John, remembering the lingering illness of an aunt, knew or guessed what her fear had been, and he grew white as he met her eyes.

"Are you sure, mother," said he hoarsely, "that you are now safe from all fear?"

"As sure as the word of a skillful doctor and honest man can make me. Yes, I think I may say I have no fear now."

"And you kept this dread to yourself! Oh! mother! mother!" said John, covering his face with his hands.

She had been enduring this trial—this great dread, in one way worse to meet than suffering itself would have been; while he, full of himself and his own plans and disappointments, had been taking no heed.

"I have great reason to be thankful," said Mrs Beaton softly; "and, John lad, what could I do, but keep my fears to myself till I was quite sure? You had your own trouble to bear, as I could well see, and it would have made mine none the less to add to your pain."

"Oh! mother! mother!" was all her son could say.

"John," said Mrs Beaton, after a time, "I think you might tell your mother!"

John raised his head and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes as he came over to her, and stooping, he softly kissed her. "Do you need to be told, mother?" said he.

These were the very first words which had passed between them concerning the sorrow which had come to them both through Allison Bain, and they were nearly all that were ever spoken.

"I grieved for you, John, and I feared for you; but I trusted Allison Bain. If she does not love him, he is in no danger, I said. If she loves him, she will withstand him for his own sake."

"Be content, mother. She withstood me, whether she loved me or not."

"I thank God for you both. May He ever lead you in His own way!"

Of course a voyage was to be taken. There was some hesitation as to whether John should avail himself of the opportunity offered by a ship which was to sail at once to bring home timber from Norway, or wait a little longer for the Griffin, an emigrant vessel, bound for Quebec. There were already great steam vessels crossing the ocean—not many of them, however, at this time, but the long voyage would be rather an advantage in John's case, and he made up his mind to go by the Griffin. But he said nothing to make any one suppose that he did not intend to return with her. There would be time enough to decide as to the length of his stay, when he had seen the country.

So the mother and son bade one another farewell for a while, and Mrs Beaton was the more courageous of the two when it came to the last words between them. But they did not linger over last words. Robert Hume had come to say good-bye to his friend, and to take care of Mrs Beaton on her homeward journey to Nethermuir, and he was amazed at John's "down-heartedness."

"Oh! man! if I only had your chance! Or if I were going with you!" said he, and John echoed his wish.

He had been a good many days out of sight of land, before he began to take himself to task for his utter inability to feel, or to profess an interest in that which was going on about him. He was, indeed, very down-hearted, as Robert had said. He said in his foolishness:

"My days are past. My purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart."

And he told himself that, except for his mother's sake, it did not matter whether he made his home in America or in Scotland, or whether he should ever make a home at all. But this melancholy did not continue long. Little by little the salt winds brought him health and strength. They blew away his foolish fancies, and soothed the smart of a pain real, and ill to bear. Then he began to see and to interest himself in that which was going on in the little world around him.

There were all sorts of people in it—fathers and mothers, and little children, young men and maidens. There were doubtful characters among them, it is to be supposed; some of them seemed to be poor enough, and some were evidently "well-to-do." All were alike cheerful and not afraid of the future, for they were all looking forward to having land of their own and a fair chance in the new world.

John made acquaintance with many, and made friends with a few, and got good, and tried to do good among them. There is time to make acquaintance during a voyage which lasts for weeks, and the seventh week was over before they anchored within sight of the citadel of Quebec.

There are letters still in existence in John's handwriting—great sheets, larger than common foolscap, written in small, even characters, like "copper-plate," and so written that every available hairbreadth of space is covered, except that part which, when the elaborate process of folding was accomplished, was left blank for the address. There are a good many of these letters, and there is great variety both as to matter and to manner among them, some of them being addressed to his mother and others to the minister and to Robert. Altogether, they might afford material for a very full account of John's first impression of the scenery, the climate, the character of the people, the state of morals and manners, of education and religion in the new country to which he had come.

When they fell into John's hands many years after they were written, he enjoyed the reading of them greatly. He was very proud of the handwriting for one thing, and pleased with the evidence they gave of his patient and faithful efforts to satisfy his correspondents, both as to the quantity and the quality of the information conveyed.

