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Additional comments:/ Commentairas suppl6mant;»s Feast , MY AUNT ROBINA . . . . A WASTREL REDEEMED . WORTHY OF HIS HIRE 7 PAGE II 30 46 67 89 . 109 129 . 147 167 . 201 1 AFTER MANY DAYS I. AT THE DOOR The doctor's gig drove out by the new lodge gate of Easterlaw about half-past eight on a Saturday night. It was the month of Septem- ber, and in that late neighborhood the corn was scarcely yet ripe for the sickle. It was a lovely and pleasant evenmg, the close of a lovely and pleasant day. The moon the reapers love was high in the clear heavens, in which no cloud or shadow had a place. The hips and haws flamed m every hedge- row, and the rowans were ripe and red on the boughs. Bramble and crab-aople, too, were ready Tor those who knew where to find them, and the fullness of harvest, and vintage brooded over the land. " Steady, Willie, mind that sharp turn," said the doctor, as they swept through the gates. His grave lips still wore the smile with which he had parted from the laird at the door, and his fingers tingled with th- grip of his grateful hand. For, since sunset the previous night, Betty Hal- dane had been in the valley of the shadov/ ; and 11 12 y4FTER MANY D/tYS now all danger was past, and a son and heir was born to the childless pair. The doctor had been at Easterlaw the best part of the day, willing, though he could do but little in the earlier hours, to give them the strength and comfort of his presence. It was a presence well beloved wherever it was known. He was a man considerably past middle life, grizzled and aged before his time by the exigencies and exposure of his calling. As he sat in his gig, it could be seen that his shoulders were bent, and he wore his soft hat drawn well over his brows, so that the full contour of his face could not be seen. So he had ridden day in and day out, at the call of all who needed him, gentle and simple alike, for two and thirty years.' " It's a fine night, Willie, and the air smells fresh," he said. "Drive in by Stanerigg I heard Miss Elsie say this morning she was to tea there this afternoon. Maybe we can drive her home." "Miss Elsie'll be hame langsyne, sir," observed Wilhe, promptly. " But we'll gang an' see, if ye It was a curious reply to an order, but these two, who had oeen master and man together for a score out of the thirty years, understood each other as few do in these days of short engage- ments and many changes in the domestic world /IT THE DOOR 13 " Aye, drive in and see. Mrs. Gray will be pleased anyhow to hear the news, and it'll not take us ten minutes out of our way." Willie turned 'm obediently at the Stanerigg road end, and when they had driven up the brae the doctor got out at the wicket-gate. "Just wait here; I won't stop." The little wood was very dark, but its footing was familiar to him, and he found his way to the door. Mrs. Gray, sitting alone at the fireside, knew the doctor's knock, and ran into the hall just as the door was opened to him. Betty Haldane's name was on her lips, and when she saw the twmkle in his eye she knew all was well at Easterlaw. " A fine, strapping son, at half-past seven ; all well. Is my lass away home ? " " Yes, long ago, afore the darkenin' ; but ye'll come in." " Yes, for half a minute. ' The glow of Stane- ngg fireside is ay cheery, Mrs. Gray," he said ao he stepped within the room. " But where's Mr. Gray?" " At the session meetin'. They're considerin' the vacancy," she replied, with a shght smile. " They'll consider it awhile before they man- age to fill Neil Denham's place," he observed ; for though a Churchman himself, he yielded to none 14 AFTER MANY DAYS in his admiring regard for the late Free Church minister of Faulds. He laid his soft hat on the table, and, leaning his arm on the mantelpiece, pushed his fingers through his hair. As he stood there, Mrs. Gray thought, as she had often thought, what a noble figure he had, and a fine, trust-inspiring face. But it was a face which bore the seal of a great sadness. " They'll be fell prood o' the heir at Easter- law." " Aye, they are. She made a brave struggle. She's made of fine stuff, Mrs. Gray, and I don't wonder at Easterlaw. He was clean demented for the time being when I feared we might lose he.." " It's a very ill happenin' to a man, Dr. Gour- lay, to lose his wife," she observed. " Oh, very ; and what fettle was my limmer in the night?" he asked; and the tenderness in his melancholy eyes was wonderful to see. " Very happy. She's a dear lassie. Ye are weel aff wi' sic a dochter. I only wish she were mm',. >> " God knows I am," he said, abruptly. " I came here to-night, Mrs. Gray, what for, think you ? " "To tell me aboot Easterlaw, maybe." " Not a bit of it. You might have waited till the morn, like other folk, for me. But I've had a queer feeling all day. I car.i't account for it." ^T THE DOOR 16 "A bodily feelin'? Ye look a bit spent. Will ye tak a mouthfu'?" " No, thank you. Easterlaw pressed me hard, but I don't know what may be waiting in the shape of work down by. I'm well enough in body. You have never thought me a religious man, have you, Mrs. Gray ? " She looked up at him quickly, struck by his question. " That depends on what ye mean by a religious man, doesn't it, doctor?" "Maybe; but you've not known me to be a man given to religious talk, like some." "True religion and undefiled is to visit the fatherless and the widow in their affliction," she murmured, with a very sweet note in her voice. " And it is the life that speaks." "Then would you call me a religious man, Mrs. Gray?" The question stirred her heart. They were old friends, and had talked the serious issues of life over together many times, but never, in all the years she had known him, had he voluntarily started the subject of religion. "Wad ye really like me to say what I think, Dr. Gourlay?" ' " I think I would," he answered, with the sim- pleness of a child. " Then I think ye are ncdi ;r the Kingdom than 10 /trrm m.4ny days m IM 11 .: ■f M maist, nay, that ye are at the very door. An' there's no' a man, woman, or bairn in the haill strath that wad differ wi' me." " At the very door," he repeated, dreamily, and took a turn across the room, with his hands, the long, firm, gentle hands that had reUeved many a sore pain, crossed behind his back. " Long ago, Mrs. Gray, I was an ambitious man, that saw nc further than my own advance- ment. There was no limit to that ambition. I promised myself a year or two in the country to get grounded in my work, then a consulting practice and a professorship in my own college. That was the program, and here I am." " But ye hae blessed a haill countr} ide, my man; dinna forget that," Mrs. Gray observed, quickly. "Do you think I have done my duty?" he asked, pausing at the table, and regarding her with great earnestness. This strange question puzzled her, but there was no hesitation about her reply. " If it's a bit heartenin' you need, doctor, blithe am I to gie it. Duty is no' the word. Ye've toiled late an' early, an' gi'en o' your best to gentle an' simple, to thankfu' an' unthankfu' alike, without thocht o' fee or reward, an' the record is safe up by." She took her hand from her knitting, and ^T THE DOOR 17 slightly raised it, and he understood ; but still his sad brow did not clear. " Do you—do you think I have done my duty by my poor wife?" Tears stood in Lizbeth Gray's eyes, and it was a moment before she could command her voice. " Oh, my man, what ails ye? It's the wicked ane that's tormentin* ye wi' sic tiiochts. Ye are a miracle, a livin* miracle o' patience an* long- suflFerin' an' tender mercy, preachin' a sermon to us day by day that micht bring us nearer heaven." " I must go," he said then, without answer or comment. " Good-night, friend ; there are few like you in this weary world. You'll maybe ken some day what you have been to me and mine, and that but for the aroma of heaven that sancti- fies this place I should have faltered by the way, aye, and fallen, oftener than I have done all these years." He left her as suddenly as he had come, but a painful impression remained in the mind of the mistress of Stanerigg, and that night she could not sleep. It was three miles from Stanerigg to the doc- tor's house, which stood in its own grounds above the village, whose steep, unlovely street its upper windows overlooked. But beyond that a v/ide, flat plain, rich in corn-land, stretched for many miles, and was a perpetual source of joy and satis- ■«i i 'ii i i . » . i > — iiii 18 j4fter many days \\i. faction to those who could see the beauty of its ever-varying scene. "Just wait a minute, Willie, till I see what's in," he said, as they neared the gate; and it was the first word he had spoken since they left Stanerigg. " If it's a far road you'll need to take the other beast. I would be better pleased to find nothinf?." "So wad I," replied Willie; and the doctor vaulted with his accustomed nimbleness from the gig, passed through the gateway, and crossed the paved courtyard to the surgery door. Directly he turned the door handle some one flew to meet him, as if she had been v/atching eagerly. "How late you are, papa; how is dear Mrs. Haldane ? " "All right; a fine son, Elsie. I've been cla- vering at Stanerigg. Anything in ? " "Yes, two messages," she answered, as she turned on the gas. "One urgent, from Han- dasydes' Row — Robert Annan's wife ; and a boy from the Cleugh to say one of Glover's bairns is ill." " I'm not going back to the Cleugh this night, my woman," he answered, placidly ; " but I'll need to go straight on to Handasydes. Take down this prescription first for Mrs. Haldane. The groom is to come for it at half-past nine." She pulled out the little desk flap, and wrote It ^T THE DOOR jg to her father's dictation, asking not a single ques- tion. What Elsie Gourlay was to her father it is impossible for me to say. When her school-days were over she had loved to be with him in his surgery of an evening, and so had picked up the knowledge which now enabled her to save him so much labor. Every bottle of medicine that left the doctor's house was made up by his daughter's own hands. She was a very fair and lovable- looking creature, though laying no pretensions to beauty. She was short rather than tall, pkimply built, and with a frank, open, pleasant face, and merry gray eyes. Her hair was her glory— great masses of ruddy brown, on which the sunshine played, and which curled naturally all round her broad, intelligent brow. A wholesome, womanly nature shone in her frank eyes; her manner was without affectation or restraint ; in a word, she was one of those women who create the atmosphere of home wherever they are. " That's all ; how's your mother? " '' All right. I think she's gone to bed. She had a little headache when I got home." "Nothing else?" "No, father." M^r.r^^- P "^ ^""^ '^' ^^'' ^"" °"t' and tell Wilhe Its Handasydes' Row; maybe he'll have to leave me there." 20 'i :( a t ! I i ^FTER MANY D/iYS " If mama is asleep may I drive you, daddy ? Willie will be glad to get in to his supper." " I dare say. Well, all right. I'd like that, and it's a fine night. Get the medicine ready while I'm upstairs. He pushed the green baize door open, and en- tered the inner portion of the house, which the surgery and waiting-rooms adjoined. It was a wide, commodious family house, comfortably fur- nished and well kept — a house which looked like a home. He went up the wide, softly carpeted staircase rather wearily, and ere he crossed the threshold of his wife's room he drew his hand across his brow. She was in bed, and the gas was turned full on. " I thought you had a headache, Bessie," he said, kindly. " Hadn't I better turn down t'^^e gas?" *' No ; I've just been out turning it up. I won't be grudged a light in my own house. Where have you been all day ? " He stood by the side of the bed, and looked down at her with a curious expression on his face. She had worn out his patience long ago, and hope had not these many years visited the doctor's house ; only endurance remained. " I've been at Easterlaw. The heir was born at half-past seven. What have you had to-day, Bessie? Tell- me that" m AT THE DOOR 81 "No, I won't." She spoke sullenly, and her brows were knit. Once upon a time Bessie Gourlay had been a comely and well-favored woman, a joy to the eyes that beheld her, but not these many days. " Shall I give you something for your head- ache, or to make you sleep? " *'No; I'm afraid of your drugs. I believe you'll give me poison to get rid of me some day, you and Elsie between you." He was accustomed to such speeches, and they had but little effect on him. " Well, if you won't, I must b^ off," he said, good-humoredly. "Good-night, wife; it's just possible I may be out half the night." " You can stop out the whole night, if you like, for me," she said, irritably. " It'll be nothing more than I've been accustomed to all my life." Talking to a woman in such a mood v/as 'leither pleasant nor profitable, so the doctor went down- stairs. " She's had a drop of something while you were at Stanerigg, Elsie, but she'll soon be asleep." " I won't go if you think she might need me, father," said the girl, as she deftly placed the bottle in its white wrapper and sealed it close. " Oh, I think you can go right enough. Mina will watch her. Come then, lass; poor Mrs. Annan may be needing me sorely by now." 22 ^FTER MANY DAYS I ill Elsie did not keep him long. Her tweed driv- ing-cape and felt hat hung in the cloak-room off the hall; in five minutes they were side by side in the gig, and the horse's head turned westward from the village. Generally they had a great deal to say to each other when they got out to- gether, but that night the doctor was unusually quiet. " Are you not quite well, father, or only very tired?" Elsie asked at last, tired of the long silence. " Neither, bairn ; but thoughts lie deep in my heart the night. I don't know what ails me to go back on them as I am doing." he said, rousing himself with a start. " There's a session meeting in the Free Church to-night about the vacancy " "Yes, father," said Elsie; and in the darkness the color rose in her cheek. " They tell me that Angus Fleming is a candi- date; is it true?" " I believe so, father," Elsie answered, and her hand trembled on the reins. "Steady, lassie; so it's that serious, is it?" he said, slowly. - Well, if he should be elected, and you still of the same mind, you can bid him spier agam. I believe I was too hasty before, but the Gourlays have ay been proud of their descent. God help us, the best of us have but little to be proud of." j4T the poor 23 Elsie could not speak, but her soft eyes glowed in the harvest moonlight, to which they did no shame. Then silence fell upon them, and the gig rolled smoothly along the highroad till the great black mounds of Handasydes' pits came in view, and the ugly, monotonous rows of miners' houses. They stood back a little from the road, with long strips of garden ground before them, varying in tidiness and tasteful arrangement according to the individuality of each tenant. It was a very tidy and pretty garden before which the doctor's gig drew up, and where an anxious man was waiting at the gate. " Eh, doctor, I'm thankful you've come," he said, with a breath of relief. "All right, Annan. Just wait, Elsie. I'll be out in a little to tell you whether I'm likely to be detained." It was about fifteen minutes before he came back from the house, but to Elsie the time had seemed very short. " I may be here half the night, lassie, for two hours at least, so you had better go home." "And send WilHe back about midnight?" " No, I'll walk ; and go you to your bed and sleep. Good-night, Elsie." Something in the upturned face went to the girl's heart. She had never seen such a look, 24 ^FTER MANY DAYS m i nor had read so plainly how dear she was to his heart. " Dear daddy, I will never do anything to vex you," she cried, with a strange catch in her breath. " You never have. You are the sunshine of my life, bairn," he replied, and reached up easily to kiss her downbent face. Now such endear- ments were not common between these two, though they loved each other passing well, and the mystery of her father's demeanor dwelt with the girl as she Oiove solitarily along the roads. But before she had reached home other thoughts, not less sweet, had banished the fleeting wonder, and the future seemed wholly bright to her, bv reason of the words her father had spoken con- cerning Angus Fleming, who loved her and whom she loved, though they were presently on proba- tion in obedience to her father's desire. Elsie found her mother asleep, and, there being no inducement for her to remain up, she went to bed. and before eleven o'clock was fast asleep. No one heard the doctor return, and the night passed, wrapping in its folds a sad tragedy which the morning light revealed. Soon after six o'clock Mina, the faithful ser- vant who had served the hc>use for many years, and knew all its sorrows, came hurriedly to Elsie's door. i^ ^T THE DOOR 26 " Get up, Miss Elsie ; a terrible thing has hap- pened," she cried, totally unable to ..ontrol herself. "What?" cried the girl, confusedly. "Is it mama ? What has she done ? " " No, no; it's the doctor; he's in his room, sit- tmg by the table, and we canna waken him." Elsie never knew how she got on her dressing- gown and slippers, but in a few seconds she flew - to her father's room. And there he was, sitting by the table, with his head laid upon his folded arms as if asleep. He had been writing, evi- dently, for the pen had fallen from his hand upon the written page, where it had made a blot. Elsie ran to his side, but when her hand touched his temple she started back, for that chill was the chill of death. "He's dead, Mina; run-or send Jessie for Dr. Rattray," she caid, in a still, strange voice. Something might be done; but, oh, I am sure he is dead." " What's all this fuss about, and what's the matter with you all?" said a querulous voice in the doorway. " I've rung three times for my tea and I'd like to know why nobody thinks it worth while to answer my bell." Mrs. Gourlay came into the room, an untidy unlovely figure in a tawdry dressing-gown, and her black hair hanging on her shoulders. Her face was red and unsightly, her eyes heavy and •r 26 /IFTER MANY DAYS dazed looking. Her daughter saw at a glance that she was scarcely sober, and a terrible resent- ment surged in her heart, and she felt as if she must wrap her arms round the stooping figure at the table to save it from the desecration of her touch. For she knew that the long strain of his wife's degradation had broken her father's heart at last. "He's dead, mother, quite dead," she said, quietly. "I have sent Mina for Dr. Rattray; but I am sure he is dead. You can come and see for yourself." The poor creature, sobered for the moment, staggered forward with a terror-stricken face. But when she looked at the face against which Elsie's white cheek rested so lovingly, she gave a shriek of terror, and fled the room ; and for sev- eral hours she was forgotten. The neighboring doctor, with whom the dead man had worked in harmony for a score of years, obeyed the sum- mons immediately, and directly he entered the room shook his head, betraying no surprise. " He has long expected a call like this, my dear," he said, pityingly, to the girl. "We both knew he would not die in his bed, and it is as he would have wished; he has died in har- ness." The girl was so stunned she could make no reply. How she lived through that day and those /IT THE DOOR 27 which followed she never knew. The light of the house was gone, and the darkness of death brooded over it. It was no ordinary bereave- ment, no ordinary loss, that Elsie Gourlay had sustained, and she went about the house dry-eyed and calm, finding her chief comfort in sitting quietly by the bed on which lay the noble figure, the fine face beautiful in the majesty of death. It was when they took him away that the blackness of desolation seemed to fall with awful distinct- ness on her heart. When the sad procession moved away from the door of the house, she shut herself in the study, feeling desperately that she must have some reprieve from the garrulous, un- ceasing wailings of her mother, who had never risen from her bed since her husband's death. The study, in which father and daughter had spent so many happy hours, each sufficient to the other, was as he had left it, and for the first time she had courage to look at the last words his fin- gers had penned. They were written upon a sheet of paper left lying in the open page of the Bible, which had been his constant companion. The first tears she had shed welled in her eyes as she read the words, which were addressed to her. " My dear lassie," they began : - there is a queer feelmg upon me that this is my last night on earth and if it be the Lord's will, so be it. I would leave 28 /IFTER MANY DAYS you my blessing for all you have been to me since you came, a helpless bairn, to bless this house. I bespeak, should you be left to care for your poor mother, that you give to her the like care and love you have given to me, and if the time should come when you can become the wife of Angus Fleming, my blessing rest upon you both. Standing at the door, as Mrs. Gray put it to me this very night, these distinctions of birth and upbringing seem but as dust before the wind. But the probation will do neither you nor h'm any harm. To see you in the Free Manse of Faulds would indeed please me well, among the folk that have known you all your days; for there are no friends like those of bairn days. The Lord has prospered me, and there is more than enough for you and your mother all your days. And that thought gives me peace, for it is an ill thing to see women warstling with the world. And now, my dear bairn, farewell, till the Lord shall set us together in His hig'ii place, if it be that one so unworthy as I be so lifted up. And yet I fear not, for I know in whom I have believed. In the chapter I have just been reading, the fourteenth of John, you will find the comfort that has never failed me yet, but — " Here the words ended abruptly, and the blot from the fallen pen blurred the page. Alongside the written words Elsie read the printed message ^T THE DOOR 29 from the Book her father had so loved ; and it sufficed. " Let not your heart be troubled. ... In My Father's house are many mansions. ... I go to prepare a pMce for you, . . . that where I am ye may be also." c II. IN HIS OWN COUNTRY The Free Church of Faulds suffered much after the translation of Neil Denham to a city charge. Under his ministry they had enjoyed a period of exceptional prosperity, both spiritually and ma- terially, and when he left them a kind of numb- ness seemed to settle down upon them. The usual formalities were gone through, and a suc- cessor duly elected — one who was, unfortunately, totally unsuited to the place. The congregation consisted of farmers, the majority of the trades- people, and a large number of miners, especially those employed at Handasydes' Pits, the manager of which was a very upright, God-fearing man, who exercised the very best influence upon his men. It was often said that had the Ladyford Company been as fortunate in their manager, Faulds would have been a standing example to all mining communities. Neil Denham was the son of working-people, and that fact, coupled with his large and rare gift of sympathy, gave him a very special hold on working-folks. His succes- 30 i /A HIS O^VN COUNTRY 81 sor was a totally different man ; in a word, his ministry at Faulds was a failure, and he never afterward spoke of the place but with extreme bitterness; whereas Denham often said his min- istry there was the happiest period of his life. Three years after Denham's translation the church was vacant again, and they seemed in no hurry to fill it. It was nearly eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Gray, of Stanerigg, returned from the session meeting, which had been a pretty lively one. Listening to his account of the proceedings, his wife forgot for the moment her pressing con- cern about Dr. Gourlay. •' Laidlaw an' Tam Henderson an' Alec Glover are all against Angus Fleming gettin' a hearin', Lizbeth. What wad ye think ? " " I dinna see what for the lad shouldna get a hearin' wi' the lave," she said, quickly. " He is a guid lad, an' I hear he is clever. We ocht to hear him preach." " Laidlaw says Mrs. Laidlaw couldna thole to listen to him in the pulpit, kennin' what he is, an' that he has a bonnie stock o' impidence to upset himsel' to the position, an' his faction o' course a' agreed. Then Cairncross, the manager, made a very sensible speech, sayin' that a man shouldna be made to suffer for the accident o' his birth. Westerlaw said ' Hear, hear! ' at this, an' fegs! so did L I canna thole thae Laidlaws at ony price ; 32 AFTER M/1NY DAYS I they're as purse-prood as peacocks. An' the