look of wonder, andits hand whose only prowess was to lie in some stronger hand oflove--all these became a commentary, illustrating God, and in theircordial light I beheld Him as mother, or professor, or minister hadnever shown Him to me before, bending over the souls of men, otherwiseorphaned evermore. That vision has tarried with me ever since, and mypeople have been the better of it; for he alone can caress his people'ssouls who has felt the caress of His father's love. God's tenderness isthe great contagion for the healing of life's long disease. 

VIII

"_A NEW FOOT on The FLOOR_"

When our daughter (are there any two other words so well-wed as these?What music their union makes!) was only about ten years old, her mother, which is my wife writ large and heavenly, and I were taking tea atInglewood, which my long-suffering readers will remember as the homewhich first welcomed me to New Jedboro and the residence of Mr. MichaelBlake. When our meal was over, Mr. Blake and I were enjoying a quietgame of billiards, which was a game I loved. But I may have more to sayabout this later on, for so had some of my pious people, though I aminclined to think that they objected not so much because they thoughtthe game was wrong as because they feared I was enjoying it. For, tosome truly good Scotch folk the measure of enjoyableness is the measureof sin, and a thing needeth no greater fault than to be guilty ofdeliciousness. But the converse of this they also hold as true, namely, that what maketh miserable is of God, and to be wretched is to be piousat the heart. For which reason, I have observed oftentimes, they deemthat to be a truly well-spent Sabbath day which had banished allpossible happiness from their children's lives, bringing them to itsclose limp and cramped and sore, but catechism-full and with a good markin the book of life for every weary hour. 

Was it Johnson who ventured the opinion that the Puritans putbear-baiting under the ban, not because it was painful to the bears butbecause it was pleasant to the people? Whether it was or no, I shall notdiscuss it. Neither shall I discuss the ethics of billiards, unless itbe to say this much, that if there be games in heaven, I do not doubt itwill have an honoured place, for it is an ivory game and truthful, abhorring vagrant luck and scoring only by eternal laws which Euclidmade his own. And I make no doubt that many a hand hath plied thebilliard cue which long ere this hath touched with its finger-tips theivory gates and golden. 

But to return. We were in the very midst of our game, of which Iremember very little, often and often though I have tried to recallevery feature of that eventful night. But I do recall that we spokeabout our Margaret, and there was a deep strain of wistful envy in Mr. Blake's voice. I remember well his saying that God's richest earthlygift was that of wife and child and hearth. 

"Though I speak, " he added almost bitterly, "as I might speak of distantstars, for I have no one of the three, " and his lips closed tightlywhile he drove his ball with a savage hand. 

"You have not wife or child, " I said, "but no man who has been shelteredby your friendship can agree with you about your hearth. It has warmedmy heart too many times when that heart was cold. "

"There is no hearth where there is neither wife nor child, " he answeredalmost passionately. "Hearths are not built with hands. Do you not know, sir, that if a man would have a fireside he must begin to kindle it whenyouth is still throbbing in his heart? From boyhood up he is preparingit, or else he is quenching it in darkness. Do you know, sir, if I werea preacher I would burn that into young men's hearts till they wouldfeel that heaven or hell were all bound up with how they reverence ordespise their future fireside. I would tell them that no man can lay hishearth in ashes in the hot days of youth, and then build it up again inthe rainy days of age. 

"I would tell every wastrel, and every man who is rehearsing hell withhis youthful follies, that he cannot eat his cake and have it. Forhearth and wife and child are not for him. I would tell him that hecannot breed a cancer in his heart while he is young and cure it withsome pious perfume brewed by the hand of age. I would tell them thattill my lips blistered, and then they should hear of the grace of Godtill those same lips were rosy with its healing. "

Amazed, I stood and gazed at him, for there was a fearful fascination inhis face. The face of a saint it was, with that warlike peace which onlya battling and victorious life can give, but it had for the time thehalf-hunted look of one who trembles at the sound of footsteps he hadhoped were forever still, of one whose soul was overstormed by surgingwaves of memory. There is sometimes a dread ghastliness in the thoughtthat out of the abundance of a man's heart his mouth is speaking, thoughhe declares it not. It is like the procession of a naked soul; or, tochange the figure, it is like beholding a man unearth some very corpsehe had long sought to hide. 

It was his turn to play--ah me! the grim variety of life--and his ballfailed but narrowly of a delicate ambition. 

"If I could but have it back and play it over, " I heard him rather sighthan say, whereat I bethought myself of the high allegory of a game. 

Musing still, I stood apart, gazing as one gazes at a fire, which invery truth I was. 

"It is your shot, sir, " he said, in a voice as passionless as when Ifirst heard it years before. 

My ball had but left my cue when the door opened and a servant said--

"There's a young man doon the stair, sir, and he says he wants to speakwi' the minister. "

I descended, hearing as I went a rattling fusilade of ivory, which Iknew was the echo of a soul's thunder-storm. 

 * * * * *

How often do we meet new faces, little recking their relation to comingyears! Yet many an unfading light and many an incurable eclipse has comewith a transient meeting such as this! How many a woman of Samaria goesto draw water from the well, and sees--the Lord! For I met only a boy, or better, a laddie--boyhood-breathing word!--about sixteen years ofage, openly poor but pathetically decent. His clothes were coarse andcheap and even darned, bearing here and there the signatures of povertyand motherhood. 

I advanced and took his hand; for that is an easy masonry, and itsexercise need never be regretted even if it never be repeated. My wifeonce spent a plaintive day because she had wasted a hand-shake upon acaller whom she took to be an applicant for matrimony, whose emolumentswere hers, but who turned out to be an agent for Smith's Dictionary ofthe Bible, whose emoluments were his own. Nevertheless I have alwaysheld that no true hand-shake is unrecorded in the book of life. 

"And what can I do for you, my lad?" I said. 

"I dinna ken, sir, " he answered, in a voice that suggested a sea voyage, for it was redolent of what lies only beyond the sea. 

"What is your name?"

"Angus Strachan, sir, and I come frae Ettrick, and I hae my lines fraethe minister o' the Free Kirk. "

"And when did you land, Mr. Strachan?"

"Ca' me Angus, sir, if ye please. Naebody has ca'd me by that name sin'my mither pairted wi' me at the stage coach road, and she was fairchokit wi' cryin', and when I cudna see her mair for the bush aboon theburn, I could aye hear her bleatin' like a lamb--an' it was thegloamin'. An' I can fair hear her yet. Will ye no' ca' me Angus?"

Accursed be the heart which has no opening door for the immigrant'sweary feet, and thrice accursed be the heart which remembersstrangerhood against some mother's homeless boy. Such malediction, thankGod, my soul has never won, for if there be one sight which more thananother fills me with hopeful pity, it is the spectacle of some peasantlad making the great venture of an untried shore, pressing in to thosewho were also foreigners one far-back cheerless day, and asking if thisWestern land may harbour still another exile from the poverty he seeksto flee. Especially is this true of Scottish laddies; for upon theirfaces seems to be written: "I ask for but a chance such as thou hadstthyself, " which was the plea of Tom Carlyle when he first knocked atLondon's mighty door. 

So I drew nearer to him, and my heart flowed through my voice as I saidagain--

"When did you land, Angus lad? and tell me all about yourself. I haveheard that mother's cry before. " For I was thinking of my own mother'sparting blessing, save that hers was wondrously exultant as becometh onewho calls back from the unseen Chariot of God. 

"I landed yesterday at Montreal, and I cam' ower on the _Lake Ontario_. And I hae but little to tell, and it wunna tak' me lang. Ma mitherweaves in Ettrick, and I herded sheep upon the hills sin' I was able. But I was aye hame at nicht, and she aye keepit a licht in the windowwhen the nicht was dark and her shadow fell upon it, for she aye cam'oot to meet me when she heard me lilt the sang. And she lilted tae, andwe baith sang it thegither till we met, and then we gaed ben thegitherand gaed na mair oot till the mirk was by. "

I detected the serious and lofty figure in his words, and the vision ofScotland's lowly altars and thatched cathedrals rose before me. No mancould mistake the ritual of which that strain was bred. 

"And why came you here, Angus?"

"I cam' here, " he answered, "to better masel'. I heard tell o' Canadasin' I was a bairn, and they a' spak' it fair for a land whaur an honestman micht mak' an honest leevin'--and mair tae, " he added, true to theScotch afterthought of an extra. 

"And what line do you propose to follow? What work do you intend to do?"

"Ilka line that's straight, an' ony wark that willna soil the soul evengin it may soil the hands, " he answered quickly. 

My soul went out to the lad, for I saw that his heart's roots were deepin the best heart-soil the world hath known, and that the Atlantic'sbillows had not quenched the light of his mother's cottage fire. 

"Your father is dead, is he, Angus?" was the next step in my examinationfor discovery, as the lawyers say. 

"No, he's no' deid, he's alive, " replied the lad, with the exactitudewhich marks his race; "but I dinna care to speak aboot him. "

"Very well, very well, boy, " I rejoined hastily; "spends his time andhis money and your mother's money, when he can get it, at the Red Cow, or the Cock and Hens, a drunken wastrel and cruel too; for I have beenenough in Scotland to know that such hens lay deadly eggs and such redcows' milk is red with blood. " All this latter part, of course, I saidto myself, but no word of it to the lad before me, for no honest youthcan bear any lips to miscall his father save his own. 

"You will come to the manse with us and stay the night; it is too lateto seek other lodging now. "

"Thank ye kindly, sir, but I hae a wee pickle siller in my pocket, " hereplied, with modest independence. I verily believe that in heaven allScotsmen (and even Scotch Freemasons) will be found wi' a wee picklesiller in their pockets when they receive that great degree. 

But I insisted, and I won; for he who wages the campaign of hospitalityhath God for his ally, and no heart can finally resist that siege. 

IX

"_ANGELS UNAWARES_"

I presented him to my wife and to my host, whose cordiality was worthyof his wealth and his success. Perhaps he was thinking of an hour likeunto this when, so many long years before, he too had reached NewJedboro by night, friendless and poor, also craving work, beginning thatsteady climb which had brought him to the dizzy heights of wealth andinfluence. 

For memories of poverty, like poor relations, should not be thrust outat wealth's back gate, but should have a choice room in the mansion atwhose door the sated heart will often knock, seeking rest. 

My wife has frequently told me that she liked Angus from the startbecause he seemed so robed in health and draped in a kind of patheticmodesty, with eyes whose colour she was certain would not fade. Howwomen do love the metaphors of millinery! How better than the sage ofChelsea they understand the philosophy of clothes! But she also addedthat she was charmed by the way he spoke his mother's name, for in histone she caught the flavour of a quick caress; and woman is more facilefar than man in her translation of these Hebraic breathings. Besidesall this, he held the gate open as she passed through into our manseestate; she still remarks that this was a little thing, but contendsthat he did it in a great way. 

We showed the tired stranger to his room. Distinguished guests we havehad beneath the roof of St. Cuthbert's manse. We once had Major Pond, the great cicerone of great lecturers; he had brought Ian Maclaren toour town, who in turn brought the spring to all of us, beguilingmoisture even from long-sullen clouds. 

He had stayed with Mr. Blake, which was but fair, for these are wealth'sreal prerogatives; but the genial Major stayed with us. We were greatlycharmed, for he charmed us till two o'clock in the morning; and my wife, fearful that she might stampede him to his bed, rose at intervals andhid her face in the geranium window when she had to yawn. But it was theclock and not the Major that provoked these mild convulsions. Herehearsed to us his glorious achievements with his "stars. " Some fewplaints he had, wherein he "wept o'er his wounds, " but almost all histales were "tales of valour done. " He told the number of his "stars, "vividly described how he held them in his right hand, pointed out to ushow one "star" differeth from another "star" in glory, and went to bedat last with the air of a man who had gilded the Pleiades, brushed upCastor and Pollux, and house-cleaned the heavens generally. 

Stanley, Farrar, Beecher, and a score of others filtered through him ashe sat by our humble fire, turning his telescope this way and that as asportsman turns his gun, while the very clock ticked slow to listen. Mywife became quite confused, probably sun-struck, for she has sinceaffirmed that the Major claimed to have been present at the birth ofevery one of these famous men on whom he early resolved to conferimmortality. My recollection of his night's autobiography is rather thatof a lane of dazzling light, in which there stood now one and nowanother giant, but all alike clinging to the Major's hand. 

But this does not exhaust our list of the famous men whose ponderousheads have pressed the pillow whereon the exiled Angus now laid his ownto rest. For we once had the Moderator. The Moderator of what? someunsophisticated gentile will wish to know. Of the General Assembly, ofcourse, for that is the Westminster Assembly of Divines in recurringresurrection, and it hath its unadjourning court in heaven, as theambushed correspondent of the Hebrews doth inform us. Which proves, myprecentor tells me, that the New Jerusalem is a Presbyterian city andsingeth nothing but the psalms. 

The Moderator, as I have already said, abode with us over night, and wealmost begrudged the sleeping hours, for, if you will waste sleep upon aModerator, let it be when he is preaching and not when he is fillingyour house with dignity and smoke. For the Moderator loved his pipe, andso did I, and together we revelled in those clouds before which allother clouds retreat. What a great leveller is that democrat, tobacco. For while we smoked we were both moderators, and even an Assembly clerkcould not have told which was which. Twice, too, the Moderator filledfrom my pouch, with no air of patronage, and I shall never forget it ofhim. When he went to his bed, still redolent of Virginia, he asked mefor a little soda water, very little, he said emphatically. I brought itto him, and passing by his door a moment later, I heard a low gurglingsound like that of an infant brook, then silence, then an honestsmack--soon after there emerged a festive flavour, a healing aroma, sweetly distilling. As I went back to our room, I said to my wife, "Whata fine spirit a Moderator can shed through a house, " in which opinionshe agreed, though she knew not what I said. I was all but asleep whenshe aroused me with--

"Tom, why is a Moderator called a Moderator?"

"Because he takes it moderately, dear, " I answered, being only in thetwilight of intelligence. 

"Takes what, Tom?" she asked. 

"His honours, sweetheart--go to sleep. "

But although we have had great guests like these, I do not know that Iwas ever more glad with the thought of a sleeping stranger than with theknowledge that this homeless lad was beneath our roof that night. For hewho homes the honest poor has borrowed the guests of God, and a mother'swandering son is His peculiar care. 

I knew that the great Executor of all praying mothers leaves them notlong indebted to any man; He Himself shall speak with their creditors inthe gate. 

X

_My PIOUS PROFLIGATE_

My wandering but faithful pen, whose every child, though homely, is itslegitimate own, must now forsake Angus and his fortunes for a season. Itshall again return to him, _if it be spared_. For the good folk of St. Cuthbert's have taught me to insert this phrase at every seasonableopening--indeed, they deem it fitting for every season, and the veryfirst marriage in New Jedboro at which I officiated afforded a vividproof of this. 

The young couple were just emerging from the heavenly operation, stillsomewhat under the celestial chloroform, when Ronald M'Gregor admonishedthem. His admonition was after a fashion almost ministerial, for Ronaldhad once culled himself from out the common herd as meant for aminister, and had abandoned his pursuit only when he found that he hadevery qualification except the gifts. 

"Ye maun bear in mind, " he said, "that ye're nae mair twa, but ae flesh;an' ye'll bide wi' ane anither till deith shall ye pairt--that is, ginye're spared. "

Meantime, this friendly pen must record this news of Angus, that thevery morning he left St. Cuthbert's manse he entered upon hisapprentice term in the great iron manufactory of which Mr. Blake was thehead and the propelling power; for behind every engine is the ingenuity, not of many men, but of one. 

And leaving him there to ply his fortune and to confront that unseenantagonist against whom every ambitious man plays move and move about, Ibetake myself again to the records of St. Cuthbert's. 

Yet I find it hard to dismiss the lad, for his is a besetting face, andbesides, it stubbornly appears above the main current of all the story Ihave yet to tell. 

My fortunes with these strange Scotch folk must be recorded, and chiefamong my handiwork I think of Geordie Lorimer. For he was a typicalScot, and supremely so in this, that he could be both very religious andvery bad. Of which the remarkable thing lies here, that he was both ofthese at one and the self-same time. 

Now, although I am an Irishman, and boast the most romantic blood oftime, yet must I frankly admit that few countrymen of mine have suchfacility. Many of them there are who could be religious, and more whocould be bad, with spontaneous ease, but few there be who know how to beboth at once. But Geordie did. He was a profligate, but a piousprofligate; a terror he was, but he was a holy terror. Mind you well, Ido not mean to impugn Geordie's sincerity in the last appeal; not forone moment, for I believe implicitly that Geordie, in the very heart ofhim, meant to do well. Indeed, I will go further, and say that in hisvery soul he wished to be closer to God; for he could not well help thatwish--it was his inseparable heritage from a saintly father, long abeloved elder in St. Cuthbert's, whose sacred suit of "blacks" Geordiehad inherited, himself wearing them to the sacrament till the sessiondenied him his token, and shut him out, blacks and all. The memory ofhis mother's life was still fragrant to hundreds, fresh and dewy inlove's unwithering morn; upon the tide of prayer had Geordie's infantlife been launched, and its gentle waves, faint but palpable, stillsought to lave his soul. 

How many a Northern island-life, bleak and wild, is redeemed from utterdestruction by that great gulfstream, the prayers of a mother who was inleague with God! Thus it came about that Geordie Lorimer's life was amuddy stream, still tinged with the crystal waters of its hill-bornspring. He had made the ghastly find, that when he would do good, evilwas present with him; to will was present with him, but how to performthat which was good he found not. For Geordie had, alas! a strongerthirst than that for righteousness. He was given to "tasting, " ahomeopathic word which Scotsmen use to indicate a trough. I soon heardof him as incorrigibly religious but incorrigibly dry. 

Geordie was the best-known character in New Jedboro, as well known asthe town pump, the one famed for its outgiving, the other for itsintaking powers, but both alike for liquid prowess. His principaloccupation was in his wife's name, being a boarding-house whose inmateswere secretly and shamefully proud of Geordie's unique superiority inhis own particular line, for he could outdrink the countryside. 

The very Saturday which preceded my Sunday as a candidate of St. Cuthbert's (they afterwards told me) Geordie was in the kindly grip ofthe town constable, who was bearing him towards the jail, his victimloudly proclaiming to the world that the guardian of the law hadarrested him only when he, Geordie, had refused to treat for theeleventh time. 

"He tret the ainst, an' I tret ten times or mair, " Geordie wasvehemently affirming to a sympathetic street. Turning a corner, they metno less a personage than Sandy Weir, the session clerk. 

"Sandy, dinna let him tak' me to the lock-up. There's to be a newminister i' the kirk, " he cried, "an' I maun gang to hear him preach themorn. Sandy, wull ye no' bid him no' to tak' me to the lock-up?"

But Sandy was a man under authority, having elders under him, and herefrained, knowing the boundaries of his power. 

Passing along a quiet street some years after this, I beheld theunreforming Geordie in a savage fight with a kindred spirit, who drewhis inspiration from the same source as his antagonist; for many a corkthey had released together. The two men fought like tigers, abandoningthemselves the more cheerfully to the combat they both knew would end ina renewal of brotherhood and beer. This thought lent a sanguineenthusiasm to their every effort, for each felt it a point of honour tomake the engagement worthy of the "treaty" (a fitting word) that awaitedthem at the Travellers' Rest. 

Above the din of battle I heard a voice emerging from Geordie's head, which head emerged from his opponent's oxter--

"Dinna mark me, Jock, dinna mark me; for we're gaun to hae the bairnbaptized i' the kirk the morn, " and I knew not which to admire more, Geordie's moral versatility, or the beautiful comity of war. 

Geordie did appear in the kirk with the bairn the next morning, unmarked, except by unusual solemnity. He did not take the vows, ofcourse--these were assumed by his long-suffering and devoted wife; butGeordie felt he should be there as collateral security. 

I coveted Geordie's soul, and longed to add his regeneration to the newActs of the Apostles. No opportunity to speak with him was ever allowedto slip, and one came to me whose details I must recount. There had beenan election for the town council, which had, half in joke and half injealousy, returned Geordie as the councillor of his ward; for ourglorious manhood suffrage, as some one has pointed out, makes JudasIscariot as influential at the polls as the Apostle Paul. 

Returning, the night of the election, from a sickbed visit, I overtookthe jubilant Geordie, full of emotion and other things. His locomotionwas irregular and spasmodic, his course original, picturesque, andvariable. Geordie was having it out with the law of gravitation. 

He was as a ship returning from Jamaica, a precious cargo of spirits inits hold, and labouring heavily in the trough of the sea. I essayed totake his arm, intending to be his wheelsman home, but it was like tryingto board a vessel in a storm; for Geordie had at least a hundred routeswhich he must traverse with impartial feet. After I had somewhat managedto adopt his swing, I sought to deal faithfully with him, though it waslike preaching from the plunging deck of a ship at sea, while the breathof my swaying auditor suggested that the aforesaid cargo had sprung aleak. 

He was raising a double pćan to voice a twofold joy: the first, the joyof triumph in the recent contest; the second, the historic andimperishable joy that he was a Scotsman born. 

"Yon whelp I skelpit the day was naething but an Irishman, " he criedloftily. "I canna get Robbie Burns' graun' words oot o' my heid: 'TheScotsmen staun' an' Irish fa'--let him on wi' me, '" and on this wave ofmartial spirit Geordie took another plunge at right angles from ourprevious course, bearing me after him like a skiff tied to a schooneramid stormy seas. 

After we had put about and regained our bearings, I nimbly tookadvantage of this patriotic opening, having ever a quick mind for thetransition of ideas. 

"Yes, Geordie, many good things are Scotch, and many Scotch things aregood. Some misguided persons think even that Scotch liquor is good. Now, George----" But I got no further. This time Geordie swung around beforeme, like a boat that trusts its moorings--

"Ye're richt, minister; wha wad hae thocht ye kent the difference? Butye're richt--a' whusky is guid, but some's mair guid nor ithers, an'Scotch is mair guid nor ony ithers. Those feckless Irish fowk aye tak'the speerits o' oor native land gin they hae the siller, which isnalikely. An' I dinna blame them muckle. "

I now saw that there was no opening along this line, favourable at firstsight as it had appeared. The attack must be plain and straight. 

"Geordie, " I began, "this is a pitiable situation for a minister to bein, and you know, George----"

"That's a' richt, minister--dinna fash yersel'. I'll no' mention it to asoul. Mony's the time I hae been fou masel', 'peetiably seetivated, ' asye ca' it, bein' mair learned nor me; to be honest wi' ye, I'm juist awee bit 'peetiably seetivated' this vera nicht. But I'll tak' ye hamefor a' that, an nane'll hear tell o't frae Geordie Lorimer. "

Then he plunged again, propelled by the sense of a new responsibility, and for a minute we two performed, unaided and alone, the severaldifferent parts of an eight-hand reel. 

Nevertheless, I relinquished not my hold, for I was truly attached tothe fellow, and in due time we made a mile, though I know the cyclometerwould have recorded ten. More hopeful, I was steaming on, a clericaltugboat, when of a sudden Geordie stopped, pointing with his right leghigh in air, trusting me and his left to perform the relief duty thusdemanded. 

"Yon's ma coo, ma Ayrshire coo, " he exclaimed, pointing with his initialleg to the white-faced cow which lay among its kindred, its jaw gentlyswinging. 

"The beast disna ken, " I heard him mutter; then he suddenly bolted, breaking his tether, and before I could recover him he had shambled onto the road with the gait of a delirious camel, and kicking his innocentproperty from behind, cried out--

"Get oot o' that. Sic like a thing, to be lyin' wi' the common herd. Mind ye, ye're no' an or'nary man's coo--ye're a cooncillor's coo. " Thenhe retraced his labyrinthian steps in a corresponding swath. 

As we drew near his humble gate (how often Geordie had made that lastport with pain), he muttered to himself reflectively--

"I gied him hell, " referring doubtless to the vanquished candidate. 

Whereat I took him to task right sternly, giving him sharply tounderstand that such language was an insult to his minister and friend. 

In reply, he fell upon me, literally and figuratively, with tones ofreproachful tenderness. 

"Minister, " he said, "I own ye as a faithfu' guide. " ("You'd better, "said I to myself, for I was weary. ) "I own ye as a faithfu' guide, an' Iwudna gie ye pain. For we've had oor ain times thegither. I micht maistsay as 'at 'We twa hae paiddled i' the burn, ' only it wudna be becomin'. But aboot that word--I've heard ye say yirsel' frae the pulpit as howhell is a maist awfu' feelin' i' the breist. Verra well, dinna ye thinkas hoo yon Irish whelp I skelpit the day 'll hae a waesome feelin' i'his breist? That's a' the meanin' I desired till convey. It's nae wrangwhen it's expoun'it. Guid-nicht till ye, minister. "

XI

_PLUCKING A FIERY BRAND_

But there are others of whom I have better things to record, and indeedbetter things shall yet be set down by me concerning Geordie Lorimerbefore these short and simple annals shall have ended. For there isnothing so joysome to record as the brightening story of a soul comingto its real birth from the travail of its sin and struggle. Forperchance time itself is God's great midwife, and man's writhing agonyis to the end that he may soon be born. 

The serious will doubtless wish to learn what befell me in my effort tobeguile the rugged Donald M'Phatter and his wife, who had quit the kirkwhen the kirk quit the tokens, back to the worship of the sanctuary. Itis many years since they returned to St. Cuthbert's hallowed shrine, andthey now sing the uncreated song. 

For they have joined that choir invisible whose voices, trained by God, blend in perfect unison, but not in time; for they reckon not by daysand years where they have gone to dwell. 

It may be set down as certain that I would never have won them back tochurch had it not been that I abandoned argument and adopted friendship. 

For argument, to my mind, satisfies a people's souls as well as a billof fare will suffice a hungry man; but the heart's food is a differentmatter. Argument may be botany, but friendship is a flower; and onelittle violet is better than one big volume, or a thousand of them, asfar as that goes. This is perhaps the same thing as to say that a livingdog is better than a dead lion, for most big books are sepulchres--but Ithink that my figure hath a sweeter flavour than the other. 

And when I deliver the Yale lectures to young ministers, I shall tellthem that there is a blessed guile, a holy cozenage of the heart wherebythey may win their people's souls by stealth. And if a parson hath someobdurate parishioner or some gnarled and snarling elder, let him attackhim as a thief in the night, and turn its darkness into day. 

I had to build my friendship with Donald brick by brick, and oftentimesit swayed before his blasts. A hundred times I could have been justlyangry and forever done with him. But I knew a man, a very near relation, with whom God might oftener have done the same, and had not; besides, Iremembered that adroit petition in the Lord's Prayer, which is theplummet of the soul's sincerity--and I had read of One who reviled notagain. 

"In days far by, " he charged, "oor faithers said wi' pride as hoo theministers o' God were dyin' for the truth; but in thae modern days, a'men say as hoo they're dyin' for their steepin'" (stipend). 

Now this was hard to bear, for I had declined larger stipends than Iaccepted from St. Cuthbert's, and some would say that this was a rightand proper time to stand upon my dignity. But what is so dignified asthe Cross, planted in the very centre of shame's garden? I had longbefore determined that no man can stand on dignity, for it must bedignity that stands upon the man, and by no act or word of his, be itremarked, but by the high act of God. For those men who stand on dignityare top-heavy things, pigmies upon stilts, triangles upside down. 

Therefore I was patient with Donald, and guarded our infant friendshipas a lost hunter shields his last remaining match. I said little to himabout church, and much about the Highlands. For Donald was a belatedHighlander, his parents having lapsed to the lowlands, where birth tookhim at a disadvantage; but he was ever struggling to recover Inverness. 

"I was a hielandman afore I was born and a lowlandman after. I kind o'flawed doon like, ye ken, " he said. 

I nodded acquiescence, for it is a favourite theory of mine that a manis born of his grandparents just as much as of his father and hismother; they are equally responsible, I hold, but have the advantage ofan earlier retreat. 

It was Donald's great delight to recount the fighting stories of hishighland ancestors. In all that bloody reel he joined again with joy. The slightest reference to it, and Donald was off--over the hills andfar away, his guid blue bonnet on his head, his burly knees as bare asthe bayonet his fathers bore, and the wild skirl of the bagpipes in hisheart. Those pagan-Christian days, those shameful splendours of feud andraid and massacre, those mutual pleasantries of human pig-sticking, those civilized savageries and chivalric demonries--all these wereDonald's sanguinary food. 

"Mind ye, " he would say, "half the time they didna ken what they werefechtin' aboot. But they focht a' the better for that--the graun' humanprinciple was there; they kent that fine, an' that was a' they needitfor to ken. Forbye, they foucht when the chief bade them fecht. When hegied the word, hieland foot was never slow and hieland bluid was neverlaggin'. Man, what a graun' chief Bonyparte wad hae made, gin theM'Phatters had ta'en him up!"

"Dinna be aye speakin' aboot yir M'Phatters, " interrupted his gentlewife, now somewhat aroused, for her maiden name was Elsie Campbell, andshe had her own share of highland memories. "They were guid eneuchfechters in their way, nae doot, but it wasna the Campbell way. YirM'Phatter feet that ye're haverin' aboot was never slow when theCampbells was comin', I'll grant ye that--the Campbells did them, ye kenthat fine, Donald. "

"Hoots, wumman, ye dinna ken what yir sayin'. Div ye no' mind the battleo' the bluidy shirt, an'----"

"Haud yir wheesht--I canna bide to hear aboot thae bluidy shirts an'things. It's a fair scunner', and the minister hearin' ye to thebargain, " Elsie shut him off triumphantly in propriety's great name. 

The first real olive branch of friendship which Donald extended to mewas under cover of the bagpipes. I knew he was relenting when he firstasked me if I would like to hear him play. I forged a pious lie, declaring it would give me the greatest pleasure. Surely that sin hasbeen atoned for; I have suffered for it as no tongue can tell. The worldneedeth a new Dante, to write a new _Inferno_, with the bagpipes thrownin. Then will that sombre picture of future suffering be complete. Imake no reckless charge against those aforesaid instruments of music, facetiously so called. The bagpipes are a good thing in their place, buttheir place is with Dante and his _Inferno_. 

They have survived only as bulldogs survive, from perverted sentiment, and mal-educated taste. For the Scotsman is the most sentimental amongmen, stubbornly and maliciously and relentlessly sentimental. Thebagpipes are a legacy from the grim testament of war, and the savagebreath of other days belches through them yet. Ah me! with what secretpride I hear again far other music wafted from my native Emerald Isle!Nor can I well conceal my joy that the emblem of Ireland, despised andrejected though she be, is the sweetest-tongued of all music-makingthings in this vale of tears. For her, no lion, tempest-crowned, for herno prowling bear, for her no screaming eagle--but the harp, mellifluousand tender. And although its liquid strain hath for centuries beentouched by sorrow, yet there hath been music in its voice for all thehappier listening world, and the day draweth near, please God, when itsunfleeting joy shall descend and rest on her own fields and meadows, making glad the hearts within her humble cottages, whose only wealth islove. 

But Donald's fervent passion for this warlike weapon of his fathers wasunrestrained by thoughts of other lands. Had any man suggested thatIrish music was superior, he would doubtless have bidden him begone anddwell with other lyres. Such suggestion I did not dare to make. On thecontrary, I smiled as he fondled his windy octopus, which he did withmysterious tenderness. Then he adjusted the creature to his lips, whileI calmly braced myself for the gathering storm. 

I had not long to wait. He paced dramatically back and forward for aminute in a preliminary sort of way, like one who pushes his shallopfrom the shore, gently pressing the huge belly of the thing with hiselbow as if to prompt it for the ensuing fray. The thing emitted one ortwo sample sounds, not odious particularly, but infantile and grimlyprophetic, like the initial squeaks of some windful babe awaking fromits sleep. Then the thing seemed to feel its strength, to recognize itsdark enfranchisement, and broke into such a blasphemy of sound as hathnot been heard since the angels alighted where they fell. 

I have heard the deep roar of the ocean, and have listened to thescreech of the typhoon through befiddled sails; I have shuddered at thesavage yell of the hyena, and have grown cold, even in the tropics, before the tooting of the wounded elephant; I have heard the eagle rendthe firmament and the midnight fog-horn ring the changes oneternity--join them all together, and they will be still but as avillage choir compared to the infinite and full-orbed bray of thehighland bagpipes. 

After the first shock of sky-quake had subsided, Donald turned andlooked at me with a rapt and heavenly smile, the thing emitting sundrynoises all the while, like fragments from a crash of sound, comparatively mild, as a stream which has just run Niagara. 

I stood, dripping with noise, fearful lest the tide might rush in again, and looking about for my hat, if haply it might have been cast up uponthe beach. 

"Wasna that a graun' ane?" said the machinator. "It's nae often ye'llhear the like o' that in Canada. There's jist ae man beside masel' cangie ye that this side o' Inverness--and he's broke i' the win'. "

"Thank God!" I ejaculated fervently, not knowing what I said. 

But Donald misunderstood me and I had nothing to fear. 

"Ye're richt there, " he cried exultantly; "it's what I ca' a sacredpreevilege to hear the like o' that, maist as sacred as a psalm. Mafaither used to play that verra tune at funerals i' the hielands, andthe words they aye sang till't was these:--

 "'Take comfort, Christians, when your friends In Jesus fall asleep, '

an' it used to fair owercome the mourners. If ye were gaun by a hoosei' the hieland glens, and heard thae words and that tune, ye cud mak'sure there was a deid corpse i' the hoose. "

"I don't wonder, " was my response; but he perceived nothing in the wordsexcept reverent assent. 

"Ay, " went on Donald, "it's a graun' means o' rest to the weary heart. It's fair past everything for puttin' the bairns to sleep. Mony's thetime I hae lulled them wi' that same tune when their mither cud daenaethin' wi' them. I dinna mind as I ever heard a bairn cry when I wasgien them that tune. "

"I quite believe that, " I replied, burning to ask him if they ever criedagain. But I refrained, and began my retreat towards the door. 

"Bide a wee; I maun gie ye 'The MacGregor's Lament. '"

But I was obstinate, having enough occasion for my own. 

"Hoots, man, dinna gang--it's early yet. "

"But I really feel that I must go. I would sooner hear it some othertime. " At my own funeral, I meant. "Besides, Mr. M'Phatter, the bagpipesalways influence me strangely. They give me such a feeling of the otherworld as kind of unfits me for my work. "

Whereupon Donald let me go. As I fled along the lane I watched himholding the thing still in his hand, and I feared even yet lest itmight slip its leash. 

But I have been thankful ever since that Donald did not ask me whichother world I meant. 

XII

"_By That SAME TOKEN_"

This was the first step towards the return of the M'Phatter family toSt. Cuthbert's Church. I waited patiently, stepped carefully, andendured cheerfully every hardship, from the bagpipes down; but all thetime I had before my mind that triumphant day when Donald and hishousehold would once more walk down the kirk's spacious aisle, like theransomed of the Lord who return and come to Zion with songs andeverlasting joy upon their heads. 