His descriptions of natural scenery, of the grand river Saint Lawrence, the mountains, the islands, the great falls of Niagara, were very fine—"perhaps a little too fine"—he acknowledged. But his opinions as to the state of morals and manners, education and religion, and American institutions generally, were greatly modified by the time he read his letters again; his "first impressions" may therefore be omitted in his story, and his adventures also, which were not of extraordinary interest, even to himself, until he came to the town of Barstow in the United States, the only town in all America which at that time had any special attraction for him.

In those days Barstow used to be spoken of as a Western town; but so many new States have been made since then, and so many towns and cities have risen up far to the westward, that it is now regarded as belonging to the eastern part of the great republic. It was not a large town when John Beaton first saw it. It had a few long, tree-shaded streets, where the great square, white houses, stood far apart, with pleasant lawns and gardens about them. Even the business streets were wide and clean, and had trees growing in them; and, altogether, "the place gave one the idea of plenty of elbow room," as John told Robert Hume in the first letter which he wrote there.

But he did not tell Robert or any one else why he had turned his face thitherward.

Before Dr Fleming had ended the sentence which declared that a sea voyage would be the best thing for his patient, John was saying to himself, that to the town of Barstow, where Alexander Hadden lived, and where William Bain was likely to go at last, wherever he might be lingering now, he should first direct his steps when his voyage was ended. If such a thing were possible, Allison's heart should be set at rest concerning her brother.

But now that he was there, for a reason which he could not well have declared to any one, he hesitated to apply to Mr Hadden for the information which he desired. It would be more natural and more agreeable to them both, he thought, that meeting William Bain as it were by chance, he should claim him as a countryman, and strive to win his confidence first of all. Afterward, he might be able to help and influence him. And it was too likely that he would need both help and influence.

That this lad who, not through wickedness perhaps, but through weakness and folly, had brought sorrow on all who loved him, would have strength and wisdom to resist all temptation, and begin a new life in a new land, was hardly to be believed. Alone, homesick, remorseful, there was little hope of his doing well without help from some one.

"And whatever else I may do, I must first find Willie Bain and help him as he may need, for Allison's sake."

But time was precious, and John's purse was not very deep; and if he were to see anything of this wonderful country, he told himself, he must not linger long in Barstow. But he did linger day after day. He did not seem to care so very much for seeing the country. He was growing well and strong, and to get health and strength was his motive for crossing the sea. He was as well here as elsewhere, and here he must stay. It seemed to be "borne in upon him," that there was something for him to do in the place.

When several days had passed, he made up his mind that he would go to the bank and see Mr Hadden, and he went. It was too late to see him that day. Mr Hadden had gone home. On that night something happened. John met the man whom he was seeking, face to face.

It could be no one else, he said to himself. For the eyes which met his for a moment were the beautiful, sad eyes of Allison Bain. "Now, God guide me!" said John in strong entreaty, and then he followed the lad. He followed him down one street and up another, and out into the country along the lake shore. The stranger moved more slowly as he went on and stopped at last; and, leaning upon a broken fence, looked out long upon the water.

"I'm not so very strong yet," said John to himself, as he paused also, for his heart was beating hard and his hands trembled.

While he hesitated whether he should speak at once or wait a while, the lad turned and began to retrace his steps. John addressed him as he passed. "Can you tell me if I am on the right road to—to—Jericho?" said he, at a loss for a name. "No, I cannot tell you. I am a stranger here."

"A stranger? So am I. And you are a Scotchman, I ken by your tongue. So am I. We are both strangers in a strange land."

If John had had time to think, he might not have spoken in this way, but it is very likely he might have said nothing which would have answered a better purpose. The lad turned and looked at him.

"Yes, I am a stranger. I have no friends—no one," he said huskily, and the tears came into his eyes.

"I have no friends on this side of the sea, and not so very many beyond it—besides my mother."

This, also, was a stupid sort of thing to say, he owned, when he came to think of it, and then he added:

"I have heard that this is a fine country to get on in."

"Yes, so they say."

They went on in silence, and very slowly, the stranger walking wearily, as John could see.

"I am done out," said he at last, stopping and leaning against a tree.

"Yes, so I see. Have you far to go? I will go with you."

"I have nowhere to go. I came here yesterday, and I slept last night in a boat by the wharf."