lang an' the short o't is he's to preach on Sabbath aicht days. What's your mind, Lizbeth? D'ye think the kirk an' the folk wad be Hkely to grow in grace under Jean Fleming's son?" Stanerigg looked rather anxiously at his wife, for the sphere of church and religious life was peculiarly her own, and her judgment had never been known to err. She knitted for a few minutes in silence. " It is a bitter thing for a lad to be born oot o' wedlock, father. I ken very little aboot him, but I ken his mither weel ; an' she has nobly re- deemed her character, an' I honor her above the lave. For her sake I wad thole a heap, even in the pulpit o' my ain kirk." " Then ye're for him," said Stanerigg, quite briskly for him. ** So am I." Mrs. Gray smiled a bit quiet smile to herself, very well pleased ; then she began to speak of the matter of which her own heart was full. She felt no great surprise to hear next day, as they drove to church, that the doctor had passed away. She got out of the gig at the familiar gateway to his house, and spent the hours of divine service beside the stricken girl, to whom her motherly heart was knit by the ties of no ordinary affection. The early days of the following week were entirely given up to talk of the doctor's sudden ii 3 IN HIS OIVN COUNTRY 88 death, but as the Sabbath day drew near interest in the appearance of Angus Fleming in the Free Church began to revive. He lived, when not en- gaged in tutorial work, with his mother at the lodge-gates of Pitbraden, to which she had come, a young mother with her unacknowledged son, five and twenty years before. It was a very old story now, but the ashes of it were raked up again, and for two or three days nothing was talked of but Jean Fleming and the tragedy of her life. "Now I wonder," said Mrs. Gray to her hus- band, as they drove along the highroad, which was bounded for a mile and more by the high stone walls shutting in the extensive policies of Pit- braden—" I wonder whether ony o' the big folk will turn oot to hear Angus, an' what Mrs. Giles Braden and the colonel are thinkin' o't." " Depend on it, they approve o't, Lizbeth," said Stanerigg, " or it wadna be. There's ower muckle excitement aboot the haill thing for a Sabbath day. D'ye no' think it?" " I only wish he may preach weel, and gie to perishin' souls the meat they need," she said, earnestly, and with a scarcely perceptible sigh ; and her eyes as they roamed the rich expanse of corn-land, which was a mass of golden sheaves, the wheat-fields gleaming ruddily in the sun, had a deep and yearning glance in them, which had W<«"MWiMPW«M 84 AFTER MANY DAYS its own sad meaning. For she had had her own dreams concerning the Free Church of Faulds, and all that was left to her was the message] which had come from the far prairies of Iowa, and the thought of that distant grave. The lodge at the Pitbraden gate was a roomy and picturesque house, exquisitely kept. The door was shut, but a lazy curl of blue smoke ascended to the sky, and Mrs. Gray wondered whether Angus Fleming's mother's courage had failed her at the end. A good few stragglers were now visible in the road, increasing in numbers as they neared the confines of the village. Many a salutation passed between the pedestrians and the Stanerigg gig, which turned in at the doctor's road, as it was familiarly called, it being the cus- tom for the Grays to put up their horse in the doctor's stable. While her husband was busy with the animal, Mrs. Gray went round to the front door for a word with Elsie. She found her standing listlessly on the steps, leaning against the pillared door, her face very wan and sad. " Hoo's my bairn this mornin' ? " said Mrs. Gray, and for answer the girl burst into tears. All the morning the still and lovely Sabbath sunshine had seemed to mock her, and her heart had grown hard and bitter and rebellious; life seemed so empty, the whole earth so sad and desolate a place. IN HIS OIVN COUNTRY 86 'I " His first Sabbath day in heaven," said Liz- beth Gray, softly, not seeking in any way to stay the girl's natural grief. " I can follow— a'most see him there. Ye'll no' grudge him his hard- earned rest, bairn, efter a while." •' I don't grudge it to him now, only I want him, oh, so terribly. How am I to live without him ? Now it seems a living death, the house a grave. Will it always be like this? " she cried, passionately. " No. Even I can say noo. It is well, an' mine was a harder case. Your dear father, like Enoch, walked wi' the Lord, an' was not, for'cod took him. My laddie wandered long in the wil- derness, an' I ken naething for certain, excep' that the Lord is fu' o' tender mercy, an' has ay been to me an' mine." " But I am not so good as you, dear Mrs. Gray. Things seem so hard when one is young. It is terrible to give up. Perhaps by and by God will teach me to be like you." Mrs. Gray made no reply, for there was a lump in her throat. " ril come in when I come doon, my dear," she said, turning about abruptly. " Very weel' dc I ken your thochts will be whiles wi' us up by. Ye ken who's to preach the day ? " Elsie nodded, and through the paleness of her cheek the color slowly rose. Then the dear mis- ■m 86 AFTER MANY DAYS I'! M 'I tress of Stanerigg turned away, with an earnest prayer at her heart that, if God saw fit so to bind up the bleeding heart, it might find in a new earthly tie some balm for the rending of the old. She and her husband spoke little as they walked the short distance to the church. When they turned the farther corner of the doctor's road into the highway again, they saw it black with the folk thronging to the churches, all three being in the same direction, and standing not far apart from one another. Just as they approached the door they discerned among the throng the tall figure of Angus Flem- ing, with his mother on his arm. She was a slight, thin person, and there was visible, Mrs. Gray thought, in her very carriage and gait that morning a certain hesitation and shame. She was very plainly dressed in a black gown, a plaid of shepherd's tartan, and a quiet and becoming bon- net draped by a thick veil. In years she looked about sixty, though she was in reality nearly ten years younger. Angus Flem- ing walked into the church, put her in her seat, and then came out again to enter by the vestry door. The Grays met him in the porch, and Mrs. Gray was moved to shake him by the hand and bid him God-speed, with a look in her face which seemed to him like a message of encouragement from heaven. She was one of those rare beings who are moved to say the right word and do the li IN HIS OkyN COUNIHY 87 right deed when most fitting and needful. Many a cup of cold water had she thus given to thirsty- souls whose need was revealed to her through her own great sympathy, her large and loving insight into the sorrows of others. There had never been seen such a congregation in Faulds Free Church since the day Neil Denham preached his farewell sermon. It was crowded in every part, many members of the other churches being present. In a seat near the door sat Colo- nel Braden and his sister-in-law, a widow, deeply veiled. Punctually at the hour Andrew Herd- man, the beadle, took up the books, and then went back to the vestry door. He belonged to the Laidlaw faction in the kirk, and therefore was against Angus Fleming's candidature. He showed his disapproval in the very way he stood, his head held high in protest, and his dark face wearing its dourest look. But nobody had any attention to pay to him when the preacher came out by the vestry door and ascended the steps to the pulpit, where the door was shut upon him with a distinct snap by the protesting Andrew Herd- man. After a moment's breathless silence he stood up to give out the opening psalm. Every eye was fixed upon him, but it was as if the lad were upheld by an unseen power, for, though he was deadly pale, his voice did not falter as he read the lines : " Such pity as a father hath Unto his children dear." ' ^'■•»'-m "^"■■i WiMMWM \ I colonel and Mrs, Giles Braden were at the wed- ding. They went to London for ten days, and then returned to the manse, which the minister's mother immediately left, accompanying Mrs. Giles l3raden and her son to the South. What did these things portend? It was many months before the solution of the mystery was arrived at, and then they wondered that it had not been clear to them all along. Early in May young Giles Braden died at San Remo, and they brought him home to lie in Faulds kirkyard. Great was the speculation as to what would then become of the minister's mother, and it was quite expected that she would return to the manse. But apparently they had still need of her at Pitbraden, for there she re- mained. Some months later the colonel publicly an- nounced at the audit dinner that Angus Flem- ing would be his heir, and that he had consented to take the name of Fleming-Braden, though de- sirous for the present to continue his ministry to the Free Church of Faulds. So a bitter wrong was righted in the end, righted as it could only have been by noble and generous hearts in whom the Spirit of God dwelt. For three years Angus Fleming-Braden continued his fruitful ministry in Faulds, blessed and helped b_^ his sweet wife. Then he was called to a different sphere. After his uncle's death he saw the anomaly it was for A WRONG RIGHTED 68 a laird of Pitbraden to be also minister in Faulds, and the injustice it did to some man still looking for his life-work. So he laid his seals of office down, but only God knew what the sacrifice cost him. For he was a born preacher, and happier in his calling- than most. But what is life — the higher life at least — made up of, after all, but sac- rifice, which is the crown of every noble effort? Of course there did not lack the evil-minded and the venom-tongued, who attributed other motives to him and his. Yet what need we care even if the finger of scorn points at us, if we be at peace with the God who trieth the reins and searcheth the hearts of the children of men ? ill it WEAK THINGS OF THE WORLD i I. ROBIN AlioUT two miles from Sl.incri^^r, on the sea- IxMKl side <,( the; paiisli, was llu; cxl(;nsivo farm of narlcyknowc. It was ( onsiMiMv ! one of the finest farms in that rich farming coniity; it had not a cold pati h or a hnugry fnrrow on it, and, Ihm-i.k '■" tiic liaiids of a capable aKricnllurist', who imdtMstood the whims and moods of every acre on it. returned full measnre, pn-ssed down and ninning over. In the spring, when the sowers were busy in the wide fields, the upturning of liie rich sod with that redchsh tinge on it which tells its own tale to the understanding eyes; in early summer, when the braird was fresh and green on every furrow; or later, when the rich breadths of standing corn took on the gold before Its wealth became the reapers' prey, it was a •^'Rlit to make glad the heart of the man who tilled it with such sympathy and care. Land is a qneer thing to deal with, and requires as careful handling as any bairn at its mother's knee. It seems almost human while in its responsive un- am m tVlu'tK nUNdS Oh THH U OKl.D V ) } (ItMstaiulin^; of the fostering- l)estowo(I on it, or the revtM•st^ Vou ronKI not liiui in all that bonny countryside a luoir desirable and bicldy home than the lann house ol Harleyknovve. It was no mean dwelling, but substantial and even impos- ing, as belitteil the holding it representeil, the rent of whieh, paiil as eaeh Martinmas came rountl, ran well into the four (inures. Hut no- body lalled it tlear at that, least o{ all the man who paid it eheeifidly as the appointeil day came rouiul, thouj;h as a rule he was not a cheerful payer, l)y any means. luMtune had smiletl on Pavid Carijill in one sense, and frowned bitterly on him in another. Vov while his coders orow steadily fuller, his heart and home remaineil empty and desolate, the man's whole life bliohtcd hy the terrible dis- appointment o( his early manhiuul. Romances were not very CiMumon. perhaps, in that prosaic nei^hbor}u>od. thou^i;h some were to be found by those interested ii\ the byways o( human experi- ence ; but the nunance oi Daviil Car^ill's life was one which matle more than a nine-days* wonder in Kaulds. Perhaps romance is hardly the word to use: had you asked him. he would probably, hail he elected to answer you at all. have called the most bitter ex^ierience o{ his life by a differ- ent nanu\ Anyhow, it had changed him from a happy-hearted, blithe-natured youth into a ROBIN 69 crabbed old man, who shunned his kind and took but little pleasure in his life. He was not old yet; his years scarce numbered forty; but time had been cruel to the tenant of the Barleyknowe. There were very many who recalled the David Cargill of the earlier time, and who were wae over the sad change; but his love-story was al- most forgotten in the quick sequence of events which in this world press so thick on one another's heels that only the latest is of interest. Queer stories were told about the lonely and hermit life led by the tenant of the Barleyknowe, in the great house which stood in a green mea- dow looking to the sea, whose shimmer could be seen from the upper windows had there been any one to open the shutters or draw the blinds. But year in, year out, the rooms, which everybody knew were full of fine furniture, that had been bought for the new wife who never set eyes on it, were shut up, never even opened to be cleaned or aired. David Cargill and his attached house- keeper, a sonsy, middle-aged woman, who had been a housemaid with his mother, dwelt in the lower portion of the house, and on the stairs or in the upper chambers no footstep ever fell. One night, in the middle of harvest, David Cargill lay tossing on his bed, and could not sleep. He had notliing on his mind— no harass- ing anxiety concerning farm matters ; the weather 70 H^E^K THINGS OF THE H^ORLD Iff It ! Il was superb, and already half his grain had been secured in prime condition. In all the years he had farmed the Barleyknowe he had never in- gathered a more bountiful and glorious harvest. Nor did heat or closeness of atmosphere oppress him ; it was a fine, clear night, with a south wind blowing, and the moon the reapers love riding high -and lovely in a sky studded with a million stars. The white gleam of it crept round the edges of the blind, and made two long arrows of silver on the floor. David Cargill lay watching them, and thinking of the moons of long ago. Suddenly a strange sound fell upon his ears, a sound which made him raise himself on his elbow, and listen with strained ears for its repetition. And presently it rang out again, clearly and dis- tinctly on the still night air— the cry of a little child in terror or distress. He sprang out of bed, and, drawing up the blind, threw up the window as far as it would go. But though he stretched himself half out of the window, he could see nothing ; and the cry was not repeated. It was light enough to discern objects a good way off, and he saw, by the subdued light which lay on the horizon where it met the solemn gray line of the sea. that the dawn was at hand. He stood still a moment, thinking he must have dreamed the sound, since it did not come again and all the dogs were still. He shut down the window and ROBIN 71 went back to bed ; and almost immediately he heard the cry again, subdued this time into a plaintive wail. It took him only about three minutes to get into his clothes, and, throwing up the window, he vaulted out upon the gravel, which crunched beneath his heavy tread. A wide lawn, smooth and green, stretched before the house door, and was fringed by a thick shrub- bery, overshadowed beyond by the tall trees of the wood which sheltered the Barleyknowe home- stead so well from north and east. Through this shrubbery he searched carefully, and even en- tered the wood itself, for the sound had seemed to come from there. But he found nothing, and presently wandered back again to the front of the house ; and by now the sheep-dogs were barking in their shed, and the cocks beginning to crow. Suddenly he saw an apparition on his very door- step, within the porch— a little bairn supporting himself unsteadily on a pair of very fat legs, and whimpering, with his finger in his rosebud of a mouth. Now David Cargill, though he had shunned the companionship of his fellow-men these many years, loved little children, and was beloved of them everywhere. They said he was an exact- ing master, and that he drove hard bargains and was very near in all his dealings; but nobody had ever heard him utter a harsh word to a bairn, 72 i^i IVEAK THINGS OF THE IVORLD or to a woman with bairns about her knee ; and he had been known to do many an act of thoughtful kindness, such as would have occurred to few, and always it would be found that a bairn was at the bottom of it. Therefore, when he beheld the waif on his doorstep, the strong heart of the man melted within him, and he spoke to him gently as a mother might have done. After the first startled glance at him the bairn crept to him. joy- fully, seeking his hand with his own chubby one, and the heartbroken look so pitiful to see on a bairn's face was lost in a confident and expectant smile, as he suffered David Cargill to lift him in his arms. "Hullo! whaur hae ye come frae, an' where's your mother, my man ? " he asked. Then the little red lips quivered sadly, and a yearning " Mam, mam," came up pitifully from his very heart. " Never mind, never mind," said David Car- gill, soothingly. " We'll go in an' get some milk, my wee man, an' your mam will come the morn.'' He tried the handle of the door, but presently remembered how he had come out, and that it was locked from within. There was nothing for it but to go back the way he had come, which appeared to divert the bairn very much, for he laughed aloud ; and the sound was like the music of the spheres in the ears of that lonely man, who had no tie of kinship with any now on the face kOBm n of the earth. All fear seemed to have died out of the child's heart, and he began to chatter, while his protector lit the lamp, in a language the ten- ant of the Barleyknowe had not kept up, though he had himself spoken it in his infancy; but it was sufficient to establish a friendly understand- ing between them. So engrossed were they with each other that they did not see the shadow which fell across the window for one brief in- stant, the yearning glance from a pair of some- what wild eyes, nor hear the bursting sob with which a mother's heart renounced her all. By this time the dogs seemed to be thoroughly' aroused, and were making a terrible riot in the quiet of the morning; but their master paid no heed to ihem. Taking the little lamp in one hand and the bairn's hand in the other, he went away to the door of his housekeeper's room, and knocked loudly. "Get up, Susan, wummin, an' pit somethin' on. A queer thing has happent. I've found a bairn at the door, an' ye'll need to see to him or the morn onyhoo." " Guid sakes," he heard Susan mutter, as she leaped from her bed ; but she did not keep him waiting many minutes. Having roused her, David Cargill proceeded to the kitchen, where he set the lamp on the table, and broke up the gathering coal so that a ruddy 74 ^E^K THINGS OF THE IVORLD blaze danced suddenly on the walls and floor. A huge pot hung on the " swee " above the fire, filled with water to make porridge for the shearers by half-past five in the morning. A sonsy black cat sat blinking drowsily on the fender end, and in him — called of Susan Scott a thief and a deil, and sundry other opprobrious names — the waif seemed to find a friend. He flew to him ecstati- cally, grippihj him round the neck in no very gentle fashion ; and the queer thing was that the cat did not resent such treatment, but appeared to relish it rather than otherwise. And this was the sight Susan Scott beheld as she entered the kitchen buttoning up her cotton short gown : her master sitting on the edge of the table, and a little bairn in a red tartan frock hugging the deil on the fender end. "Mercy me, maister," said she; "what's a' this? It's some o' the gangrel gipsies I saw i' the wud at the rasps yesterday left her bairn to gie her a free hand. But we'll set the police on her at the dawin'." Now Susan Scott had a very sharp tongue, but the heart beating in her ample bosom was a woman's heart, aye, and a mother's. A mother she might have been long ago, but for the love she bore the name and the house she had so long served ; and though many had asked her to wed, she had said no to them all. At sight of the ROBIN 75 little bairn, with the ruddy flames dancing on his curly pow and round red cheeks, she ran to him and gathered him to her heart. "I dinna think he's a gangrel wean; do you, Susan ? " her master asked. " 'Deed, no ; he's ower clean an' weel guidet ; but what's this?" A little scrap of paper, which had escaped David Cargill's eye, was pinned to the white pinafore at the back, and these words were writ- ten on it in an educated hand, though they had evidently been written hurriedly : " For God's sake, keep the bairn. His name is Robin." " The mother o' him's in trouble, maister," ob- served Susan, shrewdly. " But what for should she leave him here ? " "Guid only kens," answered David Cargill, and put the scrap of paper in his pocket-book. " Well, I'll leave him to ye, Susan ; it's but three o'clock, an' I hinna had a wink o' sleep." " I'll tak care o' him. Eh, but he's a bonnie wee man, an' no' a bit strange." David Cargill went back to his bed, and, con- trary to his own expectation, fell sound asleep, and never woke till Susan called him that his breakfast was ready at seven o'clock. Conscious of a new interest in life, though he could not precisely remember it at the moment, he got 76 «^£//A' THINGS OF THE IVORLD If ^ up quickly and dressed, glad to see the sunshine, and to notice that there was no dew on the grass, so that the leadin^^^ woui*1 jm) on without delay. " Well, what about the bairn, Susan?" he asked, as she brought his porridge inta the sitting room. " Oh, he's sleepin' ; never stirred since I gied him a joog o' milk at fower o'^btk. £h, he's a canty wean, an' she's a hizzy that left him ; but what are ye gaun to do wi' him ? " " I'll see about it, efter I've had my breakfast and been to the field. Are they startit? " " Aye, half an hoor ago ; it's as dry as a whus- tle, Adam Broon says. He's in grand fettle, an' says thi^ 'minds him on the harvests that were in his young days, when ye could leave a cairt hauf load i' the field a' nicht. There surely canna be muckle girnin' at kirk or market this year." After a hearty breakfast David Cargill paid a visit to the field and the stack-yard, where all was going merrily, Adam Broon, whc had been greeve at Barleyknowe for well-nigh forty years, beaming as if he had had a fortune left him. But some strange attraction drew him back to the house in less than an hour, and he arrived to find the bairn up, and running about a . if the place belonged to him. The fine, clear light of day, trying to older faces sometimes, only showed up the dehcate pink softness and the exquisite rounded lines of that sweet baby face ; and when ROBIN 11 the sun shone on his curly head it glinted like gold. There was neither fear nor strangeness in him ; he went from one to the otiier, smiling upon all; am' mostly there was a tear in Susan Scott's eye as she watched him. For she understood well the significance of that curious softness in her master's eye ; and the memory of the unf orgot- ten sorrow that had desolated the Barleyknowe, and soured as gentle a heart as ever beat in man's breast, lay with renewed heaviness on her soul. " It's a blithe thing, a bairn aboot the hoose, Susan," he said. " He maun bide a bit or we see. »» So saying, u > took himself off ; and, happening to look out a little later, Susan beheld him strid- ing across the stubble 'n the direction of Stane- rigg Now Fri lay was Mrs. Gray's churning day, and she was very busy in the dairy when her maid, Ailie, said Mr. Cargill wanted to speak to her. " Fegs, he taks an ill time for a visii, Ailie," observed Mrs. Gray, with a kind of vexed good- humor. " Sr '., lassie, finish this. It disna dae to leave the butter the noo, but I canna keep the crater waitin'. Ca' for your very life or I come back." She found the tenant of the Barleyknowe in the parlor, and, after giving her good-morning, he 78 U^E/tK THINGS OF THE H/QRLD [I i told her briefly what strange visitant had come to them in the night-time. "An' what am I to do wi' the bairn, Mrs. Gray ? that's what I want to ken." " Keep him," she answered, with a little twin- kle in her eye. " I'm sure Susan Scott's heart's big enough, whatever yours may be. But maist likely the mither'll turn up again. I'd like to see the bairn. Maybe I'll rin ower in the gloamin'." " I dinna see hoo I can keep him," said David Cargill, dubiously. "The Barleyknowe's nae place for a bairn." " It's big enough, in