Robin looked at him with angry eyes, and turned his back on him without a word.

"Hoot, man Saunners! There is no fear o' the laddie," said his more hopeful crony, Peter Gilchrist.

"Maybe no, and maybe ay. It'll be nae haflin course that yon lad will tak'. He'll do verra well or verra ill, and I see no signs o' grace in him so far."

"Dinna bode ill o' the lad. The Lord'll hae the son o' his father and mother in His good keeping. And there's John Beaton, forby (besides), to hae an e'e upon him. No' but that there will be mony temptations in the toon for a lad like him," added Peter, desirous to avoid any discussion with his friend.

"John Beaton, say ye? I doubt he'll need himsel' all the help the Lord is like to give to ane that's neither cauld nor het. It's wi' stumblin' steps he'll gang himsel', if I'm no mista'en."

But to this Peter had nothing to say. They had been over the ground before, and more than once, and each had failed to convince the other. Crombie went on:

"He carries his head ower-heich (over-high), yon lad. He's nae likely to see the stanes at his ain feet, to say naething o' being a help to the like o' Robert Hume."

"Hae ye had ony words wi' him of late?" asked Peter gravely.

"Nae me! He's been here often eneuch. But except in the kirk, where he sits glowerin' straecht afore him, as gin there was naebody worthy o' a glance within the four walls, I havena set my een upon him. It's inborn pride that ails him, or else he has gotten something no' canny upon his mind."

"His mother's no' just so strong. It's that which brings him hame sae often. His heart is just set on his mother."

"It's no' like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave her ain house, and take lodgin's in a toon. But gin he be pleased, that'll please her," said Saunners sourly.

"Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin' and sayin' that the lad has onything on his mind? He's dull-like whiles, but—"

"I'm no' in the way o' sayin' things for which I hae nae reason," said Saunners shortly. "As to special—it's nae mair special to me than to yoursel'. Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, think ye? Gude-nicht to ye."

"Gude-nicht," said Peter meekly. "Eh! but he's dour whiles, is Saunners! He is a gude man. Oh! ay, he's a gude man. But he's hard on folk whiles. As for John Beaton—I maun hae a crack (a little talk) with himsel'."

But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he had had, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out of it.

John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother's health, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious. For though the last winter had tried her, the summer "was setting her up again," she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was always at her best when her son was with her.

Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by the careful hands of her mistress. She was "little Annie" no longer, but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a woman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even to put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair.

No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease about her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at home alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had more time, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office work which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come too often for his mother's pleasure.

This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool for his pains, but still he came.

He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let him rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her was with him night and day. Her "bonny een" looked up at him from his papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore.

But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himself for his weakness. It was a kind of madness that was on him, he thought—a madness that would surely come to an end soon.

"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I have heard said. The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over. It has gone ill with many a one. But I am a strong man, and it will pass. Yes! It shall pass."

This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison's indifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness of him and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was something for which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with it and hasten his cure.

But he was not so sure after a while—sure, that is, that Allison's indifference and unconsciousness of him and his feelings made it easier for him to put her out of his thoughts. There were times when with a sort of anger he longed to make her look at him, or speak to him, even though her words might hurt him. He was angry with her, and with himself, and with all the world; and there was truth in old Crombie's accusation that he carried his head high and neglected his friends.

It was all that he could do sometimes to endure patiently the company of Robert Hume or his brothers. Even Davie, who was not exacting in the matter of response to his talk, missed something in his chief friend, and had serious misgivings about it.

And Davie's mother had her own thoughts also, and she was not well pleased with John. That "his time was come" she knew by many a token, and she knew also, or guessed, the nature of the struggle that was going on in him. She acknowledged that his prudence was praiseworthy, and that it might not be the best wisdom for him to yield to impulse in a matter so important; but she also told herself scornfully that if his love were "true love," he would never have waited for prudence or for ambition to put in a word, but would have gladly taken his chance whatever might befall.

"Though indeed he might have cause to repent afterward," she acknowledged with a sigh.

And since Allison was not thinking at all about him, little ill would be done. The lad would get his discipline and go his way, and might never know what a chance of happiness he had let slip out of his hands.

"For he could make her learn to love if he were to try," said Mrs Hume to herself. "But he must not try unless—And if he should say or do anything likely to bring watchful eyes or gossiping tongues upon Allison, I shall have something to say to the lad myself."

Some one else was having her own thoughts about these two. Mistress Jamieson had seen the lad when "his een first lichted on the lass," and she had guessed what had happened to him. Now she waited and watched with interest expecting more. She had not counted on the blindness or long-continued indifference of Allison.

Was it indifference on her part? Or was it prudence, or a proper pride? And the conclusion the mistress came to was this:

"She's no' heedin' him. Ay, ye're a braw lad, John Beaton, and a clever; but it'll do ye nae ill to be neglecit for a wee while, or even set at naucht. Ye thocht to tak' her captive wi' a smile and a few saft words! And ye'll do it yet, I daursay, since it's the nature o' woman to be sae beguiled," added the mistress with a sigh.

But her interest was a silent interest. She never named their names together in a neighbour's hearing.

It was of her brother that Allison was thinking all this time—of poor Willie, who, as she believed, had never seen the sunshine, or even the light of all these summer days. Every night and every morning she counted the days that must pass before he should be set free to go to his own house; and she rejoiced and suffered beforehand, as he must rejoice and suffer when that time came.

It would be November then. She knew just how Grassie would look to him under the grey sky, or the slanting rain, with the mist lying low in the hollows, and the wind sighing among the fir-trees on the height. She could see the dull patches of stubble, and the bare hedges, and the garden where only a touch of green lingered among the withered rose-bushes and berry-bushes, and the bare stalks of the flowers which they used to care for together.

She saw the wet ricks in the corn-yard, and the little pools left in the footmarks of the beasts about the door. She heard the lowing of the cows in the byre, and the bleating of the sheep in the fold, and she knew how all familiar sights and sounds would hurt the lad, who would never more see the face or hear the voice of kith or kin in the house where he was born. How could he ever bear it?

"Oh! God, be good to him when that day comes!" was her cry.

And since they had agreed that they must not meet on this side of the sea, was there no other way in which she might reach him for his good? She had thought of many impossible ways before she thought of John Beaton. It was in the kirk, one Sabbath-day, that the thought of him came.