One glorious summer evening I broached the matter to them both. It wasthe pensive hour of twilight, and Donald had been telling me withthrilling eloquence of a service he had once attended in St. Peter'sChurch, Dundee, when the saintly M'Cheyne had cast the spell of eternityabout him. When he had got as nearly through as he ever got with hisfavourite themes, I asked him to listen to me for a little, and not tointerrupt. He promised, and I talked on to them for an hour or more, thetwilight deepening into darkness, and the sweet incense of nature'sevening mass arising about us where we sat. 

It was the hour and the season that lent themselves to memory, and Iarmed myself with all the unforgotten years as I bore down upon theirhearts. The duty, the privilege, the joy of mingling with the greatcongregation in united voice and heart to bless the Creator's name, allthis I urged with passionate entreaty. 

"Oh, Donald, " I cried at last, forgetting his seventy years and thetitle those years deserved, "come back, come back, man, to the fountainat which you drank with joy long years ago! Oh, Donald, it is springingyet, and its living waters are for you. Years have not quenched theirholy stream, nor changed the loving heart of Him who feeds them. Donaldman, your pride is playing havoc with your soul. Are not the daysshortening in upon you? You saw the darkness fall since we sat downtogether, and the night has come, and it is always night in the grave. Man, hurry home before the gloaming betrays you to the dark. 

"Do you not hear yonder clock ticking in the hall that same old song ofdeath, the same it sang, the night your father's father was born in theglen, the same it wailed the night he died? It is none other than thevoice of God telling you that the night cometh fast. Oh, Donald, was itnot your mother who first taught you the way to that holy spring, evenas she taught your boyish feet the path to yonder babbling burn whicheven now is lilting to the night? Donald man, be a little child again, and come back before you die. "

Then there was a silence deep as death, and we heard the crickets singand the drowsy tinkling on the distant hill. I spoke not another word, for when a great Scotch soul is in revolution, I would as soon haveoffered to assist at the creation as seek then to interfere. But I heardhis wife Elsie sobbing gently and I felt a tear on Donald's cheek. Myheart caught its distilling fragrance, like a bluebell on somemountainside, and I knew that the seasons were exchanging in Donald'ssoul, winter retreating before the avenging spring. 

Suddenly he arose and swiftly spoke--

"I'll gang back on Sabbath mornin'; I'll tak' ma mither's psalm-buik, and I'll gang. "

He strode quickly towards the house; as he passed me the rising moonshone upon his face, and it looked like that of a soul which has thejudgment day behind and eternal mother-love before. 

Elsie walked with me to the gate, and her face put the now radiant nightto shame. Her long eclipse had ended. It was then she told me the secretof the token and her husband's love for it. 

"Ye mauna think ower hard on Donald; I promised to tell naebody, but yewillna let him ken. It wasna the token in itsel', but it was oor Elsiemair. Elsie was oor little lassie that's gone to bide wi' God. 

"Weel, when she was a bit bairn, she aye gaed wi' us to the sacrament, and she was awfu' ta'en up wi' the token. She wad spell oot the bitwritin' on't, and she thocht there was naethin' sae bonnie as thepicture o' the goblet on the ither side o't. And she wad thrust her weebit haun' intil Donald's wes'coat pocket, where he aye keepit the token, an' she wad tak' it oot an' luik at it, an' no' ask for sweeties or gangto sleep or greet, like ither bairns. And when she was deein', she askitfor it, and she dee'd wi' it in her haun'. An' that verra nicht, whenDonald an' me was sittin' fon'lin' her gowden curls an' biddin' aneanither no' to greet--for ae broken hairt can comfort anither brokenhairt--he slippit the token frae oot her puir cauld wee haun', an' heread the writin' that's on't oot lood: 'This do in remembrance of Me, 'an' he says, 'I'll dae it in remembrance o' them baith, mither--o'Christ an' oor Elsie--an' when I show forth the Lord's death till Hecome, I'll aye think o' them baith, an' think o' them baith thegither inthe yonderland--Christ an' oor Elsie--an' me an' you tae, mither, a'thegither in the Faither's hoose. ' An' a' the time o' the funeral hehauded the token ticht, an' he keepit aye sayin' till himsel', 'Christan' oor Elsie--an' us a'. '

"Next Sabbath was the sacrament, an' Donald gaed alane, for I cudna gangwi' him, and that was the day they tell't the fowk hoo communion cairdswas better, an' hoo they wudna use the tokens ony mair. Then Donaldgrippit the seat, an' he rose an' gaed oot o' the kirk, an' cam hame, an' gaed till his room, an' I didna see his face till the gloamin'. Oh, minister, dinna think owre hard aboot him. That's why he never gaed mairto the kirk, for he loved oor Elsie sair. "

I pressed her hand in parting, but I spoke no word, for I was thinkingpassionately of those golden curls, and that little hand in which thetoken lay tightly clasped; but it was our Margaret's face that was whiteupon the pillow. Love is a great interpreter. 

The next Sabbath morning saw Donald and Elsie in the courts of Zion, andgreat peace was upon their brows. When I ascended the pulpit stairs, they were already in their ancestral pew, now the property of HectorCampbell, who had abandoned it with joy, only asking that he be givenone in the gallery from which he might see Donald's face. 

We opened our service with the Scottish psalm--

 "How lovely is Thy dwelling-place, Oh, Lord of hosts, to me, "

and a strange thing befell us then. Donald was singing huskily, struggling with a storm which had its centre in his heart, all the moreviolent because it was a summer storm and fed from the inmost tropics ofhis soul. But it was the part Elsie took in that great psalm which isstill the wonder of all who were there that day, though her voice hathlong been silent in the grave. She had, years before, been reckoned thesweetest singer of all who helped to swell St. Cuthbert's praise. Hervoice had been trained by none but God, yet its power and richness wereunequalled. But her last song had been by the bedside of her dyingchild, and those who heard her say there was not a faltering note. 

And now her voice was released again, and her unchained soul, aflamewith its long-silent love for the courts of Zion, found in that voiceits highway up to God. No psalm-book, no note of music made by hand, nohuman thought repressed her or trammelled her exultant wing. Uncaged, she sang as the lark sings when native meadows bid its exile cease. 

From the first note, clear and radiant, as on a golden staircase hervoice went upward with its loving sacrifice. All eyes were turned uponher, all other voices hushed in wonder, while even the wonderingprecentor abdicated to join the vassal throng. But she knew itnot--knew nothing, indeed, but that she was again in the unforgottenhouse of God, and pouring out her soul to the soul's great Comforter. And she sat down with the others when the psalm was done, but wist notthat her face shone. 

 * * * * *

The kirk session was convened in my room after the great service ceased, and the glow of joy was on every face. This joy they carefullyconcealed, as was their way, but I felt its heat even when I could notsee its gleam. One or two spoke briefly, and their parted lips disclosedtheir deep rejoicing, but only for a moment, as you have caught the bedof flame behind the furnace's swiftly closing door. I told them, in aword, of Donald and his Elsie and his token. 

They were stern men, and ruled the kirk with sternness; they had dealtfaithfully with more than one who sought to restore the reign of thetoken against the expressed ruling of the session. They nipped contumacyin the bud. 

But it was moved by Ronald M'Gregor, and seconded by Saunders M'Dermott, and unanimously carried, "That the clerk be instructed to inform DonaldM'Phatter, and his wife Elsie M'Phatter, that it is the will of thekirk session of St. Cuthbert's that they be in no wise admitted to thesacrament except on presentation of tokens regularly stamped and bearingthe date of 1845. "

XIII

_WITH The WORKMEN_

I think we first realized the worth of Angus Strachan the year of thegreat strike among the mechanics of New Jedboro. That was a terribleyear, and the memory of it is dark and clammy yet. For our whole town, and almost every man's bread and butter, rose and fell with the industryor the idleness of our great iron manufactories. To my mind, the causeof the trouble was twofold: first, that the proprietors were very rich;and second, that the agitators were very scoundrels. For we had as happya class of working men in New Jedboro, take them on the whole, as theGod of work looked down upon. They were in receipt of fair andconsiderable wages, their shops were clean and well ventilated, andtheir hours reasonably short, especially if compared to those poorcreatures whom greed and selfishness keep behind the counters tilltwelve o'clock on a Saturday night. And I have noticed that those whohowl the loudest about long hours are those who postpone their shoppingtill ten or eleven of these same Saturday nights. 

For the most part, they owned their own homes and the plots of groundthey gardened, and I do contend that the watering-can and the spade andthe pruning knife are a means of grace. Very many of them made twelveshillings a day, which is three dollars in our good Canadian money, andsome of the highest paid made twice as much. And there was work for themevery working day and every working hour of the day. 

The peace was broken when two sleek and well-dressed agitators came totown, agents for the Central Organization, whose mild and pleasant dutyit was to tell free-born working-men when they were to work and when tostarve. 

These gentlemen soon precipitated a general strike, in which they took ahighly sympathetic part, reviving the flagging courage of half-starvingwives and children, exhorting them to endure unto the end; and be itsaid to their lasting credit, these aforesaid gentlemen toiledfaithfully to spread their new evangel, desisting only three times aday, when they repaired to their six-course meals at the Imperial Hotel. 

They pointed out, between meals, to the hungry men how well-pleasing wastheir hunger in the sight of heaven, for it would help somefellow-workmen three thousand miles away, and possibly be of benefit tosome few who had not yet been born. Hunger, they pointed out with loftyardour, might not be comfortable in every case, but it was glorious, and in the line of immortal fame. All of this was somewhat marred bytheir occasional gulping and hiccoughing, for six-course dinners are notfriendly to ethereal oratory. When one of them got through, the other, having finished the picking of his teeth, would take the stand anddivulge anew to these underfed immortals the secrets of the Book ofLife. 

Then their poor dupes would cheer with a desperate attempt at courage, but it was to me like the bleating of sheep that are led to theslaughter. Wearily they sought their once happy homes, to find emptylarders and broken-hearted wives, their wondering children crying forthe necessities they had never lacked before, their clothes in tatters, and the roses departed from their cheeks. 

Many a sick wife and ailing child did I visit then, pining for thelittle delicacies their breadwinner could not afford to buy--all of thisat the behest of two bespangled gentlemen, who even then were writing totheir distant wives, enclosing substantial checks, and descantingeloquently upon the sumptuous fare at the aforesaid Imperial Hotel. 

Two sights there are in this panoramic world which greatly madden me, and they are twins. 

The first is the spectacle of a pot-bellied landlord, his wife andfamily sated with every luxury, as he smilingly takes across thebar--have you ever seen a snake swallow its prey, an equally slimysight?--the five-cent piece of some poor fellow whose child hath neithertoy nor bread, and whose broken wife, struggling in God's name to shieldher children from indecency and want, will tremblingly explore hispocketbook at midnight, only to find every farthing of his wages gone. For the aforesaid smiling landlord hath poured it into the satin lap ofthe equally smiling wife at the Travellers' Rest. 

And the other sight is the spectacle of a complacent gentleman, organfor the Trades and Labour Union, who alighteth from his Pullman car toply his incendiary trade, living in the lap of luxury, while weepingwives stroke the famished faces of their hungry bairns and dumbly pleadwith God that this cruel strike may soon be over. 

It was at such a time as this that Angus first impressed us with hisreal power. We had seen much of him in the years that had passed sincehe spent his first New Jedboro night beneath our roof. Often and oftenhe would spend the evening with us, chatting on pleasant topics orteaching our Margaret the high things of chess, at which he waswell-nigh a master. But I little dreamed then what fateful moves theremay be even in a game of chess, what mating and checkmating and sundryother operations may be sublimely mingled in that so interestingstruggle. 

We heard with pleasure that Angus was making rare progress in his chosentrade, and even now, although early in his twenties, he was headdraughtsman in all that great establishment. Night schools, with wideand constant reading, had made his English almost as good as new, andthe shabby lad of six or seven years ago was now a citizen amongst us ofrepute and promise. 

But that is no rare occurrence in this new world of ours, where men havebetter chances than the rigid ways of the old land will afford. For oldScotland means that her mountains shall remain mountains, and hervalleys she purposes shall be valleys evermore; and I make little doubtthat Mr. Carnegie would have been ranked with the valleys till theyreceived his dust had he never sought the wider spaces of our WesternWorld. From which Western World both their hills and valleys havereceived his dust in rich abundance. 

Passing a crowded hall one night when this industrial storm was at itsheight, I heard a voice which seemed familiar addressing the excitedmen, and surely there hath never before or since been heard a speech ofgreater sense and soundness. 

"Are we working men fools enough, " he was asking as I entered, "to beled by the nose at the will of these strangers who want us to strike inthe interests of Chicago or St. Louis or San Francisco? Charity beginsat home, and our first duty is to look after our own. If we are going tohave dictators in this matter, let us choose them from honest workersamong ourselves, and not from high-salaried importations such as these. Look at their hands the next time you get a chance, and tell me why theyare so smooth and white. None of your diamond-ringed fraternity for me, "cried Angus with growing passion. 

At this point Jack Slater interrupted. Jack was famed for his heartyresistance to every industrious instinct, resolutely denying himself themuch-lauded sweets of toil. He was the leading Socialist of the town, hating every man who was an actual toiler with his hands, alwaysexcepting the well-fed agitators, whom he worshipped with ignorantdevotion. 

"I just want fer to ask Mr. Strachan one question. What right has themfellows what owns the foundries to be makin' ropes of money while thelikes of us only gets our two dollars a day? Let us have equality, that's what I say. Give me equality or give me death. God made one manas good as another, and it's the devil as tries to make them different. Let's divide up, that's what I say, and don't have them fellows sportin'round in their carriages and goin' to Europe, while the rest of us issweatin' through the dog days in the shops. "

Loud murmurs of approval broke from a hundred sullen lips, and BobTaylor, encouraged by Jack's success, jumped to his feet and shouted--

"I hopes as how all the fellers 'll stand firm and bring the bosses upwith the short turn. We kin do it, for we're the lads as makes theirmoney for them. What them kerridge fellows needs is a bash or two in thejaw from the horny hand of toil. I goes in fer rotten-eggin' all thescabs as agrees to work lower nor the wage we set, and if that won't do, I goes in fer duckin' 'em; and if duckin' won't do, I goes in fer fixin''em so's they won't work nowheres. If this is a free country, let's haveour share of the kerridges--I believe in equality the same as Jack. "

These views were received with renewed expressions of approval, for tomost of the excited men they seem quite unanswerable. 

"That's the ticket; make 'em walk the plank. We're just as good asthem, " I heard some burly mechanic mutter. 

The eager audience turned towards Angus, awaiting his reply, if haplyreply could be provided. It has been my lot to hear many strongaddresses, but I esteem this answering speech of Angus's among thestrongest utterances I have heard. 

"Mr. Slater wishes, " he began, "to know by what right our employers makemore money than we do. In answer, let me ask him by what right BillMontgomery, the foreman in the moulding shop, gets more money everypay-day than Tom Coxford, who is one of his men. I suppose he will admitit is because Bill has more ability and more experience than Tom; hewill also admit that the difference in their wages is a just difference, and indeed I have never heard any one find fault with it. Well, carryout that principle, and some one who has more skill than Montgomery willget more money than he gets. Then there will be some one above himagain, and so on till you get to the head of the firm. If differingwages are just at all--and every one admits they are--then how can youdeny their legitimate profits to the men whose industry and businessability have established the concern and guided it along to what it isto-day?

"Mr. Slater says that men are all equal. I don't agree with him. It isclear that God means some men to be rich and others to be less rich. Ifa man quarrels with the inequality among men, his quarrel is with God. God makes some men richer than others to begin with. When we see thehighest riches, like those of brains and strength, unequally divided, weneed not wonder to see the lesser riches somewhat unevenly distributed. God gives one man, or a woman like Jenny Lind, a voice that means athousand dollars a night as often as they want to sing, and He givesanother man a voice like an alarm-clock or a buzz-saw. He gives one mana mind that seems always to be full, and another man a mind, let him dohis best, that is always as empty as a last year's nest. Surely I havemore ground for envying the man who is born with more brains than I thanthe man who is born with more wealth than I. And yet God alone isresponsible for the first-named inequality. We hear too much rubbishabout this theory of all men being equal born. 

"As for Bob Taylor's hint that we should employ violence to prevent menworking for what wage they please, I have only this to say, that nobodybut a lazy dog like him would suggest such a policy. 

"We all know that when the whistle blows in the morning, Bob alwaystries how much of it he can hear before he goes in; and when it blows atnight, he tries how much of it he can hear after he gets out. Bob isalways slow at the end where he ought to be quick, and quick at the endwhere all honest men try at least to be decently slow; and then he talksto us about ducking some poor fellow who wants to make an honest livingfor his wife and children. I will say this much, too, that if the timeever comes when a free-born man cannot sell his labour in the marketfor what price he likes, then I will turn my back upon the old flag andleave its soil forever. 

"Now, I am going to ask Mr. Slater a question or two about this dividingup business. 

"Do you think, Mr. Slater, if a man has a million dollars, that he oughtto divide up with the man who has very little, if that man happens to beworking for him?"

"Most sartintly, " replied Jack. 

"Very well, if a man has ten thousand dollars, should he divide up witha poorer man who works for him?"

"Sure, " answered Jack promptly. 

"Well, suppose a man has a house and a little garden, and he has a manhired to help dig it or repair it, should he divide up with this poorerworkman who has neither house nor garden?"

Jack hesitated, his brows knit in thought; then he answered slowly--

"Naw, I don't just think so. "

"Why not?" said Angus. 

"Well, 'twouldn't be fair; besides, I happen to have a little house andgarden of my own. "

Then all that crowd of men exploded in a burst of derisive laughterwhich set the seal of triumph on Angus's argument. 

After the uproar had subsided, an intrepid Scotsman, only a few monthsin New Jedboro, volunteered to address the meeting. 

"I canna jist answer the argyments o' Mr. Strachan, but I maun pitforrit my idea that oor wives and bairns haena the luxuries o' them asowns the works. I canna but mind that Robbie Burns said, 'A man's a manfor a' that, ' an' I thocht the present a fittin' occasion to mind ye o'the words, bein' as we're met the nicht to speak oot against slavery o'ilka kind. "

"No man who knows me, " replied Angus, "will say that I will either yieldto slavery or assist it in any form. But the man who calls himself aslave because his employer has more money than he, is no friend tohonest labour. We would all like wealth, but wealth is neither happinessnor liberty. After all, the men whom we envy have not so much more thanwe; they can only lie on one pillow at a time, can only eat one mouthfulat a time, can only smoke one cigar at a time, and as for the kind ofcouch a man sits down upon, it matters little so that he has earned hisrest by honest toil. 

"My Scottish friend hardly realizes what he says. I know he has a wifeand a sweet little lassie. There is Mr. Blake, the richest of ourmanufacturers, and he has neither the one nor the other. Now I ask mycompatriot, would he trade his lot for that of Mr. Blake with all hismoney? He answers no. Then who is the richer man--Mr. Blake, or ourfellow-workman from auld Scotland?

"Speaking of Scotland, let me say this one word. I lived there till Iwas a well-grown lad, as did scores of you, and I defy you to contradictme when I say that we are a hundred times better off here than we wereamong the sheep or behind the ploughs in the old land, neither of whichwe could hardly ever hope to call our own. Were we not there accountedalmost as sheep for the slaughter? How much better were we than the kinewe tended? Were not we even driven from the land we rented at a cruelprice, that some haughty lord might make a deer-run of the place? Whatwere we there but grovelling vassals, and what hope had we ever to beindependent, or to own even a house in which to die?

"I do not need to tell you of the difference here, of how the most of ushave our own little homes, and count our friends among the best peoplein New Jedboro; and three-fourths of the aldermen in our council, andthe trustees of our schools, and the elders of our kirks, are from theranks of honest labour. 

"Let us thank God we have escaped from the class tyranny and the peasantbondage of the land beyond the seas. "

A new and different light was now upon the rapt faces of the men--andthe end of it all was that they turned the diamond-ringed gentlemen fromtheir doors. 

XIV

_WITH The EMPLOYERS_

Nor was this the last of Angus's eloquence. A few days later themanufacturers, being met in conclave at Mr. Blake's office, sent for theyoung Scotsman and personally thanked him for his good offices insettling the strike. Both sorts were there--the kind and the unkind, thegentleman and the churl--but all alike united in grateful praise for themediation which Angus had accomplished. Many unctuous things were said, but when one tyrant arose to speak his gratitude, Angus's face bore alook which boded ill. 

"We're glad, " said Mr. M'Dougall, swelling with vulgar pompousness, "tosee that you recognize the rights of property and the claims of vestedinterests. And we trust, " he added, "that Labour has learned a lesson itwill not soon forget. " Then he sat down with the majesty of a balloondescending. 

"I am glad, sir, " replied Angus, "to have been of service in quelling amovement led by selfish and grasping strangers, but I may at the sametime say that it would be well for Mr. M'Dougall and his kind to paymore heed himself to the rights of property. For skill and industry andfaithfulness are property just as much as Mr. M'Dougall's vestedinterests. And he may as well be warned that Labour will not forevertolerate the selfishness and the pride with which he treats his hands. "

"I move, " interrupted Mr. Thoburn, himself a gifted tyrant, "that thismeeting do now adjourn. "

"This meeting will do nothing of the sort. " This time it was Mr. Blakewho spoke, and there was iron in his voice. "None of us thought Mr. Strachan spoke too long when he was dealing with the agitators fromChicago, and let us hear him out, unless we are bigger cowards than themen who work for us. "

The meeting endorsed these sentiments, and Angus resumed--

"I speak in the interests of Capital, " he said, "when I declare that thefault is not all on the side of the working man. Many of our employersare kind and sympathetic men, but others of them are not. I envy no manamong you the wealth he has gathered, but the selfishness of some of ourmanufacturers is maddening to the working man. 

"Some of you know nothing of our trials and our difficulties, and, whatis worse, you do not want to know. You pass by the men who are makingyou rich as though they were the dogs of the street. You sit next pew tothem in the kirk, and yet treat them like the dirt beneath your feet. Itis doubtless your conviction that you have discharged your whole duty tous when you pay our wages every fortnight. I tell you, " he criedpassionately, "that is the great fallacy which is yet to prove theundoing of the employers of labour. 

"You forget we are men, as well as you, and have higher claims upon youthan your pay sheet acknowledges. If our employer dies, we follow him ina body to his grave. If one of us dies, you drive past his hearse withyour haughty carriages, or bolt down a side street to avoid theassociation. 

"Tom Lamplough, who has worked for Mr. Thoburn twenty years, buried hisonly child last Thursday, and his employer spent the afternoon speedinghis thoroughbred on the race-track beside the cemetery. At the verymoment when Tom was groping about the open grave, struggling with hisbroken heart and following his daughter with streaming eyes, Mr. Thoburnwas bawling out that his filly had done it in two and a quarter--and theclods were falling on the coffin all the while. "

At this juncture Thoburn arose, his face the very colour of the corpsehe had disdained. 

"Will no man throttle this fanatic?" he hoarsely craved. "Must we beinsulted thus by a mere working man?"

"I insult no man, " retorted his accuser, "when I tell him but the truth. It was you who insulted the dead, and outraged her desolate fatherbecause he was but your servant. Is what I say the truth?"

"I decline to answer that, " said Thoburn. 

"You will not decline to answer before the throne of God. For you andTom will meet yonder. Good God, man, did you ever think of that? Did itever occur to you that you and Tom will take your last ride in the sameconveyance, and have the same upholstery in the tomb? And somebodyelse's filly will be making its mile in less time than yours when theclods are falling on your coffin. "

I have often marvelled at this strange power of rhetoric in an untutoredman; but it only confirmed what I am more and more inclined tobelieve--that emotion and intellect are twins, and that the soul isoratory's native home. 

There was a pause, but it was brief. For there flew to the rescue of hisbeleaguered brother Mr. Hiram Orme, the millionaire proprietor of thegreat Acme works. Vulgar and proud, he lived a life of ostentatiousluxury. 

No thought of the poor or the suffering ever disturbed the shallow tenorof his enamelled existence Secure in the fortress of wealth, which is alie! he cared nothing for such wounded soldiers as had helped to buildit, or for their widows or their orphans. With all sail set, he careenedon his inconsiderate way, and the vessels whose side he sought werenever those bearing the signals of distress. 

Mr. Hiram Orme had a high contempt for all working men, and a keensuspicion of every attitude which smacked of liberty. The working man, like the negro, was happier far in a state of semi-slavery--such was thehonest view of the honest man. 

And now he was upon his feet, glaring with wrath, profoundly complacentin the assurance of superior wealth, and prepared to demolish both Angusand the King's English at a blow. 

"Them's nice words, " he broke forth, "for a working man to be using tothe man what he's dependent on for to get his bread and butter. And Iwant for to tell this man Strachan that beggars can't be choosers. Apretty preachment he's givin' us about coffins and them like things. There's one thing certain, and that is, me and the rest of my brothermanufacturers will have a sight finer coffins than him and his sort willhave. " The manufacturers shuddered, like men sitting in some deadlydraught. 

"We've had jist about enough sass from our young friend, I think; he'snothin' but a hewer of wood and a drawer of water for us anyhow. Doesn't the Bible tell servants like him for to be obedient to theirmasters?"

Then Angus's Scotch blood leaped, protesting, to his face, and his soultore open his burning lips as the tide bursts a dam built by children'shands. 

"I eat honest bread, earned by honest toil, " he hotly cried, "and thatis more than Mr. Orme can say. I would beg from door to door before Iwould munch, as he does, the crusts that are stained with blood. We allknow how he has ground his working girls to the earth, how he hasrefused to ventilate his factories, and even to heat them decently inthe winter time. We all know how he has spurned the poor and the needywith his foot, and how he has crawled upon his belly before the rich andgreat. I will tell you something about Mr. Orme. It does not apply toall of you. Some of you, thank God! have remembered that your workingmen were human beings like yourselves--you have helped and befriendedthe sick and the poor, you have pensioned the closing years of faithfulmen. You have called yourselves to ask for our sick and dying, and wehave blessed you for it. What poor burdened hearts want is the warmheart touch from your own hands or lips, but Mr. Orme has given neitherthe one nor the other. 

"Mr. Orme, do you remember Dick Draper, who was your boss carder, andwho lives in a little house behind your mansion? Do you remember that heworked for you ten or fifteen years, and that you discharged him becausehe would not leave the Union?"

"Yes, I remember him. Why?" answered Orme huskily. 

"I will tell you why. A few months after you discharged him, partlybecause his health failed and partly because you blackballed him at allother shops, he was still out of work, his money all gone, his pantrybare, and his youngest boy dying of a slow disease of the spine. Some ofus went to you and asked you to help us raise enough to send him toMontreal for treatment that might save his life. You showed us the door, and told us to tell him he could make his money like you made yours. Yousaid if the boy died it would be one mouth less for Dick to feed, andtold us there was a grand old maxim about every man for himself and thedevil have the hindermost. As we were going down your splendid avenue, you shouted that Dick's spine was stiff enough when he joined the Union. Then you asked us if spines were hereditary. Then you laughed and yourbarns and your grand driving sheds echoed back its cruel mockery. "

Orme arose and started towards the door. 

"Mr. Chairman, I protest, " he began. 

"Sit doon, " thundered Angus, lapsing into his native tongue, "sit doontill I tell ye a'. The nicht Dick's boy was deein', we went to ye andbegged ye to stop yir music and yir dancin'. For ye had some graun' fowkat yir pairty, an' the flowers for it cost ye mair nor wad hae sent theladdie to Montreal. An' the noise fashed an' fretted the deein' bairn. But ye bade us begone, an' said ye'd invite us to yir pairty when yewanted us--an' the puir laddie dee'd in his faither's airms to the cruelmusic o' yir fiddles an' yir reels, an' his faither sat wi' him a' thenicht, croonin' wi' sorrow, an' yir graun' guests' laughter breakin' onhim like a blizzard frae the north. "

"Is the sermon nearly done?" said Mr. Orme, with a sneer. "You missedyour calling; you're a preacher. " The hot tears were in Angus' eyes andhe seemed to have forgotten that Orme was present, the taunt lost uponhim. 

"I will say no more, " turning now to the others, "and I have perhapsspoken over warmly. But I have uttered no word other than the truth. AndI will only make my last appeal, which I know will have some weight, with most of you, at least. The remedy for all this threatening troublelies in mutual sympathy, for I doubt not you have your own difficulties, even as we have ours. I am glad to have helped to allay this recenttrouble, and my best service shall never be denied you in the future. But I pray you to consider the words of a man who wishes you nothingelse but good. Pardon what of violence and ponder what of reason hasbeen mixed with what I said. Capital has its labour, and labour has itscapital--and we are all toilers together. "

He bowed to the employers and withdrew, but the seed his hand had castwas fallen, some no doubt on rocky ground, but some also on good andhonest soil. 

And Angus had won a victory; but his greatest triumph was unseen, for hehad ruled his own spirit, which high authority assures us is greaterthan the taking of a city. 

Not inconsiderable, too, were the outward pledges of his victory. For, as we said, the sleek agitators had been dismissed, the mills andfactories were running again, and the industrial tides of life in NewJedboro gradually subsided into their old channels. 

And now those unseen forces that are ever silently working to upset oldstandards and to displace old ways, broke out in a new form, this timethreatening the very centre of one of St. Cuthbert's most establishedcustoms. 

XV

_A BOLD PROPOSAL_

The old precentor's box beneath the pulpit was still St. Cuthbert's onlychoir loft. Many years back, the iconoclasts among them had managed togather a few of the most songful ones together in a front pew, demurelysitting as part of the congregation, but concentrated for purposes ofleadership. This proved, however, more than St. Cuthbert's could abide, and its mal-odour of "High Church" alarmed the Scottish Presbyterians. Going down the aisle, Saunders M'Tavish voiced the general alarm insententious tones--

"The thin end o' the wedge, " he warningly exclaimed, "and it's no' a farcry noo to the candles an' the incense. They'll be bringin' ower thepope next, " and the kirk session, convening the next night, soon stoppedthat leakage in their ancestral dyke. 

Since then the precentor's box had preserved its lonely splendour. Within it, in the far-back thunderous days of their great Boanerges, theprecentor stood to lead the swelling psalm as it rose from the seatedmultitude--for they stood to pray, but sat to sing. From thefast-gathering mists that now threaten those receding years, survivingones still rescue images of the precentor's ruffled locks, swept by thepentecostal swirl--so seemed it to his worshippers--of Dr. Grant'sGeneva gown. And in this same box Sabbath after Sabbath appeared thestalwart form of Archie M'Cormack, modern in nothing but his years. 

His was a conservatism of the intense and passionate sort; not thechoice of his judgment, but the deepest element of his life. He no morechose old ways, old paths, or the spirit of earlier times, than thetrout chooses water or the Polar bear its native snows. He was born notamong them, but of them, and remained till death their incarnatedescendant. No mere Scotch kirkman was Archie, but a prehistoricCalvinist, a Presbyterian by the act of God and an elder from alleternity. Even his youthful thoughts and imaginations adjustedthemselves to the scope of the Westminster Confession, abhorring anyhorizon unillumined by the gray light which flowed in mathematicalexactitude from a hypothetical heart in the Shorter Catechism. 

Although, strangely enough, Archie could never master the catechism. Arandom question was his doom. Catechise him straight through, and hisresponse was swift and accurate. No thrust availed against him, aknight invincible in his well-pieced coat of mail, a very dragon oforthodoxy from whose lips there issued clouds of Calvinism, till theminister himself was often well-nigh obscured thereby. But once dipArchie into the middle of its mighty bosom to search an answer there, and he would never reappear, or, if he haply might, it would be withsorry fragments of divers answers in his hands, incongruous toabsurdity. Is not the same true of babbling guides in old cathedrals?

"What is sin?" the minister once suddenly asked Archie in the course ofcatechetical visitation, the district being assembled at one centralhouse. Archie's answer, being a mosaic, is still quoted by those whoheard it, terror-stricken where they sat. 

"Sin, " replied the wide-gleaning man, "is an act of God's free grace, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable in its full purpose of and endeavourafter new obedience. "

This terrible and miscellaneous eruption was the more lamentable fromthe fact that his poor wife heard this blare of discordant dogmas withunbelieving ears, while even little Kirsty gasped, exclaiming above herbreath, "Ye're sair muddled, faither. "

Archie looked vacantly from wife to daughter, like one who has letsomething drop. Then gazing despondently at the minister's strugglingface, he said, "I'm feart that's no' jist richt in a' its parteeklars. "The epilogue was worse than the tragedy. A grim Presbyterian smile wentround, more vocal than the echoing laughter of less silent sects, and itsmote on Archie's ears like the scorners' bray. Forward went thecatechism, a penitential gloom succeeding the sinful indulgence. TheScottish sun dips suddenly. 

Sober enough now are the faces from which all merriment has fled, forgetting the precentor's discomfiture, and looking only to their owndeliverance from the guns now turned against themselves. But Archie didnot forget--into a secret Scottish place he had retreated, his hot, burning heart forging some weapon of revenge. It was ready in due time. An hour after, just before the armistice which the benediction alonemade sure, he turned upon the honest rustics with a look of belatedtriumph in his face, and slew them with the retort which long travailhad brought forth. 

"A'm no' sae gleg on the subject o' sin as some fowk I ken. "

The minister, by aid of special grace, said nothing. Archie, although heheld solemnly on his way through the benediction, as became a precentor, yet chuckled exultantly all the homeward road. At evening worship heselected the Twenty-seventh Psalm and sang the second verse withrejoicing unction--

 "Whereas mine enemies and foes, Most wicked persons all, To eat my flesh against me rose, They stumbled and did fall, "

and the honest rustics, as they sought the cover of their homes withemancipated feet, pronounced one to the other that most Scotch of allScottish verdicts, half of eulogy and half of condemnation: "He's a lad, is Airchie. Ay, Airchie's a lad to be sure. "

 * * * * *

What sleuth-hounds women are in matters of the heart! How quickly theytake the scent of any path, virgin though it be, if that path hath beentouched by the very feet of love, tracing its devious course withpassionate inerrancy. 

I thought the news trifling, when I told my wife that Angus and ourMargaret had appeared before St. Cuthbert's session to present a certainprayer. My mind was taken up exclusively with the request theyproffered. But Margaret's mother was unconcerned with their plea. Of thepleaders she thought alone. Divers questions she flung forth at me, furtive all, their author in ambush all the while. 

"Did they seem interested in each other?" was the burden of them all;for, though she avoided plainness of speech, I could yet detect herhidden fear. 

But I must turn from this and tell of the enterprise in whose interestMargaret and Angus bearded the lions of St. Cuthbert's in their den. They represented the Young People's Guild, and presented the startlingrequest that the old kirk should henceforth employ an organ to aid theservice of praise on the Sabbath day. And they further asked for theintroduction of the hymns. This implied a revolution, for St. Cuthbert's, up to this time, had resolutely resisted all attempts tohallow such profanities. 

