"Ye can do naething for me," she said as Allison set down the child beside her.

"No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?"

"Ill enough. But it's no' the pain that troubles me. It's the fear that I mayna get the use o' my hand again."

"Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that," said Allison, shaking up the pillows and smoothing the woman's rough hair, and tying her crumpled cap-strings under her chin. "What does the doctor say about it?"

"Ye'll need to speir at himsel' to find that out. He says naething to me."

"We will hope better things for you," said Allison.

She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes. She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison's arms in perfect content.

"Come and see Charlie," said she.

Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change.

"What ails you, my laddie?" asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright eyes.

"Just a sair leg. It's better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but no' so bad. Have you ony books?"

"No, I brought no book with me except my Bible."

"Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a'."

"Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?" said a voice behind him. "And there's Bibles here—plenty o' them."

"Are ye comin' the morn?" asked the lad.

"Yes, I am," said Allison.

"And could ye no' get a book to bring with you—a book of ony kind— except the catechis?"

"Heard ye ever the like o' that! Wha has had the up-bringin' o' you?"

"Mysel' maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin'? Will ye hae a book for me the morn?" said he to Allison.

"If I can, and if it's allowed."

"Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It's no' my head, but my leg that's sair. Readin' winna do that ony ill, I'm thinkin'."

And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh! the pain, and the weariness!—the murmurs of some, and the dull patience of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever "get used with it," as the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely it would never come to that with her.

Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers—help which she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to prepare her for such a work.

For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?

She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do.

"Allison Bain," said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood. Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly still from the lips of the speaker.

"I saw you—and I couldna keep mysel' from speaking. But ye needna fear. I will never tell that it is you—or that I have seen you. Oh! I thought I would never see a kenned face again."

The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison had given her.

"Is it Mary Brand?" whispered Allison, after a little.

"No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and—safe," and she turned her face away and lay quiet for a while.

Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand.

"Wait a minute. I must speak to some one—before I die—and I may die this night," she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. "I'm Annie," she said. "You'll mind how my mother died, and my father married again—ower-soon maybe—and we were all angry, and there was no peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,—one went here and another there. We were ower young to take right heed,—and not very strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and—went home to die at last. As for me—I fell into trouble—and I dared na go home. Sometime I may tell you—but I'm done out now. I'm near the end—and oh! Allie—I'm feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord were to forgive me—how could I ever look into my mother's face in Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I'm sair feared, Allie."

Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on her cheeks.

"Annie," said she, "never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you. I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you. You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no' mind how Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, 'Oh! Thou who art mighty to save'? Mighty to save! Think of it, dear. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Jesus said that Himself. Ah! ye are weary and spent—but ye have strength to say, 'Save me, I perish.' And that is enough."

"Weary and spent!" Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said faintly, "Come again," and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before she went away.

She came often—every day, and many times a day, and she always had a good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much. Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away— sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, saying to herself: "To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and forget."

But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the end of the first week of Dickson's stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, there came to her the message for which she had through all the days been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, "Come."

"Is he dying?" she found voice to say, as they passed into the room together.

"No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to be roused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannot really harm him."

And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seized her when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, her husband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said to herself, "My husband."

The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to one another, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm, at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answered sensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be let alone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had all their physic done him yet.

They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on her face for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and in a little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then they let down the curtain, and the room was in shadow.

"A dream—the old dream, ay coming—coming—only a dream," they heard him say with a sigh.

Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room.

"He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be more himself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you when he wakens again."

"I am not afraid," said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she added with a firmer voice, "No, I am not afraid."

"You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will be with you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and come away."

Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone of sympathy escape from him. "I'll see you again before I leave the place," said he.

So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wondering how this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spoke nor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Fleming returned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door.

"That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again? If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora has returned, and I will speak to her."

"I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me. Yes, I would like better to come back again."

And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought an odd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a late rose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor Annie Brand.

The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called, and sat beside the sick man's bed for an hour or two. He followed her with his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. He was restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power to move himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hoped he might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt her sorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and a gleam of anger.

"If I could do something for him," thought she. "But to sit here useless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me."

She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyes were following her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a small New Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his face away, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then as some one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heard from him yet:

"Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away—if she be a woman and not a wraith (spirit)," he added, as he turned his face from the light.

It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison's startled look as he came in at the door.

"You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?" said he.

"He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and—not with good-will."

"You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made a step in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show your face in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for a long walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must do as I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I ken they keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. But you may have a good while of this work yet,—weeks it may be, or months," and in his heart he said, "God grant it may not be for years."

"Yes, I will go," said Allison faintly.

"And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you have set out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you would help to save this man's soul."

"I have no thought of turning back," said Allison.

