As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing to fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of greeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution and counsel which it was "his bounden duty" to let drop for the benefit of all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned.

And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then something happened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. "Home," it must be, thought the neighbours, who saw the big "kist" and the little one lifted from the carrier's cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help thinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year's experience had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the decision with regard to her.

The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about the matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came. For as the summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and had appealed to them for help.

She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. What she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.

"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?"

"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she came into our house," said Mrs Hume gravely. "It was a risk our taking her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one."

"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?"

"Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she would be in yours should she go with you."

"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at an end," said Mr Hume.

"Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her," said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.

"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare her to me," said Mrs Esselmont. "But that is only the beginning of my petition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older. Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am certain—at least I have hope—that she might be helped by one who has been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life before her!"

A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid herself back on her pillow and waited.

"Well?" said she after a little.

"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again.

"Speak for us both," said his wife.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night. We thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask counsel."

"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we can go, the better."

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they parted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:

"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain. Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take Allison. And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child go."

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being made, there was no time to lose.

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be.

"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and put on your bonnet."

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over.

Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.

"She has gi'en warning. She was ay above the place," said Mrs Coats.

"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place weel," said her friend.

"But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with doin' the bidding o' anither."

"She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it. What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear through the open window what was to be said.

"That's true," said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means for a' that."

"Ye may say that! It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown. Is she like the ither lassies o' the place? Who ever saw her bare feet? It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her."

"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves are put doon to her hands."

"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to."

"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them. Ye needna be feared about that," said the weaver.

"It's no' that I'm feared, but ane would think that she was feared herself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who she belongs to."

"Never to the like o' you and me. But the minister's satisfied, and Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi' them."

"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistly something to be hid."

"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae the een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' the minister's lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do that same," said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion again.

"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women," said Mrs Coats, with a look which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well as disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed.

"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy eneuch wi' me."

For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "the last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on with pleasure."

"It's a bonny place," said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up quickly. "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young lass to sigh and sech like that? Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that ye would fain see?" Allison smiled, but shook her head. "I never saw a garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own—"

"And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?"

"Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice about it," said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.

"Oh! I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin ye are near at hand." Allison shook her head.

"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the other side of the sea."

"In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go there ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybe slips and roots as well. They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land. I once heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at the sicht o' a gowan."

"Thank you," said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she smiled.

"Here's my lady," said Delvie, bending to his work again.

Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, a woman several years older than herself.

"You may leave me here with Allison Bain," said she; "I will take a turn or two and then I will be in again."

She had the minister's note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it as they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and the fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs Esselmont said:

"You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. I have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. But I have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the house first."

So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together.

"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment's silence, "I have something to say to you."

And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to Marjorie's father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plan could only be carried out with Allison's help, because Mrs Hume would never trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thought that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then she added:

"I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to care for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is now. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner the better. We have no time to lose."

Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes.

"I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go—but—"

She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont was lying.

"But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not wish me to go when you have heard."

"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, "stand where I can see your face."

She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:

"I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change my thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of your master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I am willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than they have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman, Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong."

"I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I would not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I could not. I would rather die," said Allison, speaking low.

There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on the floor.

"Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and your bonnet. You are too warm in this room."

Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of her black bonnet.

"Take it off," said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated.

Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and there—brown, with a touch of gold in them—and without the disguise of the big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very different Allison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont.

"A beautiful woman," she said to herself, "and with something in her face better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need be ashamed."

Aloud she said:

"Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me, you should, perhaps, tell me all."

"Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrong to take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would need to tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with their child. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble because of taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spoken of on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all their kindness."

"And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is aware of what has befallen you?"

Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that she answered.

"It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One night he came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my name on a new headstone, 'John Bain and Allison his wife'—the names of my father and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me all my life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was trying me, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I would like to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon me since then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. I would rather die," repeated Allison, and the look that came over her face gave emphasis to her words.

"And has he never spoken again?"

"Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, but he might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the right way. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would be happiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie."

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a long time. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand.

"Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will not bear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. I trust you. Come with me and the child."

The tears came into Allison's eyes, and she said quietly:

"I thank you, madam. I will serve you well."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"God be with thee, Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north."

Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story which Crombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother:

"If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way of letting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He will say nothing to harm her."

But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison's marriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering the matter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would not be well for Allison's peace of mind to know that the sad story of her life had been told to them.

And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to find a chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, and went no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done of late, and was not at ease with her when they met.

For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspect that her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one of whom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beaton might still blame her for her son's folly.

Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had so startled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to be reasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to the door, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words that might be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into the kirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentary terror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent in search of her.

She had said to herself many times, "I will wait quietly. I will stay where I am, and I will not yield to my fears."

But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, she knew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long have borne the strain which had been upon her.

"Six days!" she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill that night, in the darkness. "Only six days and nights, and I shall be away, and safe for a year at least; and then!—but I will not look beyond the year. I will care for the child, and be at peace."

As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent north on business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell where he was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that. When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, as he was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about coming home. His mother's heart was sore for her son. No word concerning Allison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart had gone from him and that he must suffer for a time.

"But he'll win through," she said, hopefully, to herself, "as other men have won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, since ever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for the pain! He will be sorry not to see her again," added she, with a sigh.

So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjorie was to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; that she was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful words as to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: "It is Allison Bain who is to have the care of her." Of Allison herself she only said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would be happy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply.

On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack, that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, and the neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that if there should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be no lingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie took it all very quietly.