For the youthful pair of revolutionists I felt a decided sympathy, suchas pervades every generous heart when it beholds the dauntless approachof David towards Goliath. Such citadels of orthodoxy, such Gibraltars ofconservatism as Archie was, were almost all the elders of St. Cuthbert's. And against them all united did Angus and Margaret dare toturn their poor artillery of persuasion. 

The session received them cordially, having all goodwill towards thempersonally, hating the sin but loving the sinners, to employ a good oldtheological phrase. Angus began, adroitly enough, with a eulogy of thepsalms and paraphrases, defining them as the mountain peaks of song inall ages and in every tongue. 

"In far-distant Scotland my mother is singing them to-night, " he said, "and I catch the glow and the sweetness of the heather when the kirkrings with their high refrain ilka Sabbath day. But we feel that thehymns, even if they be inferior, will add richness and variety to theservice of our beloved kirk. "

As for the organ, he contended that it was only a means towards an end, man-made though it was; for these stern men were rigid in theirdistinction between things made with hands and things inspired. 

Angus quoted Scripture on behalf of the organ plea, recalling David'suse of instrumental music and quoting the Ninety-second Psalm--

 "Upon a ten-stringed instrument And on the psaltery, Upon the harp with solemn sound And grave, sweet melody. "

I then called upon Margaret, and my heart misgave me as I spoke hername, for she was full of pathetic hopefulness, and seemed to think thatAngus's argument had settled things beyond appeal. But I knew betterthan she what spray could do with frowning rocks. The elders, too, smiled tenderly upon her, for they were chivalrous in their solemn way, and besides, she was what you might call the church's first-born child, the story of which I have already told. But theirs was a kind ofexecutioners' smile, for they were iron-blooded men, who felt that theyhad heard but now the trumpeting of the enemy at the gate. 

Margaret timidly expressed the view that she need, and would, addnothing more, "for, " she concluded, "Mr. Strachan has covered the groundcompletely. " This phrase "covered the ground" I do not believe she hadever used before, but every true child of the manse and the kirk is bornits legitimate heir. "The previous question" is another matter, and canbe acquired only through laborious years. It takes even a moderator allhis time to explain it; before most Presbyteries quite master it, deathmoves it--and then they understand. 

Poor Margaret seemed to think that Angus had made out a case which noelder could successfully assail. She knew not that there are somematters which Scotch elders consider it impious even to discuss, holdingin scorn the flaccid axiom that there are two sides to every question. 

The youthful petitioners withdrew, and the session indulged itself in along silence, their usual mode of signifying that important business wasbefore them. 

The first to speak was Ronald M'Gregor: "We'll no' be needin' a motion, "he said, by way of indicating that there could be no two opinions onthe matter in hand. 

"We'll hae to move that the peteetion be rejeckit, " said Elder M'Tavish, nodding his head to signify his agreement with Ronald's main contention. 

"The puir bodies mean richt, " he added, being distinguished forChristian charity. 

The motion was as good as agreed to, silent consent appearing upon everyface, when Michael Blake arose. 

"I move in amendment, that the young people's request be referred to acommittee, with a view to its favourable consideration. "

"I second that, " said Sandy Grant, the session clerk, "not therebycommittin' masel' to its spirit, but to bring it afore the court inregular order. "

"What for div we need anither motion?" said Thomas Laidlaw, evidentlyperplexed. "There's nane o' us gaun to gie in to thae man-madehymes--an' their kist o' whustles wad be fair redeek'lus. "

"Let us hear what they have to say in its behalf, " said Mr. Blake. "Every honest man should be open to conviction. "

"We're a' honest men, " replied Thomas, "an' we're a' open to conviction, but I houp nane o' us'll be weak eneuch to be convickit. Oor faitherswadna hae been convickit. "

"It'll dae nae harm to hear the argyments, " said Andrew Hogg, the silentmember of the session. 

At this juncture, fearing what Saunders M'Tavish had long ago called thethin edge o' the wedge, Archie M'Cormack, the precentor, came forward inhot alarm, championing the hosts of orthodoxy. 

"The session'll mebbe listen to me, for I've been yir precentor thesemony years. We'll hae nae mair o' thae havers. Wha wants their hymes?Naebody excep' a wheen o' gigglin' birkies. Gie them the hymes, an'we'll hear Martyrdom nae mair, an' Coleshill an' Duke Street'll be by. For what did oor faithers dee if it wasna for the psalms o' Dauvit? An'they dee'd to the tunes I've named to ye. "

"But Mr. M'Cormack will admit, " said Mr. Blake, "that many of God'speople worship to profit with the hymns. There is the Episcopal churchacross the way. Last Sabbath I am told their soprano sang 'Lead, kindlyLight, ' and it was well received. "

"Wha receivit it?" thundered Archie. "Tell me that, sir. Wha receivitit? Was it Almichty God, or was it the itchin' lugs o' deein' men, ayehearkenin' to thae skirlin' birkies wi' their men-made hymes?"

"Mr. M'Cormack is severe, " replied Michael Blake serenely, "but I thinkhe is unnecessarily alarmed; we must keep our service up to date. As thesession knows, I have always been in favour, for instance, of themodern fashion of special services at Christmas, Eastertide, and kindredseasons. And at such times we ought to have a little special music. "

"Up to date!" retorted Archie scornfully; "it's a sair date an' a deein'ane. It'll dee the nicht, an' there'll be a new ane the morn, an' whaever heard tell o' an Easter Sabbath in the Kirk o' Scotland? It'll daeweel eneuch for thae dissentin' bodies, wi' their prayer-books, but whathae we, wi' the psalm-buik, an' a regular ministry, an' a regular kirk, to dae wi' siclike follies? Ilka Sabbath day is Easter day, I'm tellin'ye. Is oor Lord no' aye risin' frae the dead? Gin a soul braks intil newlife, or a deein' man pillows his weary heid on Him, or the heavy-hertedstaun' up in His michty strength, ye hae yir Easter Sabbath; an' that'silka Sabbath, I'm sayin'. Nane o' yir enawmelled bit toys forPresbyterian fowk. "

"I do not want to interfere with the good old Presbyterian ways, "responded Mr. Blake; for the elders seemed to have committed the entiredebate to those two representatives of the old school and the new. "Butit seems to me the whole Christian religion is a religion of change, " hecontinued; "the new path, the new and living way, the new covenant, thenew name, the new song--and the new heart, " he concluded fervently. Then a moment later he added, "Thank God for that!" and the elderslooked at him in astonishment, for his face bore again that look ofanguish and remorse to which I have referred before, the oft-recurringevidence of some bitter secret, deep hidden in his heart. 

"We understaun' fine, " the session clerk appended. "Mr. Blake is onlycontending that there are two sides to every question. "

"Twa sides!" shouted the precentor, now on his feet again, "there's mairnor twa. There's three sides to ilka question: there's yir ain side, an'there's my side, an' there's God's side, " he added almost fiercely; "an'when I ken God's side, there's nae ither side ava. "

The debate was not continued long, and closed with the compromise thatMr. Blake's motion should prevail, the whole matter to be referred to acommittee composed of Mr. Blake, the precentor, the moderator, and theclerk, no report to be made to the kirk session unless the committee wasunanimous in its finding. This committee was instructed to meet andconfer with the representatives of the Young People's Guild. 

While this resolution was being recorded, Archie was still indulging insmothered protests, the dying voice of the thunder-storm; and as thesession dispersed he was heard to say, "Committee or no committee, aslang as I'm in the kirk they'll sing the psalms o' Dauvit--an' the tuneso' Dauvit tae. "

The next evening I informed Angus of the session's action, and told himthe names of the committee. When I mentioned that of Mr. Blake, his eyesflashed fire, and in bitter tones he said, "I will meet no committee ofwhich that man is one. I hate him, sir. I would as lief confer with thedevil as with him. "

This staggered me. I knew no cause for an outburst so passionate, norany provocation for a resentment so savage and so evidently real. Myattempt to question him concerning either met with an abrupt but finalrefusal. Concerning these things I said nothing to Margaret or hermother, but kept them all and pondered them in my heart. 

XVI

_GEORDIE'S OOT-TURN_

It was Geordie Lorimer who first taught me to curl. This I still reckona great kindness, for I have gone from strength to strength till I amnow upon the verge of tankard skiphood. Besides, Geordie's besetting sinstill clinging close, I had hoped in this social way the more readily towin his friendship, with a view to his deliverance. 

Some of the old elders looked askance at my frivolity, for Sanderson's"Mountain Dew" flowed freely at every bonspiel, and it was generallyunderstood that all bigoted teetotalism was justly suspended till theice vanished in the spring. These aforesaid elders had no sympathy withmen who tasted standing up, or who took their "Mountain Dew" unwarmed. 

They would gravely quote the scriptural admonition that all thingsshould be done decently and in order, adding the exposition, logicallydeduced, that the more important the transaction, the more imperativethat order and decency should be observed. For which reason they tooktheir whisky hot, and hallowed by the gentler name of "toddy. " Ateventide they took it, within the sacred precincts of their ownfiresides, and immediately after family worship. Many a time and oft thevery lips which fervently sang the psalm--

 "Like Hermon's dew, the dew that doth, "

were the same that sampled Sanderson's with solemn satisfaction. 

The session clerk once presented to the court a letter from a worthy butwandering temperance orator, craving permission to give his celebrated"dog talk" in St. Cuthbert's on a Sabbath afternoon. 

"I move that the kirk be no' granted, " said Archie M'Cormack. "He'll berevilin' the ways o' men far abune him. Ma faither aye took a drappyilka nicht, haudin' his bonnet in his haun' the while. He wad drink thehealth o' Her Majesty ('God bless her, ' he aye said), and mebbe ane tothe auld kirk in bonnie Scotland, an' mebbe ane to the laddies wha usedto rin wi' him aboot the braes, an' mebbe then he wad hae jist ane mairto Her Majesty, for ma faither was aye uncommon loyal at the hinner end. But atween him an' ma mither he aye kent fine when to stop. 

"An' a' oor faithers tasted afore they gaed to bed, an' they a' dee'dwi' their faces to the licht; an' I wadna gie ane o' them for a wheen o'yir temperance haverers wi' their dog talks on the Sabbath day. "

"I second that, " said Ronald M'Gregor. "The injudeecious use o'speerits, or o' ony ither needcessity, is no' to be commendit, but theSabbath he's askin' 'll be the sacrament, and that's no day for dogtalkin', I'm thinkin'"--and the motion carried unanimously. 

 * * * * *

"How's the ice to-day?" I asked Thomas Laidlaw, one winter's afternoon. 

"Fair graun', " replied the solemn Thomas. "Ye'll never throw a stane onbetter till ye draw by yir last gaird; 'twad dae fine for the NewJerusalem. "

"You don't think there'll be curling there, Thomas?" I said. 

"I dinna ken, " he answered, "but I'm no' despairin'. They aye speak o'tas a land where everlasting spring abides; but I hae ma doots. There'llbe times when the ice'll hold, I'm thinkin'. Yon crystal river's no' fornaethin'. "

Geordie Lorimer was my skip that day, and soon the armoured floor wasechoing to the "roarin' game, " the largest, noblest, brotherliest gameknown to mortal men. The laird and the cottar were there, the homelyshepherd and the village snab who cobbled his shoes, the banker and thecarter, the manufacturer and the mechanic--all on that oft-quotedplatform which is built alone of curlers' ice. 

"Lay me a pat-lid richt here, man. Soop her up--soop, soop, man. Get herby the gaird. Let her be. I'm wrang, bring her ben the hoose. Stop--stop, I'm tellin' ye. Noo, soop, soop her in, man. "

"Noo, minister, be up this time, " cries Geordie. "Soop, soop her up. That's a graun' yin, minister. Shake ye yir ain haun'. Gin yir sermonswere deleevered like yir stanes, there wadna be an empty seat i' thekirk. Lat her dee, she's ower fiery. That'll dae fine for a gaird, an'Tam'll be fashed to get roun' ye. "

Thus roared the game along, and at its close Geordie and I were puttingour stones away together, flushed with victory. The occasion seemedfavourable for the moral influence which it was my constant aim toexercise. 

"By the way, Geordie, " I began, "I have not seen you in the kirk oflate. "

"What's that?" said Geordie, his invariable challenge, securing time toadjust himself for the encounter. 

"I have missed you nearly all winter from the church on the Sabbathday, " I replied, leaving no room for further uncertainty. 

Geordie capitulated slowly: "I'll grant ye I've no' been by-ord'narregglar, " he admitted, "but I hae a guid excuse. I haena been ower weel. Ma knee's been sair. To tell ye the truth, minister, half the time'twas a' I could dae to get doon to curl. "

I sighed heavily and said no more, for Geordie was hopelessly sincere inhis idea of first things first. 

The very next night I was sitting quietly in my study, talking toMargaret and Angus, though I was beginning to suspect already that theyhad come to endure my absence with heroic fortitude. 

About eleven o'clock the door-bell rang, and I answered it myself. Itwas Geordie's distracted wife. Leading her to the drawing-room, I askedher mission, though her pale and care-rung face left little room fordoubt. 

"Wad ye think it bold o' me, sir, gin I was to ask you to find Geordiean' fetch him hame? He's off sin' yestere'en. "

"Why, it was only yesterday evening I saw him on the ice. "

"Ay, sir, but he winned the game, an' that's aye a loss for Geordie; heaye tak's himsel' to the tavern when he wins. Oh, sir, ma hairt's fairbroken; it's a twalmonth this verra nicht sin' oor wee Jessie dee'd, an'I was aye lippenin' to that to bring him till himsel'; but he seems waurnor ever--he seeks to droon his sorrow wi' the drink. "

I had often marvelled at this; for Geordie's last word to his littledaughter had been a promise to meet her in the land o' the leal. But itis not chains alone that make a slave. 

After a little further conversation, I sent the poor woman home, assuring her that I would do the best I could for Geordie. Which promiseI proceeded to fulfill. Two or three of his well-known resorts had beenvisited with fruitless quest, when I repaired to the Maple Leaf, anotoriously sunken hole, which thus blasphemed the name of the fairestemblem of the nations. I observed a few sorry wastrels leaning inmaudlin helplessness upon the bar as I pressed in, still cleaving totheir trough--but Geordie was not among them. I was about to withdraw, when I heard a familiar voice, above the noise of a phonograph, from oneof the rooms just above the bar. It was Geordie's. 

"Gie us 'Nearer, my God, to Thee, '" I heard him cry, with drunkenunction. "Gin ye haena ane o' the psalms o' Dauvit i' yir kist o' tunes, mak' the creetur play 'Nearer, my God, to Thee. '"

Here was Geordie's evil genius in evidence again, his profligacy and hispiety hand in hand. Ascending the stairs, I reached the door just intime to see the landlord, manipulator of the musical machine, forcingGeordie to the door, one hand gripping his throat, the other buffetingthe helpless wretch in the face. Two or three of his unspeakablekindred were applauding him. 

"Get out of here, you beast, " he muttered savagely, "and let decent folkenjoy themselves. You'll not get no music nor no whisky either, hangin'round an honest man's house without a penny in your pocket--get out, youbrute. " And he struck him full in the face again. 

It were wrong to say that I forgot I was a minister; I think I recalledthat very thing, and it gave more power to my arm, for I knew thepoverty amid which Geordie's poor wife strove to keep their hometogether; and the pitiful bareness of wee Jessie's death-chamber flashedbefore me. This well-nourished vampire had sucked the life-blood fromthem all, and remembering this, I rushed into the unequal conflict andsmote the vampire between his greedy eyes with such fervour that he fellwhere he stood. In a moment he was on his feet again, but my ministrywith him was not complete, and I seized him where he had gripped his ownvictim, by the throat. 

"Let me be. Remember you're a minister, " he gasped. 

"God forbid I should forget, " I thundered back, for my blood was hot. Iremembered just then that wee Jessie had been dependent on charity forthe little delicacies that go with death; "and if God helps me youwon't forget it either, " with which addition I hurled him down thestairs, his final arrival signalled back by the sulphurous aroma ofbruised and battered maledictions. 

It may be incidentally inserted here that this unclerical encounter ofmine was afterwards referred to at a meeting of St. Cuthbert's session. One of the elders, never very friendly to me, preferred the charge ofconduct unbecoming a minister. Only two of his colleagues noticed theindictment, and they both were elders of the old Scotch school. 

"Oor minister's fine at the castin' doon o' the strongholds o' Satan, "said the one; "it minds me o' what the beasts got i' the temple. "

"It's mebbe no' Solomon's exact words, but it's gey like them: 'A timeto pit on the goon an' a time to tak' aff the coat'--an' it's the yaekin' o' proheebeetion that's ony guid forbye, " said the other. 

The groaning landlord was soon removed by the loving hands of his wifeand the hostler; and as I convoyed Geordie out past their familysitting-room, tenderly so called, the phonograph breathed out the lastexpiring strains of "Wull ye no' come back again?" which the aforesaidlandlord had selected in preference to Geordie's pious choice. 

Measures for the sufferer's relief had been swift; the air was alreadyrich with the fumes of high wines, the versatile healer of internalgriefs and external wounds alike. 

When Geordie and I were well upon the street a new difficulty presenteditself. 

"It's a sair shock, an' it'll kill the wife, " I heard him mutteringbeneath his breath. 

This gave me some little hope, for I detected in it the beauty ofpenitence. 

"Your wife will forgive you, Geordie, " I began; "and if this will onlyteach----"

But he stopped me; his face showed that he had been sorelymisunderstood. 

"Forgie me--forgie me! It's no' me she'll hae till forgie. Are ye no'the minister o' St. Cuthbert's? Ah, ye canna deny that. I ken that fine. I kent ye as sune as ye cam' slippin' ben the taivern. It'll fair killthe wife. "

"What are you talking about?" I said testily. 

"To think I wad live to see my ain minister slippin' by intil a taivernat sic a time o' nicht, " he groaned despondingly. 

Then he turned upon me, his voice full of sad reproof: "I'm no' what Imicht be masel', but I dinna mak' no profession; but to think I'd catchmy ain minister hangin' roon' a taivern at this time o' nicht. It'llkill the wife. She thocht the warld o' ye. "

What the man was driving at was slowly borne in upon me. 

"But you do not understand, Geordie, " I began. 

He stopped me again: "Dinna mak' it waur wi' yir explanations. Iun'erstaun' fine. I un'erstaun' noo why they ca' ye a feenishedpreacher--ye're damn weel feenished for me an' Betsy. An' gin I tell hooI fun' ye oot (which I'm no' sayin' I'll dae), ilka sate i' the kirkwill be empty the comin' Sabbath day. Ye're a wolf in sheep's claes, an'I'm sair at hairt the nicht. "

I saw the uselessness of any attempt to enlighten him, for he wasevidently sincere in his illusion, and the spirit of real grief could bedetected, mingling with another which poisoned the air at every breath. Whereupon I left him to himself as we walked along, Geordie swayinggently, overcome by the experiences of the departed hour. 

"It maun hae a fearfu' haud o' ye when ye cam' oot at sic an oor, " hesaid at length, half to himself. "But it clean spiled a graun' nicht forme to see ye slippin' ben. It was a graun' nicht up till that. I cannajist mind if it was a funeral or a weddin'--but it was fair graun'. Wedrinkit the health o' ane anither till there wasna ache or pain amangstus, but this spiles it a' for me. An' it'll kill the wife. "

"You will see it differently, " I could not help but say; "you know wellhow I have tried to help you and tried to comfort your poor wife. "

"That's what I aye thocht till noo, " he responded plaintively. "I wassayin' that same thing this verra nicht to ane o' my freens at thetaivern afore ye cam'. It was auld Tam Rutherford, wha's gaun to bemairrit again, and him mair nor auchty years o' age. I warnt him againstit, an' I telt him his ither wumman was deid but sax months. But Tamsaid as hoo a buddy at his age canna afford to wait ower lang, an' Ididna ken what answer to gie to that. "

Then Geordie stopped, evidently resuming the quest for an appropriatereply; for Scotch wit is usually posthumous, their responses serial andtheir arguments continued in their next. 

I was naturally curious as to what part I could have had in thisdiscussion, and since Geordie seemed to have forgotten the originalsubject, I asked, "What has that to do with my trying to help or comfortanybody?"

"Ou ay, " he resumed. "Tam was sayin' as hoo he'd no' hae yirsel' tomairry them, for he said ye're ower affectionate wi' the brides. But Istuck up for you. I telt him yir sympathies was braid, but ye didna pickoot the lassies for it a'. I was at Wullie Lee's the nicht Wullie dee'd;an' I was fair scunnert at the elders. There was twa o' them, an' theyprayed turn aboot. 

"When Wullie slippit awa, at midnight his twa dochters, Kirsty an' Ann, took on redeek'lus, an' the auld wumman was waur. But the twa elders satan oor, comfortin' the twa lassies, ane to ilka ane, an' baith o' themno' bad to luik at. They comfortit them muckle the same as I comfortitBetsy when we did oor coortin', but the puir auld buddy was left herlane wi' naebody to comfort her ava. I did it masel' a wee while. That'swhat I telt Tam, an' I pinted oot the difference atween you an' theelders. I said as hoo ye wad hae pickit oot the auld buddy first---- Butto think ma ain een saw ye comin' ben the taivern ayont twal o'clock atnicht. "

With such varied discourse did Geordie beguile our homeward way, whichat last brought us to his dwelling-place. 

"I want ye to promise me ae thing afore we pairt, " said Geordie. "It'sfor yir ain guid I'm askin' it. "

"What is it?" I asked curiously. 

"I want ye to sign the pledge, " he responded, with a tearful voice, "forit maun hae a sair hand o' ye or ye wadna be prowlin' aboot a taivern atsic a time o' nicht. "

"I will talk to you some other time about that. "

"Weel, weel, jist as ye wull--it'll dae again--but man, hoo'll yesquare it wi' the wife when ye gang hame to the manse the nicht? We'llbaith hae oor ain times, I'm dootin'. Here's a sweetie for ye; it's apeppermint lozenge, an' it's a graun' help. Guid-nicht. "

I had taken but forty steps or so when a solicitous voice called out, "Lie wi' yir back to the wife--an' sip the sweetie--an' breathe in toyersel'. "

XVII

"_NOO, The IN-TURN_"

The Apostles' Creed should be revised. One great article of faith itlacks. "I believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting"--thus peal itsbells of gold. But where is the faithful and observant minister whowould not add, "I believe in the change of the leopard's spots and ofthe Ethiopian's skin"? Nowadays, we speak of conversion with pity andamusement, but it is the greatest word the Christian Church can boast, and the Scripture miracles were long ago entombed had they not livedagain in their legitimate descendants. 

We are prone to think that men believe in modern miracles because ofthose of long ago--but the reverse is true: the modern miracles are theattestation of those early wonders; and I myself believe the Galileanrecords because of His credentials in this Western World and in thispresent day. 

The very morning after the eventful night described above, I was busy atmy desk, travailing in birth with my sermon for the next Sabbathmorning. Strangely enough, it was from the words, "Why should it bethought a thing incredible?" which is at heart no interrogative at all, but the eternal affirmative of all religion, the basis of all faith, theinevitable corollary of God. 

I was casting about for a fitting illustration, fumbling in imagery'stwilight chamber and ransacking the halls of history, when lo! God sentone knocking at the door. I responded to the knock myself, and GeordieLorimer stood before me. His face seemed strangely chastened, and thevoice which craved a private interview filled me somehow with subtlehope and joy. For the voice is the soul's great index; and this ofGeordie's spoke of a soul's secret convalescence. The breath of springexuded from his words. 

I locked my study door as we passed in together; for a Protestantconfessional is a holy place, excelling far the Catholic, even as alove-letter excels a bill of lading. 

"What is it, Geordie?" I asked, with tender eagerness. 

"I dinna ken exactly, but I think it's life, " he answered with new-bornpassion, "and eternal life at that. I canna tell it an' I canna thole ittill I do tell it. I maunna mak' ower free wi' God; but it's my soul, minister, it's my soul, an' I'm a new creature. I'm new in the sicht o'God an' He's new in mine--an' I prayed this mornin', a thing I haenadune for mair than twenty years--an' the auld burn was sweet an' clear, like when my laddie's lips sippit there lang syne--I daurna speak Hisname ower often, but God is gey guid to the sinfu' an' the weary. "

"None but they can know how good, " was my response. 

My remark seemed to pass unnoticed, for Geordie had more to say. 

"Hark ye, an' I'll tell ye hoo God cam' to me. 'Twas near the dawn thisverra mornin' I had a dream, an' wee Jessie cam' to me. An' that wasGod, nae ither ane but God. 'Oot o' the mooth o' babes, ' is that no' i'the Buik? For wee Jessie stood beside the bed, an' I luikit at her an' Isaid, 'My little dochter. ' 'Twas a' I could say, an' she pit her safthaun' on my heid sae gentle, an' sae blessed cool, for my heid wasburnin' hot. She luikit lang, an' her een was fu' o' love: 'Faither, 'she said, 'did ye no' promise yir lassie to meet her in the Faither'shoose? Oh, faither, I've come to mind ye o' yir promise an' to set yirpuir feet upon the path ance mair. God loves ye, faither; I hae it fraeHimsel'; an' there's mony a ane wi' Him noo in white wha wanderedfarther bye nor you. An' God 'll try, gin ye'll try yirsel', an' yir weeJessie 'll no' be far frae ye. Wull ye no' come, faither? for yir ainlassie, an' mither, an' God, a' want ye. '

"I luikit lang intil her angel face, but I was feart to speak, for Iwasna worthy. The road was bricht eneuch, but I wasna fit to gang. 

"'I ken what yir thinkin' o', faither. I ken yir enemy--an' God kens. It's the drink. But it'll pass yir lips nae mair. I'll kiss them, faither, an' they'll burn wi' the awfu' thirst nae mair. '

"An' she stoopit doon an' kissed my burnin' lips; an' I waukit up, an'the fever was a' past an' by. I tell't Betsy, an' she grat wi' joy. 'It's i' the Buik, ' she said. 

"'What's i' the Buik?' I speirt. 

"'A little child shall lead them, ' Betsy said. "

I talked a little while with Geordie as one talks with a shipwreckedsailor who has gained the shore. He asked me to pray. 

"Mak' it easy, " he said, "I'm no' far ben the Mystery yet. I'm but abairn; but my lips are pure, an' the fever's by. "

We knelt together, and I prayed: "O Friend of sinners, help us both, forwe are both sinners. Keep us, blessed Lord, and let his little daughterbe near us both to help us on the way. We will both try our best, andThou wilt too. Amen. "

My half-written sermon never has been finished. I was constrained totake another text, and the next Sabbath morn I saw Betsy Lorimer bow herhead in reverent adoration when I gave it out--

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister?"

XVIII

_HOW ELSIE WON The GATE_

The forest's glory is departed when its giant trees lie low. And, strokeby stroke, my St. Cuthbert's Kirk was thus bereft of its outstandingglories. For great men are like great trees, the shelter of all othersand the path-finders towards the sky. 

My sun is westering now, and the oft-repeated crash as these mightystalwarts fall keeps my heart in almost abiding sadness. For the secondgrowth gives no promise of a stock which shall be worthy successors tothese noble pioneers, the conquering gladiators of Canada's shadowyforests, the real makers of her great and portentous national life. Andyet, strange to say, I never knew their real greatness while I livedamong them, sharing in the varied chase, but only when they came to die. 

This was especially true of those who boasted far-back highland blood, for their depths of tenderness and heights of faith and scope ofspiritual vision were sternly hidden till the helplessness of deathbetrayed them. Then was the key to their secret life surrendered; thenmight all men see the face at the pane. But not till then; for everystolid feature, every stifled word or glance of tenderness, everymuffled note of religious self-revealment, swelled their life's nobleperjury. To their own hurt they swore, changing not. But at their realbest he saw them who saw them die. 

In that ingenuous hour they spoke once more their mother tongue of loveand faith with an accuracy which told of lifelong rehearsal within theirsecret hearts. When the golden bowl was broken, its holy contents, flowing free, poured forth the long-imprisoned fragrance. 

How many a day, cold and gray, flowers at sunset into rich redemptivebeauty, cheerless avenue leading to its grand Cathedral West! Thus haveI seen these Scottish lives, stern and cold and rayless, break intoflame at evening, in whose light I caught the glory of the very gates ofthe City of God. 

It was the winter of the strike, whose story I have already told, thatElsie M'Phatter heard the Voice which calls but once. Long and gentlehad been the slope towards the river, and I held Elsie's hand every stepof the way, myself striving to hold that other Hand which is trulyvisible only in the darkness; but the last stage of the journey cameswift and suddenly. About two in the morning I was awakened by the loudalarm of my door-bell. 

The minister knows well that at such an hour his bell is rung only byeternal winds, and the alarm is an almost certain message that therapids are near and that he is wanted at the helm. On Atlantic liners Ihave never heard the ominous note that calls the captain from his cabinto the bridge without thinking of my midnight bell, and that deeperdarkness, and that more awful channel. 

It was the doctor's boy who thus summoned me, bidding me hurry toElsie's bedside, for the tide was ebbing fast, he said. I was soon on myway through the frosty night, silently imploring the unseen Pilot thatHe would safe into the haven guide. To His great wisdom and Hissheltering love I committed all the case, making oath beneath the silentstars that I had myself no other hope than this with which I hurried toyonder dying one. For a man's own heart must swear by the living Lord, or else he will find no path through the dread wilderness of death forthe unreturning feet. 

When the outskirts of the town were but well behind me, I saw in thedistance a solitary light which I knew at once to be the death-chamberlamp; at sight whereof my heart has never outgrown a strange leap oftrembling fear, like a scout when he catches the first warning gleam ofthe enemy's campfire. Yonder, I said to myself, is the battle-field ofa soul, struggling with its last great foe; yonder the central crisisof all time and all eternity; yonder the heaving breast, the eager, onward look, the unravelling of mystery, the launching of a soul uponeternal seas. 

No life is ever commonplace when that lamp burns beside it, and nowealth, or genius, or greatness can palliate its relentless gleam. There, continued I, stands the dread unseen Antagonist, asking no chair, demanding no courtesy, craving no welcome, resenting no frowning andaverted face; calmly does he brook the terror and the hatred excited byhis uninvited advent, serene in the confidence that his is the centralfigure, that the last word is his, though all pretend to ignore hispresence. Like a sullen creditor he stands, careless that every man'shand is against him, relentlessly following his prey, willing that allothers should wait his time and theirs, intent only that this nightshall have its own. 

And yet, I thought, what a false picture is this that my coward hearthath drawn! There is Another in that room, I cried half loud, Anotherthere before me, whose swift feet have outrun my poor trudging throughthe snow. For He is there who lit that feeble lamp itself, and it burnsonly by His will. Death-lamp though it be, it is still a broken light ofHim, witness, in its own dark way, to the All-kindling Hand. The Loverof the soul is yonder, and will share His dear-bought victory with mypoor dying one. 

Whereat I pressed on eagerly, for I love to witness a reprieve, such asmany a time it hath been mine to see when the Greater Antagonistprevails. 

The death damp was on Elsie's brow when I knelt beside her bed, but hereyes were kindled from afar, and a great Presence filled the room. Donald was bowed beside her, his wife's wasted hand clasped passionatelyin his own. 

I knelt over the dying woman and softly repeated the swelling anthemwhich no lips can sing aright till the great Vision quickens them:"These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washedtheir robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. "

Elsie's voice blended with the great words, and turning her lustrouseyes full on my face, she murmured--

"It's a' bricht and blythesome whaur I'm walkin' noo--there's no valleyhere nor nae glen ava, but the way is fu' o' licht and beauty. "

Her eyes sought her husband's face: "Oh, Donal'! To think we canna walkthis way thegither! We've clomb the hill thegither, Donal', mony a timesair an' weary, but oor hairts were stoot when the brae was stae; butnoo I've reached the bonnie bit ayont the brae, an' ye're a' 'at'swantin', Donal', to mak' it fair beautiful! But ye'll no' be lang ahintme, wull ye, Donal'?--an' the Maister 'll come back to guide ye, gin I'mgone bye the gate. An' we'll aye walk thegither in the yonner-land. "

Donald's face was dry, but drawn in its agony. Its ache passed on intomy soul. He bent over her like some bowing oak, and the rustle of love'sfoliage was fairly audible to the inward ear, though the oak itselfseemed hard and gnarled as ever. He whispered something, like a mightyorgan lilting low and sweet some mother's lullaby, and no tutor exceptGreat Death could have taught Donald that gentle language. For I caughtthe word "darling, " and again "oor Saviour, " and once "the hameland, "and it was like a lark's gentlest note issuing from a mighty mountain'scleft. 

O Death, how unjustly thou hast been maligned! Men have painted thee ascruel, monstrous, hateful, the enemy of love, the despoiler of the home, the spirit of harshness, the destroyer of all poesy and romance. And yetthou hast done more to fill life with softness and with gentle beautythan all the powers of life and light whose antagonist thou hast beencalled. Thou hast heaped coals of fire on thy traducers' heads. For hastthou not made the heaviest foot fall lightly with love's consideratetread? Hast thou not made the rough, coarse palm into a sanctuary andpavilion wherein the dying hand may shelter? Hast thou not taught theloud and boisterous voice the new song of tenderness and pity, whispering like a dove? Within thy school the rude and harsh havelearned the nurse's gentle art, and the world's swaggering warriorsserve as acolytes before thy shadowy altar. The peasant's cottage owesto thee its transformation to cathedral splendour, the censers gentlyswinging when thou sayest the soul's great mass, at even, or atmidnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning. Thou hast classedtogether the hovel and the palace, glowing with equal solemn grandeur, so that no man can tell the one from the other when the crape upon thedoor betokens that thou tarriest there. Thou hast promoted sodden sleepto be the most awful metaphor of time. Thou hast stripped wealth andgrandeur, leaving them but a shroud, and hast clothed obscurity andpoverty with their eternally suggestive robe; thou hast affirmed, andthou preserved, that grim average of life which greatness refuses, whichlittleness fears, to realize. Romance and Poetry and Fancy are thywards, making as thou dost the most holden eyes to overleap time's poorhorizon, following departed treasure with wistful and unresigning love, as birds follow their ravaged nests, crying as they go. Oh, sombrechantress! Thou hast filled the world with song, plaintive and piteousthough it be. 

"What is it, mother?" I heard Donald whisper; and the answer evidentlycame back to him from the dying lips. For he turned to me, his face fullof tragedy: "She's talkin' aboot Robin, " he said hoarsely; "but ye dinnaken. Robin was oor laddie--an' he's oor laddie yet, though we've had naeword o' him for mony a year. Him an' me pairted in wrath, an' he wentoot intil the dark nicht. I was ower prood tae ca' him back, but hismither followed him to the moor, cryin' after him--an' she cam' backalane. "

Donald stopped suddenly, for the mother's struggling voice was heard:"Come hame, Robin, for it's cauld an' dark, an' ye've been ower langawa; but there's a place at the ingle for ye yet, my bairn. I've ayekeepit it for ye, an' I keepit the fire burnin' ever sin' ye left us. Iwadna let it oot. An' ilka nicht I pit the lamp i' the window, for I ayethocht, 'He'll mebbe come the nicht. '"

"She's wanderin', " Donald said to me, awe mingling with his voice. 