a' conscience," replied Mrs. Gray. " But o' course there's the puirhoose, an' naebody wad expec' ye to keep the wean. Ye'd better send word to John Chisholm, the inspector, an' he'll tak him awa'." " I'll wait or the morn," he said, hesitatingly, "if ye'll come ower." She looked at his big, well-knit figure, which had a stoop at the shoulders not brought there by age, at his grave, stern, gray-whiskered face, to which the deep eyes gave a kind of indescrib- able softness, and her heart yearned over him unspeakably. She saw him but seldom, and she had never dared to mention the sorrow of his youth to him, but her heart was full of it at the moment, and he knew it. " Maybe, wha kens, the Lord has a wark for ROBIN 70 the bairn to do at the Barleyknowe, Dauvit. He disna despise the weai< things o' the world," she said, softly. "Humph!" was all David Cargill answered, and went out by the door as if he had been shot at. But Lizbeth Gray knew that her words had gone home. When she went over to the Barleyknowe in the gloaming she found that the matter was prac- tically settled, Susan Scott and her master being of one mind concerning the bairn — that he should remain at the Barleyknowe, at least until his mother claimed him. So wee Robin found a home such as any king in Babyland might have envied him. Many were amused, and some sneered over the new regime, but none dared to make a disparaging remark to David Cargill con- cerning the waif he had taken to his heart and home. And after a time the talk died down, and nobody paid any heed, because they had grown accustomed to the sight of Curly-pow, as they called him, sitting in the Barleyknowe gig. The observant saw the slow, sure change being wrought in the man, even to his outward cloak, which assumed something of the blithe cheerful- ness of long ago. Lizbeth Gray came and went a good deal be- tween Stanerigg and the Barleyknowe, being the referee and the stand-by of Susan Scott in every 8v IVE^K THINGS OF THE IVORLD m ! Pi little anxiety concerning the precious lamb who had crept into the Barleyknowe fold. So a year passed away, and Robin, or Robinie, or Curly- pow (to all three, and many other endearing names, did the bairn answer), grew straight and tall and sturdy as a young birch-tree, and there were few things on earth he did not attempt to say and do. Fear was not in him, and Cargill delighted in his daring, liking nothing better than to set him suddenly on a bare-backed colt, whose mane he would clutch with his fat fingers, every limb of him alive with delight. So, as I said, time sped on. One evening in the late autumn, after all the corn was ingathered, Mrs. Gray was taking her ease in a low chair by her own fireside. The lamp was not lit yet, though the room was dark, save for the ruddy flicker of the fire. Outside the rain was falling drearily, the monotonous drip, drip, on the sodden leaves making a kind of pensive music in harmony with Lizbeth's Gray's thoughts, which were of the past and what might have been. Upon her sad reverie Ailie broke presently, bringing the lighted lamp. " There's somebody at the back door, ma'am, that wants to see ye. Wull I bring her in ? " *' Did she gie neither name nor business, lass ? What looks she like?" " Like — -like a lady, I think ; at least, she speakd ROBIN 81 Hke ane; but she's tired an' weary an' very wet." ^ " Bring her in an' pit on the httle kettle, lest the puir body wad be the better o' a cup o' tea " Ailie was not astonished, and departed to do her mistress's bidding. Rest and refreshment were never denied the weary at Stanerigg nor comfort the sad, if it was in the power of the mistress to give it. She rose up as she heard the step in the passage, and when Ailie had pointed the room to the stranger-which was not need- ful, since she knew it, aye, in its every homely dc- ta,l_she went back to her kitchen. The stranger was a tall, slender, delicate-looking figure, clad in blacK, through which the rain had sodden An old felt hat sat on the tresses which once had shamed the sun's own radiance, and when she put back her veil Lizbeth Gray threw up her hands " Eh, guid sakes ! Maisie Morrison, has it come to this? " The woman nodded, and would have spoken, but a fit of coughing interrupted her. Mrs. Gray forbore to say another word until she had with her own hands taken the woman's sodden shawl from her shoulders, and then, hastily opening the sideboard, filled a glass of good port wine and made her drink it. " Eh, lassie, lassie!" was all she said then, and the tears ran down her cheeks. 82 IVEAK THINGS OF THE WORLD hi " I came," said the woman, with a stronger note in her voice, " because I knew that you never turn anybody from your door uncomforted, no matter what their sorrow or their sin. Can you tell me anything about my bairn?" " Your bairn? what bairn? " " My httle Robin. I left him at the Barley- knowe a year ago and more. I thought of leav- ing him here, but something bade me take him there. Is he well? Oh, I am afraid to go and ask, in case they have not been kind to him, or in case they tell me he is dead. I thought you would know." She spoke with a certain wildness of look and tone which touched Lizbeth Gray inexpressibly. She remembered this beaten woman in the pride of her youth and the wonderful beauty which had been her ruin ; and though many a time and oft she had felt bitter against her because of the blight she had thrown on a good man's life, at sight of her now all that bitterness died away, and only a divine compassion remained. " The bairn is a' richt ; he is the very sunlicht o' the Barleyknowe. Eh, lassie, lassie, what micht hae been!" The dull red color flushed the woman's pale cheek, and she raised her hand with a passionate gesture. "Hush, unless you want to kill me. Oh! I K f ROBIN M was wicked, but I have suffered. God ! what I have suffered ! Do you think that if I go over very humbly, and ask at his back door as a beg- gar might, that he will let me look on my little bairn and kiss his face? Then I will but' thank him on my knees for his goodness, and creep away to die." Lizbeth Gray did not answer, for she could not. The misery ill-doing works in the world as exemplified in this stricken woman, broke her heart and tied her tongue. Her silence was mis- understood by the wanderer, and her voice rose to an anguished wail : "O Mrs. Gray, you are a mothci- yrurs If. You know this awful heart hunger which - eat- ing into me. Don't be hard on me. I have not been a good woman, but even a bad woman loves her child." " Wheesht, bairn, wheesht ; ye shall see the bairn, but not in the way ye say. I'll bring him here to ye mysel', for not a fit will ye gang oot o' Stanerigg the nicht." She had her way. Within the hour Maisie Morrison was lying on a sofa in the spare bed- room of Stanerigg, clad in dry garments, and feelmg gratefully the cheery benison of the fire Ailie's willing fingers had lighted, though having no idea what it all could mean. Then Mrs. Gray put on her waterproof, her galoshes over her 84 IVE/iK TI.'INGS OF THE IVORLD thickest boots, and prepared to tramp the fields to the Barleyknowe. But she Hngered a mo- ment, anxious that she should first see her hus- band home, in order to explain the thing to him. Presently she saw the gig lamps gleaming through the trees, and ran out to meet it. " Is that ye, Lizbeth? Whaur are ye gaun? " " Get doon, faither, or I speak to ye," she said, hurriedly. " D'ye mind o' Maisie Morrison, that was to have mairrit Dave Cargill, and that ran awa' wi' Geordie Ingram, the sailor, the very week they were cried? " "Aye, fine." " Weel, she's here, puir thing, an' she looks to me to be deein'. It's her bairn that's at the Barleyknowe, an' I'm gaun to fetch him. She's in the spare room, an' dinna ye gang near her or I come back." " Ye'll be gaun to walk, like as no' ! What a wummin ye are, Lizbeth! if ye dinna dee on your feet it'll no' be your fault," said Stanerigg. " Here, Sandy, drive the n>istress ower to the Barleyknowe, an' wait or she be ready to come back." Lizbeth Gray gave her husband's arm a little grateful pat ; he lifted her into the gig, and off they drove. All the way she never spoke to the wondering Sandy, but pondered the words she should speak to David Cargill, though having no ROBIN 85 doubt that God would send them io her at the fitting time. The tenant of the Barleyknowe was at his tea, and Robin with him at the table, when Mrs. Gray came in. As her eyes fell on the sweet face of the bairn a great wonder filled her at her own stupidity, for there were his mother's very eyes, and the hair of gold which had once been Maisie Morrison's pride. "A queer thing has happent, Dauvit," she began, without giving him time even to greet her. ** I've gotten Curly-pow's mither at Stane- Cargill sprang up. He said in his very action, in the glance of his eye, that the bairn was now his and he would not give him up. Curly-pow took advantage of attention being directed from him to empty the contents of the jam dish on the table-cloth, to his own rapturous delight. " She winna get him," he said, bringing his hand down on the table with a mighty thump which made the crockery ring, while Curly-pow's eyes grew big and round with wonder. "Wheesht, wheesht, Dauvit," said Lizbeth Gray, and she laid her hand on his arm. " Look at the bairn . • ns he mind ye on naebody ? The wonder is v. e'vr a' been sae blind. That's Maisie Morrison's wean." Cargill stared at her stupidly awhile, and then, 86 IVE^K THINGS OF THE IVORLD ^ jfl, N;t,i dropping into his chair, let his head fall on his arms, and groaned. This was more than Curly- pow could stand. He crept to the side of the stricken man, and laid his head on his knee with that indescribably winning and pathetic touch which belongs to the child, and to him alone. No other sympathy is so sure, so swift of appeal, as that. Then Mrs. Gray spoke, telling him some, though not all, of the bitter story Maisie Morrison had unfolded to her: the story of her unhappy marriage, her early widowhood, the struggle to support herself and three little ones, and how, losing two, she became desperate about the third, and so sought to have him cared for by some one who had enough and to spare. ** Ye maun gie me the bairn, Dauvit, if but for ane nicht," she said, in conclusion. " She's his mither, an' I fear me Is no' lang for this warld. I ken it's a bitter cup, but maybe there's a sweet drop at the bottom. God's ways are not ours, after a'." '* I'll tak him ower mysel'," said Cargill, rising suddenly ; and the clasp of his arms as he lifted Curly-pow said plainly he would never let hirn go. Now, though this filled Mrs. Gray with sore amazement, — for she thought that the last thing on earth to be desired would be a meeting be- tween Cargill and the woman who had so bitterly '- \ ROBIN 87 betrayed him, — she never spoke a word. So they drove through the blinding rain together, Curly- pow cuddhng close in Cargill's arms, delighted to be out in the dark in such safe keeping, and shortly they came to Stanerigg. " D'ye want to see her? " Lizbeth Gray asked, still perplexed; for this action was both unex- pected and inexplicable. He nodded; and she took them straight up, opened the spare-room door, and, keeping her eyes averted, so left them, feeling that the thing was lifted clean beyond her understanding or her aid. But she had neither doubt nor fear, because she knew that it was in the hand of God. On a spring day, when the air was soft and balmy, the sky tender as a child's face, and all the earth awaking to the gladness of the opening year, two figures walked in the Httle wood adjoin- ing the farm-house of Stanengg, They had been there a long time, and had spoken much, and on the faces of both peace sat, suggestive of a kind of trembling joy. As they came out upon the lawn, the friend who had made everything pos- sible to them came to meet them from the open door, and, though she said nothing, her eyes had a question and a prayer in them. Cargill spoke first. " Maisie will come to the Barleyknowe at last, m H8 IVE^K THINGS OF THE tVORLD '\- 1'; m Mrs. Gray, for the bairn's sake," he said, simply. " We're no' that auld but that we can make a new beginning." The woman, to whose pale face the hue of re- stored health and a measure of the old winsome beauty had returned, held out her hands to the friend who had shown her the better part, who had awakened in her, never to sleep again, the nobler womanhood which might have blessed herself and others long ago. " I am not worthy. I — I am afraid," she cried, falteringly. " Do you think I dare be his wife — his wife, after all that is past?" She cast upon him such ii look of reverent and adoring love that the heart of Lizbeth Gray was fully satisfied. " Ye may, I think, if he is pleased, an' the bairn," she said, with a tremulous smile; then, as she caught sight of him playing in the distance with his arms about the sheep-dog's neck, she added, more to herself than to them, " ' Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst.' " II. A LOST LAMB When old Archibald Haldane died in Wester- law, they said there could not be much strife or heartburning over his property, because it was bound to be equally divided between his two sons, Archie and Jamie. There was land as well as money, for old Westerlaw had been both sav- ing and successful, especially the former, and his familiar appellation in this neighborhood of Faulds was Grippy Haldane. The Haldanes had been long in Westerlaw, first as tenants, and then as lairds. In the course of his lairdship Grippy also annexed Easterlaw, which adjoined, so that at his death there was a place for each of his two sons. His wife had long predeceased him, and he had no daughter, so that the division was easy enough. Archie, being the elder, became laird of Westerlaw, while Jamie took up his abode at Easterlaw. They were sheep-farms chiefly, with a field or two of arable land on the low g: ounds ; but stock was their stand-by, and two shepherds were necessary to each. They had substantial 89 maasasi^^siimKaakwamm 00 ll^E/fK THINGS or THF. fVORLD m stone dwelling-houses, built for the comfortable shelter of a plain family ; if anything, Kasterlaw was the more pretentious, and occupied a beauti- ful site, commanding a prospect almost unequaled for beauty and diversity. As it happened, Jamie Ilaldane was a young man of some taste and re- finement, and he took great pains to beautify his home, planting ornamental shrubs in the grounds, and even cutting a carriage drive through the wood to the main road, and putting a handsome iron gateway at the end of it. Archie, who took after his father, and had a very coarse strain in him, was filled with wrath and contempt for his brother's extravagance, and gave him five years to be " roupit oot," as he expressed it, and prom- ised himself much satisfaction when that certain event came to pass. But at the end of five years Jamie seemed as flourishing in a quiet way as ever, and had added a bowling-green to his grounds and a conservatory to his house. Yet his accounts were regularly paid, and nobody had anything but praise and good words of him. He had no vices; consequently he could afford a little to gratify his quieter tastes ; whereas his brother was a hard drinker, and a big, blustering kind of man, not much of a favorite with any- body. And Westerlaw continued to be the rough-and-ready house it had ever been, hardly a carpet to the floors, and but little comfort any- A LOST L/fMB 91 where, whereas at Eastrrlaw there were snug rooms, well furnished, and scarcely missing a wom.ui's care; books ' rr ' and a piano to play on, and a welcu... lo any neighbor of an evening to play a hand at wliist. But the neigh- bors whose soi ' yearned for whisky kept away, for the evening beverage at Easterlaw was only cofTce, well made and frayrant, but with no cin- der in it. But Jamie Haldane's friends came for the pleasure of his comj v, and any man who spent one evening there was anxious to spend another. The brothers married about the same time, and it seemed as if they ought to have hanged mates. Archie married a gentle, refined, meek-spirited girl, the daughter of the late parish minister, a creature who looked as if a rude blast would kill her. What affinity she found in rough Archibald Haldane remains one of those unsolved matri- monial mysteries of which this world is full. Yet they seemed to rub along well enough. Though she never got her way in things pertaining to the house, and was kept very tight where money was concerned, she never gave anybody the im- pression of being unhappy or of having repented her choice. Jamie, to the astonishment of everybody, mar- ried a big, strapping, loud-spoken farmer's daugh- ter from Roxburghshire, a woman who knew the ^r^x^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) ^ i: % % .5^ < > " I'm not mindin' for that," she cried; and ran to put on boots and gaiters and a stout mackin- tosh cloak, which, with a woolen hood tied cozily over her ears, protected her against any weather. So they tramped together to Binnhill, and there, sure enough, found it was as Geordie Pur- dom had said — the ewe-bucht neatly built in by an extension of the dike, till it looked as if it belonged to Westerlaw. "Aye, Geordie, man, this is fine work," said Easterlaw, between his teeth. " We'll get Alec Glover up, an* mak short work of the bucht, an' if that disna dae we'll get the police." Betty Haldane obso. ved that her husband was m a terrible rage. He only spoke Scotch in his anger. The whole thing seemed rather a good joke to her, and the shepherds rather enjoyed it too, but it seemed to touch James Haldane in a very sore bit. Before noon Alec Glover, the slater from the Cleugh, his two men, and the shepherds were at Binnhill, demolishing the bucht, and by nightfall ihe dike was restored to its original site. Next forenoon back comes the shepherd to say there were men from Westerlaw knocking down the dike again. Then Jamie Haldane got as white as death, and strode away over the crisp white hills with a terrible hate in his soul. Had Betty seen him she would either have kept him at home or gone with him, but it 96 fVE/tK THINGS OF THE IVORLD I [i 1 s| r.; r 1 ' was churning day, and she trusted no hired woman to make up her butter, which had not its equal from Easterlaw to Haddington, and beyond it. When Easterlaw, with Geordie Purdom at his back, strode down the Binnhill, he saw his brother Archie, a big, burly figure, leaning against the dike, watching the operations with a queer little smile on his lips. He stood up as Jamie ap- proached, ready for the fray. It was not to be expected that Easterlaw's first words would be conciliatory, or even wisely chosen. He was net a profane man, but he swore a great oath, and bade Archie clear off his wail, or he'd fell him to the ground. Archie was not slow to swear back again, and the war of words was such as the men who heard it did not forget for long. "It's mine!" cri'^'^ Westerlaw. "Ye ken as weel as I do that the bucht was in Westerlaw afore we got Easterlaw, an* that the auld man only shifted the dike to please himsel'. I need it an' ye dinna, an' hae it I wull." " Ye winna," replied Jamie, more uietly, the first heat of his passion spent, though the anger within burned steadily. " As fast as ye build I'll knock doon, and if ye try me ower far I'll hae the law o* ye." It would not profit me to retail any more of this ill quarrel, in which was gathered all the stored bitterness of years, and they parted raging e.^E^V.a^jETZiwJ-'i^'-p: " ^ LOST LAMB 97 at and hating each other, for the time being, with a mortal hatred. For several days the farce was carried on, and when the thing got wind various curious busybodies came to the seat of war on the Binnhill, and were duly edified by the spec- tacle there. Then there came another terrible storm of snow, which drifted up everything, and put a decided check on the hostile operations, so that there was a few days' respite. One after- noon, about five o'clock, Betty Haldane was sit- ting by her dining-room window sewing, when she beheld her husband's brother striding up to the door.^ He had a queer look on his face, an ex- pression of such set and intolerable anguish that, forgetting all the past strife and her bitter resent ' ment against him, she ran out to the door. " Archie, what is it? What terrible thing has happened?" " Ye havena seen oor wee Nancie, have ye ? " he asked, hoarsely. "She's lost; we havena seen her since forenoon, an' look at the snaw ! I believe she's buriet in't, an' we've nae bairn. She hasna been here, I suppose? " Betty shook her head, and her blue eyes filled with tears. She had no child, and the blue-eyed Nancie was the one possession she envied Wester- law. But she never suffered the only disappoint- ment of her wifehood to depress others, though it gave her many a sad hour. 08 H/E/fK THINGS OF THE IVORLD \i\ "Nancie hasna been here, Archie, since last harvest, when Jeanie brocht her. But hoo did it happen that she got oot? Is't naebody's business to see to the bairn ? " "Yes; but they were terrible busy in the kitchen, saltin' pork, an' the mistress bakin'. The bairn was playin' aboot, naebody heedin' her muckle; an' she just disappeared like magic." " An' hae ye socht everywhere? " Westerlaw made a gesture of impatience and despair. "There's nae a hole or corner aboot the place we hinna rakit. But look at the snaw! She's feet deep in the drift by now, an* we no' kennin' where to turn. If God Almichty wantit to pun- ish me for my ill-daein', He micht hae ta'en a' thing an' welcome, had He but left me my little bairn." Now Betty had never seen the soft side of her brother-in-law, and at sight of his awful grief her heart melted within her like rain. " Jamie's at Edinburgh, an' he micht no' be hame, seein' the weather, or the morn. Bide a meenit, an' I'll gang back wi' ye to Jeanie." He entered at her bidding, but would come no farther than the hall, where he sat down stu- pidly, the picture of despair. Betty ran to the kitchen, and bade them get the dog-cart out, Westerlaw having evidently walked over the dii & ^ LOST LAMB 99 hills. In ten minutes they were on the road, driving rapidly round the long sweep it took at the foot of the hills to Westerlaw. Betty Hal- dane had not crossed the threshold of Wester- law for two whole years, but the two wives were friendly enough on their own account, and Mrs. Archie had paid a stolen visit to Easterlaw the previous summer, when the respective husbands were absent at the Highland Society's show at Inverness. She found the distracted mother wandering in and out the house like a mad thing, and when she saw her sister-in-law enter a strange feeling of relief and strength and hope came to her, and she just ran crying into her arms. "Yes, yes, my dear," said Betty, crooning over her as if she had been a baby, her ample arms protecting the slender, drooping figure most tenderly. " Dinna greet; your sweet wee Nancie's no' lost. God has her safe. D'ye no' mind hoo He took the lambs in His arms? Yes, yes, she's safe. We'll find her yet." But though half a country-side was out look- ing for Nancie Haldane, night fell, and her bed was empty ; and there was no doubt in the mind of any man or woman that the bairn was, as her father put it, " feet deep in the drift." It faired in the evening, and the sky cleared, showing patches of heavenly blue, lit by the stars b< I w 100 tVE^K THINGS Of- THE IVORLD of eternal promise. About nme o'clock, the doc- tor having given poor Mrs. Archie a draft which would calm her nerves and perhaps give her the merciful oblivion of sleep, Betty Haldane drove home to her own house. She was weary with her own grief and the pain of witnessing the des- olation of Westerlaw, and she beheld the light in her own windows with a little rush of joy at her heart ; for that light meant that Jamie was home. He had not been in the house twenty minutes, and was but swallowing a bite of supper before following his wife to Westerlaw. She came into the room trembling, and burst into tears. " Oh, my man, for the first time I can say I'm glad we've nae bairn. Yon's awfu', awfu'. Puir Jeanie! puir Archie! It breaks my very heart." Jamie Haldane was not lacking in responsive sympathy, and they mourned for the stricken house of Westerlaw as if there never had been discord or strife in the past. It would serve no purpose for them to go back that night, and they went to bed early, determined to drive over the first thing in the morning. That night in her troubled sleep Betty Haldane dreamed a dream. The first part of it was con- fused, and had to do with the quarrel about the Binnhill ; but suddenly everything grew clear, and she saw a sight in the ewe-bucht which made her heart leap within her. She thought it was full of i // LOST LAMB lOX sheep, with their Iambs, and that, in a far corner, crouching close to the dike in the bieldiest bit of all, was an old, gentle, gray-faced ewe with her own little lamb close beside her; but there was something else— a bit of bright color, and a gleam of white above it, and the sheen of a child's golden head. She awoke with a great start, her face wet with tears, and, springing out of bed, began to put on her clothes. " Jamie, Jamie Haldane ! " she cried. " Get up, an' come wi' me ; Nancie is found ! She's in the bucht on Binnhill ; come an' help me to carry her to Westerlaw." " I dare say you're daft, Betty," her husband replied ; " the thing's gotten on your brain. Lie down and sleep." " I tell you she's there. I saw her in my dream. God sent that dream. I prayed ere I fell asleep that the bairn micht be saved, an' she is saved. Ye can sleep if ye like, I'm no' feared to gang mysel'." "What o'clock is it, my woman?" inquired Easterlaw, mildly, observing that his wife would not be put past her set purpose. " Half-past three," she replied, shortly, as she buttoned on her gown. Fifteen minutes thereafter the two stepped out into the nipping morning air, and set out for Binn- 102 tyE^K THINGS OF THE kVORLD ;^fs IS , hill. Easterlaw did not for a moment believe that anything would come of this mad exploit, but Betty walked on confidently, her bonnie blue eyes glowing like two stars under her crimson hood. It took them half an hour to get over the slippery hills, and Betty's heart almost stood still as they approached the bucht. But presently she gave a little cry, and dashed in among the sheep, causing them to start up with afTrighted cries. And there it was, all as she had seen it in her God-sent dream: the old ewe, with her Httle lamb at her breast, and the other lost lamb cud- dling close to it, fast asleep. And the wonder of it sank into Jamie Haldane's soul, holding him spellbound. Betty stooped down with a great sob, and gathered the bairn close to her warm breast, scarcely waking her, though she crooned over her in a fashion which made a strange stir at her husband's heart. "Auntie's bonnie bairnie, her ain wee doo! Sleep, sleep, bairnie; ye'll sune be in your ain little by." They were now half-way between the farms, and the only course seemed to be to walk straight into Westerlaw, which they reached about five o'clock. The poor mother was still mercifully asleep; but Archibald Haldane, bowed to the earth with his agony, roamed the house miserably, thinking only of his little bairn beneath the snow. A LOST L/tMB 103 I He heard them before they knocked at the door, and when Betty laid wee Nancie in his arms, safe and sleeping, though her curls were damped out by the snow which had kissed them, he had no strength left in him, but sat down, hold- ing her helplessly, crying like a child. Betty had all her wits about her, and she ran to the kitchen and broke up the fire, which is never out night nor day in such kitchens, and in a minute had hot milk ready for the bairn, who woke up won- deringly, too sleepy to remember anything. But she took the milk eagerly ; and then Betty rolled her in a shawl, and laid her in her mother's bed, and kissed them both " Now, Jamie," she said, bravely, " we'll tramp hame again, my man, if ye like." But Archie barred the way. "No' yet. I've been a brute, Jamie, but I'll mak it up to ye, if ye'll tak my hand." " Wheesht, man," said Jamie, in that shy, pained way peculiar to reticent natures who hate displays of feeling. " Haud your tongue. The bucht was no' worth quarrelin' ower. It's yours, if ye like to keep it. At least, it's Nancie's— eh, Betty ? She's settled the question." And they positively ran out of the house ; nor had they any sense of time or distance, as they walked the frozen fields, on account of the joy and thankfulness in their hearts. 