"Then ye'll just come with me," said John heartily, giving him his arm to lean upon. He would have liked to ask his name, but he did not. They walked on slowly, till they came to the house where John was staying.

"I have brought a friend," said he to the mistress of the house. "He will share my room, and I will be responsible for him."

"He looks sick," said the woman gravely. "I hope you realise what you are undertaking?"

John thought he "realised" it, but he did not. It would have made no difference, however, if he had. His new friend tossed and muttered all night, and in the morning was unable to raise his head from the pillow, and that was but the beginning. Many days passed before he was able to do so. He was light-headed much of the time, and uttered a great many names, some of them angrily enough, and some of them with love and longing unspeakable. It was, "Oh! mother! mother!" Or, "Oh! Allie! Allie! where are you gone?" through the whole of one painful night when he was at the worst, till the dawn brought sleep at last, and a respite.

He grew better after a while, and the visits of the doctor ceased, but his strength came slowly and his spirits failed him often. The house in which they lodged stood near the water's edge. The heat was great in the middle of the day, and at night the wind which came from the lake was damp and chill. John saw that a change of place was needed, and he would fain have carried him away to get the fresh air of the country.

"A change is what he needs. We can manage it for a day now and then, to get somewhere," said John to himself; "and then—I must to work again."

He knew, or he supposed, that if he applied to Mr Hadden, who had the reputation of being a rich man who did much good with his money, all would be made easy to this stranger; but he himself had the best right to have the pleasure of helping Allison's brother; and he said to himself:

"I'll bide a wee. He has not mentioned Mr Hadden's name, nor his own, for that matter. Yes, I'll bide a wee, and we'll manage it in some way."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"Let us be content to work— To do the thing we can, and not presume To fret because 'tis little."

And it was managed very much to John's satisfaction, and very easily managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.

"Well, yes, I guess so—just as well as not. Glad of your company," said he, after a second glance at John's face, and away they went together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as he took his leave of them.

"If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you've come far enough," said he, when they came to the top of the hill.

He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them.

What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands? Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly and naturally as they were cheerfully given.

And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the lad's sake something must be said, something must be done.

"He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave," said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home again.

"Yes, we must lose no time," he repeated, and looked up to meet the lad's eyes fixed on him.

"You have never told me your name," said he gravely.

John laughed.

"Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?"

"No, I have never heard it."

"And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when they wish to become friends."

There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little.

"I have been thinking—I mean I call myself William Leslie."

"And is that your name?" asked John gravely.

"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter in this new country? My name is nothing to any one."

"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my father's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to be called a lord," said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have done nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?"

"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it would give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes flashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to have my name forgotten, and—for Allie's sake."

He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he rose and turned his back upon him.

While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now? Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the barns on a bed of fragrant hay.

"I must go back for the plaid and the basket," said he; and stooping down, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind that you are Willie Bain."

He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.

"Drive right in under cover, Sam," said the farmer, who followed. "I expect we'll have to leave it here. We can't unload in time to do much more. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it had only held up another hour!"

The man slid down from the load and made for the field.

"Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up," soliloquised the farmer. "I 'most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!"

But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the greatest possible haste to the field.

"Perhaps I might help you to unload," said John from the dimness of the barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second.

"I don't know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead."

John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in embarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the farmer called "pretty considerable quick time." And then he saw William Bain sitting with John's plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the corner.

"Well! it seems to me that we're goin' to have company," said he.

"We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we ventured to take possession of your barn."

"All right. It's nothing catching he's had, is it? He'd better go right into the house, hadn't he?"

But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field.

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if we saved most of it now. It's just possible—with your help," added he, nodding in a friendly way to John. As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out:

"See here, Myra; there's company out there in the south barn. You tell grandma she'd better have him in, and see to him. There's nothing catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him comfortable; and she'll like nothing better."

The rain "held up" for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was triumphant.

Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a good sight for John to see.

"He'll do now," said he to himself. "He has fallen into good hands. I only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up again."

"Be you brothers?" said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them.

"We are fellow-countrymen," said John, "and that makes brothers of us here in a strange land."

The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong's house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow from the west, when the first heavy shower was over.

There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright wood fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged candlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall looking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in another corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the farmer's wife and his "little daughter," as Jacob Strong called a slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother's chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and his household proved true friends to them.

Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not that either of the patriarch's names fitted him exactly. He was not a "supplanter," and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his character in two words, it would not have been as "a soldier of God" that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his singleness of heart before God.

Of course John's knowledge of his character came later, and by slow degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his talk, which was at once "worldly wise and heavenly simple," as he afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in nature as in name. He could "hold on." He had paid every dollar which his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other men's farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his wife, "who each carried a good head on her shoulders," as he told John, he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the first hundred, and later, when "the Western fever" set in, and people began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and Jacob's two hundred acres became four.

"And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour comes to cost less, which won't be for a spell, as things look now," said he.

All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting. Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs Strong's south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them to know about the lad,—how, though he had known friends of his at home, he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the lake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time.

Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend. And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his departure.

Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason was soon made clear to him.

John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling into the hands of the kind people out at the farm.

"It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer he is there, the better it will be for him."

"I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him to-night."

Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and do his best for a while at least.

But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his shilling before he laid the hammer down again.

"I might have done better, but then I might have done worse," he admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. "And if I take it up again, it need not be 'for a continuance,' as auld Crombie would say. I must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way."

He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages were to be decided upon when his first day's work should be done, and it need not be said that his wages were of the best.

When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had been there before him. Willie Bain's first word to him was:

"Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?"

"Do ye no' mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How was I to ken?" added John, as Willie hung his head. "I did ken you as soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is coming out here to you."

Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have again a home together.

"And, Willie, my lad," added John, gravely, "if I had a sister like yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake."

"You are a man already," said Willie, with a sound which might have been either a laugh or a sob. "As for me—yes, I ken I havena been taking right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder. But now I have you, and I will be a man for Allie's sake."

There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not been "taking care of himself," but John had spoken no word which betrayed his knowledge.

They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, John lending his strength to help his friend's weakness; and he asked:

"Would you not like to stay here a little while?"

"Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide here for a while."

He spoke eagerly and hopefully.

"I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then," said Willie, looking up at John with Allie's wistful eyes.

"She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for here—in Mr Hadden's neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. It is you who would be looking up to her, because she is wiser than you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength—to walk by your own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things," said John, gravely.

"Do ye ken Allie well?" asked Willie, looking up into his friend's face.

John hesitated a moment.

"I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in difficult places, so that all those who do know her well, respect her, and some few people love her dearly—my mother among the rest."

"You must tell me all about her some time," said Willie, with glistening eyes.

"Yes," said John. Then he paused before he added:

"I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you should say nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one."

Willie withdrew his hand from John's arm, and turned upon him with a face white with anger.

"Married! Happy! I'll swear that he has never touched her hand, nor looked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?"

"Thank God!" said John; "and may he never touch her hand, nor look upon her face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now."

Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him more about his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how they had valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father and mother had intrusted to Allison's care, and of the child's love for her, and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for the child. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no one would harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont's care. John talked on till the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea.

The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together were:

"You don't think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do you? I don't think you had better—for a day or two, at least."

It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little stronger.

"We're glad to have him stay. Don't you say a word about it," was the younger Mrs Strong's answer, when John tried to thank her for all their kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he should be strong and well.

"You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. You could pay your way and his too, and have something over," said Mr Strong.

But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a while.

"Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as well as there."

And John answered:

"Yes, I will be glad to come."

Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself.

"Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happened well, and—not by chance," added he, reverently, recalling many a one at home who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place—and thinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be "remembering" both him and his friend there.

It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, before all the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, in search of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. There was room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and to live honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he bettered himself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours, and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, new comers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend were liked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome which they got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy days came to them through the friends they found there, before all was done.

It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in those circumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he was strong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If he had found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himself with leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision of Mr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriend him. But John could not quite free himself from a sense of responsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of him for a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. He would not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant to travel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might do something toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison's sake.

So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day's work with the rest. It was hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat, and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, and he was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he was himself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for his work as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter which he sent her, after he began.

He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As no one else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessary to speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearing of some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write to Allison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John's kindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him.

Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question, whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where he was, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more than once in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to him should he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no haste about it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and he must have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was not making a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him to be alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do the very best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for his mother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst of kind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than content to join him when the right time came.