"She's found the wanderer, " I said; and we both moved nearer, eachsignalling the other to be still. 

Elsie's gaze passed us by, outgoing far into the darkness. 

"Na, na, Robin; yir faither'll no' be angry. I ken fine a' ye say istrue, but he's yir faither for a' that. An' he loves ye maist as weel asme; but oh, my bonnie, there's nane loves ye like yir mither! Hishairt's fair broken for ye, Robin. I'll tell ye something, but ye maunnatell yir faither. I heard him pray for ye all alane by himsel'. Heprayed to God to bring ye back--he ca'd ye Robin richt to God. An' Inever heard yir faither greet afore or syne. The Buik, tae, it wad openo' itsel' at the prodigal, an' it was his daein', an' he didna think Ikent; but I kent it fine, an' I thankit the Heavenly Faither mony atime. "

She stopped, exhausted, her soul flickering in her voice. Donald moved, his great form coming athwart her eager, kindling eyes. She stirred, hervision evidently hindered, and Donald stepped quickly from before her, gazing with passionate intentness, his eyes shaded by his hand like onewho peers into a lane of light. 

"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will--" I began. 

"Hush!" said Donald sternly, "she's wi' him yet. Hark ye!"

Her strength seemed now returning, for she went on--

"Ay, Robin, I'm tellin' ye the truth. Yir faither's thocht o' ye is thethocht he had when ye were a bit bairn in his airms. "

The anguished father flung himself upon his knees beside the bed, hishand gently stroking his wife's withered cheek. 

"Tell him that again, mither; tell him my thocht o' him was aye the sameas yir ain, when I thocht o' him atween God an' me. Tell him me an' youbaith thocht the same. Bid him hame, Elsie. Oh, mither, I've been thewanderer masel', an' I'm weary. "

My heart melted in me at this, for the eternal fatherly was sobbingthrough his voice. 

The familiar tones seemed to call Elsie back from her delirium, for shesuddenly looked upon us as if we had not been there before. 

"Oh, faither, Robin's comin' hame the nicht. Is the lamp kindled in thewindow? We've baith been wae these mony years, but the mirk'll be pastan' by when oor laddie's safe hame wi' us again. "

A strange sense of the nearness of the supernatural took possession ofme, for Elsie's voice was not the voice of fevered fancy; the fastebbing tide of life seemed to flow back again, her strength visiblyincreased, as if she must remain till her Robin had been welcomed home. 

In spite of reason, I fell to listening eagerly, wondering if this wereindeed the act of God. Why should it be thought a thing incredible withus that the Rebuilder of Bethany's desolated house should still ply Hisancient industry?

"Raise me up a little, faither, for I maun watch the gate. "

Donald lifted his dying wife with caressing easiness. 

"That'll dae; ay, we've baith been wae these mony years, but the mirk isbye. 

 "'Long hath the night of sorrow reigned, The dawn shall bring us light. '

The morn is wi' us, Donal', an' Robin's at the gate. "

Far past the flickering lamp she gazed, and her eyes' light rose andfell in unison with approaching steps. 

"He's bye the gate, " she cried; and joy held death at bay, for the wordschimed like cathedral bells. 

Fearsome to behold was the awestruck face which Donald turned to mine, and full of questioning dread, I doubt not, were the eyes that met hisown. Was this the doing of the Lord, or was it but the handiwork ofdeath, that wizard oculist, so often lending mystic vision to pilgrimssetting under darkness out to sea?

Leaving death and Elsie to their unequal conflict, we started with oneimpulse to the window; but Donald was there before me, his eyes shadedby his hands, burning through the dark a pathway to the gate. 

"God be mercifu', " he muttered, and then turned swiftly towards thestairs, for a hand was fumbling at the latch. I waited trembling, and Iheard no word; but the aroma of a soul's second spring stole sweet andunafraid into the chamber of death. 

 * * * * *

I met them at the door as Donald said, "Yir mither's deein', " and therebroke from the rugged man beside him a low moaning sound, like to manywaters when some opposing thing hath at length been overswept. It wasquickly checked, and the silence of love and anguish took its place. 

I drew Donald gently back and closed the door upon them twain, thewaiting mother and the wandering son, for there was never bridal hourlike to this. 

"My mither, oh, my mither!" I heard him say; and Elsie spoke no word, but the long ache was ended and the great wound was well. 

'Twas but a moment again when a trembling voice called, "Faither, she'swantin' ye. "

We entered the love-lit room, and Elsie beckoned him swiftly to herside. 

"I maun be gaun sune, " she whispered, and then followed some words toolow for my ears to catch. 

Donald turned to me: "She wants to hae the sacrament dispensit till usa', " and his face was full of dubious entreaty, for the kirk session ofSt. Cuthbert's was sternly set against private administration. 

The session and its rules were in that moment to me but as the dust. Beyond their poor custody was a holy hour such as this. The little tablewas quickly spread, the snow-white bread and the wine pressed by amother's priestly hands. I was about to proceed with the holy ordinancewhen Elsie stopped me. 

"Bide a meenit. Donal', get ye the token, the ane wee Elsie loved. Myhairt tells me she's no' far awa the noo. She'll e'en show forth theLord's deith alang wi' us. The Maister o' the feast is here, and why wadHe no' bring oor Elsie wi' Him? Wha kens but I'll gang hame wi' thembaith?"

Her husband, obedient to the seer's voice, passed quickly to anadjoining room, and in an instant reappeared, bearing the well-worntoken in his hands, the same his dying child had fondly held; and Iheard again the low refrain which grief had taught him years ago:"Christ an' oor Elsie--an' her mither. " This last was new, learned insorrow's latest hour. 

He handed it to his wife, who took it, turning her wan face to mine. 

"There's only ane, but it'll dae us a'--let Robin haud it. Tak' it, laddie; it's warm frae yir sister's haun'. "

The wanderer's reverent hand received it, and holy memories, longbanished, flowed back into the heart that had not been their home sincethe golden days of boyhood. Of his mother and his sister were they all, and they laved that heart till it was almost clean, for they were indisguise but memories of God, foreshadowing the Greater Incarnation. 

"Noo we're ready, an' we're a' here. Raise the psalm, faither, thesacrament ane, " she said faintly--"tak' St. Paul's, " and Donald'squavering voice essayed--

 "I'll of salvation take the cup, On God's name will I call; I'll pay my vows now to the Lord Before His people all. 

 * * * * *

 Dear in God's sight is His saints' death, Thy servant, Lord"--

but the faltering voice refused. 

I broke the bread and poured the wine, handing the sacred emblems firstto the dying one, so soon to take them new in the kingdom of God. ThenDonald partook, and buried his face in his hands. To Robin next Iproffered the holy symbols, but he drew back, stretching forth his handstowards the bed. 

"I daurna--I've wandered ower far, " he said. "I hear the russlin' o' thehusks. "

"Dinna fear, Robin, " whispered his mother's lips. "We're a' but bairnscomin' back to oor Faither's hoose; God loves ye mair than either yirfaither or me, --I'm near the kingdom, an' I ken. "

"My son, my laddie, "--it was his father's broken voice, --"let us tak'the feast thegither. I'm a puir prodigal masel'--but the door is openwide, an' we'll baith come hame to God. "

"I'll tak' it frae ma mither's hands, " said Robin. 

I handed the elements to her, ordained from all eternity to minister tothe son she bore; with trembling hands she dispensed them to him, highpriestess unto God, her dying eyes distilling the very love which shedits fragrance when the all but dying Saviour first brake the holy bread. 

When we were through, Elsie's voice was heard saying to herself "UntoHim who loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, " whichwas followed by a long silence. 

"Wull ye no' pronounce the benediction?" Donald said at last, for he wasby nature an ecclesiastic. 

"Did you not hear it?" I replied. 

The silence deepened, the breathing grew heavier, and we two stoodtogether looking down upon her face. Robin's was by his mother's. Suddenly her eyes opened wide, fastening themselves upon her son. 

"I'll sune win hame, " she murmured gladly, "an' I want ye to say yir bitprayer to me, Robin, afore I gang, the way ye did when ye were abairnie. Kneel doon, Robin, an' say it to me, an' we'll baith say it toGod, for I'm weary tae. 'Noo I lay me, ' ye ken. "

The strong man bowed beside his mother's bed, and the great anthembegan, the sobbing bass of the broken heart mingling with the feebledying voice--

 "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Thee Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee Lord my soul to take. "

Suddenly she pointed with uplifted hand: "Oh, faither, I see oor Elsie'sface--an' the token's in her haun', an' it's a' bricht wi' gowden licht. She's biddin' us a' hame--me, an' faither, an' Robin----" and she passedinto the homeland bearing the prodigal's name with her up to God. 

I gently closed her eyes. Donald stood long beside the bed; then, takinghis son into his arms, he said--

"Yir mither's bye the gate. "

XIX

_A MAIDEN'S LOVE_

What self-contradicting things we are! The very joys we crave bringsorrow when they come; for they crowd out some only lesser joy, which, rejected, turns to bitterness and takes its long revenge. It is one ofthe blessed laws of life that no heart, however hospitable, canentertain more than one sorrow at one time, how many so ever be waitingat the door. Each must wait its turn. 

But alas! Joy has its corresponding law; every heart's pleasure is analternative, and if much we would enjoy, much also we must renounce. Joyusually comes as twins, and the great perplexity is to discern which thefirst-born is, that our homage may not return unto us void. 

Of many of our deepest longings may it not be said that theirfulfillment would be our keenest disappointment? For instance, the wifeof our family physician is forever lamenting that no spouse in all NewJedboro sees as little of her husband as does she, forever longing thathe might be released to the enjoyment of his own fireside. Yet should afickle or convalescent public suddenly so release him, our doctor'swife would be of all women most miserable. 

Even as I write, I am disturbed by a lad of twenty who starts to-day onhis long journey to Athabasca and the waiting prairies of our greatCanadian West. 

Full of pathetic joy is his youthful face; but his mother is bowedbeside the bed whereon she gave him birth--her cup, she thinks, would befull to overflowing if her first-born son were suddenly to dispack hisbox and take up the old nestling life again. The sun would have turnedback to its undimmed meridian, she weens; and yet she knows full wellthat this very longing, were it gratified, would poison her overflowingcup and tarnish her mother's pride. If she were asked to choose betweenthese two, womanlike, she would elect to have them both--but Godforbids. 

The youth's father says: "Let the lad go forth"--and God is a Father, though He takes counsel of a mother-heart. 

All this reflective vein flows from this poor heart of mine, the truthwhereof that heart hath sorrowfully proved. 

For my daughter Margaret holds within it a place of solitary tenderness, more exclusively her own as the years go by. And I too was forced to thegreat alternative, the same which hath wrung uncounted parents' heartsbefore I saw the light, the same as will rend thousands more when thatpoor light has filtered through darkness into Day. 

What father is there who can contemplate without dismay the prospect ofhis only daughter surrendered to another's care, though that other pressthe cruel claim of a mate's more passionate love? Where is the fatherthat does not long to shelter his child's sweet innocence forever withinthe pavilion of his heart's loving tenderness? And yet, where is thefather who would be free from torture, were he assured that his soul'syearning would be satisfied, and that no high claim of unrelated lovewould ever rival or dispute his own?

It was my own fault that Margaret's attachment to Angus Strachan came tome as a bolt from the blue. I had never dreamed of it--I was so sure ofeverybody loving Margaret that I never thought of anybody loving her. Ofcourse it was easily seen that their friendship was mutually cherished;but friendship, although a mother's hope, is a father's reassurance. Margaret's mother had more than once spoken of their friendship in thatportentous tone which all women hope to assume before they die; and herwords exuded the far-off fragrance of orange blossoms. She began withthe assurance that the friendship between Angus and our Margaret had noparticular meaning--to which I agreed. A little later on she venturedthe remark that she did not think Angus cared for Margaret except as afriend--to which also I cheerfully agreed. Later still, she resorted tothe interrogative, and asked me if I thought Margaret would ever marry, to which I answered: "I hope so, but she shall not with my consent. "

"I was married when I was Margaret's age, " added my wife. (What woman isthere who does not love to say the same?) "Margaret will soon betwenty. "

"Yes, my dear, but few women have the chance that came to you and no manever had provocation like to mine. " This was followed by a passage atarms, during which, of course, the fair debater's lips were sealed. 

By degrees my wife's attack upon the subject grew bolder and morefrontal. 

"Do you think Margaret cares anything for Angus?" she asked, the hourbeing that post-retiring one sacred in every age to conjugal conference. 

"I don't think so--certainly not; why should she? We have a triangularfamily altogether--two to each of us, and why should she want any more?She has you and me, just as I have you and her, and you have her andme. "

"But that is foolish; you don't understand. "

"I don't want to understand, " I answered drowsily. "Margaret's only achild--and I want to go to sleep; if I don't sleep over my sermonto-night, the people will to-morrow. " For it was Saturday night. 

But "the child" was not asleep. The love affairs of other hearts are byothers easily borne, even though those others be the next nearest anddearest of all. But how different with the maiden's heart that loves, and tremblingly hopes that it loves not in vain! Then doth the pillowburn with holy passion, and considerate sleep, like an indulgent nurse, turns her steps aside, fearing to break in upon the soul's solemnrevelry. Even when she ventures nigh, gently withdrawing the stillunwearied heart from its virgin joy, do the half open lips still sipfrom the new found cisterns of sweet and tender bliss. 

O holy love! Who shall separate the joy thou bringest from the heartthat opens wide to welcome it, even as the flower bares its bosom to thesun?

Darkness and tears and sorrow may follow fast; fears and misgivings anddread discoveries may come close upon thy train; broken-heartedness andbleak perpetual maidenhood may be thine only relics; or, flowering withthe years, the thorns of grief and poverty and widowhood may grow whereyouthful fancy looked for radiant flowers; the heart which echoed withthy bridal song may yet peal forth the Rachel cry--but thou belongestto the heart forever, and none of these can dispossess the soul of itsunforgotten transport. Nor fire, nor flood, nor fraud can prevailagainst thee! Thy treasures moth and rust doth not corrupt nor thievesbreak through and steal!

As a burning building lends its heat to all beside it, so was my ownsoul kindled, half with rapture and half with anger, by the story ofMargaret's passion. Father's and daughter's hearts were never pressedcloser to each other than were mine and my only child's. 

It was the succeeding Sunday night that Margaret, in her father's arms, breathed out the tender tale; I was enjoying my evening smoke (apost-sermonic anodyne), but long before Margaret had finished, my cigarwas in ashes and my heart in flame. 

"Father, " she began, her face hidden on my shoulder, "I am either veryhappy or very wretched, and I cannot decide which till I know which youwill be. "

"The old problem, daughter, is it not?" I answered. "Still longing toenter a hospital? And you want to wheedle your old father into givingyou up?" for Margaret, like every other modern girl, had been cravingentrance to that noble calling. The high-born and the love-lorn, thoseweary of life, or of love, or both, find a refuge there. 

"No, father, I was not thinking of that at all. I don't want to be anurse any more. "

"What is it then? You have never had any secrets from your father andyou will not have any now, will you, dear one?"

"Oh, father, I will tell you all I can--but I cannot tell you all. "

I started in my chair, for the child note was absent from her words, andthe passion of womanhood was in its stead. Awesome to a father's heartis that moment wherein a daughter's voice unconsciously asserts thesuffrage of her soul. 

"Go on, my daughter--tell me what you may, " I said, for I knew now thatthe realm was one wherein parental authority was of no avail. 

Only silence followed; her lips spoke no word, but the heaving bosom hada rhetoric all its own and told me that a new life, begotten not ofmine, was throbbing there. An alien life it seemed to me, a soul'sexpansion beyond the province of my own, an infinitude which denied thesway of even a father's love. At length she spoke:

"Oh, father, I will tell you all--that is, all I can. But I am solonely. You cannot follow me, father. I have gone away in--withanother--in where you cannot go. "

"What mean you, Margaret? In where? Where can I not come?" I asked, perplexed. 

"Father, let me tell you. I am speaking in a figure, I know--but it isthe only way--and you will understand. Love is a far country, andprodigals take their journey there--but they seek it two by two. Oh, father, another one and I went off together to that far, far land andthose who go leave father and mother far behind. But there is no hungerand no famine there. "

Rich the endowment love bestows! While we had all thought Margaretanything but dull, yet this new speech of metaphor and music fell uponmy ears as a great surprise. That live coal from off God's altar hadtouched her lips when first another's burning lips of love anointed themwith flame. When this new sun arises, the humblest of God's meadowcreatures know that the soul has wings and spread them in that holylight. 

Closer to my breast I pressed the heart whose tumult, as it struggledwith its muffled witnesses, started the same passionate riot in my own. 

"There are many voices in your heart, daughter mine; let them speakevery one and tell me all their story. Where is it that your fathercannot come?"

"Father, " she answered, with sweet calmness but with averted face, "Inever loved you more than now. But love's joy is in its loneliness, itssweet bridal loneliness. It was a long weary way that another one andI--you know his name, and I cannot speak it yet--walked together, butnot alone together; for others walked besides us--and friendship is acruel thing. But oh, father dear, one day--no, it was in the gloaming, we saw an avenue far beyond; and we both knew it was for us and for usalone. I saw it first, but I did not let Angus know. But he saw it in amoment and he started quickly on. Then my feet fell back, though myheart pressed on with his. But Angus would not let me stop. He hurriedme on; and it was sweet to be overborne, for love makes a man so strongand a woman so weak. 

"When we came close up to where you enter in, I saw that the way withinwas sweet, and shadowy, so shadowy, but I saw that it was long, so long. And I turned away, though my heart never turned. But Angus's eyes nevermoved from the avenue, and he whispered that it was meant for ustwo--just for us two--and for none on earth beside; he said no one couldgo in alone, because it would vanish if they did--and he held meclose--and we went in together--and we shall come out no more forever. That is where you cannot come, father--nor mother, nor dearest friendcan. You could not if you would, for it is God who keeps the gate. "

Her trembling voice was still, but throbbing heart and swelling bosomstill poured forth their passionate utterance. 

Soon her lips opened again, yielding before the inner tide. 

"And father, " her hot cheek pressed to mine foretold the ardent story, "it was at evening, as I said, and Angus and I had wandered far--fartherthan we thought. We were resting on a grassy knoll. Angus had beenspeaking of his mother, and he said that the beauty of nature alwaysmade his heart ache. Surely, father, there is nothing so lonesome asbeauty when the heart's lonesome! Angus and I were still a longtime--till it was growing dusk; and then at last he said, 'How lonelyall this is if no one loves you!' And I started at his tone, and when myeyes met his I went down before them, for they caressed me so. Fatherdear, I need not tell you all. I could not if I would--no girl could. Iknow, I remember, oh, I remember what he said, and no one else knows butme, and my soul trusted him and he took me into the sheltering placewhere nobody but God could see my soul's surrender. "

"My daughter, my little daughter, " was all I said. 

"Wait, father, " her face now was hidden deep and she was whispering intomy very heart, "there is another thing I want to tell you--no, twothings, for they were both together. 

"Father, he kissed me--on the lips--and I did not believe it; for just amoment before we had been listening to the crickets and looking at thesun. But he kissed me on the lips and my whole soul surged hot, and myeyes were closed--for I felt him coming and I could not speak or move. 

"And I don't know why, but I thought of the sacrament and the holy wine, and everything was holy--not like music, but like a bell, a greatcathedral bell with its unstained voice. And father (I shall feel purerwhen I tell you this), father, that very moment I felt a strange newlife in my breast and the old girlish life was gone--and there camebefore my closed eyes a vision of another just like Angus, white andsoft and helpless--and I heard its cry--and my heart melted in me withthe great compassion. And I knew that what I called love was reallylife, just life. And I felt no shame at all, but a great pride that itwas all so holy--for it is holy, father, and no one prompted it but God. Father, do you love me?"

I bent to kiss the glowing lips, but I remembered, and kissed her browinstead, beautiful and pure before my misty eyes. She drew herselfgently from my arms and in a moment the sweet presence had departed. Butthe fragrance of love and innocence was left behind and my falteringanswer came at last, though she heard it not:

"Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. "

XX

_A FATHER'S CRUCIFIXION_

It is from joy alone that real sorrow can be brewed. Were joy to perishfrom the earth human lips would soon forget the bitter taste of anguish. The only intolerable clouds are those which follow swift upon some rosymorn, frowning its every sunbeam into darkness, pursuing its fugitivesmiles as the hound pursues the deer. The soul's great sickness is injoy's relapse. 

Into the tide of our daughter's virgin gladness her mother and I weresoon gladly swept. Love and joy are incendiary things and we soonsuccumbed to the sweet contagion. Apart altogether from our daughter'schoice, he might well have been our own; for Angus Strachan was strongof body and vigorous of mind, and pure of soul. He had made swiftstrides in his chosen calling, and was now a partner in one of themanufacturing firms which were New Jedboro's pride. At the door ofindustry he had knocked with patient hand, and wealth had answered tothat knock herself. He was a man of influence, ever increasing, in NewJedboro. In St. Cuthbert's, he was held in high esteem by all, and thenext election, we knew, would call him to the elder's honoured place. Prepossessing in appearance, manly in bearing, musical in speech, fragrant in character, Angus might well wake the echoes of even ourMargaret's noble heart. 

Wherefore there was joy in St. Cuthbert's manse, and in its threedevoted hearts, beating high with a common hope. Our morning sun shoneradiantly. 

But the eclipse came suddenly. It was again the Sabbath evening, andMargaret again was nestling close, her face bearing more and more thebeauty which love's tuition gives. 

"Father, " she suddenly began, "I want to ask you something. "

"What is it, child?" I said. 

"You know that verse in the Bible that says:--'Who did sin, this man orhis parents?' You know the verse. Well father, who did sin? Was it theman, or was it his parents?"

"What a strange question, child! What on earth has that to do with you?"

"Never mind, father--let us stick to the text, " she answered. "You are aminister and I want you to stick to the text. Tell me who did sin?"

"Well, if the man's blindness was because of sin, since he was bornblind and since he couldn't sin before he was born, I suppose it musthave been his parents, " I answered slowly. "What difference does itmake to you?" For I was curious to know. 

"And don't you think, " she went on unheedingly, "that it was cruel foranybody to hold that poor man responsible for his parents' sin?"

"I suppose so, but why are you catechizing me like this, burrowing amongold questions of two thousand years ago?"

"Oh, father, there are no old questions, " and there was a strange cry inher voice, "because there are no old lives. They are all new everyday--they all live again, father. Sin is new and sorrow is new--and theCross is new, father--so new and so cruel, " she cried, the tears nowflowing fast, "and that question isn't old--it is asked every day. Andit is asked of me--and I have to answer it, and answer it as you havedone, and as the compassionate Saviour would have done, " she concluded, her voice trembling with its passion. 

"What on earth do you mean, Margaret? Sin, sorrow, the Cross, what havethese to do with you?" I asked eagerly. 

"It was only last night that Angus told me. Poor fellow, his face waswhite when he came and his look was full of agony. Of course I asked himto tell me what was the matter. We were in the library, for I alwaystook him there because it has a fireplace, and we both love to watchthe fire. I had laid the wood myself last night before Angus came, andthere was never task so dear--it was the gloaming when I laid it, but Iknew it would soon be bright. 

"But about his answer to my question. Surely no maiden yet had sostrange an answer. For, without a word, he went to the desk and took theBible in his hands. When he had found the place he stood before me andread me this:

"'Then cometh Jesus with them unto the place called Gethsemane. .. . Mysoul is exceeding sorrowful unto death. .. . My Father if this cup may notpass away from Me except I drink it, Thy will be done. '

"His voice was strange to me, and I was trembling for I didn't know whathe meant. But I knew it was my Judgment Day. 

"'Angus, ' I said faintly, 'what do you mean? What has that to do withus? That is a story of two thousand years ago. '

"'Margaret, ' he answered, 'the story of Gethsemane is never old. Itswillows cast the same shadows yet as those into which our Saviour crept. And that cup is never empty, though human lips are ever draining it toits dregs. It is close to my lips to-night--and to your sweet lips too, my darling--and we must drink it together. '

"'Together, Angus, ' I said, 'thank God for that. ' The word was sweet. Oh, father, head-winds are precious unto love if only love's handstogether hold the sail. 

"After a long silence Angus spoke again and my poor heart had to listen. 

"'Margaret, ' he began, 'no man ever renounced what I renounce to-night, for no man ever loved as I love you, though I reckon many a man wouldswear the same, knowing not his perjury--for none can know my love. Andjoy, and pride, and home--and all with which our pure thought hadenriched our home--all these must I surrender now. I must give upeverything but love--and that is mine forever. Oh, Margaret, I won you, did I not? I, a poor Scottish laddie, a herd among the heather. I cameto Canada lang syne, and by and by I won you, did I not, Margaret?

"'But I must give you up--and I will tell you why. 

"'It was not hard for me to find that story of Gethsemane. When I wasbut a laddie among the Scottish hills my mother's Bible aye opened atthat very place; and laddie though I was, I noticed it, for the page wasmarked and worn and soiled with tears. 

"'I asked my mother many a time why the Book aye opened there and whatsoiled and marked it so. She told me not for long, saying only that itwas marked and soiled before her laddie had been born. 

"'But the night before I sailed from Annan Foot, she put her arms aboutme and she told me of the anguish of her soul and all about thetear-stained place--for she told me of her own Gethsemane and of thebitter cup, and said that her laddie's lips could pass it by no morethan hers. 

"'And ever since that night ma ain buik aye opens at Gethsemane. Oh, Margaret, you understand, do you not?' he cried, 'I am not worthy of youand of your love. 

"'The far-off strain of sin starting from another heart than mine(another than my mother's, by the living God) has stained my name. Mineis an unhallowed name. Mine is a shadowed birth. Mine is the perpetualGethsemane and mine the unemptied cup!

"'Forgive me, Margaret, for the wrong I did you. I should never havespoken love to you at all, or if I did, I should have told you of theblight upon it; but the sky and the trees and the hill were clothed thatnight in the beauty that wrapt my soul and I thought that God hadforgotten and had shrived me in the same sacred light. But He does notforget. That light itself cannot drive the shadow from Gethsemane andthe cup has never since been absent from my lips. '

"Angus stopped--and God watched over me; for He pitied me. 

"I thought of you and mother first, but God still kept my will in His. Iwanted God to lead me and I asked Him to help me--and I waited. 

"'Angus, ' I said at last, 'your mother loved him, did she not?'

"'Loved!' he answered, 'her pure heart knew no other passion. My own isbut an echo. Behold! I was shapen in love. '

"'Then, ' said I, 'let her that is without love cast the first stone ather. If any sinning woman love, she has an advocate with the Father. Oh, Angus! Come to me!' I cried, for I was fainting. "

 * * * * *

Her story was finished now and my daughter added not a word. But shearose and stood before me, her eyes searching my pallid face for averdict, if haply it might be like her own. I noticed the woman'stactics in her move, for woman's genius makes its home within her soul;she had left my arms that I might, if I would, hold them out to heragain and take her back forever. But the arms have their hinges in theheart and mine was tight locked like a vise. 

"Margaret, " I said at last, and my voice was like the voice of age, "youdo not mean that you suffered this man's caresses after he told you whatyou have just told me?"

Sorrow looked from Margaret's eyes. 

"Suffered!" she replied, "suffered! I have learned what suffering is, God knows, but He knows it was not there I learned it. 'This man. ' Oh, father, I love him--am I all alone?"

How strong is the weakness of love! There is no panoply like that whichlove provides, and she who bears it has the whole armour of God. 

"Margaret, " I pleaded, "you surely will not ruin your life and breakyour mother's heart and mine by any madness such as this. "

"'Ruin my life, ' father! what ruin can there be to the life that lovesand is loved? I have no life at all apart from him. It seems so simple. I can't take back my heart!"

"Perhaps so, my daughter, " I replied, "perhaps so. I know your love isno fickle thing. But Margaret, you do not propose to link your life withhis, shadowed as you yourself declare it to have been from his birth?"

"Father, it is already linked. It was not I who linked our lives, norwas it he; nor was it both together--it was God. Surely He wouldn't havelet me love and trust, if it was wrong. I want you to help me; I am allalone. "

"But you do not mean, " I cried with growing warmth, "that I, theminister of St. Cuthbert's Kirk, New Jedboro, am to be called upon totake into my family and to acknowledge as my son, a man who cannot speakhis father's name, who cannot, " for I was maddening fast, "speak it evento himself, forsooth, because he knows not what it is?"

"Oh, father, do not press me so; I love you--and I love him too, and----"

"But about our family?" I asked hotly. 

"I forgot about families, " she sobbed. "Oh, father, teach this poorheart of mine to love no more and I will obey your every wish--but it ishard for love to serve two masters. "

My heart was wrung by her plaintive voice; but love dwells hard bycruelty, and my self-control was going fast. Let those defend me whohave known my agony. 

"You know, I suppose, the result that will issue from your madness? Youknow what it will mean to your future relations here?" I asked hoarsely, explaining my threat by a glance about the room. 

"Don't call it madness, father, " she replied, pleadingly. "There is nomadness in love. I cannot help it, father. Why should I? Surely Angus isthe same as he was when first I loved him. I haven't learned anythingnew about the soul of him, father. "

"But his origin?" I interrupted. 

"But he is good, father, --and kind--and true--and he loves me. "

It was but a moment till I was past the bounds of reason. Disappointment, pride, shame, anger--all these had their cruel way withme. I am covered with confusion as with a garment while I try to recordwhat followed, though I could not tell it all, even if I would. There isno cruelty like the cruelty of love. For the anguished soul pours outthe vials of its remorse and self-reproach upon the well loved head, andfury waxes with its shame. 

"I want none of your preaching, " and my voice was coarse with anger;"you are a willful and disobedient child and you may as well learn firstas last who is the master of this house. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear, --and my heart is broken. You want me to go away and not tosee me any more. And I don't know where to go. "

She was kneeling now and the tears were dropping hot upon my hand, whichshe had taken in both of hers. "Oh, father, when birdlings leave thenest, surely God wants them to go, because He gives them wings. Father, dear, oh, do not push me out in this cruel way. I want to keep you andAngus both--and mother. Am I really wrong?

"Father, you are a preacher of the Everlasting Gospel, and doesn't thatsay we were all born wrong and need to be born again? You said only lastSunday that if we're once on the Rock, God forgets all about the pit andthe miry clay. And you said God makes the past new--all new, and thatall the redeemed ones are just the same in His sight--all good, and withthe past away behind them. I thought it was beautiful, because I thoughtabout Angus--and it seemed just like the Saviour's way. "

My heart was wrung with a great desire to take the bended form untomyself. I half moved forward to kiss the lips of this kneeling priestessunto love. But as I did so the memory of other lips that had beenpressed to them rolled in upon me and swept away the better impulse. Ifaltered into compromise. 

"Margaret, you are still my daughter and I am touched by what you say. Let us find common ground. Promise me that you will suspend judgment inthis matter for a year, your promise meantime to be revoked and at theend of that time, we will take it up afresh. This will give time forsober judgment. "

But her blanched face turned to mine, and the white lips spoke again. "Oh, spare me, father, for I cannot--you know I cannot--oh, father, pityme!"

My soul flamed with ungovernable anger. I did pity her and this it wasthat stirred my cruelty. For my soul relapsed to barbarous coarsenessand I said: "Then choose between us--you can have your ----, " and Icalled him an awful word, the foulest of all words, whose very soundspeaks the shame it means to tell, the curse of humanity hissed in itsnauseous syllables. 

And more--but how can I write it down! I did not strike her--but Ithrust her from me; I laid my coward hand upon her shoulder--not inviolence nor heavily, but eternal menace was in it. For I pushed herfrom me, crying brutally: "Quote me another Scripture. Have you notchosen the better part? There is the door which his shadow firstaccursed--you see the door?" and I hurled the poisoned word at heragain. 

She looked at me but once--as one, suddenly awakening, looks at herassassin. Then she went out, a lover as white as snow. 

XXI

_The OLD PRECENTOR'S NEW SONG_

As a stream emerges from its forest tunnel, eluding the embrace oftangled shadows, swiftly gliding from sombre swamps and hurrying towardsthe sunlit plain, its phantom weeds of widowhood exchanged for itsbridal robe of light; so doth this tale of mine glide forth from thesable shadows which garrison the chapter it has left behind. 

No man loves to linger by his scaffold, though it be cheated of its lastadornment, and though no eye behold its grinning outline but its own. For there are shadowy scaffolds, and invisible executioners, sitting atour own boards and eating of our own bread, discernible only in a glass. Our own Sheriffs and Executioners are we all. 

Swift in the wake of sorrow came the unromantic form of toil. Thank God!Work is sorrow's cure, its hands like the hands of an enemy, but itsvoice the voice of an Eternal friend. For duty is God's midwife, sent todeliver the soul that travails in its anguish. 

It was but the day after Margaret had passed from out my door, girdingit as she went with crape, invisible to other eyes, that I was called toArchie McCormack's house. The day was bright and clear, but I knew itnot--for in this doth sorrow make us like to God, that then the darknessand the light are both alike. 

For some months past, my old precentor had been failing fast. The doctorsaid it was his heart, but none of us believed it; for his heart hadgrown larger, stronger, happier with every passing year. Its outer lifemight perish if it would, but its inner life was renewed day by day. Indeed, his soul's second harvest seemed to take the form ofcheerfulness, the scantiest crop of all in the stern seasons of hisearlier life. Even merriment sought to bloom before the frost shouldcome. 

The very day before Margaret and I began our life's Lenten season, I hadbeen to see him, little thinking that my next visit was to be the last. My own heart was full of that joy whose overflow Margaret had entrustedto its care--which is a great gift to a minister, this gift of gladness, seeking as he does to irrigate the thirsty plains of life about him. 

"How is my precentor to-day?" I asked as I sat down at the blazinghearth. He was lying on the couch, the fourth gradation--the field, theveranda, the room, the couch, the bed, the grave--thus the promotionruns!

"I'm by or'nar glad to see ye, " he replied, evasively. "The auld freensare the best. "

"That's good, Archie, the old friends are glad to hear it. They hear itseldom from Scottish lips, however hopefully they suspect it. "

"We're nae muckle given to compliments--I'll grant ye that. But whileswe think; an' whiles we speak--an' whiles we wunna. But I'm no backwardin tellin' a man gin I care for him. Noo, I was sayin' to the wife thisverra day that yon man ye brocht frae Montreal last simmer was likeeneuch a graun preacher--I'm no disputin' that, mind ye. But I wassayin' to the wife as hoo I likit yirsel' fully mair nor him. "

I smiled with pleasure, for the process was an interesting one. Bouquetslook strange in these rough Scottish hands--but their fragrance is thesweeter for all that. 