"That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye'll also need to have a' your wits about you. You'll need perfect health and your natural strength, and ye'll just do my bidding in all things, that you may be fit to meet all that is before you—since it seems to be God's will that this work is to fall to you."

Allison went at the doctor's bidding. She wrapped herself up and went down to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than a breeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were coming grandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood and watched them for a while musing.

"And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Him could quiet them now, as His 'Peace, be still,' quieted the waves on the Sea of Galilee so long ago. 'Oh! ye of little faith!' said He, 'wherefore do ye doubt?' As He might well say to me this day, for oh! I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sin finding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with? God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, let me never, never doubt Him."

And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her way against it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down to rest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind to struggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemed to her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the place where she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight was lifted a little from her heart.

"It is only a day at a time, however long it may be," she told herself. "It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though I do not."

Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, as she went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the need of its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. It was the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silent lips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in the eyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said to herself that she could not long bear it.

"In one way he is better," said the doctor. "He is coming to himself, and his memory—his power of recalling the past—is improving. He is stronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory his accident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it. He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he may escape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can never recover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will never walk a step again—never. But he may live for years. He may even recover so as to be able to attend to business again—in a way."

Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on.

"I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason for speaking now. I do not ask if you have 'counted the cost.' I know you have not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which might enable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced in life, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life would be—and might be for years,—spent with this man as his nurse, or his servant—for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand could bear it,—unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slow martyrdom."

Allison sat silent, with her face turned away.

"What I have to say to you is this," went on the doctor. "Since it is impossible—if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should be required at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer, or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he would greatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better."

Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in her eyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waited patiently.

"No," said Allison, "I do not love him, but I have great pity for him— and—I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God's will. If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet,—till—it is made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well as he. I should have stood fast against him. I hope—I believe, that I wish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way."

"That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men who are not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of what you may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, your life at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care and trouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land."

"That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me, why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might be before me?"

"I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but I thought the man was going to die."

"No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day in the street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait to hear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me that night, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he was going to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am not afraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my way clearer, whether I should go or stay."

"Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am not sure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in a thousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed, and you may be that woman. My only fear is—no, I will not say it. I do believe that you are seeking to do God's will in this matter. Let us hope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you, and to me also."

But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this.

"If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I would never have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, I was sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do him some good maybe—pray for him, and all that, and that his conscience might be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. But well ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for the loss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have to live with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havena asked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly to your brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. And if ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, I would help you against him, and all the world, with right good will."

Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not to be moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, and then she must decide. Before those days were over something had happened.

One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual among her "auld wives," and it was late when she came into Brownrig's room.

"What has keepit you?" said he impatiently.

It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her.

"I have been detained," said Allison quietly. "Can I do anything for you, now that I am here?"

"Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon ye, I should like to ken?"

"The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to help them—or any one in distress—my best pleasure."

To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her work with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking, and there was silence, as on other days.

"What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?" said Brownrig after a little.

"I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way."

No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at the wages.

"It must end," said he angrily.

"Mr Brownrig," said the doctor gravely, "you may not care to take a word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run away, I'll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane. Be thankfu' for sma' mercies, which when ye come to consider them are not so very sma'. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is paid nurse's wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her patients. But ca' canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own free will she shall stay—and—if such a time comes,—of her own free will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her care and kindness that you can."

"Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy's meeting her on the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I doubt that was the best reason for her coming."

"You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the soul of her enemy."

"Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something to leave behind him," said Brownrig, with a scowl.

"As you say,—who has something to leave behind him, and who is as little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, if he did. But that's neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she'll go her own way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns can spare her."

And with that the doctor bade him 'good-day,' and took his departure.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

"God liveth ever, Wherefore, soul, despair thou never."

Brownrig was better in mind and in body than when Allison first came, but he was far from strong. His mind was not quite clear, and it was not easy for him "to put this and that together," in a way to satisfy himself, when the doctor went away. He was already "muddled," as he called it, and he did the best thing he could have done in the circumstances, he shut his eyes and fell asleep.

Before he woke Allison came in, and when he looked up, he saw her sitting with her work on her lap, and yesterday's newspaper in her hand, reading: and smiling to herself as she read.

"Weel, what's the news the day?" said he.

Allison did not start or show the surprise she fell at being thus addressed.

"Will I read it to you?" she asked.

She read about the markets and the news of the day; but whether he were getting the good of it all or not, she could not say. When she thought she had read enough, she laid down the paper and took up her work as usual.