"Yes, I'm going away. Yes, I'm sorry, and I'm glad, but I'm not afraid, because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I'm glad. I'm going to see new things and places—me that was never ten miles away from home in all my life! And I'm going to come home strong and well, like the other bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now to take my place. It's my father that I'm sorriest for. But I'll come home strong and well, and then he'll be glad that he let me go."

She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the school to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again well and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid.

Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her.

"Allison," said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, "I think it would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?"

"I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now," said Allison.

So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own. She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight.

"Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you," said she.

Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume's message.

"I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of the child?"

"Yes, I am glad to be going."

"But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?"

"No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here. Everybody at the manse has been kind."

"And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned you, Allison Bain," but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it.

What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken.

"It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us," thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: "His mother would be grieved, if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am gone away."

And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said "good-bye" to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend.

"Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?"

But Allison shook her head. "Nothing that it would please you to hear; and it is all over now, and I am going away."

"Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and bring you safe through all trouble 'into a large place.' Kiss me, my dear."

Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:

"Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi' ye. I'll no' keep ye lang."

Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.

"Sit ye doon, Allison," said the schoolmistress. "I saw ye when ye gaed into Mistress Beaton's, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. And ye're going farawa'? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin' back again?"

"I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home the child to her father and her mother," said Allison, gravely.

"Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may naething but gude befall ye. I'll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great divert to me, you and the minister's bairn thegither—especially since the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak' heart again. Do ye mind the 'Stanin Stanes' yon day, and a' the bairns, and John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I'll miss ye mair than ye ken."

The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she said:

"Eh! woman! It's weel to be the like o' you! Ye're young, and ye're strong, and ye're bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like ye. It's nae ance in a thousand times that a' these things come to a woman thegither. Ye mind me o' mysel' when I was young. I had a' that ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that's neither here nor there, at this late day," added she, rising.

Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, and had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in the light as she held it up to the lamp.

"Look ye at it," said the mistress. "Until this day I have never, for forty years and mair, set e'en upon it. I hae been twice marriet— though folk here ken naething about that—and this was my first marriage ring. It was my mother's before me, and her mother's before her. It held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to me—he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was a wilfu' lassie—an undutifu' daughter. But it may work again wi' you. Take it, and put it on your finger."

But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her.

"And what for no'? It's my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna be feared," said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. "But why should ye wish to give it to me?"

"Because I hae naebody else to gi'e it to. There's not, to my knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand."

Allison looked anxiously into the old woman's eager face. What did she mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she did not resist.

"There is the charm written on the inside of it, 'Let love abyde till death devyde.' Ye'll see it by the daylicht."

But the ring was far too large for Allison's finger. It slipped from it and fell to the ground.

"Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?" said the mistress.

"It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me," said Allison with an uncertain smile. "It is very kind of you, Mistress Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but—"

"It's a pity. But it's yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa' evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun' ye're neck, and it may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel', if it minds naebody else."

Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the old woman did not mean her harm.

"Why should you be so kind to me—a stranger?" said she gently.

"I hardly ken mysel', except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me o' my ain youth, partly that ye're sae like what I once was, and partly that ye are sae different. I can see now where I gaed wrang. And ye hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye may."

"I'll try," said Allison humbly. And so they parted.

Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed of her life before she came to the manse.

There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. Marjorie was in the "gig" with her father and mother, who were to take her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what might be before her.

The same might be said of her father and mother—with a difference. They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the Good Hand which had "led them all their life long until now," and they had confidence in Allison Bain.

Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said gravely:

"I think if you had known me all my days,—if you had seen all my life till now,—I think you would still be willing to trust me with your Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason—it is better to say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all."

"We can wait till then," said the minister heartily. The child's mother said the same.

They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal.

Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

"Unless you can swear for life or for death Oh! fear to call it loving."

Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day in Aberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found a place prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in the university, had taken up his abode.

It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that he could not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, and Marjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad of the rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For how could she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or of those who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten the dull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward with hope.

Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father had asked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes.

"You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder," said he.

"And so do we," said Robin.

"It was a good day for me," said Allison, and her eyes said more than that.

"Yes, better than you know," said the doctor. "And for you, too, my wee pale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carry you away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she? May God grant it," added the doctor reverently.

"I will try to take good care of her," said Allison.

"I am sure of that."

When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door.

"I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named over yonder," said she, casting down her eyes.

"Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has come to inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heard his voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of his sight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be others who would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you." And then he went away.

"I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfully wedded wife, but I cannot—I have not the heart to betray her into his hands."

In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since Allison was with her.

"I will have her all to myself," said Marjorie.

John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm.

"Happy little Marjorie," he whispered in her ear.

She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison lingered beside her, John said to his friend:

"Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word with Allison."

Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then he started up in great haste.

"I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don't go till I come back, John," said he. "Can I do anything for you, Allison?"

"Nothing more," said Allison; and Robin disappeared.

There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and about other things.

"Did you see my mother before you came away?" said John.

"Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night."

And then she added that she thought his mother was "wearying" to see him, and that he should go home soon.

"Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I have been in the parish of Kilgower."

Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing very pale.

"It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one should be sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. It was asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned the leaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why."

Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But it had been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly.

He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but John refused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself:

"If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tell after I had eaten his bread."

Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemed inclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, even friendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. He told John about the country folk, and about the various farms which they passed; and at last they came round by Grassie.

"'It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likely soon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, much respected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain had gone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father's death.'

"I kenned by this time what he was to be at," said John to Allison, when he had got thus far. "And I thought it wiser to take the matter into my own hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of William Bain before. Where could it have been?