"I understand, Archie. You do not often pay a compliment, but I know itssincerity when it comes and I appreciate it all the same. "

He had not finished, for he felt he had gone too far. 

"Aye, that's what I was sayin' to the wife. I likit yirsel' fully betternor him--it's different ye see; I'm gettin' kind o' used to ye, yeken!"

This made his tribute morally complete. Oh, thou Scotchman! Thou canstnot withhold a tincture of lemon from the sweetest cup!

"But how is my precentor to-day?" I renewed, fearful of additionalrepairs to his eulogy. 

"Weel, I'm no' complainin'--an' I'm no' boastin'; but there's mony a yinwaur. I'm no' sufferin' pain to speak o'. I can sleep at nicht, an' Itak my parritch, an' I hae ma faculties--an' I'm in God's hauns, " hesaid, the climax coming with unconscious power. 

"There's no better bulletin than that, " I responded. "I see you stilltake your smoke, Archie, " I added cheerfully, nodding towards an ancienttrusty pipe which enjoyed its brief respite on a chair, long hisfamiliar friend, and noticeably breathing out its loyalty where it lay. 

"Ou, aye, I dinna lack for ony o' the needcessities o' life, thank God, "he replied gratefully, and with utter seriousness. 

"What a blessing that you are free from pain, " I hurriedly remarked; forthe mouth, like a capricious steed, is more easily controlled when it isin motion. 

"Aye, that's a great blessin'. I've been uncommon free frae pain. Afortnight syne, I had a verra worritsome feelin' in ma innerts--a kindo' colic, I'm jalousin'. Sandy Grant said as how whusky wi' a littlesulphur was gey guid. I tell 't him I never had nowt to dae wi' sulphuri' ma life, an' I wudna begin to bother wi't noo;" and Archie lifted hiseyebrows, adjusted his night-cap, and turned upon me a very solemnsmile. 

He doubtless saw by my face that I approved his caution, for I secretlybelieved that he was right. Thus confirmed, he lay meditating for atime, but it was soon made evident that his thoughts had not wanderedfar from the matter in hand. 

"Aye, sulphur's nae improvement to whusky, " he slowly averred at length, "forbye, I was richt. I was richt frae a medeecinal standpoint, ye ken. The verra next day ma doctor ordered me to tak a little whusky for thepain I tell't ye o'. An' I did; I took it afore he tell't me. "

"And it did you good, Archie?" I asked indulgently. 

"Guid?" replied Archie, in a tone of much reproach. Then he said nomore, scorning to demonstrate an axiom. But he was not through with thesubject. The moral had still to be pointed. 

"Is't no won'erfu', minister, the law o' compensation that oor Creatorgies us, to reach a' through oor lives?

"Pain has its ither side, ye ken. An' when we say as hoo it's an illwind that blaws naebody guid, we're acknowledgin' the love o' theAlmichty. Ilka cloud has aye its siller linin'. Noo, for instance, itwas a fearfu' pain I took--but the ither that I took to cure it--it wasScotch, " and Archie drew a gentle sigh, half of piety and half ofreminiscence. 

 * * * * *

When next I turned my steps towards Archie's door, though only two shortdays had fled, all life had changed to me and darkness hung about melike a pall. Upon which change I was bitterly reflecting when I wasinterrupted by a message that Archie was taken somewhat worse and notexpected to live longer than through the night. And I could not but beglad of this summons from my own life's tragedy, that I might shareanother's. It is God's blessed way. The balm for secret sorrow is in thebosom of another burden, unselfishly assumed; and the Cyrenian of everyage hath this for his hire, that, while he bends beneath another'scross, he is disburdened of his own. 

I found my old precentor weak, and failing fast, but "verra composed, "as we say in New Jedboro. 

He welcomed me with a gentle smile. 

"Ye'll pray wi' me, " he said gravely, "but it'll no' be the closin'prayer. I'm wearin' awa fast, but I'll no' leave ye till the morn, I'mdootin'. Pit up a bit prayer noo--but there's ae thing--dinna mind theMaister o' His promise to come again an' receive me till Himsel'--no'that it isna a gowden word; but I want it keepit till the last an' it'sthe last word I want to hear. Speak it to me when I hear the surge. That'll gie Him time eneuch, for He'll no' be far awa. An' I want tohear it aboon the billows. Noo pit up yir prayer. "

Short and simple were our petitions; for the prayer of little childrenis best for those who are about to enter into the kingdom of God. 

After we had finished, my eyes, unknown to him, were long fixed onArchie's face. For a strange interest centres about those whose loinsare girded for long journeys; and I have never outgrown the boyish awewith which I witnessed the loosening of the ropes that held aerialtravellers to the earth. I have seen some scores of persons die, "By many a death-bed I have been And many a sinner's parting seen, "

but the awful tragedy is ever new and familiarity breeds increasingreverence. Death is a hero to his valet. 

"You are not afraid, Archie?" I said at length--the old question thatsprings, not to the dying, but to the living lips. 

"Afeart!" said Archie, "what wad I be afeart for?"

"You are not afraid to meet your Lord?" I answered, inwardly reproachingmyself for the words. 

"Afeart!" repeated the dying man, "afeart to meet ma Lord. Why should Ibe feart to meet a Man that died for me?"

I inwardly blessed him for the great reply and engaged its unanswerableargument for my next Sabbath's sermon. No man dieth unto himself. 

"Wull ye dae something for me?" said Archie, suddenly. "Wull ye write toa man I kent lang syne?"

"Certainly, " said I. "Who is the man, Archie?"

"I'll tell ye, gin ma hairt hauds guid a meenit. It's AndraMathieson--an' he lives in San Francisco. Him an' me gaed to the schulethegither in the Auld Country, an' I hadna seen him for nigh fifty yeartill last Can'lemas a twalmonth, when I gaed to San Francisco for mahealth. He's awfu' rich. He lives in a graun hoose an' he has a coachmanwi' yin o' thae coats wi' buttons. But I gaed to see him an' I neednahae been sae feart, for he minded on me, an' he wadna hear o' me bidin'at the taivern, an' he took me to his graun hoose, an' he was ower guidto a plain cratur like me. 

"Weel, ae mornin', we was sittin', haein' oor crack aboot the auld days, an' the schule, an' the sheep we herded thegither on the Ettrick hills. But oor crack aye harkit back to the kirk an' the minister an' thecatechism, an' a' thae deeper things o' auld lang syne. He said as hoohe had gane far bye thae things, livin' amang the stour o' a' hissiller--but he remarkit that he aften thocht o' the auld ways, an' theauld tunes, an' the minister wi' his goon an' bands; an' he said he wasfair starvin' for a psalm--or a paraphrase. They dinna sing them inAmeriky. An' I lilted yin till him--we was lookin' far oot at the GowdenGate, an' it lookit like the crystal water ma een'll sune see. "

Archie stopped, though apparently but little exhausted. His eyes seemedflooded with tender memories of that momentous hour on the far distantPacific Coast. 

"What psalm did you sing him?" I ventured, presently. 

"It was a paraphrase, " he answered, the smile still upon his face. "Itwas the twenty-sixth:

 "'Ho ye that thirst approach the spring Where living waters flow, '

an' Andra grat like a bairn:

"'I haena heard it sin I ran barefit aboot the hills, ' he said, an' hewad hae me sing the lines ower again:

 "'How long to streams of false delight Will ye in crowds repair?'

an' I'm no' worthy, I ken, but I pit up a bit prayer wi' him--ye maunathink I'm boastin', sir, but I brocht him to Christ, an' when I thinkon't noo, it's lichtsome, an' I'm minded o' that simmer sun on theGowden Gate. Ye'll write to him an' tell him we'll sing a psalmthegither yet. "

My promise given and Andrew Mathieson's address taken, Archie lay silentfor a little time. Swift glances at myself, swiftly withdrawn, denotedhis desire to say something more. It came at length and withunmistakable directness. 

"I'm dootin' I've been wrang; mebbe I was 'righteous over-much. '"

"What is it, Archie?" I said soothingly. "Some sin? Or some mistake inthe days that are gone?"

"I'm no' sayin' it was the yin or the ither, " replied the old precentor, a familiar frosty flavour in his voice, "an' if it was, I'll no' confessit to ony yin but God--but I'm misdootin' I was ower hard on the hymes. "

"What hymns, Archie?" I asked, seeking only to make easier hisacknowledgment of error, ever difficult to Scottish lips. For, if thetruth were told, Scotchmen secretly divide sins into three classes, those of omission, of commission, and of admission. 

"Ye ken fine, " he made reply, "div ye no' mind hoo Margaret an' AngusStrachan compeared afore the Kirk Session wi' their prayer for man-madehymes i' the kirk?"

"Yes, Archie, I remember--the Session denied their request. "

Ah me, I thought, how much has befallen Margaret and Margaret's fathersince that night!

"Ay, I ken that; an' I'm no' regrettin'--but I'm dootin' I was ower hardon the hymes. My speerit was aye ower fiery for an elder. But KingDauvit himsel' was mair fearsome than me wi' blasphemers--no' to ca'Margaret yin; but I'm mindin' that the Maister aye took anither way, abetter yin, I'm dootin'. An' I'm feart I was mair like Dauvit, for a'I'd raither be like the Maister. "

"You have the right of it, Archie; He showed us the more excellent way. "

"Forbye, " Archie went on, pursuing his line of thought, "I've mymisgivin's aboot wha wrote thae hymes. It wasna the deevil, an' it wasnaWatts, an' it wasna yon great Methody body; they set them doon, naedoot--but wha started them? I'm sair dootin' they had their rise amangthe hills, the same whaur Dauvit saw the glory o' God. "

"Above the hills of time, " I added softly. 

"An' what's mair, it kind o' came to me that a hyme micht be a prayer, ye ken. Noo, your prayer in the kirk is no' inspired. That is, no' likeDauvit's psalms--but it's upliftin' for a' that. An' I'm thinkin' thatmebbe it's nae waur to lilt a prayer than to speak yin, an' mebbe thegreat Methody was prayin' when he said:

 "'Let me to Thy bosom fly, '

an' I'm dootin' we micht dae waur than jine wi' him. "

"There is no more fitting prayer for such an hour as this, " I responded, thinking it meet to incline his thoughts towards the encircling glowwith which the last great morning was already illumining his face. 

But Archie still pursued his line of thought. No such great concessionas this was to be left undefined; this codicil to his whole life's willand testament must be explained. 

"I ken the hymes never had what I micht ca' a fair chance wi' me. Myfaither cudna thole them, an' he cudna bide ony ither body to tholethem. He aye said the heather wasna dry yet wi' the Covenanters' bluid. Ma ain girlie, wee Kirsty, --she likit them fine, but I forbade her. Thiswas the way it cam aboot--div ye mind the year o' the Exposeetion inParis? Weel, me an' Kirsty's mither took a jaunt an' gaed till't. We wasower three weeks amang thae foreign fowk, wi' nae parritch an' naepsalm. We gaed frae Paris to the auld hame in Ettrick, an' 'twas likegae'n to Abraham's bosom frae the ither place. Weel, the first Sabbathday, we gaed to the auld Scotch kirk, and we were starvin' for thebread o' life. 

"Naethin' had we had but the bit sweeties o' the English kirk near by, wi' their confections--an' ance we gaed to the Catholic, but it was aholiday. Weel, as I was sayin', we gaed to the Ettrick kirk an' theminister came into the pulpit wi' his goon an' bands--fair graun it was. 

"'Let us worship God, ' he said, an' 'twas like the click o' the gate athame. Then he gied oot a psalm:

 "'So they from strength unwearied go Still forward unto strength. '

"The precentor was naethin' graun. I have heard better in St. Cuthbert's. He was oot mebbe a quarter o' a beat in his time, but theauld words had their power; 'twas like as if I heard my mither's voiceagain, an' I cudna sing for greetin', but my hairt aye keepit time, an'I resolved then no' to let Kirsty sing the hymes ony mair--but I'mmisdootin' I've been wrang. "

Backward rolled the night and onward rolled the day as we kept our vigilby the dying bed. Ever solemn hour, rehearsal of a darker yet to be! Forthat same mystery shall wrap every watcher's heart, and others thenshall stand by the fallen sentinels. 

Archie slumbered and waked by turns. We were just beginning to feel theapproach of the magnetic dawn when he awoke from an hour's sleep. 

"The nicht's near gane, " he said, "an' I'll sleep nae mair; for I ayelikit to greet the mornin' licht. "

We gathered closer, the old childish instinct which drove us to thewharf's very edge when the sails were being hoisted and the anchorweighed. 

He beckoned me closer and I bent to catch his words. 

"Ye micht gie thae thochts o' mine to the Session gin the maitter comesup again--aboot the hymes, ye ken, aboot hoo they micht be made intil aprayer. "

I silently gave the promise. 

"An' mair--I dinna forbid ye to sing a bit hyme at the funeral. LetWullie Allison lift the tune, for he aye keeps the time. Yon Methody'shyme wad dae:

 "'Hide me, oh, my Saviour hide Till the storm of life is past, '

for the wind'll be doon then, I'm hopin'. 

"The fowk'll think it strange, for they a' ken my convictions, sae ye'dbetter close wi' a paraphrase:

 "'Then will He own His servant's name Before His father's face. '

That wad dae fine, for it's a' o' grace thegither. "

Archie lay silent for a time, breathing heavily, the tumult of the lastgreat conflict blending every moment with the peace of the last greatsurrender. An instant later, the dying face seemed lightened, like onewho descries the lights of home. 

"I canna juist mind the words; is it the outgoin' o' the mornin' Hemakes to rejoice?"

"And the evening, " I said quickly, "the evening too, Archie. "

"Aye, " he answered peacefully, "I thocht He wadna forget the gloamin'. Aye, mair the evenin' than the mornin', I'm thinkin'. "

His face was radiant now, for the morning light had passed us watchersby, its glory resting on the face that loved to greet it. 

"Haud ma haun, guid-wife, " his voice upborne by the buoyancy of death. "I'm slippin' fast into the licht. I see what they ca' the gates o'deith. The licht has found them oot. They've been sair maligned, I'mthinkin'. The pulpit has misca'd them, but the believer's deein' lipscan ca' them fair. They're the gates o' deith, nae doot, but the Maisterhauds the keys. "

We stood as close to the old precentor as we might, but we were in theshadow still. For death seldom shares his surprises with the alien andis selfish with his secret luxuries. 

"Hark ye!" the dying man suddenly cried. "Div ye no' hear the sang? It'sgraun ayont the thocht o' man. They're a' in white, an' it's 'Martyrdom'is the tune. Wha's leadin' them? I see Him fine; it's Him wha made thesang itsel'. It's Him wha's leadin' them. Div ye no' ken what they'resingin'? It's the new sang, the sang o' Moses an' the Lamb. An' hark ye!it's the same as the psalm my mither taught me. I canna tell the yinfrae the ither. "

And the old precentor hurried on to join the choir invisible. 

XXII

"_The MILLS of The GODS_"

Margaret was home again. She had been gone from us two immeasurabledays. It was Mr. Blake who rang the bell, for it was his house hadsheltered her when my cruel anger drove her from my own. Need and sorrownever turned to him in vain. 

When the door was opened, Margaret stood before it alone. Her mother itwas who opened unto her, for this is woman's oldest and holiestavocation, door-keeper unto wandering feet. In all His delicate missionswoman is God's deputy. 

Through all my narrative of this sad affair I have said but little ofMargaret's mother, but I know my readers have discerned her presenceamid it all, as one discerns a brooding mountain through the mist. Thegreat background of every tragedy is a woman's stately sorrow. 

I had been visiting the sick, far more for my sake than for theirs, andwas not home when Margaret returned. But a nameless fragrance greeted meat the door, and in my study I found Margaret in her mother's arms. Thelatter quietly withdrew and the compact between father and daughter wassoon complete. It was of mutual surrender, wherein is mutual peace. Margaret's only word was that she could not give her father up--norAngus--that I must say nothing more about her love and that we mustwait--together. Which was all sweet enough to me, for she was mineagain, and our manse light had been rekindled. 

For the rest, I was willing to wait, on which after all hangs thereality of all joy or sorrow. Every grief hath that opportunity of cure;every joy that peril of vicissitude. Till time hath ceased from hertravail, no man can tell her offspring's sex, whether it be rugged care, or sweet and tender joy. 

Meantime, Margaret nestled again within the old tender place and we bothstruggled to nourish our phantom joy. Counterfeit though we bothdiscerned it, yet it passed unchallenged between us and at least keptour souls' commerce from decay. Counterfeit I have called it, for thetenure of another's love was upon her; and her stay with us was likethat of a sailor lad who is for a time ashore, waiting for the tardytide. 

 * * * * *

The ordination Sabbath was aglow with holy light. God surely lovesPresbyterian high days, for they are nearly always beautiful. St. Cuthbert's was filled long before eleven with a reverent and expectantcongregation. Five new elders had been elected, three of them theirfather's successors, for this was a common custom in New Jedboro, andapostolic succession in disguise was in high favour amongst us. Anotherwas a man of seventy or more, for every ordination must recognize thestalwarts whose days of activity were past but whose time for honour wasat hand. The remaining elder-elect was Angus Strachan. His choice by thecongregation had been unanimous and cordial. His examination by theSession had resulted in hearty confirmation. Our manse tragedy wasunknown to any of the elders except Mr. Blake, who preserved completesilence throughout the interview. The ordeal was painful beyond words tome--but it was over, and Angus sat in the front pew with the other four, awaiting ordination to their sacred office. 

We had sung the psalm which from time immemorial Presbyterian ministershave announced on all ecclesiastical occasions, the hundred and secondpsalm, the second version, from the thirteenth verse, reading overagain, as their habit is, the first two lines:

 "Thou shalt arise and mercy yet Thou to Mount Zion shalt extend;"

the venerable Dr. Inglis of Moffat had preached the sermon from thetext:--"Feed the flock of God which is among you, " and the elders electtook their places before the pulpit. 

I addressed them in what I considered fitting terms, recalling the greattraditions of the church they were called to serve and the noble laboursof the godly men whose mantles had now fallen upon themselves. Ireferred to our precious legacy, bequeathed to us from the hands ofCovenanters, and a reverent hush throughout the whole congregationapplauded the names of Renwick and Peden and Cameron, as they fell frommy lips. 

Then all the elders took their places beside me, for the act ofordination was about to be performed. This consisted of prayer and thelaying on of hands--not of the minister's hands alone, for we in St. Cuthbert's adhered to the ancient Scottish mode of ordination by thelaying on of the hands of the entire Session. 

The candidates kneeled before us, Angus on my right, having changed hisplace for some unapparent reason, soon to be abundantly revealed. Thehands first outstretched towards his bended head were those of Mr. Blake. Whereupon an awful thing befell us; for the solemn stillness ofthe kirk was broken by the ringing of a voice aflame withpassion:--"Take back your hand--touch not a hair of my head. Go cleanseyour hand. Go purify your heart--they are both polluted. Whitedsepulchre, give up your dead--let the rotting memories walk forth. Gowash another's blood from your guilty soul before you dare to serve atGod's altar!"

The trembling object of this outburst shrank back from before it. Thekneeling candidates bowed lower. I myself stood as one in a fearfuldream, while the horror-stricken people half rose within their pews, bending forward as they gazed at the sacrilegious scene. 

Angus turned and looked unflinchingly into their faces. I feared he wasabout to speak again and I raised my hand to signify forbiddal--but hesaw it not, and my inward protest yielded to his fiery purpose. 

"Aye, you may well look, " he cried to the awestruck worshippers. "Godknows I had not meant to do this thing or to speak these words. I camehere with the honest purpose to assume the vows that should forever bindme to His service. My heart was honest before God; but when I felt theapproach of those guilty hands it was beyond my power to endure theirtouch. Nor should I feel shame for what I have done. You remember thescourge of knotted cords and the holy temple. Is it wrong that I tooshould now seek to drive forth this unworthy man? He stands unmaskedbefore you. You know not who he is! He is my father and we share ourshame together! Another shares it with her God where the Ettrick waterhears her prayer. And this is the man whose hands would convey the graceof God!"

He stopped; and the blanched faces before him gave back a voice, halfcry, half sob, anguish rending every heart. They were a proud folk inSt. Cuthbert's; besides no man of all the elders was so dear to them asMr. Blake, his piety and philanthropy so long tried and proved. Althoughwe know it not, there is no asset held more dear than the solvency of aman in whom we vest the precious savings of our confidence. 

Every eye and heart seemed turned towards the man so fiercely accused, silently entreating him to relieve the cruel tension. 

None doubted that his swift denial would confirm the confidence of ourloyal hearts. But the silence drew itself out, moment after moment, eachbequeathing its legacy of pain to its successor. Mr. Blake's eyes wereraptly fixed on his accuser--his traducer, as we secretly defined him. Their light was not the glow of wrath, nor of resentment, but of astrange wistful curiosity, mixed with eager yearning. Fear and loveseemed to look out together. 

In the pause that followed, Angus swiftly handed to me a small picture, encased after an ancient fashion. 

"Look at that, sir, " he said, "that will tell its tale--that is myfather's face. "

I looked with eager intentness, and it required but a glance to showthat the pictured face before me, and the pallid face beside me, werethe same. The picture was evidently taken long years before, and thestamp of youth and hope and ardent faith was upon the face. Locks ravenblack, and an unwrinkled brow, had been exchanged for those that borethe scar of time and care; but no careful eye could fail to see that theyouthful face of the picture and the ashen face of the elder were oneand the same. 

But, --more striking and fatal far--the photograph's evidence was notrequired. No man who saw, as I saw, the faces of Michael Blake and AngusStrachan side by side need wait for other evidence. Often had I seenthem thus before--but never in the nakedness of passion. 

Passion has the artist's magic hand and her master sketch is ever of herhome. As Titian's immortal hills were but the reproduction of hisfar-off dwelling-place, genius plighting its troth to childhood, so dothpassion illumine first the environs of her long time home, how humble soever it may be. Passion paints the eternal childlike that is in us all. The face is the window through which the vista of a soul's inner lifeis flashed by her mystic hand, and in that moment the window glows withthe unfeigned light of childhood, its simple radiance still unquenched, though long draped by artificial years. 

Thus transfigured were the faces of Angus Strachan and MichaelBlake--the one with mingled love and fear, the other with unmingledscorn. With that swift intensity of passion came the reversal to theircommon type, and the great betrayal was complete. The blood they sharedtogether, speaking a kindred language, had turned King's evidence atlast, and its unanswerable testimony leaped from face and eye. 

For God hath His silent witnesses, like John the Baptist, by us shut upin prison and by us beheaded--but He calleth them to the witness-standas pleaseth Him; and they live forever in dreadful gospels of love anddoom, the latter sharing the power of the former's endless life. Theirvoice is heard above Herodias' strains of revelry and even sceptredSadducees tremble at the sound. 

Vast is life's mighty forest, but the wronger and the wronged meetsomewhere amid its shadowy glades. Surely life's wooded maze mightafford a hiding place to those who fly from armed memories--but God'srangers tread its every glen with stealthy step and the foliage of everythicket gleams with the armour of His detective host. A chance meeting, a foundling acquaintance, a stray newspaper, an undestroyed letter, aresurgent memory, a neglected photograph, or, as here, a tell-tale tideof blood--all these have accepted God's retainer and bear the invisiblebadge that denotes His world-spread Force. All life's apparent discordis harmony itself when He determines the departments and allots to everything, and to every man, his work!

"You speak of Ettrick! What know you of Ettrick? What is her name thatlives there?" I heard Mr. Blake ask in a faltering whisper, unheard bythe rigid worshippers. 

"She bears no name save that which you defiled--it shall not be spokenhere, though I honour it with my deepest heart--but look on this, " andAngus held out before him what he had drawn from his bosom as he spoke. 

Michael Blake's gaze was fixed upon it, no word or sound coming from hislips. His eyes clung to it with tranquil eagerness, unconscious of allabout, still clinging when Angus withdrew it, wrapped it in the paperwhich had enclosed it, and restored it to its hiding-place. 

I know not why, but I held out my hand to him eagerly:

"Let me see it, Angus; my own mother is with God. "

He hesitated but a moment, then drew it forth and handed it to me. 

"All the world may see it, " he said quietly, "it is my mother--you mayread the letter if you will. "

The portrait was of a woman still rich with girlhood's charm. Of aboutnineteen years, I should say, tall and graceful and sweet ofcountenance, with a great wealth of hair, with eyes that no flame butlove's could have kindled, her lips, even in a picture, instinct withpure passion, and her whole being evidently fragrant and luscious asScottish girlhood alone can be. For the sweetest flowers are nourishedat the breast of the most rugged hills. 

I was still reading the story of love and innocence and hope, all ofwhich were written in the lovely face before me, when Angus said verygently:

"Read the letter, sir. "

The writing on the paper which enclosed the picture had escaped mynotice. It was a letter from Angus' mother, sent with thedaguerreotypes. Its closing words ran thus:

 "I send ye this picture o' masel' and the ane o' the man I loved sae weel. No ither picture have I had taken, nor ither shall there be. It was taken for yir faither before the gloamin' settled doon on you and me, ma laddie. It was taken for him, as was every breath I drew, for I loved him wi' every ane. 

 "Ye maunna think ower hard o' him, laddie, for yir mother canna drive him forth, so ye maun bide thegither in this broken hairt o' mine. And laddie, I am askin' God to keep me pure, for my love will hae its bloom some day far ayont us, like the bonny heather when the winter's bye. And I want to be worthy when it comes. I'm sair soiled, I ken, but love can weave its robe o' white for the very hairt it stained. And I maun be true till the gloamin's gone. So think o' yir mother as aye true to yir faither, and it'll mebbe help yir sorrow to ken there's aye this bond between yir faither and her wha bore ye. And Angus, dinna let him ken, gin ye should ever meet. Yir mother's bearin' her sorrow all alane in Ettrick and her laddie'll bear it ayont the ocean. We're a' in God's guid hands. Your loving mother, JANET STRACHAN. "

I returned the well worn letter to the unhappy hand from which I hadreceived it. He tenderly wrapped it about his mother's picture andthrust the parcel back beside the loyal heart which shared, as it wasbidden, the great sorrow and disgrace. 

I then cast about in my mind for the next step which should be taken. Ordination I knew there could now be none. The pestilence of anger andshame and sin was upon us all. Dark horror sat upon the faces of thewaiting congregation, their eyes still fixed on these two actors of thisso sudden tragedy. It may have been that the proof of kinship, asdemonstrated by these confronting faces, was finding its way into theirhearts. These faces were still fastened the one upon the other, theyounger with glowing scorn, the older with mingled love and tenderness, blended with infinite self-reproach. 

I could see no course open to me except the dismissal of thecongregation, and so announced my purpose. 

"The Kirk Session is adjourned sine die, " I said, for this is an ancientphrase and the proper forms must be observed. Even when our dearest liesin her coffin, there are certain phrases which announce in cold andheartless print that the heart's life-blood is flowing from its wound, and, however sacred that silent form, the undertaker's hands must havetheir will with it. 

"Moderator. " It was Thomas Laidlaw's voice. "Moderator, we hae heard butae side. There's aye twa sides. Will ye no' let the accused speak forhimsel'? Fair play is bonny play. "

A moment's thought was enough to assure me as to what was right. 

"By all means, " I answered, sadly enough, for I had but little hope thatany defense could be offered. "Mr. Blake may certainly speak if hewishes--it is but fair. Have you anything to say, Mr. Blake?"

As I turned towards the older man the younger withdrew his eyes from theface on which they had so long been fixed, and slowly rising, Anguswalked down the aisle towards the door, conscious that he himself hadproclaimed his bitter shame; but his mother's name seemed written on hisforehead, redeemed by the sacrifice of his own. He had gone but aquarter of the way or so, when a trembling voice was heard. 

"Angus, wait, " it said; the voice was faint and tremulous like abirdling's note--but Angus heard it and stood still. He turned towardsthe pew whence it came, and a face met his own, a woman's face, blanchedand pale, except for two burning spots upon her cheeks where the hearthad unfurled its banners. It was a woman's voice, I say, and the eyesthat looked out from it sought his own with a great caress of loyaltyand love. The glowing eyes, and the parted lips, and the quick flowingbreath, all spoke the bridal passion; for the bride's glory is insurrender, the bodily sacrifice but the pledge of her blended andsurrendered life, lost in another's mastering love. 

"Angus, wait, " she murmured again, her dainty gloved hand upon thebook-board as she essayed to rise. Her mother sought to restrain her, but her touch was powerless; for the outgoing tide was at its full. 

"He shall not walk down that aisle alone, " she faltered to her mother, the words unheard by others. "We shall go down together. "

XXIII

_A MAIDEN PRIESTESS_

Perhaps her mother's woman-heart realized in that moment that the onepath irresistible to a woman's love is the path of sacrifice. In anycase she ceased from her protest and the gentle form arose; moving outto where he stood, she slipped her dear hand into Angus's, and togetherthey walked slowly down the aisle of the crowded church. No sidewardglance they cast nor backward did Margaret ever look. Sweet courage wasshining from her face, even joy, as they passed out together--the longstride of the stalwart man and the gentle step of the dainty maiden, butever hand in hand, hidden from the strife of tongues, in love's pavilionhidden. 

They had wandered, knowing not where or whither, some distance from thechurch, when Angus stopped, and fixing his reverent look on Margaret'sstrangely happy face, he said:

"You don't know what you have done; you have tarnished your name--oh, Margaret, why did you do it? From henceforth you will share the shamethat belongs to me. "

Margaret's face was upturned to his own. 

"Is not the sunshine sweet, Angus? And so pure! Surely God loves uswell!"

"It shines upon no man so sad as I, " he replied bitterly. 

"Angus! After what I did--and the church so full!"

"Nor so happy--and so proud!" concluded Angus. "Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere, " answered Margaret; "we shall walk the long walk together. "

"No, dear one, not together, that cannot be--but not apart, " said Angus, his voice trembling. 

"Do you know, Angus, " said Margaret after a pause, "I had often readabout how engagements should be announced. And no one, almost no oneknew that you loved me. And after that first time when you told me youloved me--and before you told me that other--I so often used to lieawake and think about how ours should be announced. For I think that isthe sweetest thing in a girl's life, the announcement I mean--no I don'tmean that--the sweetest thing is what has to be told. And now it is alltold--and just to think it was done in a church and before all thosepeople. And now they all know--and I am so glad! No girl ever had itdone like this before. "

"Glad?" said Angus. 

"Yes, glad--and proud--aren't you?"

But there was no response, save the old, old silent eloquence of love, when lip speaks to lip its tender tale, scorning the aid of words. 

"Let us go this way, " said Margaret at length. 

"Where does it lead to?"

"You shall see, " she answered; "come away"--and together, still hand inhand, they walked on. 

"Let us rest here, Angus. " He threw himself on the grass at her feet. 

"Do you not know the place?" she said. 

"No, " said Angus, "were we ever here before?"

"Oh, Angus, how could you forget? Look again. "

He looked again and sacred twilight memories began to pour back uponhim. 

"That was in the gloaming, Angus, you remember. And the darkness hasoften brooded over it since then--but it is all past now and it neverwas so bright before. "

"The darkness will come again, " said Angus. 

"But it will never be able to forget the light--and it will wait----There is never any real brightness till the waiting's past. "

The Sabbath stillness was about them and its peace was in their hearts. They scarce knew why, and the world would have said that Shadow wastheir portion; but, then and ever, true peace passeth allunderstanding. 

"Kneel down, Angus, kneel here beside me, " she suddenly exclaimed. 

"Kneel, Margaret! Why shall I kneel?"

"Never mind why--you shall see. Kneel down, Angus. "

He knelt, wondering still; she removed his hat with her now unglovedhands and threw it on the grass. 

"Darling, I love you, " she said, "and I know you are good and true. AndI was so proud this morning when you were to be ordained to God's holyservice--and it must not be broken off like this. Oh, Angus, when I sawyour face this morning, I feared so that your whole soul would turn tobitterness and give itself up to hatred of that man. But it must notbe. "

"Margaret, stop! Surely you must know----"

"Be still, Angus--it must not be. All this anguish must break inblessing. Sorrow such as yours will be either a curse or a blessing--andit must not be a curse. God's love can turn it into blessing--and so canmine. We shall take up our cross together and shall see it blossom yet. Oh, Angus, if I can forgive him, you can, for you are dearer to me thanto anybody else. " Her hands were now upon his head:--"Angus Strachan, Iordain you to suffer and to wait. I ordain you to God's service in thename of love and sorrow and God--and they're all the same name--and Ilove you so--and you are an elder now. Oh, dear Lord, take care of ourlove and make us true--and patient. And bless our sorrow and make itsweet and keep us near the Man of Sorrows. Amen. "

The white dimpled hands rested long upon the auburn locks of the stillbended head, and her compassion flowed through them to the more thanorphaned heart. It was the same head, she thought, and the same heart, as had once been blessed by a mother's anguished hand, doomed, as thatmother knew, to the world's unreasoning scorn. 

Her own peace seemed to pass into his troubled soul; the anointed headbowed lower and the yoke was laid upon him, never to be withdrawn. Butits bitterness was gone, purged from it by those white dimpled hands, and the fragrance of a soul's sweeter life was there instead. For therehad come to him that great moment when secret rebellion turns to secretprayer, craving blessing from the very hand that had smitten him withlameness; and Angus was making his ordination vows to God. 

Upon that grassy knoll, under heaven's tender sky, with unmoving lipsand broken heart he made the great surrender. Patience he promised God;and in return he begged the forgiving heart, the strength to bear hislifelong load, and the aid which might enable him to attain that miracleof grace when he yet should pray for the man whose sin had foreclothedhis life in shame. 

"Let us go back, " said Margaret, at length, for the sun was westering. 

"Yes, we will go back, " said he, for in the gentle words he heard thebugle call; "we will go back. " But first he kissed the ordaining hands, anointed as they had been to cast out evil from the heart and to bind upits brokenness. 

Homeward they turned their steps, and the noises of the uncaring worldsoon fell upon their ears, but their hearts were holden of another song, and they heard them not. 

Backward they bent their way to the world and its cruel pity--but everhand in hand. 

 * * * * *

As the reader already knows, Margaret and Angus went forth from St. Cuthbert's Church just as Michael Blake was invited to speak in his owndefense and to answer, if he might, the dread charge of his accuser. 

"Have you anything to say, Mr. Blake?" were the words I had just utteredwhen Margaret and her lover left the church, with all the sequel whichhath been just recorded. 

In answer, he watched the retreating forms till they had departed, thenburied his face in his hands. He sat thus so long that I concluded hehad no heart to speak, and again arose, my hand outstretched to give theblessing, if blessing there might be in such an hour. The congregationarose to receive the proffered benediction, but before my lips hadopened, a faint hand plucked my gown. 