104 IVE^K THINGS OF THE IVORLD These things happened some years ago, and now the two houses are as one, and there are bairns blithe and bonnie in Easterlaw ; but Nan- cie remains the one ewe lamb of Archibald Hal- dane and Jearv.e his wife. I must not forget to mention that when Mrs. Gray of Stanerigjj^ heard the wonderful and heart- moving story which soon became the talk of the country-side, she, seeing in it, as in most earthly aflfairs, the finger of God, said, with a deep, sweet light in her eyes : '* I wad hae a picter o't, so that it may be seen of the bairn's bairns in a time to come, ^n' show them the Lord's loving- kindness. An' what I paid I wadna care, but it should be well done 1/ the best in the land." It so happened that the following summer a great painter ^rom London, though not London born, was in the neighborhood, and was enter- tained at Stanerigg, where gentle and simple ahke were made welcome; and while there he painted the picture, which iie called "The Lost Lamb." Archibald Haldane paid the price for it ungrudgingly and cheerfully, though it was the value of a year's rent ; but when the painter, be- lieving it would be the picture of the year, spoke of taking it away to London to let others see it, Westerlaw made his mouth long and thin and shook 1 is head. Then the painter, who was also I : A LOST LAMB 105 a man of spiritual discernment, forbore to press, though his disappointment was very keen, because he saw that the inwardness and sacredness of the matter dwelt with the man, and that he shrank to submit it to the public gaze. So the great picture, which they say will be worth a king's ransom some day, hangs upon the wall at Westerlaw, and its duplicate at Easterlaw, where they may be seen of the unbelieving to this day. IW f' w m ':i }f- m ''^ 'r ~ ) THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT •-- ■..f# W *M | M ». M i 4ft im ■ mm omij^i I. THE POOR RELATION The brand-new villa of the Laidlaws was the idol of its mistress. Its decoration and care occu- pied her waking hours and haunted all her dreams. Her pride in it, as the outward symbol of their prosperity, could not be put into words, though it was visible in her whole manner and bearing, and in her attitude toward those who had not got on so well. In common with many who have risen from obscurity, she had but little quarter for those who lagged behind or could not pay their way. It is only just to her husband, Tam, to say that but for her he would have been less severe on his shiftless customers, who mortgaged their week's pay before it was earned. Yet Ann Laidlaw had run, a barefoot lassie, to Faulds school, and car- ried her father's dinner in a tin pitcher, tied round with a red handkerchief, when he broke stones for his living on the parish road between Faulds and Kilmuir. Nobody living dared remind Ann Laid- law of those .-:' vs ; she would have withered them with a glance. In person she was buxom and 109 • .P*t*»^fiS«W->1 110 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT u \ " ■■'i comely, rosy-cheeked and ample-bosomed — the very embodiment of prosperous complacence. The pity was that her mind was built on so much less generous a scale than her body. Mrs. Laid- law, after her elevation to the Laurels, made a point of dropping a good many of her former ac- quaintances ; that is, while still recognizing them from afar, she did not visit at their houses nor ask them to tea. Going out to tea was a great insti- tution in Faulds, and your intimacy with a per- son was gauged by the number of times you took tea with her in the year. For a time Mrs. Laid- law occupied rather an ambiguous social position, after she had repudiated all her old cronies and before she managed to get any new ones to re- place them. She hung, as it were, on the out- skirts of society. But by degrees, and by dint of pure effrontery, which goes further than most other qualities in the social world, she managed to worm herself in with the better sort. She was largely tolerated for her husband's sake, because he was a useful man in the parish and a member of the school board. Mrs. Laidlaw kept two maids, whom she regarded as her mortal enemies, ready to take advantage of her at every turn, and treated accordingly. This view of the case conduced to frequent changes at the Laurels ; every girl eligible for service in Faulds had tried it, and now nobody would engage except girls from a distance. THE POOR REMTION 111 One morning the prosperous couple were break- fasting together when the post came in. They took all their meals when alone in a little parlor about ten feet square, and never sat down in the best rooms except when entertaining company Consequently their chill desolatio i was only equaled by their grandeur, which was spoken of m Faulds in undertones, as a thing past compre - hension. Some discriminating callers at the Lau- rels wondered how it was possible to gather so much that was hideous and costly together in one place ; but the unenlightened worshiped in silence and in wondering awe. Ann Laidlaw was a trifle slipshod of a morning, fond of appearing in a scanty, red-flowered dressing-gown, which, in some unaccountable way, had shrunk up in front and gone down in a long tail behind. It was so old that it was not worth renovating, in her opinion; so it was buttonless at the neck, and had a slit in one of the back seams, which, how- ever, was hidden by the kindly fullness of a gray woolen shawl, which enveloped the upper part of her body in dingy folds. Gas-stoves had but newly come into vogue, and to save her fine grates Mrs. Laidlaw had had one laid on in each room. For some reason or other it did not draw well in the parlor, and made a loud hissing sound without sending out any appreciable heat. Tam shivered as he entered the chill, cheerless room. 112 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT } 1 r \\': and cast back a regret to the kitchen behind the shop, where he had been wont to toast his toes, and see his bacon Hfted frizzHng from the pan to the plate. But when we rise in the world we must pay the penalty. Sometimes it is comfort, or peace of mind, or freedom from care; but something we must give in exchange, and well for us if v/e are permitted to keep our self-respect. " That's a puir fire, Ann, on a January morn- in','* Tam observed, as he took up the " Scots- man " and turned to the markets. "It maybe saves wark, but I canna say it's an improvement." " Sit doon, an' your tea'll warm ye," she re- plied, shortly, being in a ruffled mood because her kitchen girl had given notice, flatly saying she wouldn't stop in a place where they grudged her her meat. Just then the revolting damsel ap- peared with the letters, which she held between a grimy thumb and forefinger, and threw them rather defiantly down on the table. Mrs. Laidlaw was not interested in letters, which she seldom wrote or received, and her hus- band took the larger half of his breakfast before he looked at them. " Hullo!" he said, as he fingered a poor-look- ing, black-edged envelop. ** Here's a line frae my sister Mary, her that married Andra Elder, the ship-carpenter at Whiteinch." " Aye, an' what does she want? " inquired his THE POOR REUTION 113 spouse, sourly, convinced that poor relations only wrote when they wanted something. He did not immediately answer, being interested in the con- tents of the letter. "Puir thing," he said; and his usually hard face was softened into an odd tenderness. "What's happent her? Pass it ower." said Ann. She's no' weel, an' canna keep on her situa- tion," said Tarn, with his eyes still on the letter. "What is't she does again?" inquired Ann with that lofty, distant kind of interest a queen on the throne might have displayed toward a very obscure subject. " She's an upholsteress in the shipyard where Andra used to work. The doctor says she needs a change, an' must get to the country. We'd better get her here for a week or twa, Ann ; she's the only sister I hae." Ann sniffed ominously. " It micht be cheaper an' mair satisfactory to pay for a week at the seaside for her I'm no' very fond o' relations in the hoose; ye hae never been bothered wi' ony o' mine." "That's got naethin' to dae wi't, Ann," Tam replied, with a great deal of firmness. " If 'ye had wantit them, well dae I ken that they'd 'a' been here in spite o' my neck. I'll write the day, an' tell her to come aff as sune as she likes. Puir 114 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT tj ii 1 ! '! ( I ^ ^1 thing ! she's a weedy withoot bairns, a gty deso- late object." Ann made no reply, but felt that her troubles were being multiplied. Tarn and she lived peace- ably together on the whole, chiefly because he gave her her own way in most things, being afraid of her shrewish tongue. But there were some things he could be firm about, and certain moods of his she could not conquer. She saw that he had made up his mind about his sister Mary, and that it would be needless for her to say anything. In the course of the day, however, a nice little idea occurred to her, that during Mrs. Elder's stay she might be able to dispense with a kitchen servant. She had often heard Tam praise his sis- ter's cooking ; she had been a cook in a gentleman's family before her marriage to the ship-carpenter. Cooking was an art of which Ann herself was as ignorant as a baby ; in fact, she could hardly boil a potato without spoiUng it, though she was par- ticularly good at finding fault with other people's mistakes. Ann had once visited at the ship-carpenter's in her own less prosperous days, and she remem- bered Mary as a genteel, gimpy-looking person, very neat and precise in all her ways; but her appearance, when Tam brought her up from the station about eight o'clock on the Friday night, was a considerable surprise to her. Her widow's THE POOR RELATION 115 I weeds were shabby, but they were worn with a singular and quiet grace ; her face was very pale and worn, and she looked old, though not yet forty ; but it was a very sweet face, with a look of quiet strength and endurance on it which some- how sank into the heart of Ann Laidlaw, and made her feel rather small and mean and ashamed of herself. She had put on an old but elaborately trimmed silk gown, a big lace collar, and a long gold chain round her neck, as well as a good many rings on her fingers— all to impress the poor rela- tion with the changed condition of affairs in her brother's house. B' t the poor relation did not appear to see it. She was evidently very tired, and seemed grateful for the cup of tea which waited for her, though Ann verily believed she never noticed the best china nor the second-best tea-pot, not to speak of the spoons, which were real silver, of the rat-tail pa.tern, with a mono- gram on the handle. That, however, was a mis- take. Mary Elder saw everything that it was desired she should see, and some things not in- tended, though she made no sign. " If ye dinna mind, Ann, I'll go to my bed," she said. " I hope I'll be better the morn. The doctor said a rest was what I needit. It's very kind o' ye to hae me, an' I'll gie as little trouble as I can." " That's naethin' ; I winna coont it a trouble," 116 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT i\m 1 1 said Ann, quite frankly for her, and wished with all her heart she had made ready tlie spare room instead of a cheerless little chamber next the one occupied by the maids. But Mary seemed grate- ful, in a quiet, undemonstrative way, for the slight- est attention, and refused to be on the outlook, as many poor relations are, for slights over which to brood and make themselves miserable. She took it for granted that Ann was glad to see her and wished to be kind to her, and so surprised her into doing the very things she had set herself not to do. Next day she was not able to come down- stairs at all, and Ann carried her meais to her with her own hands ungrudgingly, and sat with her in the afternoon while she did some fearful and won- derful woolen crewel-work on a strip of velveteen, intended, as she proudly explained, to make a mantelpiece border for the dining-room. It was a newly acquired accomplishment, which made Ann feel quite a real lady when engaged upon it. She wondered that she found such pleasure in the companionship of the sister-in-law she had, no later than yesterday, so heartily despised. Mary was not a great talker, but as they sai i;ogerher that afternoon her lips dropped swecuciss waich sank into the heart of Ann Laidlaw, good seed waiting for the harvest. In that quiet hour Ann learned a good deal about Mary Elder that she ha'i »mu krown before, She gathered from her THE POOR RELATION 117 speech, though there was no boastfulness in the telhng, that her life in the busy, overcrowded working-district where her lot was cast was entirely spent for others, helping to nurse the sick and cheer the sad, giving of her slender substance, which she so hardly earned, to others who were more needful ; and her heart seemed to be filled to the brim with loving-kindness and mercy and sympathy toward all that lived. She was a plain woman, uneducated, and unrefined according to the common standard; but her nature bore the stamp of the true gentlehood which is the spirit of the Lord Jesus. Strange that so rare and sweet a character should have come from a bitter source, and be so unlike the others of her name and race. Thus it is sometimes possible to gather a grape from a thorn, though we are expressly told that it cannot be. When Ann Laidlaw went down at tea-time .she gave orders that the spare-bedroom fire should be lighted, and made ready for the guest for whom she had at first prepared such a sorry, half-hearted welcome. And she did not put away any of the ornaments, or turn the bright red-and-blue hearth- rug before the fire, as she had been known to do for guests she did not consider worthy to behold the full glory of the best bedroom, which in a moment of high housewifely exultation, and after the perusal of a " Family Herald Supplement," i ii- 118 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT "J she had christened the " Blue Room." In a few days the fresh country air and the healthy sur- roundings began to work the desired change in the poor relation, and her appearance showed visible signs of improvement. She was very happy with her brother and his wife, and Tarn found his home such a pleasant place he spent less time in the dingy back shop poring over the books, which required no small skill to keep them up to date. As for Ann, she was more amiable than anybody had ever . nown her, and Betsy Dewar, the kitchen servant, of her own free will took back her warning, and offered to stay the winter. This little time of pleasant rest and security was the precursor of stormy times in the Laid- law household. Ann came back from paying a two-days' visit in Edinburgh one night feeling very unwell, and next day was unable to get up. There was a new doctor in Dr. Gourlay's place, a clever young fellow, winning a great reputation for himself. When he came he looked very grave, and fetched the other doctor, with whom he ami- cably cooperated, as his predecessor had done ; lut they said they would reserve their opinion till the next day. Whe.. they came again there was no doubt at all about the fell disease. Ann Laidlaw was stricken with smallpox of the most virulent and dangerous type. Tam was at the shop when they paid their \i ki '^-**^ ■**■•"— ^j!jy*afciMii.i> . THE POOR RELATION 119 visit, and it was to Mrs. liMer, of course, they made their report. " We would advise you," said the elder doctor, "to send her to the hospital. We can get an ambulance out from Edinburgh ; of course it is a risk in her present state, but I don't see what else we can do." " Do ! " repeated Mrs. Elder. " What's to hin- der me nursing her here? I've had a lot o' ex- perience among no-weel folk, an' I can dae what I'm telt, which I've heard doctors say afore noo is the chief tning in a nurse." The two men exchanged smiles. " There is no doubt about your capability, it you are not afraid for yourself." Mary Elder gave her shoulders a little shrug. " What for should I be feared ? We can dee but aince. I'll set the lassies hame, an' my brother must just live at the shop meanwhile, an' get his report frae ye." So it was arranged. Within half an hour of their acquaintance with the alarming nature of their mistress's illness the two servants were out of the house, with the fear of death written on their faces. Mary had half hoped that Betsy Dewar, who was a kind of diamond in the rough, might have found it in her heart to stay ; but she felt relieved of all responsibility when they both fled, and prepared for her long vigil and com- 120 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT 1*1 k' ^ It ^d fji ^ '. i k plete isolation from the world. It was longer than any had anticipated. For many weeks no foot crossed the threshold of the Laurels except that of the doctor and Angus Fleming, who was now the beloved an^' respected minister of the Free Church. Ann Laidlaw had a prolonged and sharp struggle for her life, but, thanks to the skill of the attending physician and the unselfish ministrations of her nurse, she turned the corner at last and began to recover. She was frightfully weak, of course — too weak at first to do anything but lie prone in her bed and watch Mary Elder at her needlework or flitting about her duties. She did not even seem to remember, if she had ever understood, the nature of her illness, and it struck her one day that the house was terribly quiet, and that she had seen no face but Mary's for a long time. " That was Tam at the door. I'll let him look in at the windy the morn," said Mary one day, after she had been absent from the room for a few minutes. " Puir chield, it has been an unco time for him, bidin' his lane." "Where is he?" inquired Ann; for though it had been explained to her at the beginning of her illness what precautions were imperative, she seemed to have quite forgotten. " He's bidin' at the shop, makin' his ain meat an' dreein' his weird as best he can ; but it'll sune be ower noo." ■' JM- I g g-i » ^ i»— »~ THE POOR RELATION 121 " An' Where's the lassies, Mary ? " was Ann's next puzzled question. " Awa' hame lang syne, but they'll baith come back again as sune as they get leave." Ann turned uneasily, and tried to raise herself on her elbow. "What has ailed me? Is't a fever I've had Mary?" * "No, my dear. I thocht ye kent; it's waur nor a fever, an' it's a miracle to see ye as ye are Ye're getting better o' the sma'pox." The invalid fell back among her pillows, and a look of vague terror gathered on her face. "Bring me a gless," she said, at length; and Mary smiled to herself, not surprised, and thank- ing God that there was no need to try to set aside her request. She took the little hand-glass from the toilet-table, and held it before her sister- in-law's face. " Ye're no' quite so sonsy as ye was, Ann, but there s nae marks. He's a clever young doctor that ; and he deserves a muckle fee, which Tarn will no' grudge him." Ann Laidlaw scanned her sharp features and sunken eyes with a painful eagerness. " I'm an awfu'-like besom, Mary, if ye ask me," she said. And then they both laughed, rather tremulously. "An' ye've been bidin' here yersel' nursin' me, and daein' a'thino- vMti^op*- - fK^-»-- » •• •- -t j^ v.iiiivjou a tnociit o yei'ser " ! L 122 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT 'V. ihi i said Ann, after a while, as things became clearer to her. *' Eh, mercy me ! God reward ye an' forgie me." " Dinna mak ower muckle o' a sma' thing, Ann ; as I said to Dr. Ramsay, we can dee but aince," said Mary, with a quiet light in her eyes. " An* I thank the Lord that He has lang liftit me abune that fear." Ann Laidlaw never spoke, but turned her face to the wall and wept like a child. Her convales- cence was steady and sure, and at the end of an- other month she and Tarn went to the west coast for a change; and during their absence Mary took upon herself the cleaning and disinfecting of the house. When they came back to it again, on a sunny spring afternoon, it was looking as bonnie and fresh as the first day Ann had got it in order. All the crocuses and hyacinths were in bloom to welcome her, and at the door stood Mary, and the two maids smiling, in new caps and aprons; and it was all so sweet and homelike and undeserved that poor Ann Laidlaw could do nothing but cry and say she was unworthy of it all. Then there was a period of unspeakable peace and quiet happiness in that changed house, and many who had never cared to linger under its roof now came, because they found the atmo- sphere pleasant and very different from what it was. It became a common remark in Faulds what THE POOR RELATION 123 a change for the better had been wrought in Ann Laidlaw by her illness, which had therefore proved a blessed dispensation to her. But, curi- ously, nobody placed the credit where it was due, mr could they see that it was the poor relation, who still remained at the Laurels, who had shed the lovely grace of her own quiet, unselfish, and consecrated life over her brother's household. One man began to see it after a time, and to find some attraction in the Laidlaws' house, and that was Mr. Cairncross, ;he manager