The day was wet and windy, and Marjorie was not there to fill her thoughts, and they wandered away to Willie in the prison, and she fell to counting the days again, saying to herself: "How could he ever bear it?"

She was afraid for him. She strove against her fears, but she was afraid—of the evil ways into which, being left to himself, or to the guidance of evil men, he might be tempted to fall. Oh! if she might go to him! Or if she had a friend whom she might trust to go in her stead!

And then she lifted her eyes and met those of John Beaton. She did not start, nor grow red, nor turn away. But her whole face changed. There came over it a look which cannot be described, but which made it for the moment truly beautiful—a look hopeful, trustful, joyful.

Allison was saying to herself:

"Oh, Willie! if I might only dare to speak and bid him go to you."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"She wakened heavy-hearted To hear the driving rain, By noon the clouds had parted, And the sun shone out again. 'I'd take it for a sign,' she said, 'That I have not prayed in vain.'"

That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanging a word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came to the door. Allison had given herself no time to reconsider the determination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in the kirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall.

It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at the last moment. It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself, as she stood waiting. It was because she had run down the lane so quickly that her heart was beating hard. It was like the thud of a great hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted to turn and run away. But she did not.

"I would be sorry when it was too late," thought she, and knocked again.

There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John Beaton appeared, carrying a light.

"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me," said Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual.

"Surely," said John. "Come in."

"Come away in, Allison," said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of the darkness.

When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on his mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had worn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall.

"Sit down, Allison," said he.

"No," said she; "I will say first what I came to say."

John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her hand to detain him.

"'Bide still," said she. "I have to ask your mother to ask her son to do something for me—something which I cannot do for myself, but which must be done, or I think my heart will break."

"'Bide still, John," said his mother.

John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and then went and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair. Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded her with interest and with surprise as well.

This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the one who went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unless the child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whatever there might be to see. She seemed eager and anxious, full of determination and energy. She had not at all the air of one who had been accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk.

"It is the true Allison at last," said John to himself.

"Her gown has something to do with it," thought Mrs Beaton, and perhaps it had. Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her. A soft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, and her Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those which she wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen.

"A strong and beautiful woman," John said to himself. His mother was saying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and a misgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added:

"May God help her, whatever it may be. Allison, sit down," she said after waiting a minute for her to speak.

"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble," said Allison, clasping her hands on her side.

"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs Beaton kindly. "Not yet. It is only a few words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life. I have trouble yet—that must be met. And it came into my mind when I was sitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and—keep my heart from breaking altogether," said she; then lifting her eyes to John's face she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen? It is there my Willie is, whom I would fain save."

John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words. Even she uttered a word of dismay.

"I must tell you more," said Allison eagerly. "Yes, he did wrong. But he had great provocation. He struck a man down. At first they thought the man might die. But he didna die. My mother died, and my father, but this man lived. Willie was tried for what he had done, and though all in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gotten only what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and a half in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time. A long time it has been to me, and it has been longer to him. It is near over now, thank God."

"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked Mrs Beaton.

"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me. That was at the first. I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warn him what he must do when his time was over. I dared not write again, for fear that—and even now I dare not go to him. When we meet it must be on the other side of the sea. But I must hear from him before then. He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I have told you. He was only foolish and ill advised.

"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his anger and his shame—him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on the hills. And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comes out of that weary place—"

"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton.

"Oh! if he only would! Think of him alone, without a friend! And he is easily led either for good or ill."

"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter stranger would say to him?" said John.

He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain. Allison did not notice it.

"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me. And anyway, ye wouldna be strangers long. You would like Willie, or you would be the first one who didna, all his life. And oh! he needs one wise, and strong, and good like you. The very touch of your hand would give him hope, and would keep him from losing heart—and, it might be, from losing himself—"

She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of his will and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and by day, looking into his. She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself or of him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of another who was in sore need. No spoken words could have made clearer to him that he—John Beaton—was not in all her thoughts, save as a possible friend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved his fate.

And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weak fool to share it—a woman among ten thousand!

"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her," thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt was mingled. But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes on his face.

"I could trust him to you," said Allison, trying to smile, "because ye have a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles. But I ken what you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warn them, and to keep them out of mischief. It would be the saving o' my Willie if you would but take him in hand."

"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble," said John, "but how could I do it in secret?"

"But you needna do it in secret. It's not Willie that needs to hide. When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes— to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure. But he will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house. And the thought of going alone to a far-off land will dismay him. The help of such a friend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in me to ask it from you."

"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one in trouble. But why should you not go to him yourself?"

"But that is what I cannot tell you. I would never be suffered to go with him if I were to be found. I have been asking you to help my Willie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most. I cannot go with him for both our sakes, but I will follow him. He will be watched through every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again from the ends of the earth. And then," added Allison her face falling into the gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother had seen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I should just lie down and die."

John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said:

"And what am I to say to this man from you?"

"Willie his name is—Willie Bain," said Allison, smiling faintly. "Oh! ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him. And ye are not to let him know that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him. He is a lad who is moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when he hears of me will be to try to see me. And he must not try," repeated she, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever."

There was a pause, and then John said:

"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can. I will faithfully help him, if he will let me—so help me God."

"I'm not feared for him now. You're strong and wise, and you can do what you like with Willie."

John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him. Allison went on:

"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and say nothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason—till he promises not to try to see me, but to have patience and wait. I can trust him to you, John Beaton, and I must go now."

He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him. He took it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes full of light and longing. "John," said she softly, "ye'll mind what is said in the Book: 'I was in prison and ye came unto me.'" And then she turned to go.

It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton. He neither spoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed his mother's hand, and then without a word went away. For a time, which he did not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaning on the back of her chair. His face was hidden in his hands, but happily she did not know that, and she waited till the first word should be spoken by him. In a little he "pulled himself together," and came forward into the light, which was but dim at the best. He snuffed the solitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never very large, was in danger of disappearing under his hand. He added a dry peat, however, and it soon blazed up again.

"Yon's a strange story, mother," he said at last. "I hardly see the good of my meddling in it. I suppose I must go and see the man, anyway."

"Yes, ye canna do less than that," said his mother. "I'll do more. I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannot say that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it."

"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done. Poor lassie. Her heart is in it."

"Yes," said John, "her heart is in it." And then they sat silent till another knock came at the door.

It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton, who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak to John.

"My mother said I wasna to stay," said Robin. But he came forward into the room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and had much to say about various matters, and the interest with which John seemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son.

Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and its work, and some other things came in as well. Then there was a little sparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, Mrs Beaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night. Then Robin rose to go, and John went with him to the door. But he did not linger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, and as his mother thought he would be sure to do. He came in and fell to mending the fire again "for a last blaze," as he said.

"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of the flitting that is before us?"

"It's early days yet, John," said his mother.

"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?"

"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place. But any place will be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'll soon be ready. And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college, John?"

"I am not sure yet, but it is likely. Whether I do or not, I must be in Aberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother's house than anywhere else. But I am sorry to disturb you, mother. Ye have got used with the place and are happy here."

"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be. But it is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it."

"Yes, there is no hurry. But there are arrangements to be made. And mother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin with us for the winter? It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother, and a safeguard to him."

"Surely, if you wish it. It will make a difference, but only a cheerful difference. And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay so friendly."

"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a wee house—that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?"

He did not need to ask. Anything that would please him would please his mother also. But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as she generally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and after a little they fell into silence.

John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid her good-bye. She had only a single word to say to him:

"Dinna be long in coming home again, John," said she. And he promised that he would not be long.

He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and when his mother saw his face she was glad. For there was on it no sign of either gloom or grieving. It was John, "at his best and bonniest," she said to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while beside her bed, for his coming was late, as usual. She asked no questions. It was well with him, that was enough for her. As he rose to go, she said:

"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain." Then John sat down again.

There was not much to tell. John had not seen the man himself. He had been set at liberty before his time was out. As to what sort of a man he was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had been first wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, a change had come over him. A friend had come to visit him more than once, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and had given him hope. But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs to any one else. The chances were he had gone home to his own place; but nothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him since he went away.

"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh.

"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summer days, and in his own house," said John.

"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing. And he must go to America, if he should go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the other side of the sea. And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him. She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have to tell."

But it was otherwise ordered. John rose early, as was his custom, intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be got in a single day. It was a fair morning, clear and still. Only a pleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard. There was no one visible in the street. Most of the tired workers of the place were wont to honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin'," and the doors and windows of the houses were still closed. While he stood hesitating as to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately and slowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chain by which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy, whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield.

John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and then done at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that had happened while he was away. He turned and went down the green, and round by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden, and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of his intention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, low outbuildings of the manse. He had been in the place before with the lads, and knew it well. There was no one there; but the foaming milk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited.

He did not wait long. A light step came quickly over the round stones of the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthen milk-dishes in her arms. It was a dark little place, and she had set them safely down before she saw the intruder. Then she did not utter a word, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes. John held out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool," as he told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into his mind to say until he saw her face.

"Allison," said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me that it was your brother for whom your heart was sore?"

Her look changed to one of wonder.

"Surely I told you it was my brother. Who else could it be but my Willie?"

She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast.

"I did not see him, but I have good news for you. Your brother has been a free man for two months and more. It must have been that they repented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again he wearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home. The man I saw had only good words to say of him. After the first he was patient and quiet. It was hard on him at first."

"My poor Willie!" said Allison.

"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago, and he took heart after that and waited patiently."

"That must have been Mr Hadden," said Allison. "It was kind of him, and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away."

"You have not heard from your brother since?"

"Oh! no. How could I hear? He does not even know where I am."

"But you will write to him now?"

Allison's face fell.

"I darena do it. No letter can reach him but may first pass through our enemy's hand. He will be on the watch more than ever now. No, it will be ill waiting, but we can only wait."

"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said John wondering.

"Yes, that must be the way. He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I will find him there. Yes, it may be a long time," and Allison's eyes filled with tears. "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it is well with him, I can wait. Oh! yes, I can wait."

Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go.

"I havena thanked you yet, but—"

"You have nothing to thank me for yet. If I only could do something for you!"

"You have done this. You have told me he is free and at his own home. I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light and the air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness. And he has had it all, and now he may be on the sea! It has happened well, and I take it for a sign that the Lord is on our side."

"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?"

"I will have hope now. And I thank you in my heart though I havena the words ready."

And then John went away.

Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman. Every one there must have noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of the seat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of the folk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest. Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask her what she was thinking about that made her look so glad. Allison was thinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listening to Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he might be walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and get the air of the hills. She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht, my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een," as Marjorie told her mother afterward, and the child was content.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"Into the restful pause there came A voice of warning, or of blame, Which uttered a beloved name."

More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked, "Who is Allison Bain?"

Mrs Hume had not much to tell her. Of her family and friends she knew absolutely nothing. Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seen since she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been Dr Fleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time a nurse there. Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he had told to them.

"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman she is in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growing content and cheerful. I own that she was a weight upon my mind at first. She is faithful, patient, true. Her only fault seems to be her reserve—if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others have no right to ask her to disclose. She has greatly helped our Marjorie, and the child loves her dearly."

"Yes, that is easily seen. As to her reserve, there are some troubles that can be best borne in silence," said Mrs Esselmont. "And she has grown more cheerful of late."

"Much more cheerful. She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled with anxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for the better since the spring. It is, of late, as though some heavy weight had been taken from her heart."

In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own home or in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should give some thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed to her to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse. She would have greatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be the better able to give her help and counsel if the time should come when she should acknowledge her need of them. Until that time came, she told herself, she could offer neither help nor counsel. It was not for her to seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since she knew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds, to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit.

"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal. And she is young and will forget in time whatever her trouble may be. And, when all is said, how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills that place so well? God seems to be giving her the opportunity and the power to do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to the mother, who is not one inclined to despond. I will not meddle in her concerns hastily, but oh! I would like if this Allison were ever in sore need of a friend, that she would come to me."

It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many of the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger.

"We are curious creatures," she mused. "It is little to my own credit to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain lass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I will bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain, whatever her need may be."

Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorie needed no one to stay with her. If it were "a garden day," as she called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to be quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk no farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her.

In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was knitting, to pass the time. In the garden she did not need these. She had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees and the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on the great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one another. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys between, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up now and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams.

But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. The sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "ill to do with," while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going to Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter, however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden.

But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, and as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they carried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravely against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even seem to wish to go home before the time.

Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it. She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of her happy days had come.

Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At the sight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not for long. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her, and was eaten, and the worst was over.

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms.

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong, the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.

"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of that," thought Allison.

"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie.

"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on."

"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her much good, poor wee lammie."

"She has done me much good," said Allison.