"'In the tollbooth, likely,' said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for a minute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could not say which. 'Yes, it might. I have been there,' I said. 'I had a friend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once or twice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been out before ever I went there.'

"I saw the change in the man's face when I said this.

"'He was here in June,' he said. 'He's off to America now, and I would give much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one can trust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I'll win to the end o' the clue yet,' he said. He had an evil look when he said it.

"I made haste over my work after that," went on John, "for I could not trust myself to listen. If he had named your name—"

John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out into the darkness.

The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrig appeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with him to see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm that was soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and the matter might as well be considered at once.

On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden's name was mentioned.

"He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among the rest"; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could not hear, but he answered:

"I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap and good, and skilled labour is well paid," and so on.

But Brownrig came back again to Bain.

"That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye might let me know."

"I might possibly hear of him," said John; "but it is hardly likely."

He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could still "take care of himself," or he thought so. He made some pretence of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his "desertion," as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay.

He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain—that the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the last.

"Ye're wise to go your ways," said the innkeeper, as John went into the open air. "Yon man's no easy to do wi', when he gets past a certain point. He'll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he calls it, before he's done. He's like a madman, drinking himself to death."

John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened while the man went on to tell of Brownrig's marriage and all that followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the disappointed man.

"She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; and it's my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she's safe in America by this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder if he were to set out there in search of her some day."

John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of Brownrig's angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on.

It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his eyes with his hand.

"I am glad to be going away," said Allison, after a little; "and I thank you for—all your kindness."

"Kindness!" repeated John. "I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman."

He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly.

"I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;" and then she added: "But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away."

John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her.

"I am glad—yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?"

Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not withdraw her eyes from his.

"Speak wisely, John," said she.

"Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man—that brute, I should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God to bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife? Would it be right for you to go to him?"

"Even if it were right, I could not go to him," said she.

"And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a servant in another woman's house—a wanderer on the face of the earth?"

"He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away."

"And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?"

"I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think—that I pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine—if I only get safe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have trusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to resist him."

John bent toward her and took her hand.

"Will you use your strength against me, Allison?"

"No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf."

"Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear," he entreated, as she put up her hand to stop him, "Yes, let me tell you all. From the first moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day? Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true."

Allison's colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:

"John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what is due from him to her?"

"Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long life to do it."

"John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he not uphold her honour before the world?"

"We would go away together across the sea."

"Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not make me doubt it."

"Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me."

He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him.

"And your mother, John?"

"She would forgive us, if it were once done."

"And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know? No, John, it cannot be."

"You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me."

"Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; but I could not go with you. No, I could not."

"Allison, I could make you a happy woman," said John, ending where he had begun.

"And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?"

"Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, 'John, I love you.'"

She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met his eyes. But she did meet them bravely.

"I think I might have learned to love you—as you said—but I will not do you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will not be lost. God be with you, and fare ye well."

She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did not take the hand which she held out to him.

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"We shall be friends always, I hope."

"Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothing between us. You must see that."

She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes.

"It cannot be all," said she, speaking low.

John turned and went away without a word.

That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning in time to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison's arms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed:

"Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?"

John looked up to see the tears in Allison's sad eyes, and his own softened as he looked.

"Good-bye, my friend," said she. "Good-bye."

Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand this time, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, and in a moment they were gone.

John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till it disappeared around a corner of the street, "And now," said he, "I must to my work again."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

"Will I like a fule, quo' he, For a haughty hizzie dee?"

There was work enough waiting him, if he were to carry out the plans he had pleased himself with making, before ever he had seen the face of Allison Bain. In one year more he had hoped to get to the end of his university course. If not in one year, then in two. After that, the world was before him and hard work.

"It has happened well," he was saying to himself, as he still stood looking at the corner of the street. "Yes, it has happened well. I am glad she is gone away. If she had been staying on in Nethermuir, it might not have been so easy for me to put her out of my thoughts. It has happened well."

And then he turned and went down the street "with his nose in the air," as was said by a humble friend of his who saw him, but whom he did not see.

"I must have my turn of folly like the lave (the rest), as auld Crombie would say. And 'it's weel over,' as he would also say, if he kenned all. I must to my work again."

Then he turned the corner and came face to face with the husband of Allison Bain. John's impulse during the space of one long-drawn breath was to knock the man down and trample him under his feet. Instead of this, in answer to Brownrig's astonished question, "Have you forgotten me?" John met his extended hand and stammered:

"I did not expect to see you. And for the moment—certainly—"

"I have been at Mr Swinton's office to see him or you. You are late this morning."

"I am on my way there now. Have you time to go back again? That is, if I can do anything for you!"

"I'll go back with you. It is business I came down about. I am sorry to hear from Mr Swinton that you are thinking of leaving his employment. I was hoping that ye might have the overseeing of a job that the laird has nearly made up his mind to."

"Oh! as to that, the matter is by no means settled yet, though I have been thinking about it. I may stay on."

"A place in the employ of a man like Swinton, and I may add, after what I have heard him say,—a place in his confidence also, must make good stepping-stones to fortune for a young man. Where were you thinking of going, if one may ask? To America, I suppose, like so many other folk in these days."

"To America! Oh! no; I have no thought of leaving Scotland at present, or even of leaving Aberdeen. I intend taking a while at the college. I began it when I was a lad. But my plans may fall through yet."

"It would take time and it would take money," said Brownrig.

"That's true, but I have plenty of time before me."