of the Ladyford Mines. He had a good deal of business, one way and another, with Tarn Laidlaw, but it had always hitherto been satisfactorily settled at the shop. Nobody paid much heed, however, when he began to drop in of an evening to smoke a friendly pipe with Tam ; and certainly it never dawned upon one or other that Mary could have anything to do with it. In the middle of these pleasant spring days happened that terrible calamity, the breaking of the United Bank. A great many folk in Faulds were involved, Laidlaw and Mr. Cairncross among the most seriously. It was a terrible blow to Tam, and he vas amazed that his wife took it so philosophically. He had feared, indeed, to tell her that all their savings, amounting to a good many thousand pounds, were swallowed up. But she to whom money and the things money can buy had been the very wine of life just 124 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT turned to him with a smile, a trifle tremulous, on her still white, thin face. " There's waur calamities than that, Tarn, an' we've ane anither left," was all she said. " But, Ann, ye dinna understand," he said, des- perately. " It means ruin. We'll hae to leave the hoose, an' if we can keep on the business it'll be by leave o' oor creditors." "What aboot the hoose! We were happy abune the shop or we ever saw it, my man, an' I'll gang ahint the coonter as I did afore, an' be blithe to do it, so dinna ye vex yersel' ; we'll get as muckle as serve oor turn yet." Tam stared at her helplessly. " What has come ower ye, Ann ? Ye're no' like the same wummin. I whiles fear ye're only spared a wee; ye jist seem ower guid." " It's Mary, Tam — Mary an' the Lord atween them," she said, without an irreverant thought. " Eh, man, I've a lot to mak up to ye an' a'body, an' I hope I may be spared langer than a wee." Tam felt much inclined to take her in his arms, but restrained himself, because such a thing had not happened for twenty years and more, and he was not sure how Ann might take it. But though lie went back to the shop with a lump in his throat and a moisture in his eyes, there was a strange, deep, sweet peace in his heart. For so long as the wife a man loves sticks up for him and stands IMfr3»^?f»"«*'*"«**»«»iyi THE POOR RF.L/1TI0N 125 by him through all the ills of life, what calamity can touch him ? That night Mr. Cairncross came to the Laurels; and, as it happened, Mary Elder was in the house alone, her brother and his wife having gone over to the manse to see Angus Fleming and his mother. She greeted him in her own pleasant, undis- turbed fashion, betraying no embarrassment, and bidding him sit down and wait till they should return. This he did, nothing loath, and his fine face wore a more than ordinarily satisfied look. "This is a terrible business, the breaking of the bank," he said, suddenly. " Is Mr. Laidlaw deeply involved? " "Yes; he has lost a'thing," she said, with a momentary sadness. " An' the queer thing is, they dinna seem to care." " I've lost a good deal myself," he said, gravely ; " close on ten thousand pounds ; but I shall not suffer as many will, as I have an assured income more than sufficient for my needs." " Then be thankfu'," she said, quietly, and with no intention to rebuke. " I'm vexed for my sis- ter-in-law, for she'll have to leave this hoose in which she has ta'en so muckle pride ; an' I think it's jist wonderfu' the way she taks it. A body wad think she was fain to get back to the shop. They had kindly asked me to bide wi' them ay, an' blithe was I to do it; but noo I'll hae to gang 126 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT %n I t^ back to Whiteinch, an' gratefu* am I that my job's still open to me, an' that I hae somebody there to gie me a hand-shake forby." Mr. Cairncross got up and walked across the floor. He was a very tall man, of striking and handsome presence, and just then he gave Mary a sense of filling all the room. Her sweet eyes followed him with a mild wonder in their depths. " Mrs. Elder, I'm a lone man up at the Mount, and my fortunes are sadly changed. Such as they are, will you share them ? I had a sv;eetheart in my youth, but she died ; and I have never cared to look at another woman since until I met you. Now everything seems changed. Do you think you could be my wife ? " . It was a very abrupt and plain wooing, but it made a great stir in Mary Elder's quiet heart, and the color, pink and sweet as a girl's, flushed all her face. She looked up at him tremblingly, with eyes that seemed to read his soul. There was no shrinking in his face. He stood before her with that serene calm which the consciousness of an upright. God-fearing life alone can give ; anxious, of course, because the matter was of great moment to him — anxious, yet not afraid. His life was a clean record, which the eyes of any pure woman could read and rejoice over. She thought of his character and work in the place, of all she had THE POOR RELATION 127 heard to his honor and credit, and a great peace came to her. "Yes," she said, at last, very low; but he caught the words. '* Yes, I think I could. I'm a plain woman, as ye ken, but if ye want me I'll come." So Mary became mistress of the Mount, to the sore amazement of Faulds,in which it made a nine- days' wonder. And some professed themselves at a loss to know what the popular manager, who might have had his pick of the country-side, had seen in that plain little woman, the widow of a ship-carpenter at Whiteinch, and with no pre- tensions which could fit her for such a position in the place. But George Cairncross knew very well what he was doing, and that in uniting that sweet life to his he insured his own happiness, and made for himself a home which a king might have envied him. Truly they are to this day happier than most, and Mary Cairncross is to the mining population of Faulds what Lisbeth Gray was for many years to the plowmen and farmers in the dale. And as I think on these things which are known to me, and listen to the clamor we hear of the New Woman and her rights and privileges, I wonder much that women are so blind. For the Old Women, of whom Lisbeth Gray and Mary Cairncross are the types, exercise rights which are divine, and have secured to them privi- 128 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT leges which the angels about the throne might envy. And I pray that when this empty clamor shall have died down, that our women will return to the simpler life, and be, as aforetime, minister- ing spirits to the many who need their sweet ministry, faithful servants, whom, when the Lord Cometh, He shall find watching. P !' m light amor 2turn ister- iweet Lord n. A CHRISTMAS FEAST In my day Christmas was not much honored by sentiment or observance in Faulds. New Year was the festival among the miners, and Hogmenay the signal for a more than usually liberal and dis- astrous consumption of short-bread, washed down by unhmited whisky. Handsel Monday was more affected by the plowmen ; and a byword greet- ing, current with them throughout the year, was, "Whaur are ye gaun next Handsel Monday?" ' Christmas not being much in vogue in Faulds then, there were few pretty fancies or little bits of romance connected with it ; but the one I am about to relate I can vouch for the truth of be- cause I was myself a witness to it, though through no deserving of my own. But to this day I am grateful that I was so privileged to step aside into the byways of human experience, and to witness that wholesome touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. The day before Christmas, just three months 129 180 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT "ll i^ \f ■IS '4 J,\ t I I*! after her marriage, Mrs. Cairncross came up the brae to the village, and, after leaving an order at her brother's shop for some things she wanted for her Christmas dinner, she ran in for a word with Ann, to bid her come over to the Mount the next afternoon to give her a hand with the table. She did not stay long, being in a hurry and full of happy business, which, as usual, concerned others much more than herself. " George says I am to bid Mr. Fairweather, Ann, and to take nae denial," she said, as she stood a moment at the door. " D'ye think he'll come?" •' Faith, I dinna ken ; but ye can see. Are ye gaun there the noo? " Mrs. Cairncross nodded, and ran off with a hurried good-by. With her marriage she appeared to have renewed her youth, and was a perpetual source of wonder and admiration to Ann and to many others. It was Mr. Cairncross's pleasure that his wife should be handsomely dressed, and that day she wore a sealskin jacket which Ann knew was never bought under forty pounds. Now a sealskin jacket is a garment such as can be worn with full grace and becomingness only by a slender woman, but which adds breadth and squatness to the generously inclined. Mary wore her jacket with grace because she could not help it, and with pride because it was given to her by her dear fir iJ A CHRISTMAS FEAST 181 husband, for whom she gave thanks to God every day of her happy life. She crossed the steep, wide street in a slanting direction, and entered a little shop, in the window of which was displayed a motley arrangement of sweet stuff, oranges and apples, and penny cakes. This was the emporium of Bawbie Mitchell, dear to the soul of every laddie that ever drew the breath of life in Faulds. If it be that this should meet the eye of any Faulds laddie now exiled, he will not need me to remind him of Bawbie's two specialties, made by her own hands — her large, luscious, and lasting bools, the most ef- fectual gag for a wagging tongue I ever saw, and her treacle gundy, in sticks rolled round, with white paper twisted cunningly at each end. How many a time have I and my compeers flattened our noses against Bawbie's window, and dwelt upon the possibilities life might hold for such as could afford umlimited purchases of those tooth- some morsels. The queer thing is how mortals change in taste, as in everything else. The first time I came down from London after I was out of my apprenticeship, I expended sixpence reck- lessly at Bawbie's counter, and found one bool very satisfying. The gundy I most ungushingly gave away. But I must not digress, lest your digestion sour ere the Christmas dinner is served. There was only one possession of Bawbie Mitch- 132 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT r A I. 't - V'' 11 . ell's more interesting to Faulds bairns than the aforesaid specialties, and that was her one-eyed starling, that hung up in a big wicker cage at the door of the little back room. Nobody knew the history nor the age of Peter Mitchell, as he was called, though why " Peter," remains a mystery to this day. He was no beauty, and very ill- tempered, and he said so Httle that nobody could brag of his linguistic accomplishments ; but he served in the shop instead of a bell, never failing at the entrance of every customer to give vent to the most unearthly " skraigh," as Bawbie called it, which she could hear in the remotest corner of the house, and down to the foot of the garden as well. That he was a discerning bird and knew his function was evidenced by the fact that he never " skraighed " if Bawbie were behind the counter. She was weighing out pennyworths of sweeties into little paper bags against the rush of trade she expected the following week when Mrs. Cairncross came into the shop. Bawbie was a spinster of uncertain age, a thin, wiry little person, well preserved, with a face ruddy like a winter apple, dancing black eyes, and a row of little corkscrew curls kept in place by side-combs. I remember no change in her these twenty years. " Good-day, Bawbie," observed Mrs. Cairn- cross, pleasantly. " I hope I see ye weel. Is Mr. Fairweather in ? " A CHRISTMAS FEAST 133 " Yes ; he's at his tea. D'ye want to see him ? " " If it winna bother him I would like a word wi' him." " Oh, it'll no' bother him, I'll warrant ! " replied Bawbie, with conviction. " Come up the stair." Mr. Fairweather occupied a bed sitting-room directly above the shop— a very comfortable place and cheery, looking out on the street. He was sitting at the fire, with his frugal meal on a little round table, and he rose up from his elbow-chair when he heard the steps on the stair. " Mrs. Cairncross for a word wi' ye, sir," said Bawbie, putting her head within the door, and immediately disappeared. The old man came forward with a pleased look on his face, and received his visitor with a courtly grace peculiarly his own. He was very tall, and his shoulders were sadly bent. The long dress- ing-gown he wore seemed to reveal rather than to hide the spare slenderness of his figure, and Mrs. Cairncross thought the face under the black skullcap very wan and thin. It was a beautiful face, sealed with the peace of an upright life, and with a certain spirituality which seemed to speak of a soul in touch with the unseen. Twenty years before he had been proud of his resemblance to Mr. Gladstone, but in later life -hat resemblance had become less marked. The old schoolmaster had retired from the arena a^H «— !— w-^r — -t 1, Ci,.., Vrtvo iv-OO Keen \Jll I u I ) 'i i'?' 134 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT I'l.L politics than of yore, and was wont to deplore the decay of high honor and probity in public life. He had been Free Church schoolmaster in Faulds from the Disruption, and had turned out some fine scholars and many good citizens, his teaching taking a wider scope than any code. The lessons taught by Adam Fairweather are, to my certain knowledge, bearing fruit to this day in the four corners of the earth. With the advent of the School Board Adam found his occupation gone, and, too old to seek pastures new, and having enough for his slender wants, he lived the evening of his days in quiet among his books. He had been a widower for twenty years, and had one son, who, while not exactly a ne'er-do-well, had been shiftless and idle in his youth, and had finally em- igrated to New Zealand. His father had heard nothing of him for five years, and now in his ex- treme old age, and having lost his Httle savings in the disastrous United Bank failure, was a some- what sad and wholly pathetic figure, yet with a certain dignity which forbade pity even delicately conveyed. " Good-day to ye, Mr. Fairweather," said Mrs. Cairncross, cheerily. ** I'm sent by Mr. Cairncross to bid ye come an' eat your Christmas dinner wi' us the morn, an' I'm to tak nae excuse. That's my orders." " Sit down, ma'am, sit down," said the old man, ! A CHRISTMAS FEAST 135 with a pleased smile. " It is most kind of Mr. Cairncross, and you to bring the message, and to remember me at all. But I fear I am but poor company for any Christmas feast." " Puir company, indeed ! We'll not argue that, Mr. Fairweather, but expect ye at six o'clock sharp," said Mrs. Cairncross, briskly. "Now I'll tell ye wha's comin' : my brither an' his wife, an' Mr. an' Mrs. Gray from Stanerigg, an' David Lyall, ane o' yer ain laddies. Mr. Cairncross met him yesterday. He's bidin' wi' his aunt. Miss Wallace, at the Byres, an' they're baith comin', an' the minister; that's a'." " A goodly company, indeed. I should rather like to see David again. He was a likely lad, and I hope he is doing well in London." " Ye can come an' see," said Mrs. Cairncross, with a nod. " Now I'm awa', for I'm a busy woman this day. So guid-by, an' six o'clock sharp ; an' we'll drive ye hame, or keep ye a' nicht if ye'll bide." So saying, and without waiting to hear another word, the little woman hurried away. " Bawbie," she said, solemnly, as she reentered the shop, " he's sair failed." Bawbie nodded, and her curls jerked ; but her kind face was very grave. " The loss o' the siller's telt on him. It's left him very jimp. Eh, thae bank directors, they should be hung up by the 136 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT it Li' if v^ neck ! Gie me the stockin'-fut for siller yet. It maybe disna grow there, but ye can grip it when ye hke." Mrs. Cairncross agreed, and as she walked so- berly home pondered the case of the schoolmaster in her mind. She had heard her husband and Mr. Ilaldane of liasterlaw talking of him one nigiit, and mooting some plan whereby his loss could be made good to him without wounding him, and she determined to help that good project forward without delay. Next afternoon, about five o'clock, Adam Fair- weather turned out, ready for this most unusual dissipation ; and as he walked down the village street many regarded him with admiration, and more than one observed: •• Isn't the maister braw?" He wore a long surtout coat, fashioned after the pattern of a bygone day, with a well-brushed velvet collar, which only looked shabby in the sun, a pair of shepherd's tartan trousers, carefully pol- ished boots and white spats, a flowered waistcoat, and a high peaked collar, kept in place by a neatly folded black silk stock. A gentleman every inch of him, and one of the simplest, most lovable souls that ever lived. It was not a long walk to the Mount, which must have been christened out of pure contradiction, since it lay distinctly and snugly in a hollow. Faulds itself straggled on I ^ CHRISTMAS FEAST 137 the two slopes of a valley, through which ran the bonny Faulds burn, a clear and gurgling stream not despised by anglers, especially on its lower reaches, where it broadens to join the river whose name it is not presently expedient that I reveal I he road divided the Pitbraden property from Inneshall, and the Mount had been a former dower-house of the Inneses. It therefore stood witlnn the grounds, and was a very roomy old- fash.oned, picturesque abode, a perfect show-place for beauty in the summer. It was a great uplifting, of course, for the ship- carpenter's widow to become mistress of the fine old house ; but she accepted it all so naturally, and was so sweetly at home in it, that nobody could have guessed that she was not to the manner born I have been at many dinners in my time, but I never sat at a more homely and delightful table among so many pleasant guests, as on that mem ' orable Christmas day. There was no elaborate menu ; the appetites of Faulds folk, being whole- some, required no false tickling. So the fare was of the good old-fashioned sort, and it graced the massive, well-arranged table, and was in keeping with the whole spirit and circumstance of the feast rhere was neither a low-cut bodice nor a swal- lowed-tailed coat in the company, so that the old schoolmaster's surtout was in no manner out of place. He was in great form. In that happy and I 138 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT 11,1 II h * ill \U ■i ! iM ^l:i, ' {| congenial company the shadows seemed to roll back from his somewhat saddened heart, and he gave us of his best. And what a best it was! What a fund of quaint drollery was hidden under his grave looks ! How sharp and swift his tongue to point the neat phn "^d turn the shaft of delicate wit ! Old storieii rrom his lips clothed in a new and living garb we scarcely recognized ; and how his gentle, merry laugh rang again when we saw ourselves thus so shamelessly taken in! Our host and hostess were teetotalers both, but they had provided champagne of rare and delicate bouquet for their guests; and the old man was prevailed upon to drink a generous glass, which sent the blood coursing through his veins with something of the vigor of long ago. Then we asked him for a song, knowing well that if he could be persuaded a treat would be ours. He had a tenor voice of very pure and sweet quality, with which he had led the praise in the Free for five and thirty years. Now the precentor's box is occupied by an able-bodied miner, whose idea of his calling is to bawl at the very pitch of his voice, and he has gathered about him what he calls a choir, of raw lads and lasses, like-minded with himself. Many of us are wae over the change. A Scotch song we naturally expected, because we knew his repertoire was full, and we were not A CHRISTMAS FEAST 139 I disappointed. I think I see him yet, standing, with his long, delicate, characteristic hand lying firmly on the white table-cloth, his figure drawn up proudly, his rapt face responsive, as was his voice, to the sentiment and the melody of the exquisite ballad he chose. " Kind, kind and gentle is she, Kind is my Mary; The tender blossom on the tree Cannot compare wi' Mary." We saw that the heart of the old man was stirred as he sang, and that his thoughts were with the long ago, when his Mary had walked so happily by his side. As he came to the last verse, the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and I am not ashamed to say that I could not have spoken for the lump in my throat. Just then there came a great, loud knocking at the door, and the maid came to say that a lady and gentleman would speak with Mrs. Cairncross. When she left the room the old man rose to his feet again, and said he'd give us the last verse over again for auld lang syne. " But see ye one o' modest air, Bedecked wi' beauty saft an' rare, That maks your heart feel sweetly sair, O weel ye ken my Mary. Sae kind, kind and gentle is she, Kind is my Mary; The tender blossom on the tree Cannot compare wi' Mary." •"mmmmmmmiimimiimi^mifmiimmm [r I i ir^ ii t W.