And so John followed his mother's counsel. He kept his eyes open and "worked away," and by the end of the first year, he began to see his way clear to "the measure of success" which his mother desired for him. He had proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those who had employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a one besides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, at that time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town of Barstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances of some of the people who lived in the big white houses among the trees along the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a few weeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down.

The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year, were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendly with him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and because he was a friend of William Bain's. Afterward, they were more than friendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprise in finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of wide reading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymen who had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beaton was different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, in that it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made for unconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certain ways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but of which it is desirable that one should be aware.

But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. He never had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had "kept himself to himself," as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must be owned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and in one or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He had no time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but he might have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had not much leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years, he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and in connection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged, he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his best friends.

All that need be told of the first three years of his residence in Barstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his mother about that time.

"You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desire of your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired for me nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father had done, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I am doing. There is this difference between us—that I have got 'a measure of success' on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man, and I have no desire to be one—though even that may come in time. But I stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. I have 'got on' well even for this country, where all things move more rapidly than with us at home.

"I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They have helped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence. I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, but they have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends.

"Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will own that I have sometimes wearied of them—and of everything else. But one's life must go on till God's will brings it to an end, and I know of no other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as I have told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along.

"And now, dear mother—when are you coming home?—For this is to be your home, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you can wait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on in different parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house is laid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath the maple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinks every night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and I shall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home.

"I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall be quite content when that time comes.

"William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. He was wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back since then. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannot blame them for their advice—or rather, for their silence. And I cannot blame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her— Amen."

And so the letter ends, without even his name.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child."

"Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?" said Marjorie Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend's face, for Allison had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time.

They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child repeated the question:

"Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?"

"I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us again."

"And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay wishing to win away to your brother in America—at least for a while?"

"No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry," said Allison, after a pause. "And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is too early yet to see Dr Fleming."

"But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long—the sea that has helped to make me strong and well."

"It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same sun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to lose."

They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, a hand was laid on Allison's arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father.

"Mr Rainy!" cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.

"Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he would say, 'Put yourself into my old friend's hand, and be advised and guided by him, and ye'll never have cause to repent it.' And now I say it for him."

Allison shook her head.

"I cannot do that—blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child."

"The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is," said Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. "And whose child may she be?"

"She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all this time, and I need help from no one."

"In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I'll be bound! Well! well! And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that has gone by since you—were lost sight of. That is well."

"It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to account," said Allison, coldly.

Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street together.

"A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise."

"Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands."

And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him standing there.

Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great house on the laird's business, he had given counsel to Allison's father with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstances of Allison's unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base.

But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over. For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she would remain within a short day's journey of the place where all her life had been spent.

Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of a brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who had married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it might have gone ill with them both.

"But it is different now," he said to himself, as he went down the street. "Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And his heart is softening—yes, I think his heart must be softening. He might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him. A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him at once."

Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the doctor had much before him in his day's work. The patience with which he listened, soon changed to eager interest. "It is about Brownrig—the man whose horse fell with him in the street—that I want to ask. He was brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him."

Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the story of Allison Bain.

"I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named your name, and I thought you might help in the matter."

Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain. He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that she had a story, and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:

"What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to die." And then he added, with an oath, "If I thought he might live, I would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he is to die—that is another thing."

Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two together, and he said no more.

"I will see the man to-day," said the doctor, gravely.

As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first.

"My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie Hume. You'll mind on me, I think."

Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, kissed her, "cheek and chin."

"My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?"

"Oh! yes. I'm quite well and strong now—just like other bairns. I'm not very big yet," added she, as he set her down again. "But I am well. Allie will tell you."

Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling.

"She is much better indeed," said she.

"You should say quite well, Allie dear," urged Marjorie, in a whisper.

"Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your time is precious."

"Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?"

No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with interest till they passed round the corner out of sight.

When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in answer to the doctor's questions Allison told briefly and directly all that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it up, he said:

"The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words."

"Yes," said Allison. "You are right there."

She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on.

"I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and healing. But in a while, it was not just a case with him. He soon came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying so much," said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her.

"Oh! yes. I understand well." And then he opened his letter and read a line or two.

"'It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it has paid me ten times over for my trouble.'"

"I am sure of it," said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. "I could never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life. It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see her father's face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child."

Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few words more from it.

"'You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She is a woman among a thousand—a born nurse—'"

Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes.

"Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because—if a time should come when—"

And then she paused as she met Marjorie's wondering eyes. The doctor had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of Brownrig's condition. But he could not bring himself to do it.

"I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming."

"A happy homecoming!" It was that truly. When they came to the mill, where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that she could walk, and even run, "like the other bairns." And then everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending her away to a good man's care. But Robert laughed at her, and said there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very first steps at home.

The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people to see them as they passed down the street. Every window and door showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before she made the turn which brought the manse in sight.

And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.

For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in Allison's arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.

That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And now she was "strong and well," she told them all, and the eager, smiling face was "bonnier and sweeter than ever," her admiring friends agreed.

And those who could not come to see her, she went to see—auld Maggie and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the child.

In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink tea at Mrs Beaton's, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton read to them bits out of her John's last letters, which told a good many interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her old friend's kindly face with wistful eyes.

That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things to tell John's mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who had helped one another through the time when they were making the first doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But Willie had told his sister of his friend's success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for "kenning a good man when they saw him."

"For," said Willie, "it is not just an imagination, or a way of speaking, to say, that in this land 'all men are free and equal.' Of course, there are all kinds of men—rich and poor, good, bad, and indifferent—here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than another because of his family, or his father's wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.

"He has been a good friend to me—better than I could ever tell you, and nothing shall come between us to separate us, that I say, and swear. Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. There is surely no danger now after nearly three years."

All this Allison read to John's mother, and there was something more which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had betrayed, that the "something" which was never to be permitted to come between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where she had been for a year or more, "has been as changeable as the wind with me," wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first intended to do.

The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was going to build a house upon it.

"It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be hard for him to part from her.

"The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I take up land of my own—and you must come when I have got it—"

All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring herself to read it to Mrs Beaton.

"He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it to me. I am glad—or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor lad."

And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came stumbling in.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

"Show me what I have to do, Every hour my strength renew."

"Mistress Beaton," said the old man, "it is a liberty I am taking to trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get speech o' Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I may see her, and it is of importance."

Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile.

"I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me," said she.

"That's neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again. Ye hae been doin' your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen."

"And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself," said Mrs Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was about to leave the room.

"Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that you may not hear."

The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as Allison spoke.

"That is as ye shall think yoursel'. This is what I hae to say to you. I hae heard o' yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed. Ay woman! ye'll need to go. It's no' atween you and him now, but atween you and your Maker."

"It has come at last," said Allison, growing pale.

Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in both hers.

"It was an accident," went on Crombie. "He had been drinking too freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead—it was supposed at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet. He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and he may live to leave the place, but it's less than likely."

"And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?" asked Mrs Beaton, gravely. "And are you quite sure it is true?"

"Oh! ay, it's true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel' to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I'm thinking. The man's name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o' his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me who am the only one here beside yoursel' who kens how these twa stand to ane anither?"

But Mrs Beaton's heart sickened at the thought of what might be before Allison.

"What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?"

"That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is no saying 'wherefore?' to a message from the Lord. And it is between the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now."

But Mrs Beaton shook her head.

"I canna see it so. If he really needed her—if it were a matter of life and death—"

"A matter of life and death! Do ye no' see, woman, that it is for more than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not understand, that a' the evil deeds o' a' his evil life will be coming back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and no' among the least o' them the evil he brought on her and hers? And what kens he o' the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of salvation from death through faith in the Son of God?"

Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:

"And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, it might encourage him to hope in God's mercy, and to lippen himsel'— sinner as he kens himsel' to be—in the hands of Him who is gracious, and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being the means, in the Lord's hand, of saving a sinner like that!"

The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison's face, spoke earnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into his chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, Allison rose and went out into the kitchen.

"Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton, softly, "it is a great thing that you are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright."

The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless.

"You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out," said Mrs Beaton.

"Ay, have I. And it's no' just done yet, and there is a dark house and a silent at the end o't. But I'll win through it."

In a few minutes Allison came in quietly.

"Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home."

He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose and went with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fire burned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first he refused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leaned back and seemed ready to fall asleep again.

"Mr Crombie," said Allison, stooping and speaking low, "I will think of what you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guide me. Wait here till I come back again."

She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist's men on his way to the mill with his cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingering about the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in his present state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone. Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safely sent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street, and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked at one another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubled and anxious than Allison herself.