"Well, ye may be up our way after all. The laird has ta'en it intil his head to have a new wing put to the house. It has as muckle need of a new wing as a Collie dog has o' twa tails," said Brownrig—falling into Scotch, as some folk have a way of doing when they wish to be contemptuous or jocose, or indeed are moved in any way. "But if it is to be done, it is to be done well, and Swinton is the man, with you to oversee."

"There could be little done this year," said John.

"Plans and preparations could be made. The work must be done in the summer."

Brownrig seemed to be thinking of something else, for when they came to the corner of the street, he stood still, looking out toward the sea. John paused also for a moment, but he grew impatient and moved on. All this time he had been saying to himself:

"In some way I must keep this man in sight through the day and through the night as well, as long as he shall stay in the town. If he were to see her now! If he were to follow her!"

John drew his breath hard at the thought.

There was a long stair to go up before Mr Swinton's rooms could be reached, and when they came to the foot of it Brownrig paused.

"I am not quite myself this morning," he said. "I'll wait till later in the day before I try to see Mr Swinton again. There's no special hurry."

"You are not looking very well," said John gravely. "It would be as wise for you to wait a while and refresh yourself. I'll go with you a bit of the way."

They went back together till they came to the door of the inn. John refused Brownrig's invitation to enter, and left him there. Then he took his way to Robert's lodgings. Robert had not returned.

"Can they be lingering yet?" said John to himself. "I must see that they are fairly away."

In the street opposite the house where Mrs Esselmont had stayed, no carriage was standing. John slowly passed the house and turned again, waiting for a while. Then he went toward the office. Looking in at the inn parlour on his way thither, he saw Brownrig sitting with a friend. There were a bottle and glasses between them, and judging that he was "safe enough for the present," John went to his work. Brownrig paid another visit to Mr Swinton the next day, but nothing was definitely arranged between them as to the work which was to be done, and in a day or two he went away.

It must be owned that it went ill with John Beaton about this time. He had been in the way of saying to himself, and of saying to others also, whom he wished to influence, that the thing which a man desired with all his heart to do, that he could do. Of course he meant only such things as were not in their nature impossible to be done. But after a while he was not so sure of himself.

While Brownrig had lingered in the town, John had been more or less occupied with thoughts of him. He had kept sight of him at most times. He had known where he was and what he was doing, and in what company. He had done this for the sake of Allison Bain, declaring to himself that whatever might be done to prevent her falling into the hands of the man who called her his wife, it was right for him to do.

But Brownrig showed no sign of knowing that Allison had been in the town, and in a few days he turned his face homeward again.

Then John had time to attend to his own affairs, and it went ill with him for a while. He faced his trouble like a man, and "had it out with himself," as he might have "had it out" with friend or foe, with whom a battle was to be fought for the sake of assured peace to come after.

Yes, he loved Allison Bain—loved her so well that he had been willing to sacrifice a hopeful future at home, and begin a life of labour in a strange land, so that she might share it with him. He had not tried to shut his eyes as to the right and wrong of the matter. He had seen that which he had desired to do as other men would see it, and he had still spoken.

But Allison Bain did not love him. At least she did not love him well enough to be willing to do what was wrong for his sake. And now it was all past and gone forever.

What, then, was his duty and interest in the circumstances?

To forget her; to put her out of his thoughts and out of his heart; to begin at the work which he had planned for himself before ever he had seen her face; to hold to this work with might and main, so as to leave himself no time and no room for the cherishing of hope or the rebelling against despair, and he strengthened himself by recalling the many good reasons he had seen for not yielding when the temptation first assailed him.

He ought to be glad that she had refused to listen to him. She had been wise for them both, and it was well. Yes, it was well. This momentary madness would pass away, and he had his work before him.

And so to his work he determined to set himself. So many hours were to be given to Mr Swinton and so many to his books. In these circumstances there would be no leisure for dreams or for regrets, and he would soon be master of himself again.

And he must lose no time. First he must go and see his mother. He hung his head as he owned to himself how few of his thoughts had been given to her of late.

All this while she had had many thoughts concerning him; and when, one night, he came at last, wet and weary, through the darkness of a November night, she welcomed him lovingly, and uttered no word of reproach or even of surprise at his long silence, or at his seeming forgetfulness of the plan which he had himself proposed. She was just as usual, more glad to see him than she had words to tell, and full of interest in all that he had to say.

And John flattered himself that he was "just as usual" also. He had plenty to say at first, and was cheerful over it. Of his own accord he told her about the travellers, as he called them; how he had seen them at Robin's lodgings at night, and when they went away in the morning; and of how content little Marjorie seemed to be in Allison Bain's care, and how sure she was that she was coming home strong and well.

"You'll need to go and tell her mother about it to-morrow," said Mrs Beaton. "She will be glad to hear about her, though I daresay they have had a letter by this time."

"Surely, I'll go to tell them," said John.

But he grew silent after that. He said a few words about how busy he had been of late, and then he owned that he was very tired, and bade his mother good-night cheerfully enough.

"For," said he, "why should my mother be vexed by any trouble of mine, that is so sure soon to pass away?"

And his mother was saying, as she had said before:

"If he needs me, he will tell me, and if I cannot help him, silence is best between us. For oh! I fear if all were told, there might be some things said that his mother would grieve to hear."

The next day passed as Sabbath-days at home usually passed. They went to the kirk together in the morning, and John went alone in the afternoon. He led the singing, and shook hands with a good many people, and was perhaps more friendly with some of them than was usual with him.

He went to the manse in the gloaming to tell them how he had seen the last of Marjorie, how she had been happy and bright, and how she had promised to write a letter to him and to many more; but he never mentioned Allison's name, Mrs Hume noticed, nor did she.