\ W' il f(l 140 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT He was in the middle of the refrain, and had his hand uplifted, beating time to the plaintive tune, when we saw the dining-room door softly open, and three came in where one only had gone out. Now I had been at Faulds school with Jock Fair- weather, the schoolmaster's son, and had played truant with him, too, many an afternoon in the nesting time in the woods of Inneshall; but though he now stood before us in the flesh, I had no more recognition of him than if he had been an utter stranger. He was now a man of five and thirty, well grown and handsome, and with a grave, trust-inspiring face, on which was visible just then nothing but a great sadness. A lady was with him, younger than he, and very sweet and fair to look upon, the wife he had won across the sea. Adam Fairweather paused at the third line of the refrain, and turned his eyes to the door. Immediately he recognized his truant son, and sank into his chair trembling as if he had gotten a mortal blow. "Is that him, John?" asked the young wife, wonderingly, and I have long remembered the tender sweetness of her voice. " Oh, what a dear old man ! " Then she took a swift step forward, and, kneel- ing by his chair, put her arm round his neck, and laid her soft pink cheek to his. And in a moment Jock was at the other side, and we rose with one A CHRISTMAS FEAST 141 accord. As we passed out of the room, which tender human feeling had thus made holy ground I saw the face of Robert Gray of Stanerigg work convulsively, and his great, powerful frame trem- ble hke a little child's. And though his wife's heart was breaking with its bitter cry for her own boy who "was not," she, womanlike, and godlike,—! write it reverently,— had her hand through her husband's arm in a moment, and at her touch his trembling ceased. So we all went out one by one, and the door was closed. Jock Fairweather's return was a great excite- ment in Faulds, which was increased when it got about that he had come back a rich man, and could be a member of Parliament any day in New Zealand. Thus I fear that we cannot lay claim to any special high-mindedness in Faulds, but are as susceptible as the rest of the world to filthy lucre and its charms. He and his wife abode a month at the Mount, the guests of the Cairncrosses, and then they went back to New Zealand, taking the old man with them. Mrs. Cairncross told me that he went with them as pleased and happy as a child, and that it was a sight to see the three together. And for twelve months Faulds was without its Adam Fair- weather. Then there came a letter to Mrs. Cairn- m L »'i ^1 ' t'l 'iV ■^1 142 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT cross which did not surprise her very much, for she had ne^^^r expected that the old man would lay his bones across the sea. It contained very full instructions, which she carried out to the let- ter, with all the joy it gave that good soul to do kind deeds for others. And when April came, with balmy airs and that heavenly sunshine which wooed into bloom all the primroses in the Innes- hall woods, and decked the banks of the Faulds burn with the white anemone stars, there was a snug little cottage on the Pitbraden side of the burn all ready for a new tenant. It happened that I was at the Byres for my Easter holiday, and Mrs. Cairncross was kind enough to let me see through it. I never saw a sweeter, more home- hke little place, and the sitting-room, which had a quaint latticed window looking out cheerily on the road, had in it some of Adam Fairweather's old bits of furniture, from which he had parted reluctantly, not knowing that they were only stored in one of Mrs. Cairncross's lumber-rooms. More important still, perhaps, Bawbie Mitchell, who was less able than of yore to cater for the taste of Faulds youth, had taken possession, being duly installed as housekeeper. Nor was Peter Mitchell left behind. On the simny May after- noon when Jock Fair weather brought his father back to the cozy little bigging prepared for him, but of which he was till that day in ignorance, •f A CHRISTMAS FEAST 148 Peter was hanging in hU vicker cage at the door, and Bawbie standing within the porch all smiles, though her spectacles were dim with tears. " What's this, John ? " asked the old man, trem- blingly, as his son set wide the freshly painted garden-gate. " Where are you taking me to ? " " Your own home, father, since your heart has been here so long ; and I pray God you may have health and comfort in it for many a day." Then Peter Mitchell, who had been singularly morose and languid all day, preened his rusty feathers and gave vent to the familiar " skraigh," followed by an extraordinaiy burst of speech: " Hullo, Maister Fairweather! Graund weath- er for the craps. Keep up your dander." Then, in sepulchral tones, and with a peculiarly know- ing gleam in his seeing eye, " A bawbee's worth o' bools, an' a bawbee back." Having thus emptied himself of his whole rep- . ertoire in one fell burst, Peter relapsed into his customary state of dignifiea silence, and spoke no more till the day of his death. So the old man, content and satisfied now that he had seen the new world and his son's home, settled down, happy as a king, among his bees and his flowers, and is the picture of beatified content to this day. Among the treasures he proudly shows to his many friends are the photographs of hi§ two chubby grandchildren, who have been 144 THE MISTRESS OF THE MOUNT early taught to love and lisp his name. And on the New Zealand mail day, he may be seen, punc- tually at a quarter to four o'clock in the afternoon, crossing the bridge on his way to the post-office, to await the sorting out of the letters. And though Sandy Melville thinks nothing of keeping the laird himself waiting while he reads all the postmarks, and draws his own conclusions regard- ing handwriting and postmarks, he is always ready for the schoolmaster, both with his letter and a cheery word. " There ye are, Maister Fairweather. Guid news to ye, an' plenty o* it." The old man has lived forty-two years in one place without making an enemy or rousing the birse of the most cantankerous. Yet some of us can hardly live a week without casting out with somebody. God grant, then, that Adam Fairweather be long spared ; for on the day that we carry him down the brae to the kirkyard a sweet savor will be lost to Faulds which could never be restored. But for him, when that day shall come, it will be but a joyful step higher, into the larger room. f 7T i'v M k MY AUNT ROBINA fy i: »£ k: W, T ft 1 MY AUNT ROBINA In my boyhood I stood considerably in awe of my Aunt Robina, otherwise Miss Wallace of the Byres. My father was cashier at the Ladyford Pits, and we lived in a roomy but very dreary house, right in the middle of the Rows. Our out- look was upon refuse heaps and cinder hills, and my mother deplored, to the last day of her life, the terrible difficulties of housekeeping in such surroundings. In these circumstances it was a great treat to me to get away up to the Byres for a few days, or even for a Saturday afternoon, especially as my grandfather and I were great chums. Old Byres, as he was familiarly called, was one of the most genial and good-hearted of men, and at a certain stage in my career, viz., the truant-playing stage, I loved him a good deal bet- ter than my own father, whose ideas of justice and discipline I considered extreme. Many a time has my dear old granddad stood between me and punishment righteously earned and richly deserved, even to surreptitiously hiding me in the chaff-hole at the Byres. He was as fond of me 147 Wf 148 [^VExrv yi [ 1 K 1 w • : i W ;') * • I.i i 1 !!l if ,ii ■ k\ it! Mr ^£/A^r ROBIN// as I was of him. I was the only youngster in the connection, my mother being his younger daugh- ter. Aunt Robina was his only other child. My mother was a little woman, with a sweet face, which never lost its young, girlish look; but Aunt Robina was very tall and handsome, and her manner befitted her stature, being dignified and reserved in the extreme. I used to compare her very unfavorably with my mother ; but now I know that her character was of a finer and loftier order, capable of reaching heights of heroism and self-sacrifice which would have appalled my mother's gentler mold. This I say without dis- paragement to her whose memory is still one of my sweetest possessions. Alas, that it should be but a memory to-day ! My mother was always delicate. Aunt Robina often boasted that she had never had a day's illness in her life. But, though the sisters were so little alike, they were devotedly attached to each other, and I know now that the tragedy of Aunt Robina's life has- tened my mother's end. The offices at the Ladyford Mines were large and commodious, and there was work sufficient for a dozen clerks. Among so many there was a good deal of change and variety, and when I was old enough to begin my career on a stool there, I soon learned that it is possible to run the whole gamut of human nature within the four walls of H MY AUNT ROBIN A 149 a counting-house. We were generally on pretty good terms with the office fellows—that is, my father encouraged them to come about the house, and my mother did what she could to make them' feel that in her they had a friend. Aunt Robina came a good deal too, of course, and no doubt she was an attraction ; two or three of them were always in love with her at one time. But she was very stand-offish and particular, and when I see how cheap some girls make themselves in their anxiety to call themselves engaged, I feel tempted to tell them they are on the wrong tack entirely. Yet the odd and sad thing is that, after all, Aunt Robina made shipwreck of her life, and will go down to the grave with a scar on her heart which will never be removed. Just about the time I left Adam Fairweather's school, and was elevated to a stool in my father's office, we got a new clerk called Dick Rattray— a dashing, handsome fellow, who gave one the impression of wishing to carry everything before him. My father did not take to him, but as he was an excellent servant, and no fault could be found with his work or conduct inside, he tried to overcome his prejudice ; but he never succeeded, and he seemed much annoyed when it became apparent that he was paying very special attention to Aunt Robina, especially as it was also quite evident that she seemed inclined to favor him •mmmmmmmm Jt! ! f ■!ii II sr i -'i.: I -I ■il I !l 1 150 AfK //L^A^r ROBIN /I You would have gone far and wide to find a hand- somer pair than Dick Rattray and Aunt Robina; and even my mother smiled indulgently, and wondered why father was so hard to please. But that he possessed a discriminating judgment of human nature was abundaktly proved by subse- quent events. To make this part of my story short, Dick and my aunt became engaged, with the reluctant consent of my grandfather, though her marriage would leave him very lonely at the Byres. Soon after the engagement was settled, Dick took a restless fit, and began to talk of emi- grating to a certain portion of South Africa, about which there happened to be at the time a gold craze. And off he went, on the understanding that within a year Aunt Robina was to go out to him. My father was furious over this arrange- ment, and could never speak of it with patience, although he was ordinarily a most moderate and just-minded man. At the end of the year, as ar- ranged. Aunt Robina went away. It is an odd thing how women, the most self-contained and reserved in other relations of their life, so often give themselves away, if I may use the expression, in that relation which is the very making or mar- ring of their destiny. My aunt was absolutely infatuated with Rattray, and, as my father said, rather bitterly for him v lo was usually so gentle of speech : MY AUNT ROBIN A 151 " Well, she's oflf from us all without a pang, at the first wag of Dick Rattray's little finger. If he betrays that trust, may I be spared to get even with him." For my father loved Robina Wallace as if she had been his own sister, and I know that, had he lived, the tragedy of her life would have eaten into his big, warm, generous heart. At first she wrote gaily— full of delight and contentment over Dick's goodness and devotion, and giving us glowing accounts of her new life. These epistles, which were eagerly devoured at the Byres and in our house, came with great regularity at first; but gradually the intervals increased between them, until it was no uncommon thing for months to pass without a letter. Also I have heard them say that their tone changed, and that the jubilant note had ceased to sound through them, though she seemed to take great care not to make a com- plaint. But we saw that the heart of the old man, in the lonely farm-house among the hills, was big with unspoken dread, and he got a pathetic, wist- ful look in his eyes and about his kind old mouth which indicated an anxiety that never slept. Troubles thickened upon us about that time, and I look back to it as one of the dark periods of my life. My father lost his life, a victim to his own heroism and bravery, in the great explosion which made Faulds a world's wonder at the time. He 152 MY AUNT ROBIN A was the leader of the forlorn hope that went down into the blackness of the bowels of the earth to seek and, if possible, bring relief to the entombed miners. But not one came back to tell the tale. Left alone, it was but natural that my mother and I should make our home with the old man at the Byres ; and, though I was beginning to dream my own dreams then, and to long to spread my wings, I stifled my longings for my frail mother's sake, and remained tied to the drudgery of the desk, which had become so irksome to me. So I was at the Byres on that red and still October night when my Aunt Robina came back, a beaten and heartbroken woman, to the happy home where she had been missed day in and day out all the years she had been away. The Byres was east from Faulds, on the high ground toward the hills of VVesterlaw, and there was a march-dike between the two places. The Byres was not much thought of as a farm ; it had too many stony breadths and cold brae faces that "grat a' simmer an' girned a' winter," as I've heard my grandfather put it; but the Wallaces had farmed it for a good many generations, and had ay got a good living off it. I am certain it had the stoniest fields in the whole dale, and I used to be amazed at the great heaps the women workers gathered every year. My grandfather had a curious theory about these stones. I re- MY AUNT ROBIN A 153 member one day, when I was a halfling, walking across the fields with him, he gave a big, sandy boulder a kick and a sour look, and said, quite savagely for him : " Stanes, Davie! they grow like weeds. D'ye see that ? if ye leave it lang enough, lad, it'll grow high enough to split for a kirk steeple, or else braid enough to mak a foondation." And from that deep-seated conviction nothing ever made him depart. But in spite of these drawbacks, the Byres was a very comfortable homestead, and the house stood bonnily on the roadside, with a wide, graveled courtyard in front which gave it a quaint, feudal look. It had been one of the stopping places for the coach in the old days, and the draw-well was still in the yard, and some queer stone benches, where the hostlers'used to rest and smoke while the passengers refreshed themselves inside. The house was a fine specimen of the old -harled" building you see so seldom now, and is to this day much admired by those who understand such matters. It had not the ^'^lightest claim to modern improvement of any kmd ; the ceilings were low and the windows small but the walls so thick and strong that the word "draft" had no meaning for us, even when the north wmd was skelping the snow down from the hills, and drifting up every treacherous nook and cranny. When the great painter who immortal- J . (♦: . .1 H' 164 MY /lUNT ROlUN/1 ized Wcstcrlaw's lost lamb was coming and going that way, he often looked in at the Byres, and he had a long eye after some of the old sticks of furniture, but which were more precious than ru- bies in my grandfather's sight. I hope I am not too prosy over my description of the Byres, which I still regard as my home, and which memory has hallowed for me beyond all power of mine to tell. I well remember the night Aunt Robina came home. We were sitting in the parlor, at the gloaming, on a clear, bright, beautiful October day. The light had lingered nearly an hour be- yond its usual, and so clear and delicate was the atmosphere that we could discern plainly the smoke and si)ires of lulinburgh, more than a score of miles distant. And the air had in it that sound- less stillness jieculiar to October, a stillness which can carry the whir of a wild bird's wing or the bleat of a shee]) for miles. My grandfather was nodding in his high-backed chair, a picturesque figure in his short knee-breeches and cinnamon- colored gaiters, with coat and vest of pepper-and- salt tweed, spun from the wool of his own sheep. At seventy-two he was hale and hearty, able for a whole day in the fields, though he always got drowsy in the evenings, and was glad to go early to bed. It was chilly enough for us to find the glow of the wood fire pleasant, and as we were all about the hearth, my mother knitting in her MY /tUNT ROBIN A 165 iuw chair, we did not discern anybody approach- ing the house. Ihit presently we heard tlie front- door liandle turned with the boldness of a familiar hand, and a foot approach our parlor door. And when it opened we looked round startled, for such sudden visitations were not common in our quiet house. A woman entered the room, a tall figure that seemed to fill it, and my mother .sprang from her chair with a little cry which awakened my grandfather, who also leaped to his feet. " O Robina— Robina Wallace, is it you?" " Yes, it's me," was the answer that came back, in Aunt Robina's voice, vv'ith all the music gone out of it. "O, father, father! thankful am I to see ye alive! I was feared to come, in case I should find ye away." The poor old man began to tremble, and he tottered forward to the window, and took his lost child by the hand. Then I bethought me to light the tall silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and we saw the great change in her who had gone forth from us a bonnie young woman in her sweet- est prime. Her face had lost all its delicate bloom, and had grown haggard and hard, though the fine features were unchanged, and the hair, which had been like burnished gold with the sun upon it, was white as the driven snow. " Don't look at me like that, Effie," she said to my mother, with a wan, fleeting smile. " It makes 166 MY AUNT ROBIN A t i < I i me think I must be fearsome to look at. I see by your garb that your dear man has gone to a better country. How are ye, Davie? Dinna tremble like that, father; I'm all right." " Are ye, lass? ye dinna look it, stealin' in like a hunted thing. Whaur's your man ? " " My man ! I hae nane. If ye mean Dick Rattray, I havena seen him for five year an' more. He's nae man o' mine. If ye'll bid me sit doon, I'll tell ye the story, an' it'll be dune wi'. I'm tired, for I've walked frae Braehead Station, not being minded to come oot at Faulds among kent folk." " Ye shall not speak a word, Robina, or ye have rested and had your tea," said my mother, firmly ; and she hung about the stricken woman w'th all her great motherly heart in her eyes. " Tell her, father, she must not speak or she be rested and refreshed." " I'd rather speak now. I would lay my burden down at the door. If ye kent how heavy it is, Effie, ye wad let me hae my way." " Let her be," said grandfather, speaking dazedly, like a person in a dream. " Perhaps I had better go away, Aunt Robina," said I, thinking that perhaps the story of a wo- man's betrayal might not be hearing for me. " No, bide ; it may be a warnin' to ye, Davie, though God forbid that any sib to me should need MY AUNT ROBIN A 187 sic a warnin'," she said; and laying off the long cloak which had enveloped her from head to foot, and the close-fitting black bonnet, which had given her something of a Quaker look, she drew in her chair and sat down. The red light of the wood fire flickered on her face, which, though so worn and sad, had a certain beauty and nobleness in it which sank into my heart. " It will be seevin year come April," she began, staring straight before her, "sin I gaed away.' Rattray met me at Cape Toon, an' we were mar- ried, as ya ken. He seemed in no hurry to get back to his own place up at the gold-fields, an' after a bit he said he didn't think he'd take me up there, for it was very rough, an' no place for a woman body. It was a terrible journey, any way, ten days or mair in a bullock wagon, in which ye had to sleep as weel as travel. He suggested that I should bide down in Cape Toon an' let him go back to the diggin's, an' that he come as often as he could to see me. That wasna very pleasant hearin' for a new marriet wife, an' I said I'd rather gang wi' him an' tak my chance; but in tiie end he had his way, an' I was left. It was very lone- some at first, though I had some kind friends, too, that did their best for me. I had a very comfort- able hame an' plenty of money, for he had made a lot, an' was makin' fast. He said that he had only sent for me because he was so anxious to 158 MY AUNT ROBIN A m V n 1%. ii 8' (l> t i' see me, an* because he had promised, an' that in a year or so we should come hame an' get a farm. He even spoke o' the Byres, when father should retire." Here she paused, and wiped her pale lips to still their bitter trembling. " He came to see me very regularly, an' bade a few weeks ay, an' I was tolerably happy, though it was a queer life, an' not what I had been used to or had expected. But yet I was tolerably content, considerin' a'thing; for he was very kind an' lovin', an' grudged me naethin' under the sun. At the end of eighteen months my bairn cam — my little Effie." " Your bairn ! " cried my mother, her sweet face flushing. " O Robina, ye had a bairn and never teltme!" " No, I couldna — I'm comin' to it. Poor father, ye are vexed," she said, laying her hand on his knee, and looking into his sad face with affection- ate eyes. " But it is better that ye should hear a' noo; then it'll be dune wi'. Weel, efter the bairn cam Rattray was mair attentive than ever for a time, an' I was mair content. Ye see, she filled a' my heart, an' took awa' the lonely feelin' that had whiles been so hard to bear. " But in a few months his letters began to fa* aff, an' he cam very seldom. I was terrible anx- ious, of course, but it wasna till the siller stoppit MY /tUNT ROBINyl 159 comin' that I feart a' wasna richt I worriet my- sel' nearly into my grave, an' syne, actin' on the advice o' Mr. Duncan, my minister, I gaed awa' up to the gold-field to see. I left the bairn in Cape Toon. Mrs. Duncan took care o' her for me, an' I set awa' cot on the queer pilgrimage which cost me dear. It was verra near a fortnicht or I got to the place, which was queer an' rough enough, though I .saw plenty o' women there, an' naethin' to hinder me frae bein' there a' the time. An' that angert me an' filled me wi' a sort o' impa- tience I couldna keep doon. I found that Rattray was weel kent. The first man I asked was able to tell me that he wasna in the settlement that week, but had gaen wi' some ither chaps to pros- pect a hundred miles or so up the river; but he pointed oot his hoose to me, an' said if I ca'd there his wife would tell me a' aboot him." " His wife!" echoed my mother; and her face became white as the soft quilling of her widow's cap. And my grandfather sprang up quivering, with clenched fists, and something of the old-time fire in his eyes. As for me, I was blazing ; and had Dick Rattray but come in our midst, it must have fared badly with him. But Aunt Robina paid no heed to us ; but kept on steadily in her low, bitter, monotonous voice, with her sad eyes watching the red heart of the glowing fire. 'i W 160 Ij MY AUNT ROBINA " Not kenning very weel hoo I felt, I took his directions, an' found the hoose pointed oot to me as his an' where I should find Mrs. Rattray. An' I did find her, an' not her alone, but her twa bairns, that Dick could never have denied, since they were his livin' image. I went in an' saw the woman, an' spoke wi' her, an' then I cam awa'." She stopped then for a full minute. I have never heard anything more pathetic or significant than the last sentence, the very brevity of which forbade us to ask a single question. " She was a puir thing withoot heart, an' no' kennin' richt frae wrang, which made her a very fit mate for him ; but before I left she proved to me that .she was his wife ; an' so, kennin' what I was, I cam awa', as I said, back to Cape Toon to my little nameless bairn." Here grandfather groaned, and covered his face with his hands. " For a time I was like a being distraught, an* but for the Duncans I micht hae ta'en my ain life an* the bairn's ; but efter a while a kind o' calm- ness cam to me, an' I was able to look ahead an* to think." " That must be fi.ve years ago, Robina," put in my mother. "What for did ye no' come hame then?" " It was the bairn. The pride o* me wadna let nie, I had mind on Angus Fleming's mother, a,r\* Ti' MY AUNT ROBIN/f 161 What she suffered, an' it was pride that wadna let me write ; but I wasna withoot friends that helpit me. I opened a little shop, an' was able to mak bite an' sup for her an' me till she was ta'en awa'." ^^ " Oh, she's no' deed, is she ? " cried my mother. " I thocht I had her in my arms the noo. Ye did bring her, Robina?" A convulsive shiver ran through Aunt Robina's frame, and her face became, if possible, a shade whiter. " She's awa' ; she deed o' a fever f.ve months ago, an' then I couldna thole my life, an' afore I kent whaur I was they had me on the way hame." " Did— did the villain—-! daurna name him lest I blaspheme," cried my grandfather. " Did he never come near ye?" "No; but he wrote an' sent money, which I sent back. I never touched a penny o't, nor set foot in the hame he had furnished for me," she said, with a certain slow pride. ''No, I hinna forgi'en him. I never will. A just God wadna ask as muckle frae a puir woman's heart. The cruelty o' the thing was past forgi'eness, as it is well-nigh past speech. That's a'. Can I come hame, father, to be Robina Wallace o' the Byres, as I was afore, an' seek peace in the auld hame where I was aince so happy ? " My mother and I rose up then and slipped away, knowing there were some things the old man 162 MY AUNT ROBIN A I .' U might wish to say to his desolate and heart- stricken bairn which only God should hear. We had all been amazed at her composure and self- possession ; but in the night, my room being next to Aunt Robina's, I heard her strong sobbing, and my heart was sore disturbed and exercised by many rebellious thoughts. For how can a just and tender God suffer such things, or allow such men to cumber the ground ? I may have grown wiser since those questioning days, but I have not as yet lound any solution of the difficulties which then beset me. So Aunt Robina slipped into her old place at the Byres, and appeared at rest, though there was that in her face which made strangers look at her again and again. For she had the face of a woman who had been through the furnace, and who had drained the cup of bitter experience to the dregs. She is all alone now at the Byres, save when I go down at holiday times. Lest it should surprise any that I should care to lay bare the heart-sorrow of one dear to me, I may say that when she knew that I was writing these brief records of simple life she asked that her story might be told among the rest. " For it micht be a warnin* to some lassie as glaiket an' self-willed as I was, laddie," she said, with that unspeakable pathos which is inseparable from her now. " Oh, that I could tak all such h m MY AUNT ROBIN /t 163 by the hand, an' tell them how bitter is the breid that ill-doin' provides, an' what a mockery is mairrage unless it be built on love an' respect an' the fear of God." For this reason alone is the story of my Aunt Robina here set down. I It IP r;!» i ;! ■f i A WASTREL REDEEMED ijfeffl .'* (, .»'! 