"My dear," said she, "it looks as if all these years that you have been kept safe from his hands, had been in vain."

"No," said Allison, "much good has come to me in those years. They have not been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell me what I ought to do."

"My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide. Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what may be before you? Think of living your life—ten—twenty years with a man like that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no one can really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comes to part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it is right for you to do." Allison sat silent.

"It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stood firm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine—far more than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of His will in this thing, I wouldna be afraid."

"But, Allison! Think of your brother."

"Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong."

"Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, at least take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken by surprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself do what can never be undone."

"No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting something to happen ever since I came back again." And then Allison told of her meeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spoken to her of Brownrig.

"He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say, has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have been preparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be far easier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all who know me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. My only thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going. Yet I believe I was guided here."

Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look and listen, astonished, as she went on.

"Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And I think—I believe, that I wish to follow God's wul in this, whatever it may be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel."

"You have the minister—and Mrs Hume."

"Yes, I might speak to them—I must speak to them," said Allison, with a sigh. "I must say something to them. They know nothing of me, except what they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they will blame me much, when they know all."

Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either by the minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But in seeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son went away, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew even more of John's disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. She had made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silence was best.

As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped or comforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply and deliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious, and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whether in mercy or in judgment. Could it be God's will that Allison's life should be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him? Surely, surely not.

Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie's words:

"Life and death! It is the matter of a soul's salvation! It is not between you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lord himself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and it shall be forgiven unto you—"

Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat in silence, till Mrs Beaton said gently:

"Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which you have heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it, my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before you suffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be no escape for many a year and day—from which you may never, all your life, escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years, to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence you against your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seek counsel, as I shall seek it for you."

But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden her good-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allison gently withdrew herself from her clasp.

"Pray to God to guide me in the right way," she whispered, and then she went away.

Mrs Beaton slept little that night—less than Allison did, though she had much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie. "Seek counsel," Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of the night, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came to her that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain have given to her friend.

Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Not of Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how it might still be God's will that he should have the desire of his heart. And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having looked again on that man's face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name. Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence, to whom had come the blessed "afterward" and "the peaceable fruits of righteousness," surely, for her it could not be God's will that the worst was yet to come. Who could say?

"And yet, ah me! our worst is whiles His best for us and ours! I doubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into my ain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself. She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul's salvation—that is a great thing—"

That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day was dawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was once more standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge, and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen.

When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes, where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was saying to herself:

"I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for a sign."

It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the house was quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand. The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, and Mrs Hume's face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allison was in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing with her hands firmly clasped.

"I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You will try to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but I could see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to do God's will, and you will tell me what it is."

She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she was very white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading her to a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding her hand.

"We shall be glad to help you if we can," said the minister.

Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtful whether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard it then for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here and there of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of the morbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she had suffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as she went on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were not needed. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she had asked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely:

"He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away with the child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. It was a friend who wrote to me—Mr Hadden, our minister's son. Willie is doing well, and some time I am to go out to him—if I can."

She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume's clasp, and rose, saying:

"Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that—the man who married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me. But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me about him. He said he had seen him—on his dying bed, and in God's name he bade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he did me. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned against me, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgive if I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same—"

Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid her hand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said:

"I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter."

Allison looked up.

"I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombie buried his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on their headstone, and some one there—meaning me no ill—told him about me. And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to me that I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of his mind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night."

"And to-night he spoke?"

"Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton's house, and warned me that it was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, I must go."

She let her face fall again upon her hands.

Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter which he held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from Doctor Fleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig was lying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume to decide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig's condition, and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who had long been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she should come at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy's request, that as Mr Brownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him, it might be much for Allison's interest to respond in a friendly spirit to this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be for Allison's future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she had forgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered it unnecessary to discuss this letter with her.

"Allison," said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, "no one can decide this matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is well that he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be well also for you."

"Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I never wished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying—"

Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over her face, but she did not utter her thought.

"Allison," said Mrs Hume, "I think there is much in what Crombie said. If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help him to believe—it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willing to forgive and receive him."

"You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing of present duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you sees it all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannot see the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go," said Mr Hume, solemnly.

Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a moment came the lost look—the look helpless and hopeless, which they had wondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming among them. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying:

"Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time."