"I will speak, sir, " and pale and trembling the unhappy man rose andstood beside me. I resumed my seat and the people dumbly did the same, gazing towards their elder with eyes that pleaded for the assurance ofhis innocence. Twice or thrice he strove for utterance before the wordswould come. At length he spoke. 

"Moderator and brethren, " he began, "if such as I may call you brethren. I am a sinful man. My hour has come. God's clock has struck, and it isthe stroke of doom for my unworthy soul. Not that I despair of finalmercy, for mine is a scarlet sin, and for such there is a specialpromise. But God's rod hath fallen upon me. The Almighty hath scourgedme through my own son; for he who has just gone forth is none other thanmine own child. My heart went out to him since first I saw his face, though I knew not till to-day that he is my flesh and blood. Thepicture you saw him hold out before me is none other than the picture ofhis mother's face. 

"I speak it not for my defense--but I thought his mother was dead. I wastold from the old country that she was gone, and more than one letterwas returned to me with the statement that she could not be found. Itwas my heart's purpose to make a worthy home for her here in Canada, andto bring her out to it and to atone if I might for the cruel wrong. Thefirst is long since done, but the second was beyond my power--at leastso I was led to think. 

"And now, Moderator, I place in your hands the resignation of the officeon which I have brought such deep disgrace. It was my pride to be anelder in St. Cuthbert's, for it was here I first tasted of the Saviour'sforgiving grace; it was here I first learned the luxury of penitence, and here was born my heart's deep purpose to retrieve the past--it wasmy pride, I say to be an elder here, but it is now my shame. "

He was about to stop when Saunders McTavish interrupted:

"Moderator, there'll be no need to proceed by libel, for the accusedparty has confessed his guilt. But he hasna said anything to the Courtabout his soul, about his soul and his sin, and his relation to his God. At least, not all he might like to say and we might like to hear. Mebbehe'll have had repentance unto life?"

I waited. Mr. Blake's response came with humble brokenness. 

"Please God I have, " he said, "and, unworthy though I be, I have a greatword for my fellow men this day--a word the unfallen angels could notspeak. Oh, my brethren, believe me, I have not been leading a doublelife. I took the eldership at your hands, I know, saying nothing of thedark blot that soiled the past. My humble hope was that in service Imight seek to redeem my life and I remembered One who said to a guiltysoul like mine:--'Feed My sheep. ' Penitence, and not remorse, I thought, was well pleasing unto God. 

"And you will bear me witness that I have tried to warn all, especiallythe young men, against the first approach of sin. I fell long years agobecause I cherished sinful images in my heart till even love went downbefore them. Since then, God is my witness, I have made it my lifeworkto drive them forth and to make every thought captive to the RedeemingChrist. My lifework has not been in my foundry, nor in my town, nor inmy church--but in my heart, this guilty heart of mine. I have striven todrive out evil thoughts--out, in the blessed name of Jesus. For long, Icould not recall my sin without sinning anew. But I had a hope of finalvictory, and having this, I purified myself even as He is pure. 

"It was my daily prayer that God would make me useful, poor and all butsunken wreck as I was, that he would yet make me a danger signal to theyoung about me--which I am this day. For a wrecked ship does not tell ofdanger--it swears to the peril that itself has known. And to every youngman before me I swear to two things this hour. The first is that yoursin will find you out. Be sure of this. All our phrases about lanes thathave no turning and the mills of the gods and justice that smites withiron hand, and chickens that come home to roost--all these are onlynames for God's unsleeping vigilance, all varied statements of therelentlessness of sin. 

"The other truth to which I swear is this, that dark and bitter memoriesof evil may be a blessing to the soul, if we but count that sin ourdeadly enemy and rest not till we take vengeance of it. It may yet beGod's messenger to us, if we lead humble chastened lives, seeking toredeem the past and watching unto prayer. There is no discipline sobitter and so blessed as the discipline of an almost ruined soul. Forold sins do not decay and die; they must be nailed upon the cross. It isan awful truth that he who was once filthy is filthy still, but it isstill more true, thank God, that there is One whose blood cleansethfrom all sin. "

He stopped suddenly, and in a moment he was gone. Down that same aisleby which his child had passed, he swiftly walked, his head bowed, hisface quivering in pain like one who was being scourged out of thetemple. For there are corded whips, knotted by unseen hands. 

After the door had closed behind him the Session Clerk arose:

"I move, Moderator, " he said, "that Mr. Blake's resignation be laid onthe table. "

Before his motion was seconded Roger Lockie, one of the stalwarts, stoodin the middle of the congregation. 

"It's no becomin' in me to interfere, " he began, "but we're a' assembledhere as a worshippin' people, an' I move that the Kirk Session berequested no' to accept the resignation. Oor brother fell, nae doot, butit was lang syne, and he has walked worthy o' the Lord unto a' pleasin'since, an' borne a guid witness to his Maister. We a' ken fine what thegreat King an' Heid o' the Kirk wad dae wi' his resignation. Wi' my wayo' thinkin', a sinfu' man wha has been saved by grace is juist the aneto commend the Maister's love. I move the Session be asked to keep himas oor elder. "

"I second that, " said William Watson, a man of fifty years. "He brochtme to Christ and that's ae soul he saved. He broke the alabaster boxupon his Saviour's head this day and we a' felt the fragrance o't. IfGod Himsel' canna despise the contrite hairt, nae mair can we. "

I was about to put the motion when the senior elder arose:--"I hae but aword, " he said, "an' it's nae word o' mine. The spirit o' the cross iswi' us and I will read a bit frae the Buik:--'If a man be overtaken in afault ye which are spiritual restore such an one in the spirit ofmeekness, considering thyself lest thou also be tempted. '"

"Are you ready for the question?" I asked. 

"Aye, we're a' fine an' ready noo, " said one of the worshippers. 

The vote was taken and there was no dissenting voice. Michael Blake'slong penance had done its work on earth and its eternal outcome was inother hands than ours. 

XXIV

_The SWEET SUNNY SOUTH_

I was strongly inclined to accept the call. Not that I liked changes, for heart vines bleed freely when uptorn, and friendship's stocks cannotbe bought on margin. But my heart was heavy, and St. Cuthbert's had beensorely wounded. Therefore, when the South Carolina church openedcorrespondence with me regarding their vacant pulpit, I lent anattentive ear. 

All who have known sorrow in their work know how sweet sounds the voice, even the siren voice, which calls to distant scenes of toil. The world'sweary heart will some day learn that no far-leading path, no journey byland or sea can separate us from the sorrow we seek to flee; because nopath hath been discovered, no route devised, which shall lead us forthfrom our own hearts, where sorrow hath her lair. 

Nevertheless, I was strongly minded to go forth from the work which hadbecome my very life. It is nature's favourite paradox that what we lovethe most, the most hath power to give us pain. Could we withhold ourlove, no hand could wound us sorely, for it takes a friend to make anenemy worth the name. And since I loved St. Cuthbert's with that lovewhich only sacrifice can know, I was oppressed with a corresponding fearthat her frown would quench whatever glimmer of gladness still flickeredin my heart. For I had almost forgotten that ever I was glad. And is itto be wondered at?

My daughter's love was fixed upon a man whom I deemed impossible, thoughby no fault of his. She had renounced all purpose of their immediateunion in deference to her father's protest, but her love was fixed uponhim still, and her father felt like one who was beating back the spring. Her mother was torn with the torment of an armed neutrality. Further, mybeautiful church had been scarred by the explosive riot of thatordination day, stricken with a soul's lightning; and the whole tragedyof our home life had been laid bare to every eye. 

Margaret, and her love, and her lover, and her lover's genealogy, andher father's forbiddal of their marriage, all these were daily herbs tothose who loved us, daily bread to native gossip-mongers, and dailyluxury to all who wished us ill. My attitude towards Margaret's lover, and whether that attitude was right or wrong, was the especial subjectof debate and all New Jedboro abandoned itself to a carnival ofjudgment. Even the most pious and indulgent could not forego the solemnluxury, and those who denied themselves all of scandal's toothsometidbits could not renounce this great repast. 

I entertained no actual misgivings as to St. Cuthbert's permanentloyalty to me; but our self-consciousness had become raw and sore, ourmanse had turned suddenly to a house of glass, and the whole situationwas so fraught with embarrassment that no mere man since the fall couldhave been free from an instinctive longing to escape. 

St. Andrew's, Charleston, an ancient church of that ancient city, hadoffered me its pulpit. The Southerners have a taste for British blood, and they stand alone as connoisseurs of that commodity. Wherefore, theSt. Andrew's folk had cast about for a British minister, preferring thesecond growth, hopeful that its advantage of American shade might havemade its excellence complete. 

Their committee ranged all Canada, finally dismounting beneath thestately steeple of St. Cuthbert's, their lasso loosed for action. Or, tochange the metaphor, they informed their church at home that their eyeswere fastened on their game at last; for the duty of such a committee isto tree their bird, then hold him transfixed by various well-knownsounds till the congregation shall bring him down by well directed aim, bag him, and bear him off. 

The Charleston Committee was composed of four, who attended St. Cuthbert's both morning and evening, when they came one Sabbath day tospy out the land. 

The proprietor of the Imperial Hotel, himself an extinct Presbyterian, told me afterwards that they arrived late at night, begged to be excusedfrom registering and went immediately to their rooms. But he knew in themorning that they were not to the manner born--for they asked for"oatmeal" for breakfast, which is called porridge by all who boast evena tincture of that blood it hath so long enriched. 

Then they ate it with outward signs of enjoyment, which also flies inthe face of all Scottish principle. Besides all this, they gave the maida quarter, which was the most conclusive evidence of all. 

They walked to St. Cuthbert's in four different detachments and sat inseparate sections of the church. But they were not unnoticed; everyScotch section marked its man, for in New Jedboro strangers were events. I myself remarked three of them; devout they seemed and yet vigilant--aswas natural, for they had come to both watch and pray. 

The psalms were too much for them; they seemed to enter heartily intothe other portions of the service--but the psalms in metre are a greatShibboleth. My beadle, who always sat where he could command thecongregation, has often assured me that when a psalm was announced hecould soon tell the sheep from the goats. 

The service passed without special incident; for, although I suspectedtheir errand, all thought of it vanished when I came to preach. God'sjealous care will hold to undivided loyalty the heart that seeks toserve Him. 

Monday morning brought the deputation to close range. They interviewedme in my study, and the house was redolent of Southern courtesy andgrace. Their accent had a foreign tang but their hearts' tone was thatof universal love. This latter word is not too strong to use, for theSoutherner has a rare genius for laying claim to your very heart by thesurrender of his own. Affection blooms fast in the Southern soul, butour Northern bud needs time. Especially tardy is its ripening inScottish hearts, but the fruit is to Eternity. 

The conversation was one of great interest and pleasure to myself, andwhile I could give no definite promise I made no secret of theattractiveness of their proposal. 

"You will be so good as to present our regards to the mistress of themanse, " said one of them, as they rose to go. 

"Thank you, it will give me great pleasure, " I responded; "my wife is aSoutherner. Her father, who is not living now, fought at Gettysburg. Mywife's standing instruction is to say that he was not killed in battle, for that was many years ago, and she has the Southern instinct foryouth. "

"And the Southern talent for it too, I reckon, " the courtlygentleman replied. "We are mighty glad to hear that she belongs tous. Surely we will have a friend at Court. Let her be considered ourplenipotentiary-extraordinary. Does her heart still turn towards herSouthern home?"

"I am sure it does, " I made reply, "but it has been long garrisonedwithin these rock-bound walls, and I know she has come to love them. Ihave often heard her say that there is no trellis for Southern vineslike these mountainous hearts, true and faithful as the eternal hillsthemselves. "

"I don't wonder at it, " another of the deputation interposed. "From whatI have seen and learned of these folk, I think they are our nearest kin. The Scotch and the Southern nature are alike, the same intensity offeeling, but with them it glows and burns, while with us it flames andsparkles. "

"The same stream, " suggested the first, "but ours breaks easier intoflood. "

"Well, I hope the flood will bear her back to her native shore, " saidthe youngest member of the committee, who was a colonel, having beenborn during the Civil War. 

We all laughed pleasantly at our racial distinctions and the gentlemenwithdrew. 

"We will not tell you good-bye, for we hope to see you soon again, " wasthe last word I heard, the Southern idiom and the Southern cordialityboth in evidence. 

Definite action on the part of the Charleston church soon followed thereturn of their representatives. And I knew not what to do. 

In the hope of relieving my perplexity, I accepted an invitation tospend a Sabbath with the St. Andrew's people and occupy their profferedpulpit. 

My heart had sore misgivings when I said good-bye to Issie Hogg; heryears were but thirteen; and every year had bound her closer and closerto my heart till I knew she was more dear to me than any other childsave one. The sands of life were nearly run and I feared greatly lestthey might be spent before I should return. 

New Jedboro was winter-wrapped when I left it, and, taking steamer fromNew York, I disembarked at Charleston into almost intoxicatingsweetness. Their dear South land was aflame with early summer, and myidea of Paradise was revised. How could these Southern hearts beotherwise than warm and fragrant! All the land about seemed likenature's temple breathing forth its silent anthem and celebrating itsperpetual mass. 

Yet all its vernal beauty seemed but as a portal to the inner shrine, the sanctuary of Southern hospitality. Which hospitality is a separatebrand and hath no rival this side the Gates of Pearl. Let all who wouldfeel the surprise of heaven's welcome forego the luxury of a visit to aSouthern home; for they have stolen that celestial fire to kindle theirwaiting hearths. 

I was committed to the care of one of the families of St. Andrew's whosehousehold numbered five; and every heart had many doors all open wide. That is, open wide till you had entered, for then they seemed tightclosed, locked with a golden key. Ancient pride seemed to be theirfamily possession, never flaunted, but suppressed rather--and you knewit only because your own heart acknowledged that this must be itsrightful dwelling place. 

I noted again the pleasing custom of Southern ladies, who shake hands onintroduction, and forever after. The candid graciousness that marks theact is in happy contrast to the self-conscious agitation of theunderbred and the torpid panic of their stifled bow. 

My host and hostess were persons of rare interest. Some of England'sbest blood was in their veins; it had come to them by way of Virginia, in their eyes the last medium of refinement. The final touch ofsanguinary indigo is given only at Virginia's hands, the Virginianaristocracy being a blessed union of the English chivalric and theAmerican intrinsic, the heraldic of the old world blended with theromantic of the new--which might make the Duke of Devonshire proud toreceive reordination at their hands. 

English aristocracy ambles on in an inevitable path, high banked bycenturies--but the Virginian hath leaped the hurdle of the ocean andstill retained its coronet; which proves that it was fashioned ineternity after the express pattern of their patrician heads. 

As I describe the lofty source of this gracious Southern household, Ibethink myself that to this day I cannot tell how I came to know thattheirs was an ancient family. No reference to it from their own lips canI recall; certainly no boast, except the tranquil boast of proudserenity and noble bearing, and the noblesse oblige of loving hearts. 

Grave courtesy and sweet simplicity and mirthful dignity seemed to bethe heirlooms which they shared as common heritors; and, chiefest ofcredentials, when they stood in the library amid the shades of ancestorspreserved in oils, I felt no sense of humour in the situation. 

This is a great tribute; for the plebeian may boast his ancestors but hedare not paint them; and many a pioneer aristocrat hath compassed hisundoing because he thus tried to put new wine into old bottles. Wishingto found a family, he proceeds to find one, and both are covered withshame as with a garment. 

Many of our new world nobility, finding in sudden wealth the necessityfor sudden pedigree, have resurrected their ancestors and tried in vainto touch them into gentleness, committing to an artist the secret taskof God. Even those who have made fortune in oils, consistently restoringtheir innocent forefathers by the same, have only advertised theirweakness with their wares. 

It is true that the Vardell family coat-of-arms was not concealed--butit was not brandished or expounded. In quiet but vigilant emblazonry, itseemed to stand apart, like some far back member of the family in whosepride it shared. 

Which reminded me, by contrast, of a call I had once made upon a certainNorthern family, conspicuously rich and conspicuously new. While waitingin the drawing-room, I observed four different crests, or coats-of-arms, framed and hanging in a separate place, smirking to one another in tokenof their youthful fortune; for the lines had fallen unto them inpleasant places. 

Soon the mistress of the mansion swept into the room, her locomotionaccompanied by a wealthy sound, silk skirts calling unto silk skirts asdeep calleth unto deep. A little pleasant conversation ensued, which, among other things informed me that the Turkish rug beneath me had costsix hundred dollars; whereupon I anxiously lifted my unworthy feet, myemotion rising with them. After both had subsided, I sought to stir thesacred pool of memory, pointing reverently to one of the aforesaidemblems of heraldry. 

"That is your family coat-of-arms, Mrs. Brown, is it not?" I asked, throwing wide the door for the return of the noble dead. 

"Yes, " she answered proudly, "that is my one, and that one there is Mr. Brown's, and those other two are the children's; the yellow one isVictoria's and the red one is Louisa Alexandra's. Mr. Brown bought themin New York, and we thought when we were getting them we might just aswell get one apiece for the children too. "

How rich and reckless, I reflected, is the spendthrift generosity of ournew world rich!

I could not but recall how those mean old English families make one suchemblem do for centuries, and the children have to be content with itsrusty symbols. But this lavish enterprise cheered me by its refreshingcontrast; for every one was new, and each child had one for its veryown. 

There is no need to dwell on the succeeding Sabbath. St. Andrew's churchbore everywhere the evidences of wealth and refinement. Large andsympathetic congregations were before me, evidently hospitable to thetruth; for Huguenot and Scotch-Irish blood does not lose its rulingpassion, and South Carolina has its generous portion of them both. 

I sorely missed the psalms, without which, to those who have acquiredthe stern relish, a service lacks its greatest tonic. But my poorefforts seemed well received and the flood of Southern fervour burstforth later on, as we sat around the Vardells' dinner table. 

I was being initiated into the mystic sweets of "syllabub, " a Southernconcoction of which my sober Scotch folks had never heard. Whoso takesit may not look upon the wine when it is red, for its glow is muffled byvarious other moral things; but the wine, waiting patiently at thebottom, cometh at last unto its own; and the glow which was absent fromthe cup may be soon detected upon the face of him who took it, beguiledby the innocent foliage amidst which the historic serpent lurks. 

Webster defines it as a dish of cream, flavoured with wine, and beatento a froth. But Webster was from Massachusetts and his advantages werefew. The cultured Southerner, more versed in luxury than language, knoweth well that it is a dish of wine, flavoured with cream, and notbeaten at all since the foundation of the world. 

Southerners incline to eulogy; and syllabubs insist upon it. Wherefore, after the third syllabub had run the same course that its fathers hadrun, Miss Sadie turned to me and said:

"That was a perfectly lovely sermon you preached to us this morning. "

"You are very frank, " quoth I, for I was unaccustomed to compliments, one every six or seven years, and an extra thrown in at death, being thelimit of Scotch enthusiasm. 

"Well, " replied Miss Sadie, "I hope I am. I think it is sweet and lovelyto tell people if you like them. What's the use of waiting till they'redead, before you say nice things about your friends? If folks love me, or think me nice, I want them to tell me so while I'm alive. "

"I love you and I think you are sweet and beautiful, " said I, obedient. 

Then came a dainty Southern cry--not the bold squeal of other girls, northe loud honking of those who mourn for girlhood gone--but thewoman-note which only the Southern girl commands in its perfection. 

"Father! Do you hear what that preacher said to me just now?" she criedarchly. "Isn't it perfectly dreadful for him to say things like that toa simple maiden like me? You awful man!"

"Our guest is only flesh and blood, Sadie, " answered the courtly fatherwhen his laughing ceased, "so I presume, like the rest of us, he thinksyou lovely. As for his telling you so, he was only carrying out your owninstructions. "

"I don't see how you could have done anything else, " laughed Mrs. Vardell. "You shut him up to it, you know, Sadie. After your precept, tohave said nothing nice would have meant that there was nothing nice tosay. "

"But seriously, " resumed Miss Sadie, turning again to me, "that wasreally a lovely sermon this morning. It is beautiful to be able to helpa whole congregation like that. "

"Yes, " chimed in Miss Vardell, Sadie's sweet senior, "it was perfectlyfascinating. I shall never forget it as long as I live. "

"I really think you will have to let us speak our mind, " added theirmother. "Your Geneva gown was so becoming; I do so wish our Southernministers would adopt it. And the sermon was perfect. I especiallyadmired the way it seemed to grow out of the text; they seemed to growtogether like a vine twining around a tree. "

I endured this tender pelting with the best grace I could command, though this was the first time I had ever been the centre of such ahosannah thunder-storm. The tribute to the kinship of text and sermon, however, was really very pleasing to me. Just at this juncture, when anew batch of compliments was about to be produced, smoking hot, an agedaunt, the prisoner of years, ventured an enquiry. 

"I wish I could have been there--but I am far past that, " she said. "What was the text, Sadie?"

Sadie flew into the chamber of her memory to catch it before it shouldescape. But the sudden invasion had evidently alarmed it, for it hadgone. She silently pursued it into space, but returned empty-handed. 

"That's strange, " she faltered; "it was a lovely text, " she added, byway of consolation. "But it's gone; I was so taken up with the sermonthat I must have failed to remember the text, " she concluded, false toher first love, but faithful to her guest. 

"Well, Josie, " said the still unenlightened aunt, "I will have to lookto you. You will tell me what it was. "

Josie joined in the chase, but their prey had had a noble start and wasnow far beyond them. 

"It was in the New Testament, I think, " said Josie, pleased with thispledge of accuracy, and satisfied that she had outrun her sister--"andit was tolerably long. " This was said with the air of one who had almostidentified it and might justly leave the rest to the imagination. "Ireckon I could find it if I had a Bible, " she added hopefully. 

No Bible was produced, for that would have been taking an unfairadvantage of the fugitive; but the eulogists began their mental searchin unison, quoting various fragments of my morning prayer at familyworship, which they carefully retained as witnesses. After they hadransacked every mental corridor in vain they acknowledged thefruitlessness of the quest, and I myself told their aged relative thetext. 

"Of course, " they cried together, each repeating portions of it againand again in the spirit of atonement. 

"I suppose, " said Mrs. Vardell, "that the mind undergoes a kind ofrelaxation after a delicious tension such as we experienced to-day. "

I marvelled greatly at this relentless sweetness. 

"I knew it was in the New Testament, " said Josie triumphantly--and wesilently accorded her the praise that was her due. 

But I inwardly bethought myself of those silent granite lips in thefrozen North, unthawed by tender speeches, yet each one the reservoir ofmy texts and sermons, as unforgotten as they were unsung. 

XXV

_ST. CUTHBERT'S SECOND CALL_

My reluctant farewells had been said, my gracious entertainers had growndim upon the wharf; and the Atlantic was greeting our ship withboisterous welcome. For the Atlantic is far travelled and loves tosurprise those Southern shores with the waves of Northern waters. 

One by one the passengers retired from the deck, some with slow dignity, some with solemn haste, and some with volcanic candour. 

I remained, sharing the scant survival of the fit, and fell into areflective mood, for I love to think to music, none so grand as theaccompaniment of ocean. That mighty throat is attuned to the human; itscry of deep mysterious passion, its note of conflict, is the epitome ofthe universal voice. It accorded well with the mood that possessed me, for that mood was gray. 

The prevailing thought was this--that I was going back to winter. Grimrelapse this, I mused, to go forth from bud and bloom and bird, topendant icicle and drifted snow. For the blood soon warms beneathSouthern skies, and a man soon recognizes that a garden was theancestral home of him and of all mankind. Even the Eskimo can be tracedto Eden. 

Yes, I was going back to winter in very truth, without and within; forthere is a sharper winter than any whose story the thermometer records. The winter of my discontent, and of another's blighted heart, and ofstill another's darkened life, awaited me beyond these turbid waters! Myway was dark, and my path obscure before me. Chart and compass wereblurred and numb. To remain in New Jedboro, and to remove to Charleston, seemed equally distasteful. 

I had given the Southern church no assurance of my purpose, becausepurpose I had none. Yet the stern necessity of choice was upon me, thismost sombre enfranchisement of manhood, that we are compelled to choose, willing or unwilling. Saint and sinner, believer and infidel, are alikeunder this compulsion in matters moral--and in all matters. We speak ofthe stern pressure which demands that men shall make a living; but itsdread feature is herein, that our living is a succession of pregnantchoices on which our deepest livelihood depends--and these choices meltinto destiny, involving the infinite itself. 

My people, I ruminated, could help me to a decision if they only would. But I knew how non-committal they would be; for they, and all theirkind, are inclined to assume no responsibility of another's soul, and tosurrender no fragment of their own. 

New York was reached at last, the waves still tossing heavily. When Ialighted from the train at New Jedboro, the breath of winter greeted me. 

One of my parishioners, an Aberdonian born, was on the lookout. He shookhands, but said nothing of welcome home. Yet his hand was warm, and itsgrip had a voice that told me more than even sweet Southern lips couldsay. For its voice was bass--which is God's. 

"Issie's wantin' ye, " he said calmly. "She's far gone an' she's beenaskin' for ye. "

The dawn as yet had hardly come, and seating myself upon the box, I toldthe cabman to drive quickly to Issie's home. As we passed through thestill unstirring town, he said:

"He'll be sittin' up with him, " pointing to a dimly-lighted window. 

"Who'll be sitting up?" I said. 

"Oh, I forgot. You won't have heard. That is Mr. Strachan's room. Atleast I think that is the name. I only came here myself to work ten daysago. A poor homeless woman landed here last week from Ireland. One ofthose immigration agent devils over there took her last penny and senther over to Canada, to starve for all he cared. She showed smallpoxafter she landed here and her little lad was with her. He took it too. Well, she died--but before she died she told her story. The old story, you know--had bad luck, you see, and the fellow skipped out and lefther. The woman gets the worst of it every time, don't she?"

"She died!" I exclaimed. "And the little one? Where is the boy you spokeof?"

"That's him; that's what the light's burnin' for. Angus Strachan, sothey say, paid all the funeral expenses, and they wanted to send the kidaway somewheres--some hospital for them catchin' diseases. But Strachanacted queer about it. He wouldn't let them touch it. And he took it tohis own room and said he would take care of it himself. "

"And did they let him?" I asked. 

"Let him. I just guess they did. They couldn't help it. You see he'dbeen in, monkeyin' round the smallpox already--so they had to. And hewrapped the kid up in a blanket and took it to his room. They say hislight's never been out at night since. "

"He has not taken the disease himself, has he?" I enquired. 

"Oh, no; leastwise, I never heard tell of it. But them was queer actionsfor a young fellow, wasn't they? No accountin' for tastes, as thefellow said! Can you understand it yourself, sir?"

"I think I can, " was my reply; "let us hurry on, " and in a few minuteswe were at Issie's house. 

Little Issie had long since snuggled down in her own separate place inmy heart; she was indeed a favourite with all who knew her--but I saw asI stepped into the room that God loved her best of all. The white thinhands were tightly held, one in her father's, the other in her mother's, as though they would detain her; but the angels heeded not and went onwith the preparations for her flight. These were almost complete when Iarrived; Issie alone knew that they were of God's providing, for theface she turned to me was full of childish sweetness, and her smile wastouched with other light. 

"I'm glad you're home, " she whispered, as I bent low beside her. "Pleasedon't go away again"--and as I kissed her she was gone. 

Her curls were gold, still gold, though she was gone. As we stoodweeping beside the precious dust the sun arose, still arose, though shewas gone. And his first errand was to the broken heart. Swift to thewindow flew his first-flung rays, like eager couriers who hear the cryof need. And entering in, unbidden, they set God's brighter seal of loveupon the golden tresses. Up and down among the glowing strands, theywandered, smiling at God's gain, smiling still, though she was gone. Unafraid, they caressed the unconscious locks, anointing them for theirburial. 

When I went out, the winter seemed past and gone; I knew then what madethese snowbound hearts so warm. 

 * * * * *

"Margaret has a new sorrow, " said my wife, soon after my arrival home. 

"What is it?"

"A young woman and her child from Ireland--"

"Yes, " I interrupted, "I heard about it; the driver told me. DoesMargaret seem to fret herself about it?"

"I don't know, " answered her mother, "but I am afraid it has made it allthe harder for us: I mean that I fear that she is more devoted to himnow than ever. She read me a letter Angus wrote her just before he shuthimself up with the child. "

"What did it say?" I asked, with eagerness. 

"I don't remember very clearly: but he said that this woman who died ofsmallpox, the child's mother, you know, had opened all her heart to himbefore she died. And he says there never was a gentler or purer-heartedwoman--the old story, of love, and trust, and anguish. Then he said hepromised her to care for her boy; and he said something about hisordination vows, said he would try to be true to them, and that thiswould help him to banish revenge and hatred from his heart. "

"His ordination vows?" I exclaimed, "what do you suppose he means?Surely he is not trifling with all that unhappy occurrence?"

"I don't think so. There was no trifling tone about his letter. I askedMargaret about that very thing, but she wouldn't tell me, only she saidthere was no elder in St. Cuthbert's more ordained to God's service thanAngus is. "

"Did she say anything about their love affairs?" said I, after a man'spoor bungling fashion. 

"Not a word--but she wouldn't let me see the letter, " this with a littlewomanly sigh: for women, like children, have griefs that appear triflingto grown men, but are very real to them. 

After a pause my wife ventured: "Don't you think that perhaps we arejust a little unrelenting about Margaret and Angus?"

"What?" I said. 

"Oh, I don't mean that she should marry him, of course, but it does seemhard, father--and it really wasn't his fault--and perhaps we will regretit some day. "

"But, my dear, you know it is impossible--think of the humiliation ofit, the shame of it, I might say. "

"Yes, I know, " she answered, "but I do admire Angus more and more. Heseems to be trying to staunch his sorrow, only he does it by love andservice. Everybody is talking about how useful and unselfish he is, inthe church, and among the poor--and everywhere. "

"I know it, " admitted I, "I know it, and there is no reason why weshould not always be friends--but the other is an entirely differentmatter. It cannot be. "

"Well, " went on my wife, "I do not think I want to stay here; I don'tsuppose the people understand everything, but I feel sure many of themthink we are dealing harshly with Margaret. And yet they would nearlyall do the same. What kind of a manse have they in Charleston?" sheconcluded eagerly--for a woman's gift of transition is marvellous. 

Whereupon I told her all about my Southern experiences and impressions. 

 * * * * *

There was no tumult in St. Cuthbert's. A man who knows nothing of theunder-currents in the heart's great ocean would have said that my peoplewere serenely indifferent as to whether I should stay in New Jedboro orgo to Charleston. There was no open attempt to influence the outcome, for they believed in the sovereignty of God and would not interfere--atleast not till that very sovereignty so constrained them. Of course, they held prayer to be a legitimate interference. This is a greatmystery, but it is cherished by the soul as persistently as it ischallenged by the reason. Mysterious though this union must ever be, theScottish spirit takes full advantage of it, and enjoys its fruit, letthe root be hidden as it may. 

"Ye'll be givin' us yir decision some o' these days, " was about as faras the most emotional would go, some even adding: "Charleston's a grauncity, nae doot, an' I'm hopin' ye'll like it fine if you leave us, "which last proved to me that such an one secretly prayed for myremaining. The true Scotchman is like the Hebrew language--to beunderstood, he must be read backwards. 

"It's a graun chance ye're gettin', to be called to sic a kirk as that, "said Wattie Gardner one day. "I'm fearin' ye'll rue it if ye bide wi' ushere. "

This was far from the language of ardent wooing; yet I noticed that thissame Wattie sought to reform his ways, that they might tend to theincrease of my comfort. He had been an incorrigible sleeper in the kirk, surrendering to sweet repose with the announcement of the text, andemerging therefrom only to join the closing paraphrase withunembarrassed unction. For no man was more ready with a verdict on thesermon than was Wattie, as he walked down the aisle; he never failed todemand the "heads and particulars" from his family at the dinner table, resenting all imputation of somnolence for himself. 

His defense was plausible, since he never slept exposed; but always withhis head bowed upon the book-board, esteemed by the uncharitable as theattitude of slumber, but explained by Wattie as the posture ofundistracted thought and pious meditation. 

Shortly after my call to Charleston, however, Wattie abandoned thispious and reflective posture, sitting bolt upright, beating back histendency to thoughtful retirement with the aid of cloves andpeppermints. I knew the meaning of this reform, for I knew Wattie's lovefor me, clandestine though it was; he and I had watched death togetheronce--and after the wave had overswept us, the ground beneath our feetwas firm as rock forever. 

By and by St. Cuthbert's began to move. It was known that I purposedannouncing my decision on the approaching Sabbath day, and I wasinformed that one or two deputations wished to wait upon me at themanse. The first was from the women of the church, who had had a meetingof their own. 

To my amazement the spokeswoman was Mrs. Goodall. Now it must be toldthat this same Mrs. Goodall, in all sincerity of conscience, hadviolently withstood my advent to the pastorate of St. Cuthbert's yearsbefore. The ground of her opposition was that I plied the festive pipe. 

Never was there nobler Christian womanhood than hers, never a moredevoted life, never a more loving heart. But no man's character could befragrant, so she thought, if it ripened amid the rich aroma of tobacco;and good old Virginia leaf was to her the poison-ivy of mankind. Thatlife was indeed beclouded which found shelter in the genial clouds ofthe aforesaid leaf. But with all this heroic hostility to our littleweaknesses, there dwelt a sweet strain of innocence in which we had cometo glory. 

"Ye needn't tell me, " said the good Mrs. Goodall once to a sympatheticcircle, "that they dinna play poker at the taivern--an' in the daytimetoo--for I passed by this verra day, an' they were pokin' away, wi'their coats off, wi' lang sticks in their hands, pokin' at the wee whiteballs, " and her listeners needed no other proof. 

The dear old saint made her plea for those she represented, and itgreatly pleased me, for I loved her well; and I remembered the scoresand hundreds who had felt the power of her godly life. Besides, itconfirmed me in this assurance, that, after all is said and done, if aman is honestly trying to do his Master's work, even those most sternlyset against the pipe will care but little whether or not he seeks thecomfort it undoubtedly affords. Which very thing had been proved by mygreat predecessor, Dr. Grant, half a century agone. 

The second, and larger, deputation was composed of ten or more, appointed to represent the kirk session and the Board. Of this latterbody, the principal spokesman was its chairman, William Collin, anexcerpt from Selkirkshire and one of my chiefest friends. He was long, very long, almost six feet three, with copious hair that never sank torest, and habitually adorned with a cravat that had caught the sameaspiring spirit. This was a rider perpetually attached. 

One suit of clothes after another, as the years passed by, bore witnessto the loyalty of his heart; for he would not abandon the pre-historictailor who was a sort of heirloom in the Collin family. In consequence, the rise and fall of William's coat, in its caudal parts, as he walkeddown the aisle with the plate on the Sabbath day, had become part of St. Cuthbert's ritual--and we all thought it beautiful. He was one of thetwo, referred to in the opening of our story, who had been sent to spyout the land, and to report upon the propriety of my conjugalenterprise. The fluent panegyric in which his report was made is alreadyrecorded and need not be here repeated. 