1 i F ■\ 4 'i :4 B ^' . A WASTREL REDEEMED About four o'clock on a winter afternoon a middle-aged countrywoman alighted from a south-coming train in the Waverley Station at Edinburgh, and after looking about her with a slight expectancy, for which she immediately re- buked herself, walked briskly toward the long, weary ascent of steps leading up to Prince's Street. She was a somewhat striking figure among many that were commonplace, her attire and appearance being foreign to city streets and a little out of place thereon. She was very tall, and carried herself erectly, and with a certain dignity and grace of the more rugged order. Her gown was of stone-gray alpaca, fully fash- ioned, the bodice gathered at the waist. On the breast a white lawn neckerchief was held in soft folds by a large brooch composed of hair cun- ningly intertwined ard set in massive gold. It was not a beautiful ornament, but it was more precious than rubies to th^ woman who wore it. Each tiny lock she had removed with her own 167 E t 168 it' J M II \ :r ' 'Iff ^ l^ASTREL REDEEMED hands from the heads of those she loved and whom God had taken ; and the wearing of that simple memento comforted her, giving to her wounded heart some nearness to those who had gone away. An ample cloak of black woolen material, plainly made, hung well over her gown, and her bonnet was of black lace with a lilac flower, and old-fashioned lappets tied over the ears. She carried a basket, such as is used for carrying market produce in the country, and she was not ashamed of it, though it provoked a smile on some lips as she passed. She was serenely unconscious of scrutiny or criticism, and moved like a person whose position is assured, and who therefore can be careless of vulgar comment. The face, if of a homely type, was yet striking in its way, by reason of its fresh, ruddy, wholesome color and its serene and beautiful expression. Strength, sweetness, and absolute sincerity were marked on every feature; seen even in a crowd, it was a face to be noted and remembered. It wore at that moment a singularly troubled look ; indeed, anxiety of the crudest and most wither- ing sort was gnawing at the woman's heart. Arrived, somewhat breathless after the long ascent, she looked about her in a half-troubled way, which attracted the attention of a well- disposed policeman, who had his eye on sundry imps who were selling vestas and papers, and r A WASTREL REDEEMED 169 Otherwise doing their best to hinder and annoy passengers going to and from the station. "Can I dae onything for ye, mistress?" he inquired. And the kindly word brought a sud- den smile to her face which the man long remem- bered. "Maybe ye could direck me, my man, to Drumphail Street. I'm seekin' the hoose o' the Reverend Neil Denham, Free Kirk minister there. D'ye happen to ken it?" " I ken Drumphail Street ; it's easy to get ; keep richt doon frae St. Andrew's Square, an' onybody'll tell ye." " Thenk ye kindly." She picked her way at a little trot across the muddy street. It had been a wet, miserable morning, and even yet the nipping air and leaden sky threatened more rain. The policeman watched to see that she took the right turning, and he continued to speculate about her till something else occurred to take his attention. The woman continued her course somewhat dully, as if not interested in what she saw. A close observer would have detected in her a gradually increasing nervousness as she approached her destination. It was visible in the number of times she changed her basket from one arm to another, and in a curious twitching of the generally firm, well- balanced mouth. At length she reached the ; :/, 170 A IV A ST RE L REDEEMED l!« I ' I ill 1 [■' V I i. i . f.t r ?>■■. 114 ■ r i if liiilh il , III house, a plain, unpretentious family abode, where the shininjT brasses and the spotless white curtains spoke of llip cnieful and capable housewife. A neat but very young servant opened the door, and when asked for Mrs. Den ham, replied that her mistress was in, though just going out. Mrs. Denham herself, hearing the voice, came out of the dining-room, and at sight of the figure on the doorstep gave a little cry. "O Lizzie, Lizzie Gray, is it really you?" There was a little catch, almost like a sob, in her breath, and she caught the stranger by her two hands and drew her within the door. There was no doubt about that welcome; it came straight and warm and sweet from the heart of the minister's wife. " Yes, it's me, Mary, and fell gled am I to see a kent face." " Neil is out. I was just going myself to a zenana meeting in Melville Street, but I'll send NelHe with a note of apology. Come in, come in." She drew her into the warm, cozy, fire-lit study, and setting her down in the minister's own chair, unfastened her cloa!- and her bonnet-strings with kindly hands. In all this there was a ner- vous haste of movement which indicated some deeper feeling than surprise and joy over an unexpected meeting with an old and dear friend. .1 A WASTREl REDEEMED 171 Mrs. Denham was a little plump woman, with a neat, well-developed figure, a round, chubby, sensible face, merry eyes, and wavy black hair; a pleasant person to look at and still pleasanter to know. " Dinna bide frae your meetin' for me, Mary," Mrs. Gray protested. " I only want a rest and a cup o' tea ; that the maid can gie me. Then I maun to Archibald Place to see Bob," " If you think I am going to leave you like this, you're mistaken, that's all," said Mrs. Den- ham, promptly. " Why, Lizzie, Lizzie Gray, do you know this is positively the first time I've had you in my very own house, and am I going to set you aside like a stranger? Not likely!" " I wudna hae been here the day, Mary, but for the letter ye wrote. I got it this morning." Mrs. Denham's lips twitched. Very well she knew what had brought her friend to Edinburgh. " I never had a harder task than to write that letter, Lizzie; but we'll i ilk about it after. How's Mr. Gray ? " "He's weel. He was awa to Tam Cairns's roi p at Pittencree afore the postman cam this murnin', an' it was as weel. Noo tell me hoo long it is sin ye suspeckit first that Bob was get- tin' into ill company." She folded her hands in her lap and looked very straightly into Mary Denham's face, and her •, t i f 172 4K ■: » : IIL ll\ // ly/ISTREL REDEEMED m eyes had the hunger of an anxious mother's heart in them. "Well, to tell you the truth, we were very anxious last winter, and toward the end of the session he came very little to our house. He has only been once since this session opened, and then he looked rather out of sorts. But it was things Neil heard outside that vexed us most ; and after thinking over it long, and praying, we decided to write." " It was a Christian act. What things did Mr. Denham hear outside?" Mrs. Denham was not surprised at the ques- tion. She had not known Elizabeth Gray all her days for nothing. The whole truth and nothing but the truth would satisfy that brave, sincere, and well-balanced mind. •* A good deal, dear ; but you mustn't lay it too much to heart. Bad companions are at the bottom of it. He's lodging with a very dissipated, idle fellow, who has led him off his feet. You know what Bob is— how warm-hearted and gen- erous, and full of fun. Then he is so fond of you. I am sure, after you have had a talk with him, he'll mend. That's why Neil and I thought we'd better write, for of course he resented what we said." " Ye have spoken, then ? " "Oh yes, a good many times," said Mary, ' ^-.'.KiurisGC^ ,1 w.. A WASTRF.l REDEEMED 178 coloring a little. " You did not expect we would look on at a lad we loved drifting so sadly with- out trying to help him ? Mr. Denham paid a fine for him at the police court last Monday morning." Ashen pale grew the face of Elizabeth Gray, and her strong hands trembled on her knee. "A fine! What for?" " He had been at the theater Saturday night, and had taken too much drink, and there was a row in the gallery. Several youths were appre- hended, Bob among them, though I believe he had nothing to do with it. He was locked up over Sunday, and fined on Monday morning at the court." It cost Mrs. Denham no small eflfort to state these unvarnished facts, but she knew the woman with whom she had to deal. " I was in the kirk on the Sabbath day jalous- ing naethin', Mary," she said, with a wan, wintry smile, " and my ain bairn in the jail. Ye are best aflf the day that has nae bairn, guid or bad." Mrs. Denham got up and knelt on the hearth- rug before her friend, looking up into her drawn face, her eyes wet with sympathetic tears. " Lizzie, don't give up. You'll save Bob yet. Your son will never be a castaway." She shook her head and sank wearily back in the chair. " I hae been uplifted, Mary, because my lad ' u m I Mm. 174 ^ IVASTREL REDEEMED had mair pairts than the lave. It is the Lord's way o' rebukin' sinfu' pride." " No such thing," contradicted the minister's bright Httle wife. ** I know enough of theology to contradict that. Just wait till Neil comes in, and he'll set you straight on that point." " I think I'll no wait, Mary. I'll gang ower afore darkenin' an' see Bob. I'll see Mr. Den- ham at nicht, if it be convenient for me to sleep hp-e." ivirs. Denham locked sorrowfully at her friend. This meek, half- apologetic demeanor was so un- like Lizbeth Gray's ordinary bearing that it troubled her. " Wouldn't you like Neil to go with you, or me? I could wait outside." " No, I'd readier be mysel, Mary. Ye needna fret; I'll no get lost." " Oh, I'm not afraid of that. It's after five now, and quite dark. Shall I send for a cab ? " " If ye wad. I'm tired, Mary, an' the streets confuse me. Yes, I'll tak a cab." So uneasy did Mrs. Denham feel after she had watched the cab drive away that she was thank- ful for her husband's return about six o'clock. He came into the study flushed with his brisk walk from the Old Town ; but directly he sat down the treacherous color faded. His face was too pale for health or comeliness, though the features // IVASTREL REDEEMED 176 were very fine and regular, his black eyes liquid and keen. It was the face of a student, the brow indicating intellectual gifts of the highest order. He was a power in the pulpit to which he had been called, and one of the shining lights of the church to which he belonged. His ministry was valuable, it was said, especially to the young, and he had a great following of young men at all his services. He had the reticent manner ond unde- monstrative demeanor of the student, and he did not make a companion of his wife; yet they seemed happy enough, and she content. The happy-hearted, sound-minded little country- woman had set him on a pedestal, and worshiped him perhaps a little too far off. In her eyes his character was without a flaw. " O Neil," she cried, breathlessly, " Lizzie is here— Mrs. Gray, I mean— and she has gone away over to see Bob." "Well, and what does she say? Did your letter give the shock we feared ? " " Well, I hardly know. She has got a heavy blow, of course— any one can see that; but somehow I don't think she was so surpri ed as we thought. Not want any tea? Have you had it?" "Yes." " Where ? " " At Mrs. Hamilton's," he answered. " I met I- ^' f I ill 11 ^ 176 ^ IV /I ST RE L REDEEMED her just as we left the Hall. She was driving. Macmillan was with me, and she took us both back to tea." " Oh, that was very nice. I'm worried about poor Lizzie, and I hope Bob won't behave badly to her. I have forebodings. He is fit for any- thing. I told her about the fine, because I wanted her to have some idea of how bad he really is." "It was wise, perhaps," replied the minister; but his tone betrayed a waning interest. " Mrs. Hamilton said you were not at the meeting." " No. I couldn't leave Lizzie, of course. I never saw such a man as you — a perfect wizard ; you hear everything outside. ' ' She spoke merrily and archly, and a slight smile quivered round her bonny mouth. Meanwhile the heavy four-wheeled cab trun- dled slowly up the steep ascent from the north side to Archibald Place. Six o'clock pealed from St. Giles's as Mrs. Gray alighted from it. She paid the cabman and dismissed him, expecting to be an hour or two with her boy. He lived in the top flat of one of the highest houses, but his mother climbed bravely up, though she leaned up against the wall to recover her breath before she rang the bell. A giri of fourteen opened the door, and signified that Robert Gray was within. "I'm his mother; ye needna tell him," said A WASTREL REDEEMED in Mrs. Gray, remembering the day she had brought him first to his lodgings, much concerned for his bodily welfare therein. The sitting-room opened off the lobby, directly opposite the outer door Mrs. Gray put her umbrella on the stand and walked in without any preliminary knock, expect- ing to find Bob at his tea, or maybe at his books. The room was well lighted by a threefold gase- lier, but the air was thick with tobacco-smoke A round table stood in the middle, and three young men sat at it playing cards. A whisky. bottle stood suggestively on the little chiffonnie- one of the lads had a tumbler of wlusky and water at his elbow. It was a strikine Jcene, and the face of one was a study, h- was a' big ruddy-faced chap, more like . farmer than a student, and his face could not be said to look particulariy pleasant at the moment. "Hulloa, mother!" he said, gruffly "What brings you here? Why can't they come in decently and say I am wanted?" Mrs. Gray looked round her dazedly. Anger, disgust, confusion, were on her son's face and in his voice. His two comrades winked to each other, and one rose. " We'd better shove, Jimmy," said one. "No, you needn't; sit down," said Bob Gray still angrily, and eying the homely figure of his mother with shame, Never had she looked more ?i'l. m if m't U I { 18 // IV/ISTREL REDEEMED like her own dairy and farmyard ; he could not see beyond the short, quaint gown, the clumsy cloak, the bonnet of last year's pattern. " Come into the bedroom a minute. — Excuse me, boys; I won't keep you. Just go on till I come back," He took his mother with no particular gentle- ness by the arm and banged the door. Opening an adjoining one, he led her in. "When did you come?" he asked, more courteously. "Why didn't you write, and I'd have been ready for you ? Of course you think it's awful to see these fellows. It's only Farquhar — he's Lord Cobham's nephew, and lodges down- stairs ; and we weren't playing for money [which was a lie]. Won't you sit down? " Mrs. Gray sat down, bat her tongue was not loosed. Her son regarded her uneasily. At home the silence of the mistress of Stanerigg was much more regarded than her speech. "Where are you staying? — at the Denhams', I suppose; and they've been stuffing you with lies about me. He's a sneak, always watching me. I couldn't stand it, really ; but if he's been at it again, I'll be even with him." "Wheesht! " The sound was so sharp and so full of intoler- able anguish that he looked at her guiltily. Once he had adored his mother, but now she stood to uld not clumsy- Excuse )n till I gentle- )pening , more and I'd u think irquhar ; down- [which vas not y. At Igg was ihams', )u with atching 's been intoler- Once ;ood to // IVASTREL REDEEMED 179 him in the light of a judge and an ave^.ger, to be conciliated and pacified at any cost, but not be- loved. " I'll tell you what, I'll go and shunt these fellows, and then we can have a jolly good talk I'm sure I can make everything straight to you If you 11 only take my word, and not that of that canting sneak Denham. Ugh! I can't stand him at any price." Delighted with his own cleverness at seeing a way out of the dilemma, he abruptly left the room. No sooner had his mother heard the clos- ing of the second door than she rose, and with great haste slipped out into the lobby, took up her umbrella, and left the house, hastening down the stairs as if pursued. She chose a different way, which brought her out into the green, onen space of the meadows, and there under a tree 'she found a seat. Her limbs were trembling, her whole body felt numb and weak. She was glad to sink down, and to rest there till some strength should return to her. The chill mists of the day had disappeared, and the sky was now soft and ck'ar above her as in April. Many stars were Shining, and a young, faint moon showing shyly behind the ghostly branches of the trees. She wa. away from the din; peace was round about l:er, everywhere save within. She had seen— aye, and fully understood— the look in the eyes I!'- ' '^i 4 ■■ "11 t lii Hiif |:.WP!, mm 180 // IVASTREL REDEEMED n of the boy she had nursed at her breast, who had been the child of many prayers. She was but a plain countrywoman, but her eyes were sharp- ened to keenness, her judgment did not err. The great buttresses of the Infirmary stood out behind the gaunt trees, and she wondered vaguely whether any within suffered as keenly as she. Last night she had gone to her bed a happy mother, praying for her son ere she slept — the son she had dedicated from his birth to the service of the Lord. And lo ! he was a castaway. For the moment hope had folded her wings afar, and had no message for that stricken soul. She sat a long time, unconscious of the chill evening air, of the scrutiny of the chance passers- by, who knew not that a human soul near them was passing its first hour in Gethsemane. Her thoughts, ever inclined Godward, took comfort, after long numbness, in certain words of the Book she loved : " Peter went out, and denied Him thrice." So her son, not by word, but by his look, had denied her. A strange, sweet sense of kinship with the crucified but now risen Saviour fell upon her wounded heart like balm, and prayer became once more possible to her. These were the words of her prayer ; A WASTREL REDEEMED 181 it Lord, if I bena unworthy, gie me the bairn's soul, an' show me the way to win it, for Jesus' sake." Mrs. Gray went home next day, which was Saturday. An anxious mother had undertaken the journey from Faulds; a hopeless one returned. She had made no further attempt to see her son ; and he arrived at the Denhams' house to find that she had left by the forenoon train. Her chief concern was to ^ret back to the peace of her own home, to find in familiar things some solace for her heart. From the boy's father she expected no sympathy. His condemnation would be swift, relentless. And yet she longed to tell him, and so share lier pain. She had said so little to the Denhams that they really knew nothing of what had hap- pened. It was high noon when she stepped out at the wayside station and climbed the hilly street of the little village. It was ugly, yet not unpic- turesque, and the landscape round, sylvan and lovely, redeemed it from the commonplace She remembered that it was Saturday, and gave some orders at the shops, answering the neighborly queries with calm unconcern, and then set out to walk to her home. The distance was three miles, and the road uphill all the way. But a black frost held the ground firmly, and walking was smooth and comfortable. The mistress of Stane- 182 A WASTREL kEDEEMED rigg was strong and active; a three-mile walk was nothing to her. Nay, she was glad of it that bitter day; it gave her space, quiet, room to breathe. She thought of many things as she walked, but mostly of the days when Bob had been a little chap, or a bairn at her breast. Vividly before her was that June day when they had driven the old mare, then in the pride of her days, proudly in a new gig to the parish kirk for the christening. Between the black hedgerows she trudged steadily, her mouth kept sternly shut to still its pitiful quiver; and when she turned in at the gate and saw her own home set on a hill, the faint wintry sunshin^ making some radiance on the windows, the tears rolled down her cheeks. It was now half-past one, and the farmer of Stane- rigg, having had his early dinner, turned out to the stables to see the horses yok-d to the plow. Recognizing the solitary figure far down the road, he set out to meet it with a certain curiosity not unmingled with apprehension. When he re- turned from the Pittencree roup at darkening the previous day he had been told by the maid that his wife had gone to Edinburgh on account of a letter she had received from Mrs. Denham. He had not connected this in any way with his son, and it was only now that a vague foreboding visited him. He met her about a hundred yards // IV A ST RE L REDEEMED 188 from the wicket-gate which led through the little wood to the house; and he saw that she was weary and troubled in her mind. "Ye're tired, Lizbeth," he said, taking her ba-ket, now much lightened. " What for did ye no hire frae Geordie Allan? It wasna for you walkin' a' the way up, perfectly needless, as ye ken." " I wantit to walk," she said. And her eyes regarded him with a strange yearning which puz- zled him. Robert Gray was a large, strong, sinewy per- son, with a long, big-featured face, gray whiskers, and a clean-shaven chin, which showed strength of character and an indomitable will. Upright- ness, honesty of purpose, absolute integrity, were written on his face, but it lacked the softer out- line ; in his nature, indeed, tenderness had little part. "What took ye awa sae sudden?" he asked. '* Is Mrs. Denham no weel ? " "They're baith weel. Wait or we get in, faither, and I'll tell ye what took me." He opened the wicket-gate for her silently, and they passed through into the shadow of the wood. The trees were quite bare, and there was a soughing wind through them, only heard in the month of November. Those wl.o have lived long near the heart of nature can discern all the wind i4 fi'i III 1 iir !i:'!:t 184 /I PVASTREL REDEEMED voices, and know the tone, which changes with each season. Stanerigg, belying its name, stood snugly in the shelter of this wood, but was open in front, a grassy lawn sloping to a high thorn-hedge which bounded its fields, now all upturned by the plow. A wide span of open country, rich, fertile, and diversified, stretched toward the sea, forming one of the most beautiful prospects and one of the richest agricultural districts in the south of Scot- land. Stanerigg had been tenanted by the Grays, father and son, for three generations, and their name was held in high honor for integrity and for skill in their own calling, Robert Gray being an authority in all agricultural matters. It was a pleasant family house, roomy, substan- tial, well cared for without and within. The liv- ing-room was furnished in polished mahogany of Chippendale date, and the sideboard adorned by a good deal of massive silver plate, kept in a high state of polish. Mrs. Gray gave a little sigh of content as she entered the room and sat down at the window. Her husband put down her l^sket, and sitting on the edge of the table, waited for her to speak. " I thocht it better to leave nae ill word behind, an' to see what was what, Robert; an' I hae seen. I keep naethin* back. It was Bob Mary wrote aboot. He has cast in his lot wi' evil-doers." ^ IV^STRHL KLDELMl-D 185 Has he?" Stanerigg: spoke rather quietly but the darkness gathered in his eyes. Then Lis wife, withoi.f varnish or preamble, told liim e whole tah- A other more indulgent and loss just wo... Have sought to gloss over the lad's weakness; no .uch thought occurred to her. She k' .w her husband well-that he had no quarter for the evil-doer; but he was the lad's father, and therefore entitled to know everything He received it quietly, making no sign that he like- wise had n ved a f.-arful blow. "He maun come haino, Lizbeth," he said "an' work on the land. Ihree months at the ploo an' the harries wull maybe ca' the devilry cot o' him. Ye nev or saw him the day, then ? " She shook her head. "No; but he'll come or write. Yes, you're ncht ; he maun come hame. Ye were richt afore faither; he should never ha' gane awa'. It taks a special grace to be a minister. I see that in Neil Denham that wull never be in oor Bob But the Lord kens I was fain to see him in His service." She smiled wanly, and rose rather weakly to her feet. Now that she was home and had told her tale, her strength had gone away, even as it had gone the night before. She could not bear any more. "Faither, when he comes ye'll be canny wi' i v^ V o,. \^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET {MT-3) i.O I.I 1.25 22 1.8 U ill 1.6 '%'^"%.'# ^•^' Photographic Sciences Corporation # ^ ^s-- ■^\ ^ 4^ w.. 6^ ^%. %^ ' '.