He found his mother sitting by the light of the fire. She gave him her usual greeting.

"Well, John?" said she, cheerfully.

"Well, mother?" said he cheerfully also.

There was not much more said for a while. John's thoughts were faraway, his mother saw, and she sat waiting with patience till they should come back again—with a patience which might have failed at last.

"He maybe needs a sharp word," she thought.

It could wait, however; and in a little she said gently:

"You are looking tired, John; you have been overworking yourself, I doubt."

John laughed.

"Oh! no, mother; far from that. I have plenty of work before me, however, and must buckle to it with a will. You are thinking of coming with me, mother? I hope your heart is not failing you at the thought of the change?"

"Failing me! by no means. Surely, I have been thinking of it and preparing for it, and it is full time the change were made, for the winter is drawing on."

"Yes, the winter is drawing on."

"But, John, I have been taking a second thought about the house. I must go to the town with you for the winter, and that for various reasons. Chiefly because you cannot come here often without losing your time, and I weary for you whiles, sorely. I did that last year, and this year it would be worse. But I would like to be here in the summer. If I have to part from you I would rather be here than among strangers."

"But, mother, what has put that in your head? It is late in the day to speak of a parting between you and me."

"Parting! Oh, no. Only it is the lot of woman, be she mother or wife, to bide at home while a man goes his way. You may have to seek your work when you are ready for it; and I am too old and frail now to go here and there as you may need to do, and you could ay come home to me here."

John's conscience smote him as he listened. He had been full of his own plans and troubles; he had been neglecting his mother, who, since the day he was born, had thought only of him.

"You are not satisfied with the decision I have come to—the change of work which I have been planning."

His mother did not answer for a minute.

"I would have been well pleased if the thought of change had never come into your mind. But since it has come, it is for you to do as you think right. No, I would have had you content to do as your father did before you; but I can understand how you may have hopes and ambitions beyond that, and it is for you to decide for yourself. You have your life before you, and mine is nearly over; it is right that you should choose your way."

John rose and moved restlessly about the room. His mother was hard on him, he said to himself. His hopes and ambitions! He could have laughed at her words, for he had been telling himself that such dreams were over forever. It mattered little whether he were to work with his head or his hands, except as one kind of work might answer a better purpose than the other in curing him of his folly and bringing him to his senses again.

"Sit down, John," said his mother; "I like to see your face."

John laughed.

"Shall I light the candle, mother?"

"There is no haste about it. I have more to say. It is this. You may be quite right in the decision to which you have come. You are young yet, and the time which you may think you have lost, may be in your favour. You have a stronger body than you might have had if you had been at your books all these years; and you have got experience, and I hope some wisdom, that your books could not have given you. I am quite content that you should have your will."

"Thank you, mother. That is a glad hearing for me. I could have had little pleasure in my work, going against your wish and will."

"Well, take pleasure in it now. If I held back for a while, it was only that I thought I saw a chance of a better kind of happiness for you. The sort of work matters less than we think. If it is done well, that is the chief thing. And you have been a good son to your mother."

"Thank you, mother. I hope you will never have to say less of me than that. And now is it settled?"

"Now it's settled—as far as words can settle it, and may God bless you and—keep you all your days."

She had almost said, "comfort you!" but she kept it back, and said it only in her heart.

Though Mrs Beaton's preparations were well advanced, there was still something to do. It could be done without John's help, however, and he left as usual, early in the morning. It was a good while before he saw Nethermuir again.

In a few days his mother was ready to follow him. The door was shut and locked, and the key put into the responsible hand of cripple Sandy for safe keeping. It must be owned that John's mother turned away from the little house where her son had made a home for her, with a troubled heart. Would it ever be her home again? she could not but ask herself. It might be hers, and then it would also be his in a way—to come back to for a day or a week now and then for his mother's sake. But it could never more be as it had been.

It was nothing to grieve for, she told herself. The young must go forth to their work in the world, and the old must stay at home to take their rest, and to wait for the end. Such was God's will, and it should be enough.

It was, in a sense, enough for this poor mother, who was happier in her submission than many a mother who has seen her son go from her; but she could not forget that—for a time at least—her son must carry a sad heart with him wherever he went. And he was young, and open to the temptations of youth, from which his love and care for his mother, and the hard work which had fallen to his lot, had hitherto saved him. How would it be with him now?

"God guide him! God keep him safe from sin," she prayed, as she went down the street.

Mrs Hume stood at the door of the manse, waiting to welcome her, and the sight of her kind face woke within the mother's heart a momentary desire for the easement which comes with the telling of one's anxious or troubled thoughts to a true friend. Loyalty to her son stayed the utterance of that which was in her heart. But perhaps Mrs Hume did not need to be told in words, for she gave silently the sympathy which was needed, all the same, and her friend was comforted and strengthened by it.

"Yes," said she, "I am coming back again in the spring. It is more like home here among you all than any other place is likely to be now; and John will ay be coming and going, whatever he may at last decide to do."

Perhaps the silence of the minister as to John's new intentions and plans implied a doubt in his mind as to their wisdom. Mrs Beaton was silent also with regard to them, refusing to admit to herself or to him, that her son needed to have his sense and wisdom defended.

But they loved John dearly in the manse, and trusted him entirely, as his mother saw with a glad heart. So her visit ended happily, and no trace of anxiety or regret was visible in her face when John met her at her journey's end.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"The very rod, If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart."