"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' You are a good nurse, Allison."

"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her."

"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with her. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear."

Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in the infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughts had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so long.

"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. I learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father afterward."

"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently.

"A long while it seems—but it is not so very long. There was little time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they were gone."

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in the hearing of any one—who had never named father or mother or home, except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman. She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to startle her into silence again. After a little she said:

"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes." And she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway.

Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer. By and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home.

After this, in their brief intercourse—during a few minutes in the garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to go home—Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithful nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely. Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most part quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made no comments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and that together," she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness, firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being aware of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed, had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life in a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired to know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak.

Summer passed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" was drawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to flit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patient creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. But whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in Allison's arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were so full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie.

For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her. No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in America, and that he might safely write to her now.

It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than he had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him? She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if she could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could only strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not.

She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came in. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well, was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, and asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few words had ever passed between them. He sat down, however, and leaned over the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld," he said.

Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to her stocking-mending again. It would not have been easy for her to begin a conversation with Crombie under any circumstances. It seemed impossible to do so now, for what could she say to him? Saunners had been in deep affliction. His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burial in a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would be presumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still to speak about indifferent things.

She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work. How old, and grey, and grim he looked! And how sad and solitary the little house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was not there! His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; and this man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort her father when her mother died. She was very sorry for him.

Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out. The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she went to the dresser and took the teapot down.

"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea," said she. Saunners looked up in surprise.

"There's nae occasion. I'll get my supper when I gae hame."

He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy to say it.

"Ay, will ye. But that will be a while yet. And I must do as I am bidden. The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very well the night, and is going to her bed. The minister may be in soon."

So the tea was made and butter spread upon the bannocks, and then Allison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out of it, that he might have his tea in peace. When his meal was finished and the dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowed head and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say:

"I am sorry for your trouble."

Saunners answered with a sigh.

"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart."

"Ay. It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the end o' the journey. The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me. But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gie her that last pleasure. But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too, puir beast."

"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?"

Saunners shook his head.

"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me. But he was ahind with his farm work, an' I wasna needin' him. Twa folk may shorten a lang day to ane anither, but it's no ay done to edification. But the warst o' a' was coming hame to a forsaken hoose."

The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower.

"I'm sorry for your trouble," repeated Allison. "It's the forsaken home that at first seems the worst to bear."

"Ay, do ye ken that? Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose. She was but a feckless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair miss in the hoose. And I hae but begun wi't," added Saunners with a sigh. Then there was a long silence. "It's a bonny place yon, where I laid her down," said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts. "It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brown burn at the foot. I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden. The minister's an auld man, they say. I didna trouble him. He could hae dane nae gude either to her or to me. It's a fine, quiet spot to rest in. I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had a longing to lie there with her kin. It is a place weel filled—weel filled indeed."

Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips and eager eyes gazing at him as he went on.

"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there. An only son had put it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, they said. I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stood glowering at it as we were finishing our job. It was wi' nae gude intent that he cam', I doubt. He was ane that middled with maist things in the parish, they said. But I could hae proved that my Eppie belonged to the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin. We were near dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then. He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'."

Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire, sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to begin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to her stocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question—but she dared not do it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on:

"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it but for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there came a wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shook her neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names. It was like a curse upon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would have to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for his wickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was unco curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. We gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my doubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only mind."

Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face away from the light.

Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he know more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must have been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his wife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" had cursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her; but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters. Then the old man rose to go.

"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, think ye?" Allison shook her head.

"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that."

"Ye would be likely to ken," said Saunners, and then he went away.

Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance, then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house. She barred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and went softly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully. Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard.

It was not much. Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in the kirkyard of Kilgower. That they were the names of her father and mother she did not doubt. She had been greatly startled by all she had heard, but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more cause to be glad and thankful than to be afraid? Willie had put up that stone! Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home, and that all had been well with him? He might be at home yet, on his own land. Or he might be on the sea—on his way to a new country which was to give a home to them both. Glad tears came to Allison's eyes as she knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie's pillow.

"I am glad and thankful," she said, "and I will not vex myself thinking about what the old man said. It might just be by chance that he spoke with no thought about me, except that the name was the same. I will be thankful and have patience and wait. I am sure he would not wish to harm me. Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of other folk it might end in my having to go away again."

But the thought of having to go away did not seem so terrible to her as it would have done a few months ago. Her courage had risen since then. She had "come to herself," and she was reasonable both in her fears and her hopes, and so she repeated, as she laid her head on her pillow:

"I will be thankful and have patience and wait. And I will put my trust in God."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"She courtsied low, she spoke him fair, She sent him on his way; She said as she stood smiling there, You've wealth, and wiles, and wisdom rare, But I have won the day."

Crombie did not leave the manse with an easy mind, and the more he thought of what he had said, and what he had not said there, the more uneasy he became. He was in a quandary, he told himself, putting the accent on the last "a." To his surprise and consternation he found himself in doubt as to the course he ought to pursue.

He had gone to the manse with the full intention of asking the minister's lass whether she were the wife of the man whom he had seen "glowering at the new headstane" in the kirkyard of Kilgower, and of putting it to her conscience whether she was not breaking the laws of God and man by keeping herself hidden out of his way.

But he had not asked her. He could not do it. He had come away without a word, and now he was saying to himself that the man who through soft-heartedness, or through the influence of carnal affection, suffered sin in another, thus being unfaithful to a sinful soul in danger, was himself a sinner. He ought to have spoken, he told himself. He could not be called upon to tell the story to another, but to Allison herself he should have spoken. If her conscience needed to be wakened, he sinned against her in keeping silence. It might have been to prepare him for this very work that he had been sent to lay his Eppie down in that faraway kirkyard.

Saunners stood still on the hillside when he got thus far. Ought he to go back again? He could not be sure. The thought of the first glimpse he had got that night of Allison sitting quiet and busy with her work, with a look of growing content upon her face that had once been so gloomy and sad, came back to him, and he moved on again.

"I'll sleep on it," said he, "and I'll seek counsel."

It was a wise resolution to which to come. Saunners was a good man, though, perhaps, he did not always do full honour to his Master or to himself in the sight of those who were looking on. He was "dour, and sour, and ill to bide," it was said of him, even by some among his friends.