William had a talent for friendship beyond that of any man I ever knew, and this talent flowered into genius only after the clock struckmidnight. Never yet was there friend who would stay with you to the lastlike William Collin, his shortcomings few, his long-stayings many anddelicious. 

For never yet was friend so welcome, never speech more sane andstimulating; never farewell so sweetly innocent when the clock strucktwo. May the God of friendship bless thee, William Collin, for all thatthy friendship hath been to me! And if these lines outlive thee, letthem bear witness to that joy which is not denied to the humblest man, who hath but a fireplace and a friend and a pipe--and four feet on thefender, while the storm howls without. For, with alternate zeal, we castthe blocks upon the blaze--and its flame never faltered till thou wertgone. 

William, as chairman, was the first to speak. He presented St. Cuthbert's case with dignity and force, beginning with the tidings thatthe Board wished me henceforth to take two months' holidays instead ofone. This started in my mind a swift reflection upon the nativeperversity of the Scotch. To prove that they cannot do without you, theybanish you altogether for an extra month, but William Collin gave thething a more graceful turn:

"We love you weel eneuch to do without you--but no' for lang, " he said. 

Then he concluded, as was his inviolate custom, with a reference toBurns, in whom he had sat down and risen up for forty years:

"I canna better close what I hae to say, " he assured me, "than by theuse o' the plowboy's words, slightly changed for the occasion:

 "'Better lo'ed ye canna be Will ye no' abide at hame?'"

With this he reached behind him (this too, a time-honoured custom), seized the aforesaid caudal parts of his coat, removed them from thepath of descending danger, and lowered his stalwart form with easydignity, his kindly eyes aglow with friendship's light. 

David Carrick was the next to speak. Cautious and severe, his chief aimwas to express the hope that I was sincere in my indecision. 

"We had a sair shock wi' a former minister long years ago, " he said, "hehad a call, like yirsel', but he aye kept puttin' us off, tellin' us hewas aye seekin' licht frae above; but Sandy Rutherford saw an or'narylicht in the manse ae nicht after twal o'clock. He peekit in the window, an' he saw the minister wi' his coat off, packin' up the things. The twalichts kind o' muddled him, ye ken. "

His colleagues may have thought David unnecessarily severe. In any caseseveral of them began signalling to Geordie Bickell to take the floor. Geordie responded with much modesty and misgiving, for he was thesaintliest man amongst us; and his own estimate of himself was in directantagonism to our own. 

"We willna urge ye, sir, " he said, with a winsome smile, "but I'm surethe maist of us hae been pleadin' hard afore a higher court than this. A' I want to tell ye is this--there hasna been wound or bruise upon yirrelation to yir people. An' there's but ae hairt amongst us, an' we'regiein' ye anither call this day--an' we're hopin' it's the will o' God. "

The interview was almost closed, when a voice was heard from the back ofthe room, a very eager voice, and charged with the import of itsmessage:

"It's mebbe no' worth mentionin', " said Archie Blackwood, a fiery Scotwhose father had fought at Balaclava, "but it's gey important for a'that. Gin ye should gang to Charleston ye'll hae to sing sma' on theirFourth o' July, for that's their screechin' time, they tell me; an' yewudna hae a psalm frae year's end to year's end to wet yir burnin'lips--an' ye wadna ken when it was the Twenty-fourth o' May. They tellme they haena kept the Twenty-fourth o' May in Ameriky since 1776. "Archie knew his duty better than his dates. 

I assured him of the importance of his warnings, and acknowledged thevarious deprivations he had foretold. 

"Juist ae word afore we pairt, " suddenly interjected a humble littleelder who had never been known to speak before. "It's in my conscience, an' I want to pit it oot. We a' ken fine we haena been ower regular atthe prayer meetin'; but we'll try to dae better in the time to come. It's death-bed repentance, I ken, but it's better than nane. "

One by one the delegates shook hands with me and withdrew, after I hadpromised them as early a pronouncement as my still unsettled mind couldhope to give. After they had gone, I sat long by myself, pondering allthat had been said, looking for light indeed, but striving to quench allother beams than those whose radiance was from above. 

While thus employed, a feeble footfall was heard upon the steps, and agentle knocking called me to the door. It was no other than littleIssie's grandfather who stood before me. 

"Come in, come in, " I said cordially, for he was dear to me, and we hadthe bond of a common sorrow. "Have you forgotten something?"

"No, " he answered, "but I hae minded something. I didna speak when a'the ithers spoke; but I want to tell ye something by yirsel'. I think yeought to ken. It has to dae wi' yir decision. 

"Ye mind wee Issie? Well, the mornin' ye came back frae Charleston, shewas lyin' white an' still on the pillow. She hadna spoke a' through thenicht, an' we a' thocht she wad speak nae mair--but at six o'clock yirtrain blew afore it came into the station. An' wee Issie stirred on thepillow. Her lips moved an' I pit doon my ear. 

"'He'll be on that train, ' she whispered low. 'Wha'll be on the train?'I askit her. 'The minister, ' was a' she said. 

"I was alane wi' her, an' I said: 'Mebbe so, Issie. ' Then she spoke naemair for a little, but soon she said: 'God'll bring him back to open thegate for me before I go. Grandfather, ' she said, 'he first told me ofthe gate and he said I would find it beautiful when I got close--and soit is--but I want him to push it farther open, for I am so weak andtired. I'm sure God will bring him home in time. '"

My eyes were wet, and I could only take the old man's hand in mine, thesilent token that the greatest argument of all had been kept until thelast. 

"There's mair of us, " he said, as the sobs shook his feeble frame, "there's mair of us wha's comin' near the gate. I'm no' far frae itmysel'. An' I want ye to wait my turn; I want ye to bide wi' us till yesee me through the gate. A stranger wadna be the same. I maun be gaun. "

It is long now since Issie's grandfather followed her through the gate. He too found it beautiful; for I walked with him till even I could seeits glory. It swung wide open, for he was welcome home; and I caught aglimpse of the splendour just beyond. I heard, too, rapturous snatchesof the song they sing in that better land. It may have been fancy, yet Iam sure I heard the old precentor's voice, and Issie's holy strain wasclearer still; but it was the new song, and these two blended wondrouswell. 

XXVI

_LOVE'S SINGING SACRIFICE_

Death is kinder than we think. None other knew the way by which thelittle foundling's mother had gone forth. But death knew it well, havingoften passed over it before; and the orphan's cry was more than he couldbear. So he took him in his kindly arms and bore him on to his mother, smiling at the cruel names by which he was accustomed to be called. 

It is death's way to take the jewel only, for the road is long; and whowill may have the casket. Wherefore the affrighted undertaker bore thelatter by night to its resting-place, for he knew that path and hadoften trodden it before. But he was not a deep sea pilot, like theother. 

Angus was left alone. A faithful man, himself a smallpox graduate, washis only companion. Strict care was kept before the door of the nowdeserted house, for panic hath its home in the heart of that dreaddisease, though not so dreadful as we think. 

Some of the misguided folk of New Jedboro fumigated themselves at everymention of Angus' name, sleeping meantime side by side with someconsumptive form, knowing not that death slept between them. But thegreat science of life is, and hath ever been, the recognition of life'sreal enemies. 

Angus was alone--and fallen. The foundling's plague was upon him, andthere was none to care for him but the faithful servant, smallpox-proofas he happily knew himself to be. 

The very night of the poor waif's hasty burial, a note was handed in atour kitchen door. It was from the health officer of New Jedboro:

"Can you find a nurse for Mr. Strachan?" it ran. "He has no one with himbut Foster, who has had the disease, and I need not tell you thenecessity for a woman's care. I have tried the hospital, but no nursewill volunteer. Whoever goes, of course, will be under quarantine, asthe guard has orders to let no one enter or leave the house. Perhaps youmay know of some poor woman, or some kind of woman, who will undertakethe duty. If you do, I have ordered the guard to let her into the houseon presentation of this note. "

My wife and I were sitting in the study when the letter was handed tome. "I will run down to Mrs. Barrie's, " I said, after long thinking. "She is not so much of a nurse, but she is less of a coward; and I knowshe has taken care of diphtheria. "

"I will walk down with you, " said my wife; "perhaps a woman's influencewon't be amiss on such an errand. "

We were soon ready and went out into the winter night. 

"Isn't that too bad?" I suddenly exclaimed, as we were turning into Mrs. Barrie's house. "I have forgotten that letter--and the health officersays that whoever goes must have it. Shall we go back for it?"

"Not at all, she would have retired before we get back. And in any caseshe would not go till the morning, and you can give it to her beforethat, " said my long tried adviser. 

"Very well, let us go in. "

We had left Margaret at home. She was often absent from our study fire, not in peevishness, or gloom, for they were foreign to her nature; butstill she bore evidence of her great renunciation. 

As I have said, she was much alone, deeming it, I doubt not, due to herlover that she should share his solitude, even if separately borne. Shesought to fill up that which was behind of the sufferings of the man sheloved. This I make no doubt was her secret delight; for only a womanknows the process of that joy which is exhaled when sorrow and love flowmingled down. 

Margaret had not been beside our study fire that winter night. But onour departure she came down from her half widowed room to sit besideit. It was the same hearth she had kindled in other days "in expectationof a guest. " As she entered the room, her eye fell upon the note which Ihad left lying in my chair. A glance at it revealed to her Angus' name. It was soon perused and it needed to be read but once. Swift actionfollowed, for there is no such thinker as the heart; and if women wereon the Bench to-morrow, "Judgment reserved" would vanish from ourjudicial records. 

Margaret's decision was taken before she laid the letter down, and aflush of eager joy glowed on her face. In a moment she was back in herroom, quickly moving here and there, gathering this and that together, bending over a small travelling-bag that lay upon the bed. Her rulingthought was one of gladness, even joy--and the traveller's joy at that. Who does not know the sudden thrill of rapture when there comes to us asudden summons to a long and unexpected journey?

And Margaret was starting on a long journey, how long, only God couldtell. She thought of this as she glanced about the pretty room that hadshared her secret thoughts since childhood, that had seen the awaking ofher love, and had oftentimes kept with her the vigil of unsleeping joy. More than once the poor little room had feared it was soon to beoutgrown, and left far behind; but still at night Margaret would returnto its pure protection, and still it knew the fragrance of a virgin'strembling love. 

She was almost through the door when she turned once again and bade it along farewell, the same as a maiden on her bridal morn. For she too wason her way to an altar; and the vows for sickness or health, for life ordeath, seemed to be upon her now. 

She had got as far as the garden gate when she stopped suddenly. 

"I have forgotten the letter, " she said to herself. Laying hertravelling-bag upon the ground, she ran swiftly back, but the door hadlocked behind her, and her latch-key was in her room. 

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried to herself. "I cannot getin without the letter, and they will soon be back. "

She flew along the veranda to a window and pressed it upward. Ityielded, and her joy flowed like a river. Up she flung it, far up, andwith a bound the active form was upon the sill and disappeared into theroom. The letter lay where she had left it, and in a moment the preciouspassport was in its hiding-place. A moment later, the gate swung shutbehind her. Her bosom throbbed with a new courage as it felt the touchof the letter that was entrusted to its keeping; for this was herwarrant, her pledge of passage on that long journey towards which shepressed so eagerly. Oh, woman! who countest pestilence thy friend whenit is in league with love!

On she pressed, on through the frosty night. The snow made music beneathher hurrying feet, the bridge by which she crossed the river cracked andechoed with the frost, and the Northern lights flashed the signals oftheir heavenly masonry--for what knew they of plague and love andsorrow, and of the story of this poor tracing-board of time?

But Margaret never thought of this, for she, too, had her own secretsymbols, and her heart its own mighty language, voiced, like theother's, in alternate floods of light and gloom. 

She never paused till she was challenged by the guard before theplague-struck house. Then she laid down her travelling-bag, for it hadgrown heavy; but her eyes never turned from the dim light that shonefrom the window. Love and danger were there, and the fascination of bothwas upon her. 

"Where might you be goin', miss?" said the guard. His voice was thick, and his breath bore a perfume which proved he had been hospitablyentreated by some sympathetic friend. Doubtless it was the goodSamaritan's wine that had failed of its destination. 

"I am going into that house, if you please, " replied Margaret. "I amgoing to take care of Mr. Strachan. The health officer has asked for anurse. "

"Oh, no, my lady, " said the guard, "no pretty face like yours is goingto be marked by the smallpox. " His chivalry was of the moist kind, andhis emotion made him hiccough several times. 

Margaret winced: "I am entitled to go in, " she said boldly, "and I willthank you to let me pass, " with which she picked up her valise. 

"Not by no means, " the guard rejoined. "I've got orders not to let noone in without a letter from the officer. "

"I have the letter, " said Margaret, for in her excitement she hadforgotten it. She produced it and handed it to the man. He walked overto a gas lamp across the street. Feeling the need of exercise, heproceeded thereto by several different routes. Having reached it, he wasseized with a great fear lest the iron post should fall, and lenthimself to its support. Then he read the letter over aloud; three orfour times he read it, punctuating it throughout with the aforesaidtokens of emotion. He returned to where she stood, selecting several newpaths with fine originality. 

"I guess that's all right, an' you're the party, " he remarked, "but itain't signed. "

"What do you mean?" said Margaret in alarm. "It certainly bears thehealth officer's name. I saw it myself. "

"Oh, yes, that's all right, but that ain't enough--business is business, you see, " he added, with maudlin solemnity. "You've got to sign ityourself, kind of receipt the bill, you see. "

He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil, produced the rump thereof, spreadthe letter upon his knee, and began writing on the back of it. It waslike an internal surgical operation, for his tongue protruded as hewrote, marking his progress by a series of serpentine writhings thatsuggested inward pain. 

"There, that'll do, " he said, when he emerged. "You sign that. "

Margaret took the paper and tried to read what he had written. But, unfamiliar with hieroglyphics, his handiwork was lost upon her. 

"I cannot read it, " she said presently; "the light is very bad. "

"That's so--besides it's too infernal cold to read--I'm awful cold. Iwisht that cove in there'd get a move on him, an' get better. He's got asnap. Some one sent him a bottle of milk to-day, too, " he concluded, with a solemn wink, the tongue again appearing on the scene to bearinternal witness--"but I forgot--I'll read them words to you myself, "which he proceeded to do, swaying gently, for the spirit of rhetoricwas within him. 

"This is it, " he began, "'I'm the party what's meant to nurse the manwhat's got the smallpox, an' I got in because I wanted to'--that's allright, ain't it? Now you sign that, an' if you die, that'll protect meafter you're dead. And I'll sign it too, and if I die, it'll protect youafter I'm dead, see? And if we both die, it'll protect the officer afterwe're both dead, see? And if he dies, then we'll all be protected, because we'll all be dead, see? You keep the paper, and I'll keep thepencil, and we'll both keep our job, see? Gee whittaker! Ain't it cold!I wisht they'd send some more milk. "

Impatient for a release, Margaret signed the document. After its authorhad made another picturesque pilgrimage to the gas lamp and back again, the signature was fervently commended, with signs of increasing emotion;he returned the letter to her--and she passed on into the house at whichnone but love or death would have asked for bed and board. 

There are a thousand streams that flow from Calvary. But the deepest ofthese is joy. Wherefore as Margaret walked into the darkened house, herheart thrilled with a sudden rapture it had never known before. For hewas there--and she would be beside him in a moment--and they would betogether--and none could break in upon them, for grim death himselfwould guard the door. He was helpless too, dependent on weak arms thatlove would gird with might--and this makes a woman's happiness complete;when love and service wed, joy is their first-born child. 

She was now standing at the door of his room, her eyes fixed upon theface of the man she loved, radiant with victory. 

He had heard her footfall from the threshold, and his heart clutchedeach one as it fell. Yes, it was she, and the music of her rustlinggarments had the sweet sound of rain--for his was the thirsty heart. Itwas surely she, and not another, --and the whole meaning of life seemedclear to him. He knew not how or why, but he had been alone so long, andhis hungry heart had wondered, and life seemed such a wounded thing. 

But now he actually saw those silken strands, gently waving from herhaste, and the parted lips that poured forth her soul's deep loyalty, and the dear form of ardent love--a maiden's form. All these came uponhim like the dawn, and the citadel of life's frowning mystery wasstormed at last. How voluptuous, after all, in its holiest sense, isGod's purpose for the pure in heart!

She stood, her eyes now suffused with tears, but smiling still; thepanic in her father's house, the comment of cruel tongues, the fightwith death, the pestilence that walks in darkness--these were allforgotten in the transport of her soul. She had chosen her Gethsemanelong ago, and this was its harvest time. 

Angus' eyes drank deeply from the spring. 

"Margaret, " he said at last, "how beautiful God is!"--and Margaretunderstood. 

She advanced towards the bed, her hands outstretched--he sought to bidher back. 

"Margaret, you know not what you do; your life----" But it was in vain. 

"My life is my love, " she cried with defiant passion. "Oh, Angus, howbeautiful God is!" and, stooping down, she overpowered him, spurningdeath while love should claim its own. 

As she stood above him again, her lips were moist with love's anointingand she knew that nothing could prevail against them now. Hers thepromised power that could take up serpents, and drink deadly things, andbe unharmed. Hers the commission to lay hands on the sick that theymight recover. Her sombre foes seemed many; shame clouded the name shefain would bear, opposition frowned from the faces of those who boreher, and now plague had joined the conspiracy--but in all these thingsshe was more than conqueror. 

 * * * * *

The winter had retreated before the conquering spring, and thevanquished pestilence had also fled when they came forth again, theseprisoners of love. Nearly four long luscious weeks had flown, and theirsouls' bridal time was past. They had baffled death together; and theycame forth, each with the great experience--each with the unstainedheart. 

Angus bore a scar, only one, as the legacy of pestilence--but it couldbe clearly seen, and it was on his brow. 

"My life seems doomed to these single scars, " he had said, not bitterly, during one of the sweet convalescent days. 

"But not through any fault of yours, dear one, " Margaret had answered. "I have the same wounds, mark for mark, but they are in my heart, " andshe kissed his brow, ordained to another burden. 

"Where shall we go?" said Margaret. He had heard the words before, andrich memories came back. The freedom of the world was theirs; for theyhad been absolved from the stigma of disease, and the sentinel hadceased from his labours. 

"I must go home now, " she continued, "for it will soon be dark. "

"I had forgotten about darkness, " said Angus. "Come with me. I want todo something for my mother's sake. "

"'Your mother's sake!'" she repeated, "did your mother ever know thepoor woman who died of the disease? or her little child? Did you carefor them for her sake?"

"I cared for them for her sake, " Angus answered, "but my mother neverknew her; they lived in different countries--but their sorrows wererelated. Let us turn here. "

They turned off into a quiet street, and presently entered the oldstone-cutter's shop. Angus spoke to him apart for a time; finally theold man said:

"Perhaps you'd better write it down. "

"Very well, I will, " replied Angus. 

The old stone-cutter adjusted his glasses: "Nothin' on the big stoneabout her age?"

"No, nothing, " answered Angus. 

"Nor nothin' about her folks?"

"No, nothing, " said Angus again. 

"And nothin' on the little stone only this?"

"Nothing more, " said the other. 

"All right, sir, I understand then. The big stone is just to have 'Luke. 7:47: For she loved much, ' and the little one: 'My brother. ' All right, I'll set 'em up to-morrow, only I kind o' thought it didn't give aterrible lot of information. But I suppose you know the meanin' of it. "

"Yes, I know, " said the man with the mark upon his brow. 

XXVII

_The HIDDEN CRUCIFIX_

We had only one incurable sorrow in St. Cuthbert's manse. That of coursehad to do with Margaret and her love--for whoso would heal sorrow mustfind a cure for love. We could not find it in our hearts to give her upto a union so wounding to our pride as her marriage to Angus would havebeen. The righteous will have cried out long ago against this unseemlyspirit on the part of a gospel minister. But my only care is to set downthings, myself among them, as they really were. 

Besides, it is easy to prescribe sacrifices for another, or even forone's self, provided always that they be made before the necessityarises. All parents are models in their treatment of each other'soffspring, rivalling, in this regard, even those proverbial patterns whonever took the initial step to parentage. 

Our relations with Margaret were happy enough, marked by love andtenderness as of yore. We were deliberately cheerful, and at times evenresolutely gay. But our house had its skeleton closet, and each of uskept a key. Apart from this, all our home was bright. Other wounds hadhealed. Margaret was home again, and she had been kept from thescourge's awful breath. I had accepted St. Cuthbert's second call, and Ifelt as though my pastorate had begun anew; for young and old gatheredabout me, and the chariot wheels rolled gladly. 

Yet one dear and long honoured face was absent; and one seat in St. Cuthbert's, long occupied by a familiar form, was vacant now. ForMichael Blake had gone. 

Silently, without telling us why or where, he had departed, although theheart of all New Jedboro seemed warm to him, and although St. Cuthbert'shad given him its pledge of continued confidence. But he had steadfastlyrefused to resume the duties of his office. 

This was almost a sorer wound to us than the other; for we somehow couldnot but construe it as the collapse of shame. He shirks the disciplineof God, we said, or thought; and some even voiced the darksome fear thathe had cast off the restraints of his office, done with religion when hecould no longer wear its mask. He would be a saint, said some, ornothing. The rôle of the publican has no charm for him, said others, because he never really knew its luxuries. And some were secretly angrythat he had escaped, as they chose to term it, for they loved to see thescarlet letter on another's breast. 

 * * * * *

It was one of the first genial days of early spring, and an oceansteamer was swiftly making for the Mersey. The green fields of theinitial isle had been declared the greenest of God's green earth, andthey received the panegyric with national complacency, knowing not thatthey had three thousand miles of grassless ocean to thank for it everybit. The fragrance of the land was sweet to the weary voyagers, and themost taciturn was disposed to unwonted mirth. The Captain, question-driven, had taken wing and soared aloft, looking down in safetyfrom the bridge. 

But neither mirth nor gladness was upon the face of one traveller, though no face was turned more intently towards the shore. Sadness ofheart and seriousness of purpose were there instead, not unmixed withlight; for memory and hope, these old-world combatants, had joinedbattle in his soul. 

His gaze was fixed on the still distant land, and varying emotionsplayed upon his face. This very shore enclosed all whose memory filledhis life with shame and sorrow--within it, therefore, by God'sunchanging law, must be found their relief and cure. For the serpent'sbite, the healing is the serpent still, but lifted high. 

This man, so silent and self-contained, had been the centre of muchcurious wonder among his fellow passengers. Much apart he had been, unmingled with the ship's social life, despite all allurement. Thechildren called him blessed, for he had entered with their own relishinto all their games, and when these palled, he had brought forth thingsnew and old out of the treasure of his mind. The aged and ailing werehis almost worshippers, for he had made their wants his daily care. 

"I am sorry to part, Mr. Blake, although we have seen so little of youon the voyage. One has to be quite young, or quite sick, or quite old, to see much of you aboard ship. "

"You have neither of the last two qualifications, " answered the manaddressed, with a pleasant smile. 

The voice which had broken in upon his reverie was that of a lady pastmiddle life, richly and fashionably dressed; for you never know the realplumage of fair travellers till they are about to leave you. She wasbeautifully enamelled, powdered, massaged, and otherwise put in the bestpossible repair. Sparkling diamonds adorned her hands. A gold cross hungupon her bosom. 

"Nor the first one either, I fear, " she rejoined; "however, I am tryingto keep as young as I can. I do wish we were at Liverpool. There is tobe a bridge party at one of my friends this afternoon and a militaryball to-night, and I had counted on getting in for both. I accepted fromNew York! I am not thinking so much about the ball, but I shall die if Imiss the bridge. "

"Indeed, " replied her companion, glancing at the cross. 

"Yes, it will be too cruel. I have picked up some awfully good points onbridge--got them in New York. I got them from my friend's clergyman, theRev. Dyson Bartlett, rector of the Holy Archangels. He is a lovely man. You'd never think to hear him preach that there was so much in him. Doyou know of him?"

"No, " answered Mr. Blake, "I don't think I ever heard of him before. "

"Probably not; he lives a very quiet life--very restful sort of nature, he has; he never gets up till eleven; but of course he is always up verylate at night. Can't burn the candle at both ends, can you? Clergymenare only human, and must get their rest. But on Sunday mornings he getsup at half-past six for early mass, and of course he plays on Saturdaynights too, so sometimes he must get very little sleep. Clergymen don'thave such an easy life after all. Are you an Episcopalian, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I don't belong to that church. "

"Isn't that too bad? But I don't know why I should say that. I thinklots of people go to heaven who belong to other churches. But then, ofcourse, I am very broad in my views. I can't bear narrow people--I justcan't stand narrow people; and besides, I met a lovely man once inTarrytown, and he was a Presbyterian. I hope I will meet him in heaven. "

"I hope you will, " said Mr. Blake. 

"Yes, " she resumed, "that is what I liked about Mr. Bartlett--he was sobroad in his views. I remember I asked him once if he thought dissenterswould go to heaven, and I shall never forget how beautifully he spoke. We were having a little game at the time--only a dollar stake--and itwas his turn to play. But when I asked him that about the dissenters, helaid down his cards on the table, and his hands unconsciously took holdof the cross he always carried on his coat, and he said: 'God is verymerciful, Mrs. Drake'--then he dropped the cross, and took up the cardsagain, and gave a little sigh before he played, and there was abeautiful smile on his face--a kind of sad, sweet smile. "

"Did you attend his church when in New York?" said her listener, notknowing what else to say. 

"Yes, sometimes, but you wouldn't think he had such deep thoughts, justfrom hearing him preach. He was very deep. One night we were alldiscussing whether it was a sin to play for stakes. It was after thegame was over, and Mr. Bartlett had won the whole thing. He put themoney away quietly in his pocket--he gives it to the poor people in theHoly Archangels, he said, for some of the Holy Archangels are quitepoor--he put it quietly in his pocket, and he took hold of his cross, and he was silent for a little while. Then he said: 'Stakes areeverywhere in life--faith itself stakes the soul, ' and that sad, sweet, smile came back again. Wasn't that deep?"

"Yes, very deep, " answered Mr. Blake, thinking of the pocket. 

"Another time, I remember, he said it had often occurred to him that itwas the great Creator who had caused bridge to be discovered; he saidGod gave us bridge so that good Christians could give up playing poker. Wasn't that deep?"

Mr. Blake ventured some reply such as courtesy and conscience couldagree upon. "I really never gave the matter much thought, " he concluded. 

"Oh, dear! There we are at half speed again! I know I'll be too late. Yes, even some of his sermons were very deep. He had a beautiful poeticmind; and he gave everything such a lovely turn. I shall never forgethis last sermon. It was beautiful; he was preaching on the text: 'Washme whiter than snow'--the church was so hot, but you could just see thesnow. And his divisions were beautiful. I can tell them yet. His firstpoint was that we should all be pure and white like the snow. Then thesecond one, he said, grew out of the first, that if we were pure andclean like the snow, we would not be impure or unclean. And the lastpoint was a very solemn one. He said that if we were not pure and whitelike the snow, by and by we would go down where there was no more snow. That was a beautiful thought, wasn't it? I thought it was such a lovelyending. "

"I never heard a sermon just like that, " remarked Mr. Blake, his mindreverting to St. Cuthbert's. 

"Neither did I, " went on the worshipper, "and I told him so the nextnight when we met at Mrs. Bronson's for a little farewell game. He tookhold of his cross again and he said: 'We must deal faithfully, Mrs. Drake'--and he was just starting to deal as he spoke. But he neversmiled, except that sad, sweet smile that he always wore--except when helost. And he told us that after that service he found the curateweeping in the vestry. But the curate fairly worships Mr. Bartlett. Itwas Mr. Bartlett who first taught him bridge, I think. Do you playbridge, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I never learned the game. "

"Oh, I forgot; you're a Presbyterian, you said. It's pretty much achurch game, I fancy. Excuse my rudeness, but why don't you wear across, Mr. Blake?"

"What?" said Mr. Blake abruptly, "why don't I what?"

"Isn't that dreadful? The engines are scarcely moving; I know we won'tget in till five, and the bridge begins at three. There is nothing butdisappointments in this world. Oh, yes, why don't you wear a cross? Notso much for the ornament, of course. I got this one at Tiffany's and itcost me ten pounds. But, as Mr. Bartlett said, the cross stands forsacrifice, so I don't begrudge it. I think, in this world of sin andsorrow every one should wear a cross. We're going a little faster now, don't you think?"

"Yes, madam, I think we are--and I do wear a cross--if you have notforgotten your question. "

"Oh, you do. I am so glad. Where? I suppose you've changed your clothes. But I never noticed it before. "

"No, I don't think you have seen it. "

"Oh, I see, lots of men carry them under their vests. But I think weshould let the world see it. Do you carry yours next your heart?"

"No, madam, deeper still, " said Mr. Blake. 

XXVIII

_The HEATHERY HILLS_

The anchor had been cast, and the good ship, panting, lay at rest. Thebugle note had followed the departing tender with wistful strains of"Auld Lang Syne, " and the emancipated passengers were pouring out uponold England's hospitable soil. The happy crowd, catching already thecontagion of English jollity, swayed about the landing stage, thenflowed in separate streams into the Customs pen; for this is the firsttug of the tether, just when all who have escaped the sea think they aresafe at last. Out through the fingers of the stern inspectors flowed thecrowd in still thinner streams, till all this community of the deep isscattered to the winds. 

Swift-hurrying, they go their separate ways, and the happy little bubblehas burst and vanished, as its successors, now forming on the bosom ofthe deep, will burst and vanish too. What friendships, what ardentloves, what molten vows, ocean born, have begun to languish on the wharfat Liverpool, like sunfish separated from their native wave!

Michael Blake hailed a hansom and drove to the North-Western. As hepassed through the turbid streets, dense loneliness settled about himlike a fog. This was old England, this the land which exiles across thesea in their fondness call the "old country. "

But he could not free himself from the thought that, when he left it, youth's sun was burning bright; and now more than the early afternoonwas gone. 

"The evening too will pass, as the afternoon has passed, " he said tohimself, "only more quickly. " And he glanced at the descending sun, God's metaphor of warning, the recurring epitome of life. His lips movedto speak a text, the native instinct strong therefor. They had meant tosay "the night cometh"; but some one interfered and he said to himself:"The night is far spent--the day is at hand, " for, after all, thesetting sun has morning in its heart. 

He dismissed the cab, and entering the hotel, made some enquiry aboutthe trains for the North. He could not start North before midnight. Theevening was fine, and he walked out. St. George's Hall arrested him withits elaborate grandeur. What beauty, what chastity, what becoming signsof civic wealth! When he came to its massive steps he cast his eyes uponthem, and behold, they were dripping with poverty! The victims of wantin mid-career were there, and drooping age, unequally yoked withpoverty, and frowzy women with ribald face; and chief among them all, little children, some blear-eyed, some pallid with want, some with thelegacy of sores--for they had been shapen in iniquity. 

But all alike--and herein was the anguish of it--all alike were bent onplay, and persisted pitifully in the cruel farce. The little bare feetpattered up and down the steps--but the steps were stone. 

Michael Blake thought of his adopted home across the sea and its greenfields and tree-graced meadows. Then he thought of the far Westernplains, vast beyond human fancy, waiting and calling for the tired feetof all who spend weary lives in the old land, playing on stone steps, while wealth and grandeur smile above them. In a few minutes he turnedaway, for the folk of his country are not accustomed to the sight ofhungry children; and a woman under drink is something that many of theireldest have never seen at all. 

The sound of martial music, and the voice of cheering thousands, fellupon his ear. He moved towards it. Soon the surging procession brokeupon him. "Who are these?" he asked, "these fellows in Khaki?" They hadtheir rifles in their hands, and some were slightly lame, and some hadthe signs of wounds--and all had the rich stain of battle on them. "Artthou only a stranger?" he is asked in turn, "and knowest not the thingsthat are come to pass? These are they who have come out of Paardeburg, homeward bound by way of the ancestral home, and the tide of Britishlove and gratitude wafts them on their course. "

He is soon caught in the swelling throng, his own head bare, his ownvoice blending in the Imperial hosannah. He catches a familiar faceamong the soldiers; he hears the strain of the "Maple Leaf" minglingwith the mighty bass of the Mother Anthem. He beholds the Union Jack, enriched with the Canadian emblem. Gazing on the battered few, he seesthe survivors of the battle, and he knows that the unreturning feet restin the soil they have won to freedom; Canadian lads were these who haveinsisted with dying lips that Britains never shall be slaves. Hisadopted land has given of its choicest blood to swell the sacred tidethat for centuries hath laved the shores of liberty. 

All this surges in upon him, and the savage joy of empire fills hisheart. His loneliness has fled, and he feels that beyond the ocean he isat home, the old home, with its ever open gate for its far-flungchildren. The mighty roar becomes the gentle whisper of Britain's lips, bidding him draw closer to the imperial fireside and warm himself atits imperishable flame. 

He follows them for a time, then turns and slowly wends his way back tothe hotel. As he walks on, the shouting and the tumult die, the bannersgleam no more, and he is left alone with the empire of his heart, andwith other worlds to conquer. We need no swift-flying transport to bearus to life's greatest battle-fields. 

A little waif, a boy of ten, pinched and ragged, was gazing in a windowas Mr. Blake passed along. A question from the man, a quick and patheticanswer from the boy--and they went in together. Then the man came outalone, and the fervent joy of an hour ago was gone, but a deepergladness had taken the room it left behind. It is still there--alife-tenant--for its lease cannot be broken till memory dies. 

When he re-entered the hotel, the clerk recognized him and said:

"Your train goes in an hour, sir. You are going up to Scotland, I thinkyou said. "

Scotland! The word inflamed him; and he hurried to his room to preparefor departure. 

The guard's sharp whistle sounded, and the train, with Britishpromptness, flew out of the Lime Street station, one heart at leaststrangely thrilled, one face steadfastly set towards Scotland's waitinghills. 

He was alone in the compartment, and the long night seemed only like awatch thereof. He was alone, yet not alone--for Memory sat beside him, and Conscience, and Hope. No, he was not alone; for there wrestled a Manwith him till the breaking of the day. And still the train flew on, asthough it knew; on it flew, as though the unseen Wrestler himself hadhis hand upon the engine's throat. 

The sun was rising when he left the train. The train flew on, uncaring, for trains know not that they are carriers unto destiny. 

Michael Blake looked long at the rising sun--it was the same. Then hiseyes caressed the surrounding hills, playfellows of bygone years--theyhad not changed. The flowers still were there, the grass had neverwithered; the heather, too, in unfading purity. 

And the trees, the old mighty elms, these were still the same--thefoliage of a larger life they had, but the selfsame branches held outtheir kindly hands as in the long ago. Still upturned were theirreverent heads, still seeking God--and the baptism of the morning wasupon them, attested by the morning light. 