And so their new life began, and long before the first month was over, Mrs Beaton was apparently as content with the state of affairs as could well be desired. She had no trouble as to household matters, and sat with her book or her needle at one side of the table, while her son sat with his books and his papers at the other side, very much as they had done during those evenings which John had spent at home in Nethermuir.

Robert Hume lived in the same house, and their meals were served together. But Robert pursued his college work in his own room, and only came as a visitor to Mrs Beaton's parlour when his books were put aside. John still spent several hours daily in Mr Swinton's office, and all the rest of the time he was busy also with his college work. To see her son content, was enough for Mrs Beaton.

To give the history of one day would be giving the history of nearly all the days of the winter, except as the Sabbath made a break among them, Robin was reasonably industrious, but he could not be expected to satisfy himself with the unbroken routine into which John readily fell. He had his own companions and his amusements, and their meals were enlivened by his cheerful accounts of all that was happening in the world around them. At his books Robert did fairly well, but he was not likely to overwork himself.

They heard often from Marjorie by the way of the manse, and several times during the winter a little letter came to Robin or to John, written with great care and pains by her own hand. She was very happy, she said, and she had not forgotten them; and by and by she hoped to be able to tell them that she was growing strong and well.

Twice or thrice during the winter Brownrig made his appearance at the office of Mr Swinton. He had, each time, something to say about business, but apparently the laird had changed his mind about the building of the new wing, for nothing more was to be done for the present.

John could not help thinking that his chief reason for coming there was to see him, in the hope that he might hear something about William Bain. More than once he brought his name into their talk, asking if Mr Beaton had heard anything of him, and hoping that he was doing well. On his second visit, meeting John in the street, he turned and walked with him, and told him that one of the lads who had sailed with Bain had been heard from by his friends. The ship had been disabled in a storm before they were half-way over, and had gone far out of her course, but had got safely into a southern port at last.

The passengers had gone their several ways probably, and lost sight of one another, for this lad could tell nothing of Bain, though he had himself safely reached the town where Mr Hadden, the minister's son, lived, and to which Bain had also intended to go. "I thought perhaps you or your friend might have had some word from him, as you had taken some trouble to help him," said Brownrig.

"No, that is not at all likely," said John, "at least as far as I am concerned. Neither likely nor possible. He never saw me, nor I him. He never, to my knowledge, heard my name, and it was only by chance that I ever heard his. But I will give you the name of the man who used to go to the tollbooth on Sunday afternoons. It is just possible, though not very likely, that he may have heard from him."

John wrote the name and address, and gave it to him.

"Have you been at the shipping office for news?" said he.

Yes, Brownrig had been there, and had been told that the ship was refitting in the American port, and would soon be home, but that, was all he had heard. Whenever it was possible to do so, John kept out of the man's way. He had spoken to him nothing but the truth, yet he could not help feeling like a deceiver. And though he told himself that he was ready to lie to Brownrig, rather than say anything that might give him a clue by which the hiding-place of Allison Bain might be discovered, still lying could not be easy work to unaccustomed lips, and he said to himself, "the less of it the better." So he did not encourage Brownrig when they met, and he kept out of his way whenever it was possible for him to do so. But he pitied the man. He was sorry for the misery for which there could be no help, since Allison Bain feared him, even if she did not hate him. He pitied him, but he could not help him to gain his end. Whether it were right or whether it were wrong, it was all the same to John. He could not betray to her enemy the woman who had trusted her cause in his hands.

But while he pitied him, Brownrig's persistence in seeking him irritated him almost beyond his power to endure. And the worst of it to John was, that he could not put it all out of his thoughts when Brownrig had turned his back upon the town, and had gone to his own place.

He grew restless and irritable. He could not forget himself in his work as he had been able to do at first, nor fix his attention upon it at all, at times. He read the same page over and over again, and knew not what he read; or he sat for many minutes together, without turning a leaf, as his mother sometimes saw, with much misgiving as to how it was all to end. And when it came to this with him, it was time for her to speak.

"John, my lad," she said suddenly one night, and in her voice was the mother's sharpness which is so delightful to hear and so effectual when it is heard only at long intervals; "John, my lad, shut your book and put on your coat, and take Robin with you for a run on the sands, and then go to your bed."

John's dazed eyes met hers for a moment. Then he laughed and rose, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

"You are right, mother, as you always are. We'll away to the links;" and his cheerful voice calling up-stairs for Robin to come down at once, was music to the ears of his mother.

"There's not much wrong with him," she said to herself hopefully. "He'll win through, and begin again, when once he is fairly free."

She meant that when "those weary examinations" were all over, he would have time to rest and come to himself, and be ready for his work, whatever it was to be. And—hopeful old mother that she was—she meant more than that. She meant, that before this son of hers, who was wiser and stronger and better than the sons of most mothers, lay a fair future. "The world was all before him where to choose." He would only be the stronger for the weight of the burden which had fallen so early on his young shoulders. In time he would forget his dream, outlive his disappointment, and be not the worse, but the better for the discipline. He would go his way and serve his Master, and win honour among good men. "And I'll bide at home and hear of him whiles, and be content," said the anxious, happy mother, with tears in her loving eyes.

In the meantime John was on the sands, facing the wind, which drowned his voice as he sang:

"Will I like a fule, quo' he, For a haughty hizzie dee?"

But it was not the wind which silenced his song, for Allison Bain was no "haughty hizzie" of the sort, "Who frown to lead a lover on," but a sad and solitary woman, who might have a sorrowful life before her.

"To whom may the Lord be kind!" said John, with a softened heart. "I love her, and it is no sin to love her, since I may never see her face again."