But there was this also to be said of Saunners. It was only when a life of struggle and disappointment and hard, wearing work was more than half over, that he had come to see the "True Light," and to find the help of the Burden-Bearer. A man may forsake the sins of his youth and learn to hate the things which he loved before, and to love the things which he hated, and in his heart long, and in his life strive, to follow the Perfect Example in all things. But the temper which has been indulged for half a lifetime cannot be easily and always overcome, and habits which have grown through the years cannot be cast aside and put out of sight in a moment, like an ill-fitting garment which will never trouble more. Life was, in a way, a struggle to Saunners still.

But though he lost his temper sometimes and seemed to those who were too ready to judge him to fail in the putting on of that Charity which "thinketh no evil" and which is "the bond of perfectness," he was still a good man, honest, conscientious, just, and he could never willingly have sought to harm or to alarm any helpless or suffering creature. But then neither would his conscience let him consent to suffer sin in one whom he might, through faithful dealing, save from loss and ruin, and whom he might bring back to the right way again.

"She doesna look like a sinfu' woman," he thought, recalling the glimpse he had got through the open door, of Allison sitting at peace and safe from harm. "She is like a woman who has seen sorrow, and who is winning through wi't. And yon man had an evil look.

"And after a', what hae I to go upon? A name on a headstane in a farawa' kirkyard! A' the rest came frae the wee wud wifie (the little mad woman), who micht have made up the story, or only believed it true because o' the ill-will she bore to yon dark, angry-lookin' man. And even if the story be true, what call have I to mak' or meddle in it?

"No' an ill word that ever I hae heard has been spoken of the lass since she came to the manse. She's at peace, and she's doing the duty that seems to be given her to do, and—I'll bide a wee and seek counsel. And after a', what hae I to go upon?" repeated Saunners.

But there was plenty to go upon, as he knew well, if he had only been sure that it would be wise to do anything, or meddle at all in the matter. He had only spoken a word to Allison; but the wee wifie, while they sat together on a fallen gravestone, had told him, not the whole story—she was hardly capable of doing that—but all of it that she had seen with her own eyes.

Oh! yes. She knew well about bonny Allie Bain. She was in the kirk when she was married—"sair against her will. It was like a muckle black corbie carrying off a cushat doo. But the cushat got free for a' that," said the wee wifie, with nods and smiles and shrill laughter.

But she said nothing of the brother's part in that which followed, though she told with glee how Brownrig had gotten his deserts before all was done, and how the bride went one way and the bridegroom went another, "carried hame wi' sair banes in his gig." She told how first Allison's mother, and then her father, were put in the grave, where they both lay with the new stone at their heads, and how "bonny Allie" had come to say farewell to them there. She grew eager and eloquent when she came to her own part in the story.

"I was here mysel', as I am maist days, for it's a bonny place and halesome, though ye mightna think it here among the dead folk. I like to hae a crack with them that's been awa' for mony a year and day. My mother lies ower in yon nook, and the man I should hae marriet. My father and my brother were lost at sea.

"Oh! ay—and about bonny Allie. Weel, she lay down wi' her face upon the sod, and lay lang there, and when she lifted it again it was white as the snaw, but there wasna a tear upon it. Then there came the bark o' a dog that I kenned weel. He was sent after me once, though Brownrig denies it. So I made free to go in by; and says I, 'Miss Allie dear, I hear the bark o' the black dog, Worry, and I doubt his maister's nae farawa'.'

"She was speakin' ower the wa' to the minister's son by that time, and after a minute or twa she came awa', put her face down on the grave again, and then she followed me. And when we came near to the foot o' the brae, I garred (made) her take off her hose and shoon, and wade doon the burn a bittie that the dog mightna follow the scent, and I laid doon peats that she might step on them a bit o' the way between the burn and my ain door.

"When she came in she sat still like ane dazed and spent, and never a word spake she. But I stirred up the fire and boiled the kettle, and said I:—

"'Did ye break your fast afore ye came awa'?'

"'There wasna time,' said she.

"'And ye had nae heart for your supper yestreen, and ye forgot ye're denner, and nae wonder. But if ye're thinkin' o' winning awa' to Aberdeen this day, or even the morn, ye'll need to tak' something to make ye strong for the journey.'

"So she ate her bread and drank her tea, and then she lay down in my bed and sleepit the hale day. I was unsettled mysel' that day, and I thocht I would gang up the brae to the Meikles and get some buttermilk that the mistress had promised me. So I darkened the window and locket my door. But I didna leave my key in the thecking (thatch) as I do whiles, in case any o' the neebors micht send a bairn wi' a sup o' milk, or a bit from a new cut cheese. It's weel to gie them a chance to open the door."

"And what then?" said Crombie, fearful of another digression. "What happened then?"

"Oh! naething happened. I only thocht I would be as weel awa', in case Brownrig sent or came himsel' to see what there was to see. So I gaed awa' for a while, and when I cam' back I just set mysel' doon at the door to wait for what would come next. Allie sleepit on, and had nae appearance o' having moved when the sun was near set, which wasna early, for the days were near their langest. But I made the fire burn up, and b'iled the kettle to be ready, and made the tea. And then wha' should I see but Brownrig himsel', riding on his black horse and followed by his uncanny tyke. I had only time to draw thegither the doors o' my press-bed ere he was upon me.

"I was feared at the sicht o' the dog, and the man saw it; but it wasna for mysel' that I was feared, and that he didna see.

"'Ye needna gang white like that at the dog. He'll do ye no harm,' said he.

"'No, unless ye bid him,' said I.

"He gaed me a dark look, and said he: 'I'm not like to do that, though I hear ye have accused me of it.'

"So I saw he was gaen to speak me fair, and I cam' to the door, and a' at once I saw the twa cups that I had set on the table for Allie and me.

"'Ye're to hae a veesitor the nicht?' said he.

"'Wha' kens?' said I. 'I'm ay ready, and it is to be you the nicht. Come ye away in and take a cup o' tea, and maybe I'll find a drappie o' something stronger, gin ye'll promise no' to tell the gauger. No' that I'm feared at him. He's a frien' o' mine, and that's mair than I would mak' bauld to say o' ye're-sel',' said I, giein' another feared look at the dog. 'Come in by, and sit doon.'

"But it was growing late, he said, and he must awa'. He had only a question to speir at me. Had I, by ony chance, seen his wife passing by that day? And in whose company?

"'Ye're wife?' said I, as gin I had forgotten. I whiles do forget.

"'Ay, my wife, Mistress Brownrig—her that was Allison Bain!'