He turned towards one of the familiar hills and began the old boyhoodclimb. 

Midway, he came to a spring, and a great thirst clutched his heart. Itwas life's long, quenchless thirst, crying out again for the children'sportion. His face is close to its crystal water, his lips burning withdesire. Another's face moves upward to greet his own--but it is not thesame--and memory swiftly paints another till he actually sees it, theardent face of youth. And beside it is a maiden's face--for they hadoften stooped together--a maiden's face, laughing for very love. Butthey vanish and he sees again his own, worn and wrinkle-signed--andalone. 

Yet the spring still is there, unwrinkled and unworn, and his feveredlips drink deeply. How sweet, how delicious, and how wondrous cool! Itis still the same as when rosy lips of love sipped from its surface longago. He rises and turns from the hallowed spot; but the flood-gates ofmemory are unloosed, and his heart melts within him. The tears areflowing fast and the old luxury, because the old innocence, ofchildhood, seems to bathe his broken heart. 

"Oh, God, " he cries aloud, "hast Thou no fountain for the soul, noliving springs farther up the hill?" and as he cried, he glanced againinto the limpid spring. And lo! that gentle face was there again, love'slaughter still upon its lips, and a great hope looking out from graveand tender eyes. 

Then farther up the hill he climbed, the quick step of boyhood comingback--and soon he stood upon its brow. He threw himself upon the grassand cast his eyes over all the unforgotten valley. It was slumberingstill, for the sun is over early in Scottish latitudes, and he quicklysearched the hillside that confronted him. Behind a sheltering bush helay, peering far beyond. 

All the valley is forgotten now--for, across the ravine beneath him, hesees a cottage. The same, the very same it is, save that the thatch hasbeen renewed! A humble shepherd's cottage, only a but and a ben, builtlong ago by thrifty hands--but he first learned to worship there. 

Yet is it still the same? He knows not--but he knows the risk of passingyears. Unchanged the cottage stands, and the same gate hangs half openas in the far back yesterday. Yet it is the spirit alone that givethlife, and of this he may not know. He looks at his watch--it is near sixo'clock, and he had seen a man walk sleepily to the byre from a distanthouse. He waits and watches, while a strange fever burns his heart, unknown to youthful passion. His lips are parched, though the water fromthe spring is scarce dry upon them yet. 

Still gazing, he sees no sign of life about the house. He thinks, yetknows not why, of Mary and the empty tomb. Hope is sinking fast, when ofa sudden a timid wreath of smoke flows slowly from the chimney, andMichael Blake's hand reaches swiftly towards his heart. "Be still, bestill, " he murmurs, "who knows that it is for thee?" but his eyes followit greedily, for it is to him a soul-signal from afar, God's altarsmoke, and he knows now that the house is not a sepulchre. 

"Now I shall go and knock, " he said to himself; but a new thoughtpossessed him, and he bowed again behind the slender furze, his eyesstill fixed upon the house. 

They were but minutes that he waited, but they came disguised ashours--for God can compel us to rehearse eternity. He must have felt itcoming, for his eyes have forsaken all else, and are fixed upon thecottage door. Yes, it moved, it surely moved; and the strong man's eyesare numb. They rally and renew the vigil. Yes, it moves, widerstill--and the flutter of a dress is seen. His heart leaps wildly, andhis eyes fly at the face that follows. It is too far to see clearly--buthe soon must know!

A comely form emerges from the door, and the face looks up at themorning sun. The woman walks out and on, lithe grace in every movement. Then the valley swims before him--for it is, it is, the woman he hadloved. He knows the dainty step, the erect carriage, the shapely frame. Nearer still she comes, skirting the base of the hill he had climbed, still often looking towards the sun, pausing now and then to pluck aflower by the way. Where can she be going?

No bonnet binds her waving hair, and now he can catch the light of themorning sun upon it. Streaks of gray, here and there, can be seen, butthey are few; the breeze rallies the loose-flowing strands and they makemerry and are glad together. He can see the pure bosom, lightly robed, that swells with buoyant life. She is nearer to him now, and the faceswims in upon him across the chasm of long silent years, the same pureface, still bright with tender love. She is now beside the spring--forthither was she bent--and the overflowing pail is laid down beside her. 

She too glances into the bosom of the water and he wonders if memoryguides the wistful gaze. Does she too see another face preserved againstthe years in the pure keeping of the spring? He knows not--but hethinks, yes, he is sure he saw the movement of the lips, and her face isagain upturned--but its thought is far beyond the sun. He uncovers hishead and joins the holy quest. 

She has returned to the cottage and the door is closed; but MichaelBlake has never moved. Now he steps out from behind his shelter andstarts towards the house. Then he stops, turns back and begins todescend the hill by the same course as had led him up. Yet once more heturns and gazes long at the dwelling-place, starts towards it, stopsagain. 

"Not now, " he said to himself, "I cannot--it is too light. "

And he walked back to the hamlet; he was waiting for the tender dark. 

XXIX

"_AND ALL BUT HE DEPARTED_"

The little inn seemed to have no guests except the traveller from beyondthe sea. But no such tavern is ever long deserted, for the Scotchnature, while it may be dry, is ever loyal. Michael Blake had read but aline or two of the _Edinburgh Scotsman_, ten days of age, when a manwalked solemnly in and sat down beside him. His face, his breath, andespecially his nose, bore eloquent testimony to the aforesaid loyalty ofhis nature. He bade Mr. Blake a cheerful good-morning, glancing at thesame time towards the counter beneath which the liquid necessities werestored. 

"It's a fine mornin', " he began. 

"A beautiful day, " assented Mr. Blake. 

"Ye'll no' live aboot these pairts?" inquired the other. 

"No, I live far from here. "

"Ye'll mebbe be frae Ameriky?" ventured his interrogator, closing inupon him. 

"Yes, I live in Canada, " was the response. 

"Canady, " said the man. "We're gey prood o' Canady the noo. I ken't aman once wha went to Canady. I had a drink wi' him afore he went, " hecontinued, his eye lighting with the dewy memory, "ye'll likely ken him?Oliver was his name, Wattie Oliver, a bow-leggit wee body. "

"I cannot say I ever met with him, " replied Mr. Blake. "Canada is largerthan you think over here. "

"Mebbe so, " said the friendly stranger, "mair nor likely he's deid noo;one o' thae red Indians micht hae killed him, like eneuch. "

"Yes, or perhaps a bear, " Mr. Blake replied gravely. 

There was a pause. A bell was ringing, its notes floating in clear andsweet upon them. 

"What bell is that?" inquired Mr. Blake. 

"That's oor bell i' the parish kirk; there's no ither ane. "

"What is it ringing for? To-day is Thursday, " asked Mr. Blake. 

"Aye, " responded the other, "this is the fast day. Sabbath's thesacrament, ye ken, and they're maist awfu' strict aboot the fast day. They wadna work that day, nae mair than on the Sabbath. They willna evenwhustle. Ae mornin' I met Davie Drewry, an' 'twas the fast day. Noo, ofcourse, it was juist an or'nary day in Dr. Cameron's parish across theburn--the burn divides the twa, ye ken. Weel, Davie was a lad forwhustlin'--he cudna leeve withoot whustlin'--but he was gey religioustoo. Weel, I met Davie that mornin', walkin' awfu' fast, maistrinnin'--an' his face was red. 

"'Whaur micht ye be gaun, Davie?' says I, 'naebody ailin'?'

"'Na, na, ' says Davie, 'but it's the fast day, an' I canna stand it onylonger. I'm gaun ower the burn to hae a whustle. ' Wasna that fairredeek'lus!"

"Quite ingenious, " answered Mr. Blake. "You go to that church, Isuppose?"

"Na, I dinna. I quit it when they brocht the kist o' whustles intill't. I wadna stand it. There's nae real Presbyterians there, forbye me an'Jock Campbell--an' I'm sair feart aboot Jock. I doot he's weakenin'. They tell me he speaks to the minister on the street, an' if that'strue, there's no' muckle o' the auld religion aboot Jock, I'm fearin'. "

"Do you not speak to the minister?"

"Na, I dinna. There's naething o' the hypocrite aboot me, I'm tellin'ye. I settled the minister fine the last word I spoke to him. He came tosee me; an' he thocht he could wheedle me aboot the organ i' the hooseo' God. 

"'Div ye no' ken, ' he says to me, 'aboot Dauvit, the sweet singer o'Israel--how he played a' kinds o' instruments i' the Lord's hoose?' Hethocht he had me. But I gied him as guid as he brocht. What think ye Ianswered him?"

"I really have no idea, " said Mr. Blake. "What was it?"

"'Div ye think, ' says I, lookin' fair at him, 'div ye think I tak Dauvitfor a paittern?'--and it did for him. 'I'll hae to be gaein', ' says he, 'I hae a funeral. ' 'Aye, ' says I, 'ye'd better hae a funeral'--an' wehaena spoken to ane anither since. "

"That's a pity, " said Mr. Blake, "it seems too bad that the soul'sinterests should suffer because of a matter of that kind. Of course, " hecontinued, "I don't say that a man may not be religious because hedoesn't go to church. Men may scorn the bridge and still get across theriver, but they would have got along better by the bridge. "

"I dinna ken aboot the brig, " said the other, "that isna to thepoint, "--for he was not of a metaphorical turn of mind--"but I've naedoot aboot bein' religious. A man in my walk o' life, in my business, yeken, canna weel help bein' religious. He's the same as the ApostlePaul. "

"What?" said Mr. Blake, "are you a tent-maker?"

"Na, na, certainly not; there's nane o' them nowadays. A man in mycallin' doesna _do_ the same as Paul, but he can _say_ the same, ye see. I can say wi' Paul: 'Death to me is great gain'--I'm an undertaker, yeken. "

"An undertaker, " exclaimed his listener, unconsciously pushing back hischair, shocked at the gruesome humour. Besides, the man was looking athim with something like a professional eye, as if making an estimate oftime, and space. 

"Aye, " responded he of the apostolic claim, "I'm an undertaker--buttimes is dull. I was an undertaker ten year in Lockerby, but I leftthere lang syne. I had ae fine customer, the bailie; he had eleven o' afamily. But I lost his trade. The bailie was sick--an' my laddie, weeSandy, was aye plaguin' me for a sled. I tell't him I'd get him ane whenI had mair siller. Weel, wee Sandy was aye rinnin' ower to the hoose an'askin' aboot the bailie. 'Twas nat'ral eneuch; the laddie meant naeharm, but he wanted his sled afore the snaw was gone. Ony way, they tukoffense. "

"Did he get his sled?" asked Mr. Blake mechanically, staring at the man. 

"Na, poor wee Sandy never got his sled. I had juist ae ither customer yemicht ca' guid. He was deein' o' consumption, an' I took guid care o'Sandy's sympathy. There was no askin' aboot him, mind ye. But there wasa mean man i' the business, wha was never meant to be an undertaker. Hisname was Creighton, Tom Creighton, an' what dae ye think Tom did, to gethis trade?"

"I don't know, " said Mr. Blake, rising to depart. 

"Weel, I'll tell ye. Twa days afore he died, Tom Creighton tuk him ootfor a drive--he was awfu' fair to his face an' he got around him; tell'thim at the gate that he hoped to gie him anither drive later on. Ofcourse, he got his trade--he had to gie him his trade after that. But Iwadna stoop to sic like tricks for nae man's trade. So I left Lockerbyan' came here--I'm the only yin here. "

Mr. Blake was glad to escape his garrulous acquaintance, and had heardenough of his sombre annals. He walked out, and wandered far--o'er moorand fen, o'er hill and valley, by many an unforgotten path, hewandered--past his boyhood's school, where he heard again the laughingshout that seemed scarcely to have died away from lips now silent long. 

He loitered again by the babbling stream which had been thefishing-ground of boyhood, and lay once more on mossy beds, and bathedhis face in the same friendly tide. He gazed far up into the leafy treesand saw the very nooks where boyhood's form had rested; again he saw thesun gleam on the happy heads of those who gambolled far beneath. 

He drank his fill of the long yesterday, thirsty still. No familiarface, no voice of long ago, had he seen or heard; and he tasted thatunreasoning pain which comes to the man who knows, and is wounded bythe truth, that his native heath is reconciled to his exile, carelessof his loneliness, indifferent to bid it cease. 

When he returned to the hospitable inn, he was as one seeking rest, andfinding none. He sat, reflective, while memory bathed the soul of lovewith tears. Presently the sound of voices floated out from an adjoiningroom. He listened eagerly, for one was evidently the voice of a returnedwanderer like himself. The other was that of a man who had neverwandered from his native spot. The home-keeper's tongue had still itsmother-Scotch, but his companion had been cured. 

"I know I shouldn't do it, Gavin, " he heard the latter say, "I'm reallya teetotaler in Australia. Used to take a drop or two before Iemigrated; but I'm an elder now, and I haven't tasted for years. Howeverthis is a special occasion. "

Mr. Blake moved his chair to where he could catch a glimpse of the men. They were advanced in years, both about sixty-five, and their heads weregray. Their dress betokened plainness of nature, though that of theAustralian might indicate prosperity. Both would seem uncultured, exceptin heart. 

"A speecial occasion!" cried the one addressed as Gavin, "a speecialoccasion! I should say it is--verra speecial! It's twa an' forty yearssin we claspit ane anither's hand--man, Andra, friendship's sweet, an'God's guid! It wad be fair sinfu' no' ta tak a drop at sic a time asthis. The minister himsel' wad taste, gin an auld schulemate came backafter forty year. Sae wad the Apostle Paul--the stomach's sake wasnaethin' compared wi' this. What'll ye hae, Andra?"

"Let this be mine, Gavin, " answered Andrew, reaching for his pocketbook. When it appeared, it was fat and full, and Gavin stole a wistful glance;for, in Scotland, colonial pocketbooks are proverbially plump. "Whatshall it be?" he added. 

"Whatever ye say, Andra, " answered Gavin. He glanced again at thedisappearing purse and heaved a little sigh. Patriotism is not good forpocketbooks, thought Gavin. 

"Well, " said his old schoolmate, holding a sovereign between his thumband finger as fondly as though he had lived in Scotland all his life;"well, " said he, "I say champagne--here, waiter!"

But Gavin interrupted: "Na, na, Andra, dinna get champagne. I took itance when the young Duke came o' age, an' I cudna hae tell't I hadonything, half an hour later. I dinna care for ony o' thae _aeryated_waters. Forbye, it's awfu' dear, an' we can hae far mair o' the ither, "he concluded, smiling tenderly at Andrew. 

"The other" was produced; and it justified the trust reposed in it. Wellit knew its duty, and well it played its part; for it burnished memorybright, stirred emotion from its hiding place, and even led tears out bylong deserted paths. 

The lonely man in the outer room watched, and envied, and secretlyabsolved his brother elder--the latter was giving abundant proof of hisfreedom from all narrow bigotry. Like himself, his old prowess had comeback. He was confidential now:

"She wouldn't have me, Gavin. I told her I was rich, and that I lovedher ever since I left. But she wouldn't listen to me. Then I told her Iowned ten thousand sheep, and that I dreamed about her every night. Butit never moved her. I told her I had twenty thousand pounds in the bank, and her picture next my heart besides--but she wouldn't. She said shewas promised to another. Did you ever hear of Janet Strachan caring forany one else?"

"Na, " said Gavin, absently, "she'll no' hae nocht to dae wi' onybody inthe way o' love--hae anither, Andra. Dinna droon the miller. Wad we no'hae been fules to tak champagne? It wad hae been a' dune by noo. "

Then Gavin stood erect, motioning to Andrew to do the same. Andrew rose;one on each side of the little table they stood, a glass in the lefthand of each, for they were about to enact one of Scotland's greatscenes. Far scattered are her sons, but they have the homing heart, andunforgetting cronies wait to welcome them. 

Gavin's hand is outstretched and Andrew's goes forth to meet it. Theyclasp, the same hands as fought and played together in the goldenboyhood days. 

"Andra, " said Gavin, "I'll repeat to you the twa best lines o' rhyme i'the language: An' div ye ken hoo true they are?

 "'We twa hae paidl't i' the burn Frae mornin' sun till dine'

--mind ye that, we twa hae paidl't i' the burn--an' it's flowin' yet, an' God's gey guid--here's to ye, Andra, " and the men drank together, the elder and the unordained, but the past was sacred to them both--andchildhood's tears came back to make that past complete. 

About an hour later, Andrew and Gavin passed out through the adjoiningroom. They came upon Mr. Blake, whereupon they immediately sat down, neither being in the mood for walking far. Both greeted him with warmth, and invited him to try for himself the process which they had undergonein the adjoining room. Mr. Blake gratefully declined. 

"Ye'll have travelled far?" said Gavin, avoiding the directinterrogative. 

"A long way, indeed, " said Mr. Blake. 

"Come from America, stranger?" said Andrew. 

"Yes, from Canada. "

"Shake, I'm a fellow colonial--I'm from Australia--delightful this, tocome back to the old homestead and meet a brother you never saw before. "

"Maist wonderfu', is't no'?" interjected Gavin--then theresponsibilities of a host began to weigh upon him, and he urged Mr. Blake to reconsider his decision about the process; but Mr. Blake wasfirm. 

"I ken't fine there was somebody frae Ameriky i' these pairts, " saidGavin. "Brownie Telfer tell't me there was a saxpence i' the plate lastSabbath day. It'll be yir ain?"

"No, I'm afraid I cannot claim it, " said Mr. Blake. "I only landedyesterday. "

"Ye'll be rinnin' aboot at a graun rate, " said Gavin, trying a new vein;"came ower a sicht seein', did ye?"

"No, " said Mr. Blake, "not particularly. "

"Took a little run over on business, I suppose?" amended the Australian. 

"Yes, " assented Mr. Blake. 

"You said you were born in Scotland; have you any old friends stillabout? Kind of lonely business if you haven't, " continued Andrew. 

"I really cannot say I have, " said Mr. Blake, moving towards the door. "I'm a fish out of its accustomed waters, even in its oldhunting-ground, if you will excuse mixed metaphors. Good-evening to youboth; I'm glad to have met with you. "

"Good-evening to you, " cried the men. 

The Canadian was gone, but the two old cronies sat smoking; and thetwilight, that great gleaner of the past, crept about them, bringingtender memories that mistrusted the garish day. In the very midst ofthem, Gavin said:

"What did the cratur mean when he spoke aboot 'mixed metaphors'? I neverheard tell o' them before. "

"I'm not very sure, " answered Andrew, cautiously; "he must have meantsomething. "

"'Mixed metaphors, '" mused Gavin, "an' the body wadna tak onythin';it'll be somethin' they tak in Ameriky--I'll ask Ronnie. "

Now Ronnie was the bartender!

XXX

_LOVE'S VICTORY OVER SIN_

The curtain of the night had fallen--and human souls were on theirtrial; for human life is then behind the scenes, and the candour of itspurity or shame comes with the shelter of the falling night. In theirnoblest acts, and in their basest deeds, men are aided by the impartialdark. Both alike she screens, though with fickle folds, retreating whenshe hears the first footfall of the dawn; then is every man's work mademanifest of what sort it is--and the great judgment day shall be butrelentless light. 

The landscape no longer glimmered on the sight when Michael Blake setout from the little inn, his heart burning with fear. And hope heapedfuel on the flame, for fear would die if it were not for hope. He walkedon beneath the stately elms, their far-spread branches whispering as hepassed, for they knew well his step, and wondered that it hurried so. Hepaused at the spring and drank again, but his thirst was stillunquenched. 

He looked about him at the holy night; and surging shame flooded neckand face with crimson. For it had been thus and there, amid thesanctities of the night, and by their trysting-place, that the soul'sgreat wound was made, the blood oozing ever since, oozing still. Memory, ermine-robed, half enchantress and half avenger, turned her face full onhis as he sat by the spring; but he turned his own away and started on, ever on. 

"Oh, my God! Give me a chance, " he cried, "give me a chance, " and thedarkness answered not, but the whispering trees seemed to have thewoman-voice. 

He sees the light now; it is the harbour light, and Michael Blakepresses swiftly on, his heart upbraiding the laggard feet. 

He stands now before the door, but that same heart, strangely wavering, refuses to go in. The hour has struck for Michael Blake, the hour forwhich his soul has waited long; but strange forces seek to hold himback. The chiefest of these is fear; he feels he is hurrying hisjudgment day, and when God would punish men, thinks he, He endows themwith deep and burning love--for otherwise He cannot speak to them in theeternal tongue. The trembling man turns as if to go back. 

"It is too light, " he murmured, "still too light, " for the memory ofanother night has arisen upon him with judgment in its wings. 

As he moves noiselessly from the door-step, he pauses by the window. Itis partly open, for the night is mild. A woman's figure moves before it, so close that he could almost touch--and his arms go out unbidden, God'sretrievers, though they knew it not. He controls himself, and steps backa pace, for she has passed to the other side of the room. Beside an oldchest of drawers she kneels, and his heart burns with eager passion ashe beholds the beauty of her face. Time, and sorrow, and God, haveworked together. Unto them all she hath submitted, and they have held totheir holy task till the beauty of peace rewards their secret toil. 

She is lifting something from the drawer and the light falls upon it. Another, and still another, she takes up in her gentle hands, smilingdown on them the while--they are a child's outgrown possessions, bits ofclothing some, and some, broken toys, such as mothers take into theirimmortal keeping when children have spurned them from their own. 

And what is that, shining bright, held longer than the others, stillsmiling down upon it, her bosom heaving more heavily than before? Heknows, he knows--it is a little brooch, so little, but of gold, givenher long ago in the first glad sacrifice of love. She kisses it, and thetears fall fast upon it, the lovely face suffused. It is tenderlyrestored to its hiding-place, and the graceful form is full-bowed now. 

He can see the white clasped hands, and the movement of the pure lips healso sees. The words he cannot catch--for God is close, and the voice islow. But the fragrance of prayer steals out to him, and the Interpreter, once called the Man of Sorrows, tells him for whom she prays. "Make meworthy, oh, God, " he cries, his heart melted within him. Again he turnsto the door, and this time he falters not, but knocks. In a moment it isopened. 

"Guid evenin' sir, " said the woman's voice. "I canna see ye for thedark; is it some one I ken?" for wayfarers often sought guidance at herdoor. 

"No, I fear you do not know me, " the man responded, "and I crave yourpardon for thus disturbing you. I have travelled far. "

"Will ye come in? Or is there something I can do?"

"No, thank you, " said the man; "I have travelled far and am thirsty. Iseek but a draught of water, and I shall go on my way. "

"I'll sune gie ye that, " replied the woman's cheery voice, "but what'shere is mebbe raither warm. Bide ye here till I rin doon to the spring. "

The sweet face gleamed in the candle-light as she turned within, pickingup a light plaid shawl, so strong is habit, which she threw across hershoulders. The tall gracious form was gone a moment, one darksomemoment, returning instantly, a pitcher in her hand. Down the steps shetripped, and out into the night, her white gown mingling with thedarkness. 

Michael Blake stealthily followed her, his heart in wild tumult again. Her pace was swift and he found it difficult to keep the path. But againhe saw the flutter of white before him, and he knew that it was Janet, none other, the same whom he had held so close in other days. He ran alittle, panting as he ran, his thirst a torment now--for the chase wasof the soul. He is not far from her. 

"Janet, " he cried. 

She stopped and stood still, as a deer stops when it hears the hunter'svoice. 

He was closer now, and again he cried: "Janet, oh, Janet, wait for me. "

Her pitcher was thrown upon the sward and she came back a little way, eye and heart and bosom calling to each other through the storm. 

"Wha's callin' me?" she cried, her voice bleating like a lamb's. 

"Oh, Janet, you know who's calling you--I have called you long, " andholy passion burned in the voice that spoke, leaped from the face thatcame closer, still closer, to her own. 

The white figure swayed in the darkness. Then the night glowed about herlike the noon, and the strong arms held her close, and time and sorrowand God all gave her up ungrudgingly to the bliss they had plannedtogether; for in secret had they bedecked her as a bride adorned for herhusband. 

 * * * * *

It was long after, how long may not be told, for God would let no angelmark the time; but the dark still was brooding, and the trees whisperingstill, when he said: "To-morrow, Janet--all the years have made usready--yet not to-morrow, for it is to-day--to-day, please God. "

She came closer, closer to him still, for hers had been an unshelteredlife, and the warmth was strangely sweet. 

"Let us go to the spring, dear heart. Let us be children again. "Together they went on, these pilgrims of the night. While they weregoing the day began to break. "The night is far spent, " he heard herwhisper joyously. 

They knelt together, nor thought it strange--for the youthful heart oflove was theirs again; and they drank from the unsleeping spring, smiling back at them as their lips kissed its face together. The samespring, the same lips--but purer both!

And as they stooped, two faces from the bosom of the water rose again tomeet them. Each of the lovers saw but one, for each saw the other'sface. And lo! each was the face of happy youth, the light of lovewithin its eyes, unchanged by years, except for a graver innocence. Buteach saw the face that had looked up and smiled in the years so longgone by. 

The scientist and the philosopher and the deeply-learned in nature'slaws will read of this with generous disdain; but they forget that thisspring had its charter right from God, and was fed from other fountainsfarther up the hill. Besides, optics is God's own science--and this wasthe morning light. 

XXXI

_LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER ALL_

All things were in readiness, and the people of St. Cuthbert's wereawaiting the Sabbath day with eager souls. For it was the Sabbath of thesacrament, dispensed but twice a year, according to the custom of theirfathers. I myself looked forward to this communion with a kindlingheart, for I knew its healing grace; and this was the first dispensationsince the shadow of that ordination day had fallen on our church's life. 

The morning came, radiant in its robe of early spring, and we knew thata great multitude would throng St. Cuthbert's. For the aged and longimprisoned, denied the regular services of the kirk, would yet ventureforth to show the Lord's death once again, some to drink that cup nomore till they should drink it new in their Father's kingdom. 

Down the aisle would they come, leaning heavily upon the staff--but theyknew their accustomed places, the places which were so soon to know themno more forever; when the service was over, they would retrace theirsteps to the door of the now deserted church, and backward turning, would cast one longing, lingering look behind, then set their peacefulfaces towards their home, the long rough journey near its end at last. 

The elders, including the four recently added to their number, met asusual, for preparatory prayer. More than ordinary tenderness seemed tomark their petitions, for their hearts were with the absent; and thesenior elder thrilled us when he prayed for "him whom we had hoped tobegin his ministry this day, and for Thy servant who was wont in thedays that are past to serve with us before Thine altar. "

As I walked into the pulpit, I caught a glimpse of Margaret's face, andnever have I seen sweeter peace than rested upon it. Her eyes reposed onthe snowy cloth that hid the emblems of a greater sacrifice, and sheknew, as few could know, the deep sacramental joy. 

But hardly had my heart warmed at sight of her before sorrow chilled itsardour; for right opposite Margaret's pew was that of Michael Blake--andits emptiness smote my heart with pain. Not there, nor in his rightfulplace among the elders, was my old-time friend. Where, I could not helpbut wonder, where to-day is the unhappy man who has cast his ministrybehind him? And bitter memories of varied verdicts flitted before me asI went up the pulpit steps. 

We had begun the psalm, and were in the midst of the line--never can Iforget it:

 "As far as east is distant from The west, so far hath he"

when I noticed the volume of song become gradually less, and a namelesssense of discomfort possessed me. 

I looked up, and could scarce restrain a cry. 

For I saw the face of Michael Blake--and he was walking down theaisle---- And that other, who is that? For beside him is a woman'scomely form, her sweet face lowly bent as though it would be hidden, thelight of purity mingling with the conscious flame. 

Upon Mr. Blake's face is the humble chastened look of one whom God hastouched--in the hollow of his thigh, mayhap--and the limp may be seen ofall men to the last. But pride is there too, the solemn pride of one whohas wrestled and prevailed, to go henceforth forever halting, butforever heavenward. 

Down the aisle, the same aisle by which he had departed from us, theywalked together, while wondering faces drank in the meaning of it all, joy breaking forth upon them like the sun when darkening clouds havegone. 

He leads her to his old-time pew, and she takes the place that ishenceforth to be her own. The singing has stopped, save those silentstrains with which God is well pleased, the same as angels echo roundthe throne. 

It was hard for me to proceed with the service, for I knew that GodHimself had spoken. The sacred bush was in flame before us as in theolden time, and the place whereon we stood was holy ground. The portionI had chosen for the reading was from 1 Corinthians, the apostle's greateulogy on love; and my voice faltered as I read some of its wondrouswords. 

Before I had finished it, my resolve was taken. I came down from thepulpit and stood before it, the elders all about me. 

"Let us have our unbroken number, " I began; "the kirk session isconstituted, and I call upon such as have been chosen to serve withinit, to come forward and assume the holy office. After this, thesacrament of forgiving love will be dispensed. "

I paused--and no one of all the multitude seemed to breathe. But amoment passed, and then a sound broke the stillness. It was the sound ofmoving feet, and the elder-elect arose and came slowly forward, his headbowed as he came. 

"Kneel down, Angus, " I said, softly. He kneeled, and I had almost begun, my hands outstretched above his head. He raised his face to mine, lowered to meet it. A moment told me what he wished to say. 

"Stand up, " I whispered. 

When he had risen, I said aloud: "Angus Strachan, ordained already, Igive you the right hand of fellowship into the eldership of St. Cuthbert's church. The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make Hisface to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift thelight of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace. "

Again I raised my voice as I faced the worshippers. 

"I extend yet another invitation in my Master's name. I call upon anywho may be among us, once serving in the eldership of this church, tocome forward and aid us to dispense the pledges of forgiving love toother sinful men. "

I waited, but there was no response. One sat with bowed head, his handheld in the gentle keeping of another's. The moments passed, but stillsilence reigned. 

"Come awa', man, "--it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from amongthe elders--"come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye--we're a'here o' the Saviour's grace alane. "

Michael Blake moved slightly, but his head was lower bowed. 

"Gang forrit, Michael, gang forrit to the table He's been gey guid tous baith--an' oor Angus wants ye, " whispered the woman beside him. 

Then he came; and, as he walked to the table, the meaning of God'spardoning love seemed borne in upon us as it had never been before. 

He had hardly taken his seat beside us when we heard a faint rustlingsound, some one moving. I turned my head, and saw Margaret, her facelovely through its tears, slip into the empty place and take in her ownthe hand that had been just released. Burning hot it was, but she heldit tight--and Janet took her into her heart forever. 

Then the sacred emblems were poured and broken by our sinful hands, redeemed by love alone. The elders bore them forth to the waiting souls, and when Angus came to his mother's place, great grace was upon us all. He had bent one moment, before she took the chalice in her tremblinghand. One word was spoken, only one, and what it was no one heard--norMargaret, nor any one but God. 

 * * * * *

Because of more abounding grace, and because of that alone, I cherishthe trembling hope that I shall yet hear the new and holy song in theblessed homeland yonder. Yonder, I say, for on clear days I have seenthe dim outline of the hills beyond the river; and sometimes in thenight I have caught the glow of an unsetting sun. Only for a moment, itis true--but it was enough. My sight is failing, they tell me, and thelight is not so clear as in the early afternoon, but these yonder thingsare seen the clearest in the failing light, and by eyes that are pasttheir best. 

Wherefore, as I set out to say, I think I shall be welcomed thither bythe pilgrims' friend, and hear that song of the redeemed. 

But not till then can I expect to ever hear again such melody as pouredfrom our hearts that morning in St. Cuthbert's. As for myself, I couldscarcely sing; I was so torn 'twixt joy and sorrow. Sorrow for what? Forall my stubborn wilfullness, that had stood so long between lovinghearts--but I did it for the best; and God will forgive me, who knows afather's tender love. 

Therefore my lips were almost dumb, but my heart joined in the swellingpraise that rolled about St. Cuthbert's like a flood. And I heard onevoice clear and sweet among all the rest; it came from the pew where satour Margaret, but it was not Margaret's voice:

 "Long hath the night of sorrow reigned The dawn shall bring us light--"

Thus reads our noble paraphrase--and thus reads the providence of God. This it was we sang that day; and this all broken hearts shall one daysing, when life's long twilight breaks. 

After the congregation had dispersed, I saw Margaret lead her mother tothe pew. It was beautiful, my wife's gentle grace to the timid stranger, for Margaret received of her mother whatever of that gift she hath--andI have always said her mother's is the rarer of the two. I heard her bidher new-found friend to the manse, and I echoed the mandate to the manbeside me, his head still bowed in prayer. 

The elders retired in a body to the vestry, there to be dismissed by thebenediction, which I pronounced upon them, the triune blessing of thetriune God. Usually, they lingered for a little subdued conversation, but this day they went out with unwonted speed, each grasping the handsof the old elder and the new, and each without a word. 

In a moment I saw their purpose, and went out along with them, leavingthose twain together, the father and the son. We heard no word; but weknew the best robe, and the ring, and the shoes, were there, and thatGod would dispense them in sacramental love. 

It was not long till they came out again, life's fragrance about them asthey came. I had lingered in the church. 

"Just wait a minute, " I said as they came in, "I left my notes in thevestry and I will be back immediately. "

I had hardly reached the room when a light footfall was heard behind me. It was my daughter. 

"Margaret! Is this you? I thought you had gone home. Where is yourmother?" Lovely was her face and beautiful the light of joy upon it. 

She did not seem to hear, but came straight on, and in a moment her armswere about my neck, and the brave heart told all its story in tears ofutter gladness. 

"Daughter mine, " I whispered, "you will forgive"--but the gentle handstopped the words. 

"Where is your mother?" I asked again. 

"Gone to the manse--they went together, " and the sun shone through therain--"I waited for you. "

"Wait a moment, " I said, "stay here a moment, "--for I knew the ways oflove. 

I hurried without, and in the church I found the two men lingering forme. 

"Mr. Blake, we will walk down to the manse together--Margaret is waitingfor you in my room, Angus. "

No maiden's fluttering form betrays the soul of love as doth a strongman's face. Ah me! as I looked on Angus's in that moment, I knew to whommy child belonged the most. But the broken emblems of Another's laybefore me, and I made the lesser sacrifice with joy. 

I watched his eager step, nor did he seek to control its pace. Swiftlyhe walked, and I could not forbear to follow with my eyes till he stoodbefore the door. 

A moment he paused, I know not why--then he slowly entered and the doorwas shut. 

 * * * * *

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 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes and Corrections:

 line 255 victorious [was "victorous"] line 646 unabashedly [was "unbashedly"] line 2035 hieland [was "heiland"] line 3841 bye [as printed] line 3991 bye [as printed] line 5166 step [as printed] line 5429 fragrance [was "fragance"] line 7089 Britains [as printed] line 7302 Thursday, [was "Thursday. "] line 7314 ailin'?' [was ailin'?] line 8103 illustrated [was "illuserated"]

Inconsistent hyphenations of pre-historic/prehistoric, self-same/selfsame, and to-day/today have been retained as printed. (All instances of "today"with no hyphen were in the advertisements. )