And many more thoughts he had which might not so well bear the telling; and all the time Robin was bawling into his inattentive ears an account of a battle of words which had taken place between two of his friends, who had agreed, since neither would acknowledge defeat, to make him umpire to decide between them.

When they, turned their backs to the wind and their faces homeward, hearing and answering became possible. They had the matter decided to their own satisfaction before they reached the house, and their merry sparring and laughter, and the evidence they gave of an excellent appetite when supper-time came, might have been reassuring to Mrs Beaton, even had she been more anxious than she was about her son.

After that John was more careful of his looks and words and ways, when in his mother's presence. All tokens of weariness or preoccupation or depression were kept out of her sight; and, indeed, at all times he felt the necessity of struggling against the dullness and the indifference to most things, even to his work, which were growing upon him.

He did his best against it, or he thought he did so. He forced himself to read as usual, and when he "could make nothing of it," he took long walks in all weathers, so as to keep his "helplessness" out of his mother's sight, believing that when the necessity for exertion should be over—when he could get out of the groove into which it would have perhaps been better that he had never put himself, all would be as it had been before. And said he grimly:

"If the worse comes to the worst, I can but fall to breaking stones again."

It ended, as it generally does end, when a man sets himself to do the work of two men, or to do in six months the work of twelve, in order to gratify a vain ambition, or to lighten a heavy heart. It took no more than a slight cold, so it was thought to be at first, to bring the struggle to an end, and the work of the winter.

There was a night or two of feverish restlessness, of "tossing to and fro until the dawning of the day," a day or two of effort to seem well, and to do his work as usual, and then Doctor Fleming was sent for. It cannot be said that there ever came a day when the doctor could not, with a good conscience, say to John's mother, that he did not think her son was going to die; but he was very ill, and he was long ill. The college halls were closed, and all the college lads had gone to their homes before John was able, leaning on Robert's arm, to walk to the corner of the street; and it may be truly said, that the worst time of all came to him after that.

He had no strength for exertion of any kind; and worse than that, he had no motive, and in his weakness he was most miserable. It was a change he needed, they all knew, and when the days began to grow long and warm, something was said about returning to Nethermuir for a while.

"To Nethermuir, and the lanes where Allison used to go up and down with little Marjorie in her arms, to the kirk where she used to sit; to the hills which hid the spot where his eyes first lighted on her!"

No, John could not go there. He had got to the very depths of weakness when it came to that with him—and of self-contempt.

"There is no haste about it, mother," said he. "The garden? Yes, but I could do nothing in it yet. Let us bide where we are for a little."

Robert, who had refused to leave while John needed him, went home now, and Mr Hume came in for a day. Robert had "had his own thoughts" for a good while, indeed ever since the day when John had gone to his morning walk without him; but Robert had been discreet, and had kept his thoughts to himself for the most part. During John's illness the lad had been about his bed by night and by day, and he had now and then heard words which moved him greatly—broken words unconsciously uttered—by turns angry, entreating, despairing. Foolish words they often were, but they brought tears to Robin's "unaccustomed eyes," and they turned his thoughts where, indeed, all true and deep feeling turned them, toward his mother.

Not that he had the slightest intention of betraying his friend's weakness to her. How it came about he did not know—it had already happened more than once in his experience—before he was aware the words were uttered.

They were going together, by special invitation from Delvie, to see the tulips in the Firhill garden. They went slowly and rested on the way, not that they were tired, but because the day was warm and the air sweet, and the whole land rejoicing in the joy of the coming summer; and as they sat in the pleasant gloom which the young firs made, looking out on the shadows of the clouds on the fields beyond, it came into Robin's mind that there could be no better time than this to tell his mother some things which "by rights" ought never to have happened, but which, since they had happened, his mother ought to know. They should never happen again, he said to himself, and he swore it in his heart, when he saw her kind eyes sadden and her dear face grow grave as he went on.

Then when she had "said her say," and all was clear between them again, he began to speak about John Beaton; and before he was aware, he was telling her what he knew, and what he guessed of the trouble through which his friend was passing; then he hung his head.

"I never meant to speak about it," said he. "It is only to your mother, Robin. And I have had my own thoughts, too. Oh! yes, many of them. I am sorry for John, but he needed the discipline, or it would not have been sent, and he'll be all the wiser for the lesson."

But there was no comfort in that for Robin. "It is like betraying him, mother," said he. And when it was one night made known in the house that his father was going to Aberdeen, and that his chief reason for going was to see how it was with John Beaton, Robin's eyes sought those of his mother in doubtful appeal. His mother only smiled. "Cannot you trust your father, Robin?" said she. "I canna trust myself, it seems," said Robin. "There's no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear that ill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother."

"But other folk's secret thoughts?" said Robin.

No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husband of Robert's words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had kept to herself hitherto. Her husband's first idea was that it was a pity that she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But that was not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for various reasons.

"He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not well pleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him 'a piece of my mind,' now that he is down-hearted. It is you who must go."

It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all that was to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he was scarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by the tale she had told.

"There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him," said he.

Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do both him and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see them without loss of time.

It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planning on his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. "You have done him good already," Mrs Beaton's eyes said to the minister, when she came in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, taking his part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew weary and bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more like himself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when she went to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had already said good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more.

"I am afraid I have wearied you, lad," said he; "and you were weary enough before I came—weary of time and place, and of the words and ways of other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have the guiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you put yourself into my hands, John, for one day?"

"Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like."

"We'll take one day of it first, if to-morrow be fair."