"'Oh!' said I then; 'bonny Allie Bain? Ay, I did that! In the early, early mornin' I saw her ower yonder, lying wi' her face on the new-made grave.'

"I spak' laich (low) when I said it.

"'And did ye no' speak to her?' said he.

"'I daured na,' said I.

"'And which way went she?' said he.

"'She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, and then somebody spoke to her from ower the wall. And in a wee while I cam' round and said a word, but she never answered me.'

"'And wha was the man? Or was it a man?'

"'Oh! ay. It was a man. It was the minister's son wha has come lately frae America. But I heard na a word he said.'

"'Hadden?' he said. 'I'll hae a word wi' him.' And he gaed off in a hurry, and I was glad enow. Then I cried after him: 'Take ye're dog wi' ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame.' But he never heeded, but hurried awa'."

"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest he took in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it.

"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth. There was little to tell. But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit up since then near and far. It gaes me lauch when I think about it. He was mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand was when he put the ring upon it in the kirk. Her lips he never touched— that I'll daur to swear. And a' this time he has been livin' in the house that he made sae grand and fine for her. And doesna he hate it waur than pain or sin by this time? Ay! that does he," said she with her shrill laughter. "He has had a hard year o' it. He gaes here and there; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon him to mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bides in Grassie—that's the Bains' farm. And gin he thocht one had a word to say about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but he would get it out o' him."

Then a change came over the old woman's face.

"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy under her eye.

"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while. She was far frae weel then, and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by this time."

"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?"

"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain."

"Weel, I need to be goin' now. I thank ye for yer story. And if ever I happen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak' weel o' her. And what may ye're ain name be?"

"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it. And, man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' Allie Bain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there. It's better that neither man nor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane should speak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry the sound o' it to her enemy ower yonder. Na, na! The least said is soonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wise mysel'. But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble, and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'. But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman, for ill would be sure to come o' it."

She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, and glanced sidewise at him in silence for a while. Then she said:

"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater. I'm auld, and I'm crooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinna like to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them. I read my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk. But I'm no sayin' that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen against me. There's Brownrig himsel' for instance.

"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the lass nae ill. Ye seem a decent man, and hae nae cause to mean her ill. But never ye name her name. That's gude advice—though I havena ta'en it mysel'. Gude-day to ye. And haste ye awa'. Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' ye a' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond. Gude-day to ye."

"Gude-day to you," said Saunners, rising. He watched her till she passed round the hill, and then he went away.

But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gone many miles on his homeward way. She followed him in the distance, and only turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse, with his face turned toward his home.

Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastened his departure, he lost no time in setting out. It was not impossible that, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find out whether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed to be his way with strangers. That he should wile out of him any information that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought little likely. But he might ask a direct question; and the old man told himself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to save Allison Bain.

So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road was doubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he had heard, and about his duty concerning it. His wisdom would be to forget it altogether, he told himself. But he could not do so. He came to the manse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard, and of getting the truth from her. But when he saw her sitting there so safe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it.

And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts. He would not harm a hair of the lassie's head. A good woman she must be, for she had been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never a word to be spoken against her. And who knew to what straits she might be driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter? There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse. No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win her secret.

"But there is John Beaton to be considered. I would fain hae a word wi' John. He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carries his head ower-high. But the root o' the matter's in him. Yes, I hae little doubt o' that. And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a rough bittie o' road before him. But he is in gude hands, and he'll win through. I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares. I'll ken by the first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen."

But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie's turn came to speak. Some one else had spoken.

It was Saturday night. The work of the week was over Marjorie was safe asleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure, Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane. It was dark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from the trees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and the faraway hills lay clear in the moonlight. With lingering steps she turned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottage gardens. When she came to the last of them she heard her name called softly.

It was John Beaton's voice. She could not see him where he stood, but he saw her clearly. He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadow which told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pass, like the mist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen. In a moment he had leaped the dike, and stood by her side.

"Allison!" said he eagerly, as he took her hand.

John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and her ways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison's face for the look of love which he longed to see. He never would have clasped and kissed her without a word.

In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment in his embrace. Then she struggled to get free.

"Allison, forgive me—because I love you. Allison, say that you will be my wife."

A low cry of anguish came from her white lips.

"Oh! may God pity me. I have been sorely wrong, or this would not have come to be my punishment."

She drew herself away from him, but she made no movement to leave him. John hung his head before her.

"Allison, forgive my presumption, and give me a chance to win your love. Allison, I love you dearly."

"Hush!" she whispered. "Come with me. I must speak to you. I have done wrong, but how could I ever have dreamed that you would give a thought to me?"

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"I am in sore trouble. Come with me somewhere—to your mother—for I must speak to you."

"Not to my mother, if you have anything to say which will grieve her," said John huskily.

"It might grieve her, but she would understand. She might be angry for a moment; but she is kind and good, and she would not think evil of me."

They stood in silence for a minute or two. Then she said:

"Come into the manse. No one will be there till I have time to say what I must say."

They moved on till they came to the lane that led thither, and passed out of the moonlight into the shadow.

"Allison," said John, pausing, "you cannot surely mean to cut me off from all hope? You might come to—care for me in time."

"Care for you? Oh, yes! I care for you. You are my friend, and Willie's. But I have done you a wrong, and with no will to do it."

Instead of going into the house they turned aside at the end of the hedge, and entered the garden. On the summer-seat, under the tall fir-trees, they sat down in silence. After a time Allison rose, and stood before her friend.

"John," said she, "when I heard your voice to-night I was glad. My heart has been heavy with a great dread all the week; and when I heard your voice I said to myself, here is a friend who will help me. John," she said after a moment's silence, "it is my secret I am going to tell you—my secret that I have kept all these long months. I trust you, John. You will tell me what I must do."

"Well," said John, as she paused again.

"John—I am a wife already. It is from—from the man who married me against my will that I have been hiding all this time. You must not think ill of me, for I was like a lost creature when my father died, and I knew not what to do. I came away hoping that God would let me die, or keep me hidden till my brother should get away to the other side of the sea. And God has kept me safe till now. John, will you forgive me and help me?"

The hands she held out to him trembled. She was shaking with excitement and the chill of the night. He rose and wrapped her shawl close about her.

"Allison, sit down. Or shall we go into the house? I will do all that I can to help you—so help me God!" said John with a groan, fearing that he was past help.