^^^ f/j f 186 // IVASTREL REDEEMED him," she said, with a great wistfulness. " He has been tempted, an' maybe we set him oot ower-young, and withoot tellin' him o' the ill he micht meet." " He maun be made to feel the brunt o't, Liz- beth," he said, doggedly. "I'll think ower't, but he maun come hame." It did not occur to the man who would cheer- fully have given his own life for his wife any day, to offer her a word of sympathy or tender- ness to support her breaking heart. In this he did not greatly disappoint her, for she knew what to expect ; and when he passed out she went up to her own room, and, shutting the door, laid herself down on the bed. And with her face turned to the wall, she prayed until God answered her by sleep. Her night in Edinburgh had been quite sleepless; now body and mind claimed some respite from the long strain put upon them. She was awakened by an unusual sound, and sprang up astonished to find her room in dark- ness, and puzzled for the moment to remember how she came to be lying on her bed in the day- time in her outdoor clothes. Her faithful house- girl, Ailie Dyer, had looked in twice in the course of the afternoon, feeling that something haa gone seriously wrong to put her mistress so far out of her usual way. But finding her each time fast asleep, she had slipped away, liie room was J A WASTREL REDEEMED 187 J above the dining-room, and the sound which awakened Mrs. Gray was the raised tone of her husband's voice. Instantly everything became clear to her. Bob had come home, and his father was calling him to task for his misdeeds. The instinct to protect her own son made her spring up, throw open the door, and run downstairs. Her dress vv^as disarranged, her hair disheveled, her face flushed with sleep; but she could not wait to remedy these things. She knew the hot temper of both; perhaps even before she could intervene words might be spoken which would never be healed this side the grave. They were silent as she entered the room. Stanerigg stood upon the hearth-rug, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Bob leaned against the sideboard with his hands thrust indif- ferently into his pockets, his lips pursed into a defiant whistle. He winced at sight of his mother. " He's here, mother, an' a bonny cauf he is," observed Stanerigg, with the exceeding dryness of deep, still anger. " Look at him. There's no muckle sense o' sin there. My lord thinks we're makin' a to-do aboot naething." She looked from one to another pitifully, seeing the warring elements in both pitted against each other, and knowing how serious were the issues at stake. ill !i! ! 11 it\ i 188 ^ IV/ISTREL REDEEMED She Stepped over and laid her hand with a lightly imploring touch on her husband's arm. " Leave him to me, faither, just a wee. I'm his mither. God teaches mithers whiles when He leaves ithers i' the dark. Leave him to me." Stanerigg gave a little snort. He was a hard man, but his love for his one son had been a deep-seated, idolatrous affection, largely mingled with personal vanity and pride. He was fine- looking, and his gifts were certainly high, but most of all his father had boasted of his character and his uprightness of life, scoffing at the idea that student life was specially trying, and that temptations such as he did not dream of lie in wait for the unwary at every turn. So we judge harshly often where we do not know, and then the time comes when we would remedy our error, and that tenderly, but it is too late. " Ye'll stop at hame, my man, an' try what the land can dae for ye," he said, with grim decision. " An' ye'll dae your day's darg, yokin' wi' the rest at daylicht an' workin' till darkenin'. It'll set ye a heap better nor playin' cairds an' drinkin' whisky wi' a set o' idlers i' the toon." Having thus delivered himself, Stanerigg re- tired, dimly conscious in the midst of his bitter pain that his rebuke had made but small impres- sion, and that his wife possessed some secret y i A WASTREL REDEEMED 189 knowledge which would make whatever word she might speak speed with power to the mark. " He says I'm not to go back, mother," burst out the lad immediately the door closed. " He can't mean it. I won't stay here to work on the land like a common plowman. I won't stay. I'll emigrate or commit suicide first." "Wheesht, laddie! ye speak foolishly, and it'll no mend matters," she said, quickly. " Ye ken your faither; he is just, but he is set in his judg- ment. Ye maun bide quietly and show a peni- tent spirit. Ye canna thraw in your faither; he'll no stand it even frae his ain." " But do you want me to give up ? Why, look at the honors I've taken already. It would be a shame to let <^hem all tie me down like a clodhopper here," he ciied, pushing his hot fin- gers through his curly fair hair. " I won't do it. Mother, you won't let him condemn me to that." She looked at him mournfully, in silence for a moment. There was no doubt in her mind that, so far as future ministerial work was concerned, his career was over. One who had so far gone astray was no fit guide for the souls of others. She was an innocent and simple soul, but she had certain fixed ideas which would be difficult to set aside. One was that a minister should be a man set apart, of holier life and higher aims than the common, Bob could never attain to stich a height W 190 y4 IV/ISTREL REDEEMED now. She exaggerated, as was natural, his fall- ing away, and it seemed to her an insuperable barrier. But at the same time she did not think the farm the place for him. It had all come so sud- denly, there was no time to think or to arrange matters. Bob must not be in a hurry ; but youth cannot wait. " Of course I know I've been idling a bit, and — well, not so steady as I ought to have been; but Denham has made the most of it. I'll pull up, mother. Don't look at me as if I were a hopeless renegade. It's worse to bear than father's rage, though that's bad enough. You must persuade him to let me go on at least to the end of the session. I'll go to the bad faster here at a plow-tail than I would in the town, I can tell you that." Mrs. Gray was weary and perplexed, her heart sore to bursting, pitying the lad with all the tenderness of her moth rly nature, yet feeling strongly that he was furtiier away than ever from the grace which should sanctify a minister of Christ. Even common grace seemed to be some distance from him at the moment ; for it was quite evident that he thought lightly of his oflfense, and that they were making a needless fuss. She had a long talk far into the night with her husband, but he was as adamant where Bob's A WASTREL REDEEMED 191 return to college life was concerned. And in the end he had his way, and the lad took his share of the ordinary work on the farm, fretting his eager spirit against the dull routine of his life, chafing in rebellion not always hidden, and the winter wore miserably away. Stanerigg acted according to his light. He had no intention of ultimately obliging Bob to enter a calling so dis- tasteful to him, and he believed a few months on the fields would act as a wholesome discipline. There never had been a more miserable winter in Stanerigg. The atmosphere of the house, once so peaceable and wholesome and pleasant, was wholly changed. It told upon them all, but most of all upon Mrs. Gray, who became sad and old, worn and weary, with the constant strain to keep the peace between the boy and his father. There was absolutely no sympathy between them, and nobody knew, since he gave no sign, that the deep heart of Stanerigg yearned so unspeakably over his boy that many times he could have cried aloud in agony. But self-control, absolute re- pression of all feeling, had become second nature to him, and he preserved the stony silence which covered an aching heart. So the dreary days wore on till the voice of spring began to be heard in the land, soft winds whispering of hope stirred the budding boughs, and the green blades shot up to meet the kindly benediction cf an April 192 A lyASTREL REDEEMED V i ll sky. And at that heavenly season, which brings some sense of comfort even to the most stricken in heart, the final desolation fell upon Stanerigg. Very early in the morning, before even the sleepy birds were stirring, when the mystery of the dawn still lay holily upon the earth. Bob Gray stole away from the house of his earthly father, never to come back. They slept heavily in that healthy and hard-working household, and his stealthy exodus was unheard by any, even in their dreams. He stood still outside the door, and looking up to the room where his mother lay asleep, bared his head. He was nearer to heaven at that moment than he had yet been, and he even took a step toward the door. But some harsher thought restrained him, and he essayed to go, only pausing ere he passed by the gable to pluck a green sprig from the ivy which his mother's hand had planted, and which, flourish- ing as everything did under her kindly guidance, had become a great tree, clothing the gray old house with a green and living beauty refreshing to every eye which beheld it. And when they woke and came one by one to the duties of the new day, he was far on his way, having before him that wondrous land across the seas which has beckoned many, but has given too often a stone to those who asked for bread. Put when will youth accept hearsay? It is // IV A ST RE L REDEEMED 193 personal knowledge and experience it craves and will have, at any cost. Having in his heart love, deep-buried, but warm and true, he did not leave them wholly in the dark, but left his mother a letter, simply say- ing he was sick to death of his life, and not being able to support it any longer, had gone off to America, thus fulfilling the threat to emigrate which he had often made. He also said he would write if he got on, and that was all. It is not for me to expatiate upon the feelings of the parents thus bereft; those who have suf- fered in a like manner will enter into their full bitterness Gladly would both have laid down their lives for their one son, yet somehow in their dealing with him they had missed the way. It is For two years nothing further was heard of Bob Gray. The heartsickness of hope deferred left its mark on these two; but it was a blessed outcome of their sorrow, too deep and terrible to be shared with any outsider, that they drew nearer to each other and began to understand each other as they had not done in all the five and twenty years of their married life. They did not sit down helplessly, or neglect the daily con- cerns which press even when the heart is break- ing. Indeed, so little visible sign was given that 104 j4 IV/fSTREL RED HE MED % many said thjy felt it but little, and were glad for their credit's sake to be rid of the wastrel. One day in the second spring after he had gone away, the first and last news of the wan- derer came to Stanerigg, brought by the old one- eyed postman, Willie Chisholm, who had often wondered whether he would be privileged to bear some message from across the seas to the desolate home. He did not see the mistress that day, to his keen disappointment, and it was Ailie Dyer who took in the little package and the letter bearing the stamp of the Republic. Her mistress took them tremblingly, and sat down at the open win- dow, fumbling in her pocket for her spectacle- case, which was a new possession to which she had hardly yet got accustomed. And it happened that at the moment Stanerigg himself came in, and she bade him faltcringly shut the door. " The news has come, an' it's no Bob's writing. I'm feart to open it. Tak the letter first, faither." He took it from her, and, quite unconscious of what he was doing, knelt down beside her so that he could open the letter at her knee. And they made a pathetic picture, the father and mother whom grief had aged before their time, the soft April wind playing with their gray hairs and cooling the flush of excitement on their cheeks. It was a short letter written by the clergyman of A WASTREL REDEEMED 195 a Methodist church in a little township situate among the distant wheat-prairies of Iowa, and it ran thus: " Cartervillk, March 30th. " Madam : It is my sad duty to write to you concerning your son, Robert Gray, whom I was called a long distance to see yesterday, only to find him dying of a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs, contracted through exposure in one of the most terrible blizzards we have had for many years. I had not met or heard of him be- fore, as the place where he has been working as hired man is thirteen miles from my manse, and diflficult of access. It seems he had been there for about ten months, working for a decent, well- to-do German ]^^, to whom he has given the greatest satisfaction, being sober, industrious, and of an amiable disposition. I was grieved to find him too weak to say much, but he was able to tell me a little about himself, and to instruct me to carry out his last wishes. He had been wan- dering about a good deal, as young men must do out here without introduction or acquaintance; but so far as I could gather, he had never been in any sore straits, though sometimes in rather low water. I was surprised to find him possessed of a university training, though, indeed, I have met many similar instances. He did not detail to me his reasons for having left a home so com- l! 106 // IV/ISTREL REDEEMED fortable and happy, and the memory of which he cherished so passionately that I was quite over- come. One thing you may take to comfort you : that he has not been living a prodigal's life out here, but the reverse. He was reserved about his own state of mind, but told me quite frankly he had no fear of death. He asked me to send you the inclosed package, which I have not opened, but which he told me he had carried within his vest next his heart during the last two years. I remained with him till his '^eath, which was painless and beautiful, and I feel sure that you may with the utmost confidf^nce look forward to a happy reunion in a world where these sor- rows are unknown. I regret that my letter must of necessity be meager and unsatisfactory, as I only saw him once. He has been buried in a little cemetery not far from the farm on which he died. His employer defrayed the whole ex- penses, and all the neighbors turned out, showing that he was a general favorite. If there is any- thing further you would like to know, pray write, and I shall do my best to reply. Meantime, with sincere Christian sympathy, I remain, madam, Yours faithfully, " Abiram Morse." They were able to read the letter through with that wondrous self-control which had distin- A fVy4STREL REDEEMED 197 guished them throughout, and to untie the string and cut the wrappings which held their boy's legacy to them. There was no letter. Within lay a little New Testament with brass clasps which his mother had given him on the day he first went to church. The clasps were intact, but would not close over something bulky within — a thick roll of American dollar bills. They fell out upon her lap, and then the book seemed to open naturally where lay the sprig of ivy, now dry and faded, which had once been living green on the gable end of Stanerigg. On that open page two passages were deeply underiined — a message from the unseen to those who had now no child : " Forasmuch as ye know that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold ; . . . but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot." And again : " Behold, we count them happy which endure. . . . The Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy." By what tortuous ways that wandering soul had returned to the fold they would never know ; and though the hand of God seemed heavy upon them, they were not without their crumbs of comfort Stanerigg bowed his head, now so neariy white, on his wife's knee, and a great sob- bing shook him, like the wind of winter in the 198 A IV A ST RE L REDEEMED fM 'tm m 111 41' trees. But she sat still and quiet, with a wonder- ing and deep light in her meek, sweet eyes, con- scious for the moment that the veil between the seen and the unseen was so thin that her sharp- ened vision could almost pierce it. Her life during the past two years had been one long px.iyer, and lo ! the sore travail of her soul had its ansvv3r — her boy was safe. Being thus assured, she could wait for Daybreak and the light of heaven. So, tranquilly, she is waiting still. ider- con- 1 the larp- life long id its jred, It of WORTHY OF HIS HIRE I WORTHY OF HIS HIRE Mrs. Neil Denham was waiting for her hus- band to come to tea. It was a quarter past five on a January afternoon, and the light, lengthening and strengthening day by day, still lingered in that pleasant dining-room, where solid comfort reigned. It was furnished in warm crimson, the substantial mahogany chairs upholstered in rich morocco. The walls were a restful sea-green, and several fine engravings, chiefly of covenanting times, adorned them ; the recesses on either side of the fireplace held well-made mahogany book- cases, filled in every shelf. A black marble pres- entation clock and handsome bronzes decorated the mantelpiece, which was further relieved by two graceful glasses filled with white chrysanthe- mums. The Denhams did not dine late, but had a set tea at five o'clock. It was very daintily spread, the linen was of the whitest and finest, the china good, the silver shining. Mary Denham was sitting on a hassock before the fire, glad of its cheery blaze. She had been out all the afternoon on church work, and she was 9m 202 iVORTHY OF HIS HIRE HU' '% Ph 1 If cold and tired and a trifle out of sorts. She felt something in the air, a vague disturbance, por- pres- tending she could not tell what. When the entation clock, which had a very musical chime, struck the quarter after the hour, she jumped up rather impatiently, and went out to the study door. Her little tap elicited no reply, so she opened the door and went in. Friday afternoon was her husband's own, the rule of the house being that on that day alone he should remain absolutely undisturbed. But it was seldom indeed that he was not ready to come out at five o'clock for tea ; indeed, he had bejn known rather frequently to ring half an hour before it, to ask that it might be hastened. The room was almost in darkness, and the fire out. At his desk sat the minister, with his arms folded above the sheets of his sermon paper, and his head bowed down on them. His wife sprang to his side in absolute dismay. "Dear Neil, are you ill? What is it? Tell me." He raised his head, and looked at her rather mournfully. He had been run down for a good while, she knew; even the August holiday had failed of its purpose because it had been so ruth- lessly sacrificed to oblige others. Neil Denham had not been a Sunday out of a pulpit for fifteen months. IVORTHY OF HIS HIRE i]o;j " I'm not ill, Mary ; only tired. Has your tea- bell rung? I was waiting and wishing for it, and I got thinking of something else." " Get up," she said, with that gentle peremp- toriness so pleasant to obey in one we love. " The room is icy cold, and just look at your hands." She did not ask a single (piestion, though her quick eye .saw by the state of the papers on the desk that the afternoon had been absolutely bar- ren of written work. lie rose, nothing loath, and crossed the hall to the warm, brightly lit dining- room, the sight of which brightened his face. I lis wife locked the study door before she followed him, and put the key in her pocket. " Come, dear ; Jeanie has made a special scone for you, and here's a Stanerigg egg. I had a big basket from Lizzie this afternoon. She always remembers Friday. Well, I've been at the Dor- cas, and then I called at Mrs. Hamilton'.s, and Macmillan was there again. He's always there. Do you think they're going to make a match of it? A grand thing for him, wouldn't it? And in Melville Street I met Mrs. Rattray, and the doctor's been ordered to Algiers for the winter, and Jimmy's got measles, and Katie's lungs can't stand the east wind any longer. So she's to take her father to Algiers, and poor Mrs. Rattray's got to .stay at home and see to the supply. I'd like to si e me let you away to Algiers without me, 't. 204 IVORTHY OF HIS HIRE even if we had a Katie to send with you. Now I knew you'd like that egg. Yes, I'll take one myself." The atmosphere of the room, the tempting del- icacy of the viands, above all the bright, loving light on the sweet face behind the tea-cozy, began to take their due effect on the tired spirit of the man. " What a thing it is," he said, as he sent in his cup, " to have a home and you in it. Who am I, to have so much given me?" " Another word, Neil Denham, and I'll, I'll " she said, threateningly. " I had a little note from Lizzie. How awfully they are feeling about poor Bob yet. She sa> s Mr. Gray has gone off his sleep, and wanders about the room at night talk- ing about the blizzard which gave the boy his last illness. Isn't it sad?" " It is. Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward," he said, as if speaking to himself. ** No, he isn't," was the prompt retort. " He mostly makes it for himself. I wouldn't say it to Lizzie for worlds, but I do think they were a good deal to blame about Bob. They never understood him, and forgot that he was young. I sometimes wonder whether we did wisely in interfering. Well, )'ou have made a fairly re- spectable tea, and as a reward I'll give you a treat — there." IVORTHY OF HIS HIRE 205 She took his pipe out of her pocket, put it in his hand, and made him sit down in the big easy- chair, and even handed him the matches. Then she pushed back the table, and sat down on the hassock again, near enough her husband's knee to lay her head on it if si e felt so disposed. " Now, please to tell me what's the matter to- day. Was there anything amiss with the text? " "Nothing." He put his pipe unlighted on the mantelpiece, and looked down into his wife's face. His own was so startlingly grave that she felt suddenly apprehensive. " Mary, I begin to fear that my best work is done." She looked up at him in silence a full minute, and there was less surprise in that look than might have been expected. " It's killing you ; I knew it would ! O Neil, why did we ever leave Faulds ? " She got up, excitement and distress gaining upon her. She had repressed herself so long — kept her pent feelings down; now they carried her away like a Lammas flood. " Perhaps it was a poor place, and the stipend low ; but it was the country, and the people loved us," she cried, walking down the room with a quick, nervous tread. " Miners only, and farmers, but they had reverent souls, and their hearts were li ?M IVORTHY OF HIS HIRE M r it, though I know be feels it, too/' said the lad, and his -oice grew husky. Denham opened the letter without another word. It was very short, and he soon read it through. His eyes filled with tears as he handed it back. " Send it, lad, send it. It will gladden the old man's heart. God bless you ! Shall we ask Him now?" ^VORTHY OF HIS HIRE 213 The man, who in his youth had known temp- tation, and had not forgotten its fiery trials, entered into the travail of the lad's soul in that prayer, which hallowed the place and brought heaven down to earth. " And now about that exam. You've got to pass it, and with honors. What are you weak in?" "Anatomy, awfully." " Do you know Henderson, the coach? " "Don't I? But I haven't any money, and I can't ask dad for that. I'll work as hard as I can, anci if I do fail I'll know it wasn't all my fault this time." " Come back on Monday night to tea at five, and we'll go and see Henderson. He's an old college chum of mine. You've got to get through this time. Good-night, my boy. God bless you ! Do you remember the text about the cup of cold water? You've given me a cup of cold water to- night, and it will be remembered to you." Mrs. Denham's step was light as she crossed her own door-step that night at half-past ten, partmg from the chief elder at the door with a warm hand-clasp. The shadow just hovered across her face a moment as she opened the din- ing-room door; and lo, there was her husband writing as for dear life, and she knew from his face that there was light within. 214 IVORTHY OF HIS HIRE I •' O Neil, dear, it's not so bad quite as I made out," she cried, breatlilessly. " I've had such a nice long talk with Mr. Robertson; and what do you think? The session have had a private meeting, and there's going to be a congrega- tional one next week to consider about getting you a missionary, so that you may have more time for study. They do love us a little, I am sure, and I felt quite rebuked." She rested her chin on his hair, and looked over his shoulder to the written pages. " A new text — ' I will sing a new song unto Thee, O Gpd.' What a grand one, Neil! Surely you have had great upHfting of soul while I've been away? " " Yes, dearest ; our dark hour was God's op- portunity," he said, and then told her what had happened in her absence. Her face shone as he spoke, and her bosom heaved. " We'll not go to the country just yet, Neil— at least for good; for the work needs you here," she said. " But we'll go out on Monday to see Robert and Lizzie ; and we can lay a thank-offtr- ing on Elsie's grave." STORffiS OF CHILDHOOD. «^ Bound in handsomely decorated cloth covers, small 4to, illustrated, each jo cents. Kow the Children Raised the Wind. By Edna Lyall, author of "Doreen," "Donovan/' "We Two," etc. Illustrated by Mary A. Lathbury. rPinf^i^h^'^^l accustomed humor, the distinguished autlior rdates how two children^ by methods as amusing as they tTelr f^St'ch^r^ct^' ^'^ "'"'^ " '° ^^' °« ^^^"^^ - Adolph^ and How He Found the " Beautiful Lady." By Fannie J. Taylor. Illustrated by Helene Toer- ring. . 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