"And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight of one another. There is no need for many words between us. This is your home. Come back again as soon as you are able."

Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her to the room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women had something to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when she said good-night, the minister's wife kissed and blessed her with a full heart.

Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the point where she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be said that she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on the hilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge, and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway from Nethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turned as home.

"Shall I ever see it again?" she asked herself, sadly. "And how will it be with me then?"

But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather, she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day, nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town.

"Poor soul!" said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else who stood helpless and fearful there. "Ay! poor soul! But was she not well welcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herself again? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days since then? Why should I be so sore afraid?"

And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to the place where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait a while. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent on her bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaseless droning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and the oaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angry and afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous as she had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of the house where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was better to go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself among strangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fear now.

Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future? A life which she might loathe perhaps—

"But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am trying to do God's will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will is best."

But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had a bad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen. She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his coming had been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed her altogether.

He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprised her, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming's letter to him. He had, however, sent a note by her to the doctor.

"Well?" said she, when he had read it. "Does he tell you what I am to do? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tell you—only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think you would wish to help me,—and—my courage is like to fail."

"Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you to tell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do what you believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all my heart."

Allison's answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had ever seen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away and occupied himself at his desk.

"I hope you will excuse me, sir," said Allison in a little; "I am tired, for one thing, and—you are so kind. And I am not sure—though I thought I was sure—that I am doing right in coming here—"

"I think I know what you would say. And—I think you are right in what you desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able to forgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater the blessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire. Nothing can be kept back."

"But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond—I think I desire to do God's will, but—"

"Ah! do not say 'but.' Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You will be brought through. And then—you may help to save a sinful soul. Can you seek to look beyond that?"

Allison shook her head.

"If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since—since I came to trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, so fearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if I could be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I should have trusted God and stood firm," said Allison, as she had said so many times before. "And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well as mine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me content with my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, who loves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh! no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speak of. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive—if that were all."

"Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now, Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for a time. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall be drawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the bidding of any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to do right. Now, go away to Mrs Robb's, and try to sleep well, and wait till you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be for several days. Have you any woman's work to keep you busy till then?"

"I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kind words. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will be patient and wait."

"That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kind of work till you hear from me again."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

"What we win and hold, is through some strife."

Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously through the second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming, formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary, which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was a little startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment in deciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he had requested her to do.

"Yes," said the doctor as she entered, "I was sure you would come; you are wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to take up your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be at hand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abode with Mistress Robb. And, my dear," added the doctor gravely, "I would advise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain it will answer the purpose none the worse for that. You'll be better pleased with as little notice as may be for the present."

Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in her straight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin covering all her pretty hair.

And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay there came back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy. On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage had come to her since then.

"I will trust and not be afraid," she said to herself as she came in at the door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed to another. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten her own care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her.

There were no "bad cases" in the room in which she had been placed. There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age, brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk who were taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making ready for another turn or two of hard work before the end should come.

"It is no' that I'm sae ill. I hae done mony a day's work with more suffering on me than I have now. But oh! I'm weary, weary, I hae lost heart, and it's time I was awa'," said one old woman who held Allison's hand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes.

"What brings the like o' you here?" said another, "to such a place as this. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu' and ye can lift a head and shake up a pillow without gieing a body's neck a thraw. But I doubt it's just that ye're new to it yet. Ye'll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (the rest)."

"Whisht, woman," said her neighbour, "be thankful for sma' mercies. Ye would be but ill off at hame."

"And be ye thankfu' that ye are an auld wife and near done wi't," said the neighbour on the other side. "As for mysel', I'm bowed with rheumatics, and me no' fifty yet. I may live many years, says the doctor, and what's to 'come o' me, the Lord alone kens."

"But," said Allison, speaking very softly, "He does ken. Dinna you mind, 'Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you.'"

"Ay, but ye see, I'm no' sae sure that He's with me now, or that He has ever been with me. That mak's an awfu' differ."

"But He is willing to come,—waiting to be asked."

"It may be; I dinna ken," said the woman gravely.

They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered. She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before her work there was done.

A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her with her as she went on.

"Dinna be troublesome, Nannie," said a voice from a distant bed.

"Come and see my mother," said the child.

Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then.