"No, I will not sit down. Sometime I will tell you all my story, but not to-night. This is what I must tell you. It was in our parish of Kilgower where Mr Crombie laid down his wife. There he heard something of Allison Bain. He saw the man who married me against my will—who has sworn to find me and to take me home to his house, alive or dead. It was in my hearing that he took that oath. But whether Mr Crombie really knows about me, or whether he was only speaking for the sake of saying something, or whether it was to find me out, or to warn me, I cannot say. And oh! I have been so safe here, and I have come to myself among these kind people."

"What do you wish me to do?" said John, as she paused.

"If Crombie should know who I am, and should speak of me to any one, you would hear of it. He may even speak to you. You are his friend. Then will you warn me, and give me time to go away? I should be sorry, oh! so sorry, to leave the kind folk here and go away again among strangers. But I will never go with that man, never."

"I will help you if I can. I hope you may be mistaken in thinking that Crombie knows your story. I think, at the worst, it is only a guess he has made."

Allison shook her head.

"He saw the names of my father and mother on the headstone that their son has set up over their grave. Willie may be at home still, but I hope he has gone away to America. Oh! if I were only sure that he were I would go to him at once. I could hardly be brought back so far. And I might hide myself in that great country so that I could never be found."

"Allison," said John gently. "Think of me as a friend, who will help you whatever may happen."

"I thank you kindly, and I trust you. I will bide still where I am while I may, for oh! I dread the thought of these first dark days coming on me again."

"I do not think you need to be afraid of Crombie. He would not willingly injure you. He is a good man, though his sense of duty makes him sometimes say or do what looks hard."

"Yes. He might think it right to betray me—not that it would be betrayal, since I have not trusted him or any one else."

She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly. But she was anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought that all the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay in Nethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to go away among strangers.

"But I will not go to yon man's house whatever befall," she said in her heart.

The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while passed and showed the trouble in her face, and John's heart smote him as he saw it. To whom might this poor soul turn in her distress? And why should she tell her story to any one? Since she had kept it so long to herself, it could not be an easy one to tell. Why should she tell it? Whether she had been right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not be helped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, it would be right to help her.

"Allison," he said in a little, "you say you trust me. I also trust you. You do not need to tell your story to me. Some day, perhaps, you may tell it to my mother. No one can give you wiser counsel or warmer sympathy than she will. And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie. At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knows to be your friend. He would never betray you to your—enemy."

"Well, I will wait. I will not go away—for a while at least. And you will be my friend?"

"I will try to help you," said John.

But all the thoughts which were passing through John Beaton's mind would not have made a pleasant hearing for his mother. A sudden, strong temptation assailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he strove to put it from him.

"As to Crombie," said he, "he is an old man, and growing forgetful. It may all pass out of his mind again. That would be best."

"Yes," said Allison, "that would be best."

They walked down to the gate together.

"And you will forgive me, Allison, and—trust me?"

"I will ay trust you. And it is you who need to forgive me," said she, holding out her hand. "But it never came into my mind—"

John held her hand firmly for a moment.

"Allison!" said he, and then he turned and went away.

It was his mother who should befriend Allison Bain. But how to tell her story? If it had to be told, Allison must tell it herself. As to speaking with Saunners Crombie about Allison Bain and her troubles—

John uttered an angry word, and hurried down the lane and past the gardens and the green, and over the fields and over the hills, till he came to himself standing in the moonlight within sight of the "Stanin' Stanes." And being there he could only turn and go home again, carrying his troubled thoughts with him.

He had many of them, and the thought which pressed upon him most painfully for the moment was one which need not have troubled him at all. How was he to meet his mother and speak to her about Allison Bain with all this angry turmoil in his heart? He was angry with himself, with Crombie, even with Allison.

"How could I have thought—" she had said, looking at him with entreaty in her lovely eyes. While she had been in his thoughts by day and in his dreams by night, he "had never come into her mind!"

"But I could have made her think of me if I had not been a fool, with my fine plans about rising in the world! I could make her care for me yet," said John to himself, quite unconscious that from the window of her room his mother's kind, anxious eyes were watching him.

"Something has happened to vex him," said she to herself. "I will not seem to spy upon him. He will tell me, if he needs my help, in his own time."

But she waited and listened long before his footstep came to the door, and he went to his room without coming to say good-night as he passed.

"He is thinking I am asleep," said she with a sigh.

There was nothing to be said. That was the conclusion to which John came that night. What could he say to his mother about Allison Bain? If he were to speak a word, then nothing could be kept back. His mother had a way of knowing his thoughts even before he uttered them, and why should she be vexed at seeing the trouble which, if he spoke at all, could not be concealed from her?

If the story must be told to his mother, Allison herself must tell it. But why need it be told? If only that meddling old fool, Crombie, had had the sense to hold his tongue. What good could come of speaking? Why should not the poor soul be left to forget her troubles and to grow content? Even his mother could only warn her and help her to get away if it ever came to that with her. But until then silence was best.

He would have a word with Saunners to find out what he knew and what he only suspected, and he would do what might be done to keep him silent.

John had his word with Crombie, but it did not come about in the way which he had desired and planned. While he was the next day lingering about the kirk in the hope of getting a word with him, Crombie was asking for John at his mother's door.

"Come away in, Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton when she heard his voice. "I have been wishing to see you this while."

Then there were a few words spoken between them about the sorrow which had come upon him, and of his wife's last days, and of the long journey he had taken to lay her in the grave. Saunners told of the bonny, quiet place on the hillside, where he had laid her down, and before he had taken time to consider, the name of Allison Bain had been uttered.

"I saw the names of her father and her mother—'John Bain and Allison his wife'—on a fine, new headstane that had been put over them by their son. They hae been dead a year and more. Decent folk they seem to hae been. He farmed his ain land. I heard about it from a wee bowed wifie who was there in the kirkyard. She had something to say o' Allison Bain as well."

And then Crombie came to a pause. Mrs Beaton was startled by his words, but kept silence, for she saw that he had not meant to speak. But in a little he went on.

"It was a queer story that she told altogether, and I hae been in a swither as to what I was to do with it, or if I was to do anything with it. I cam' the day to speak to your son aboot it, but taking a' the possibeelities into consideration, I'm no' sure but what I hae to say should be said to a prudent woman like yoursel'. I would be loth to harm the lass."

"I will never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till she shall say it to me with her own lips," said Mrs Beaton, speaking low.