The day was all that could be desired; clear, but with clouds now and then, moving before the breeze, to make shadows for their delight, upon land and sea.

They took a boat at the wharf and sailed away toward the north, having a mutual friend—"auld Boatie Tamson"—for captain and pilot and crew. There was health in the smell of the sea, strength in every breath of the salt air, and rest and peace alike in their talk and in their silence, and all went well.

After a time, when they had left the town far behind them, they turned landward to a place which Mr Hume had known in the days of his youth, and which he had sought with pleasure, more than once since then. Auld Boatie knew it also, and took them safely into the little cove which was floored with shining sands, and sheltered on three sides by great rocks, on which the sea birds came to rest; on the other side it was open to the sea. Here he left them for the day.

They had not many appliances for the comfort of the invalid, but they had all that were needed. A pillow and a plaid spread on the sand made his bed, and another plaid covered him when the wind came fresh. In the unexplored basket which Mrs Beaton had provided they had perfect faith for future needs, and so they rested and looked out upon the sea.

They had not much to say to one another at first. Mr Hume had brought a book in his pocket, from which he read a page now and then, sometimes to himself and sometimes to his friend; and as John lay and listened, looking away to the place where the sky and ocean met, he fell asleep, and had an hour and more of perfect repose.

How it came about, I cannot tell, but when he opened his eyes to meet the grave, kind eyes of the minister, looking down upon him, there came to him an utter softening of the heart—a longing unspeakable for the rest and peace which comes with the sympathy, be it voiced or silent, of one who is pitiful and who understands.

The minister put forth his hand and touched the hand of his friend.

"You have been at hard and weary work of late, John, or shall I say, you have been fighting a battle with a strong foe? and it has gone ill with you."

John had no words with which to answer him. His lips trembled and the tears rose to his eyes.

That was the beginning. They had enough to say to one another after a little time; but not a word of it all is to be written down. Of some things that passed between them neither ever spoke to the other again. Before all was said, John "had made a clean breast of it" to the minister, and had proved in his experience, that "faithful are the wounds of a friend," and that "a brother is born for adversity." They had been friends before that day. Thenceforth they were brothers by a stronger tie than that of blood.

When John was brought home to his mother that night, she could not but be doubtful of the good which their day had done him. But he was rested and cheerful in the morning, and she was not doubtful long. As time passed, she could not but see that he was less impatient of his weakness and his enforced idleness; that he was at peace with himself, as he had not been for many a day, and that he was looking forward to renewed strength with a firmer purpose and a more hopeful heart.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"And so, taking heart, he sailed Westward, not knowing the end."

Dr Fleming was by no means satisfied with the progress which his patient was making. He had called at the house with Mr Hume, and had expressed himself very decidedly as to the desirableness of a change for the young man, but he did not approve of Nethermuir, and he startled them all by saying:

"What you need is a sea voyage. It will take time and it will take money, but it is the very thing you need to make a new man of you. And the sooner you go the better." And then he went away.

"You should go to America, John, where so many are going these days," said the minister.

Mrs Beaton looked from one to the other with appealing eyes; and seeing this, John said nothing. Not a word more was spoken on the subject that day nor the next. On the third, as they sat together by the fireside in the gloaming, Mrs Beaton said:

"Well, John, what do you think?"

"Well, mother, I think the worst is over. I am growing stronger every day."

His mother smiled and shook her head.

"You havena won far on yet," said she. "But it was about the voyage to America that I was wishing to hear."

"It might do me good, but it is not absolutely necessary, I suppose."

"You might take a voyage without going so far as America."

"Yes, that is true."

"And the sooner the better for us both," said his mother, after a pause.

"A voyage to America would be as safe as any other, though it would be a long one."

"Yes, it would be a long voyage. America is far, faraway. And when you were once there, you might take it in your head to bide there."

"And you wouldna like that, mother?"

"I mightna like it, but it might be for your good, for all that."

"It wouldna be for my good to go away anywhere and leave my mother behind me," said John gravely. "Would you come with me, mother?"

"No, lad; no. I couldna do that for several reasons. But if you were to go there, and should see a prospect of prosperous days, I might follow you."

"Would you, mother dear?"

John rose and walked up and down the room a good many times. His mother waited with patience till he sat down again.

"Well, John?" said she.

"Do you mean it, mother?"

"Surely I mean it, or I wouldna say it. I should like better that you should content yourself at home. But it would be a new beginning."

"Yes, it would be a new beginning," said John gravely.

"It would need to be that, even here, in some ways, I suppose, and a new beginning might be easier there."

"Have you been thinking about all that, mother?"

"Surely! What else have I to think about but that which concerns you, who have your life before you?"

"And wouldna you be afraid of the long voyage, and the going to a strange land and leaving all behind you?"

"I would have my fears, I daresay, like other folk; but I would have few to leave if you were away; and I would have you to welcome me."

"I might come home for you in the course of a year or two."

"You could hardly do that without interfering with your work, whatever it might be. But I might come to you with some one else. I feel strong and well now."

"You are none the worse for the winter, mother?"

"None the worse, but much the better," said she cheerfully. And then she paused to consider whether it would be wise to say more.

"It will hurt him, but it may help him as well," she thought; and then she said aloud:

"I am far stronger than I was when I came here, and in better health every way. I may tell you now, since it is over, that all the last summer I was afraid—ay, sore afraid, of what might be before me. But I had a few words with Dr Fleming about myself, and he bade me put away my fears, for I had mistaken my trouble altogether. It was a great relief to my mind, and he helped my body as well. I am a stronger woman to-day than I ever thought to be."