"Weel, I have no ill to say o' her. There was no ill spoken o' her to me. That is, the woman thought no ill, but quite the contrary—though mair micht be said. Ye're her friend, it seems, and should ken her better than I do. I'se tell ye all I ken mysel', though it was to ye're son I meant to tell it."

"And why to my son?" asked Mrs Beaton gravely.

It is possible that Crombie might have given a different answer if the door had not opened to admit John himself. The two men had met before in the course of the day, and all had been said which was necessary to be said about the death and burial of Crombie's wife, and in a minute Crombie turned to Mrs Beaton again.

"As to the reason that I had for thinkin' to speak to your son, there was naebody else that I could weel speak to about it. No' the minister, nor his wife. It would be a pity to unsettle them, or to give them anxious thoughts, and that maybe without sufficient reason. And John's a sensible lad, and twa heads are better than ane."

John laughed and mended the fire, and asked "whether it was Robin or Jack this time, and what was ado now?"

"It's aboot neither the one nor the other," said Saunners, with a touch of offence in his voice. "It's aboot the lass at the manse—Allison Bain."

It had been a part of Crombie's plan "to take the lad by surprise" when he mentioned Allison's name, and he peered eagerly into his face "to see what he could see." But the peats, which John had put on with a liberal hand, had darkened the fire for the time, and he had taken his place beside his mother's chair and was leaning on it, as he had a way of doing when anything special was to be said between them, and Saunners saw nothing. "Begin at the beginning," said Mrs Beaton. So Saunners began again, and getting into the spirit of the affair, told it well. They listened in silence till he came to a pause.

"It is a curious story," said John, by way of saying something.

"It was a curious story as I heard it," said Saunners. "Is the wee wine 'a' there'?" asked John quietly. "I'm by no means sure o' it. She looked daft-like when she shook her neive (fist) at the man Brownrig behind his back and called him ill names. And her lauch when she told me that the man had never touched his wife's hand since the day he put the ring upon it, and when she swore that never had he touched her lips, was mad enow."

John's mother felt the start which her son gave when the words were spoken.

"And is it true, think ye?" said she. "There seems to be truth in the story, but where it lies I canna say. And whether it be true or no, I am beginning to think that I have no call to make or meddle in it."

"There is just one thing that I must say again," said Mrs Beaton—"I'll never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till with her own lips she gives me leave to do it! She is a good woman, whatever trouble may have been brought into her life by the ill-doing of others."

"What think ye, John?" said Saunners.

"I think ye did a wise thing when ye came to consult with my mother. She kens a good woman when she sees her."

"There may be truth in the story. It may be a' true. But the question for me to decide with your advice is whether a word o' mine will help or hinder the richt thing's being done?"

"Yes, that is the question," said Mrs Beaton. She hesitated to say more. For she knew that to set one side of a matter in a strong light was the surest way to let Crombie see more clearly all that might be said on the other side.

"She's a weel doin' lass," said Crombie.

"She is invaluable in the manse," said Mrs Beaton.

"It would unsettle them sadly to lose her, or even to have a doubtfu' word spoken o' her," said Saunners.

"Especially just now, when Mrs Hume is not quite well," said Mrs Beaton.

"And what say ye, John?" asked Saunners.

"Do ye feel responsible to this man—whatever his name may be—that ye should wish to take up his cause? I mean, had ye any words with him about her?" added John, as his mother touched his hand in warning.

"No' me! The wifie said he was ay waitin', and watchin', and speirin', and there was a chance that he would have a word wi' me. I didna bide to be questioned. I just took the road without loss o' time, whether it was wise to do it or no."

"To my mind it was both wise and kind," said Mrs Beaton. "As ye say, there may be truth in the story; but the telling of it here will be the same thing to Allison Bain, whether it be true or false. She is alone and friendless, it seems, and that a young lass should be spoken about at all is a harm to her, and a word might be the means of sending her out into the world without a friend. Surely the Lord was keeping His eye on her for good when He sent her to the manse, and into the hands of such a woman as Mrs Hume."

"Ay, that's the truth. And what say ye, John?"

"I say that my mother seldom makes a mistake when she lets herself speak strongly about any matter. I agree with her that ye took the right course when ye made up your mind to say nothing about the matter."

Crombie fidgeted in his chair, and was silent for a minute or two.

"I said nothing to the man himsel', but I did drop a word to Allison Bain. She said nothing, but I saw by her face that she understood. I only hope I may na hae done ill in speakin'."

The others hoped the same with stronger emphasis, and not without some angry thoughts on John's part. But to speak the old man fair was the wisest way. There was no time for many words, for Annie brought in the tea, and Saunners was prevailed upon to stay and share their meal. When it was over it was beginning to grow dark, and he rose to go, and John rose also, saying he would go with him a bit of his way.

The talk between them as they went on was not of Allison, but of quite other persons and matters, and it was kept steadily up and not suffered to turn in that direction. When Saunners spoke of the strange things that might be happening under "our very een," John listened in silence, or brought him back to the kirk, and the new members, and the good that was being done, till they came to the little house by the side of the moss, out of whose narrow window no welcoming light was gleaming.

"I'm no' used wi't yet," said Saunners with a groan, as he fumbled awkwardly trying to put the clumsy key into the lock. "It's the hardest part of my day's work, this coming hame to a dark house. But folk maun bide what's sent, and be thankful it's nae waur. Gude-nicht to be. Ye hae shortened my road, and mony thanks. I winna ask ye to come in."

"No. I must be early up and awa' in the morning, and it may be long ere I be home again. Ye might look in on my mother whiles, when ye're down our way. She's much alone."

If John had planned his best to win Saunners to friendliness, and to silence concerning the affairs of Allison Bain, he could have said nothing more to the purpose than that. Saunners accepted the invitation, and came now and then to inquire for the health of Mrs Beaton, and "heard only good words from her," as he said.

He had something to say to most of his friends about the place where he had laid down his wife to her rest beside her own folk, and even spoke of the "daft wifie" that he had seen there; but he never uttered a word as to the story she had told him, and in course of time, as he thought less about it, it passed quite out of his remembrance—which was best for all concerned.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree To plague her beating heart."

As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the threatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to go away now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to the manse about this time, and Allison's strength and skill were tried to meet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leave these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do.

And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away secretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be said before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as he had said, have "the law on his side."

She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her time to go away.

"I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and darkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done right, there's no turning back now."