That was the beginning. All the days passed like this day for a while, except that a book took the place of a newspaper sometimes. And by and by, the best of books had a minute or two given to it—rarely more than a minute or two. Brownrig listened to that as he listened to the rest, willingly, and sometimes with interest, when she chanced to light on a part which had not been quite forgotten in the long careless years which had passed since the time his dead mother used to read it with him and his little sisters, when they were children at home. When he looked interested, or made a remark on any part of what she read, Allison went over it again, and now and then took courage to speak a word or two of Him who "bore our griefs and carried our sorrows," and who died that we might live. He listened always in silence. Whether he was ever moved by the words could not be told, for he gave no sign.

While all this went on, summer was passing, and the dull November days were drawing near. Allison had her own thoughts, and some of them were troubled thoughts enough. But she waited, always patiently, if not always hopefully; and even at the worst, when she had little to cheer her, and when she dared not look forward to what the future might hold for her, she still strove to live day by day, and hour by hour, waiting to learn God's will, whatever it might be.

Little change came to the sick man as far as Allison could judge, or any one else. Was he getting better? If so, his progress toward health was more slowly made than had been hoped. At times he was restless and irritable, and spared neither nurse, nor doctor, which was taken as a good sign by some who were looking on. But for the most part he was quiet enough, taking little heed of the passing hours.

When Mr Rainy came to speak to him on any matter of business, he seemed to rouse himself, and gave tokens of a clear mind and a good memory with regard to those matters which were put before him, whether they pertained to his own private business, or to that of the estate of Blackhills. But of his own accord he rarely alluded to business of any kind, and seemed, for the most part, forgetful of all that had hitherto filled his life. His friends came to see him now and then, and while any one was with him, he seemed moved to a certain interest in what they had to tell, in the news of the town, or in the events which were taking place in the world beyond it, but his interest ceased when his visitor left him.

Except from weariness, and restlessness, and inability to move, he suffered little, and he had been so often told that the best hope for him, the only chance for restoration to a measure of health in the future, lay in implicit obedience to all that doctor and nurse required of him, that he learned the lesson at last, and was obedient and patient to a degree that might well surprise those who knew him best.

It did not always come easy to him, this patience and obedience. There ere times when he broke bounds, and complained, and threatened, and even swore at his man Dickson; nor did Allison herself escape from the hearing of bitter words. But Dickson took it calmly, and bore it as part of his duty and his day's work.

"I'm weel used with it," said he. "His hard words maybe ease him, poor man, and they do me nae ill."

And they did Allison "no ill," in one way. She was too sorry for him to be angry on her own account, and listened in silence. Or, if he forgot himself altogether and gave her many of them, she rose quietly and went out of the room. She expected no apology when she returned, and none was ever offered, and his ill words made her none the less patient with him, and none the less ready at all times to do faithfully the duties which she had undertaken of her own free will.

But they made her unhappy many a time. For what evidence had she that her sacrifice was accepted? Had she been presumptuous in her desires and hopes that she might be permitted to do some good to this man, who had done her so much evil? Had she taken up this work too lightly—in her own strength which was weakness—in her own wisdom which was folly? Had she been unwise in coming, or wilful in staying? Or was it that she was not fit to be used as an instrument in God's hand to help this man, because she also had done wrong? She wearied herself with these thoughts, telling herself that her sacrifice had been in vain, and her efforts and her prayers—all alike in vain.

For she saw no token that this man's heart had been touched by the discipline through which he had passed, or that any word or effort of hers had availed to move him, or to make him see his need of higher help than hers. So she grew discouraged now and then, and shrunk from his anger and his "ill words" as from a blow. Still she said to herself:

"There is no turning back now. I must have patience and wait."

She had less cause for discouragement than she supposed. For Brownrig did, now and then, take to heart a gently spoken word of hers; and the words of the Book which his mother had loved, and which brought back to him the sound of her voice and the smile in her kind eyes, were not heard altogether in vain. He had his own thoughts about them, and about Allison herself; and at last his thoughts took this turn, and clung to him persistently.

"Either she is willing to forgive me the wrong which she believes I did her, or else she thinks that I am going to die."

Dickson did not have an easy time on the morning when this thought came first to his master. When Allison came in she had utter silence for a while. Brownrig took no notice of the newspaper in her hand, and looked away when she took up the Book and slowly turned the leaves. But that had happened before, and Allison read on a few verses about the ruler who came to Jesus by night, and who, wondering, said, "How can a man be born when he is old?"

"Ay! how indeed?" muttered Brownrig. "Born again. Ah! if that might be! If a man could have a second chance!"

And then his thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and he asked himself when and where he had taken the first step aside from the right way, and how it came about that, having had his mother for the first thirteen years of his life, he should have forgotten her. No, he had not forgotten her, but he had forgotten her teachings and her prayers, and his own promises made to her, that he would ever "hate that which is evil, and cleave to that which is good," and that he would strive so to live and serve God that he might come at last to meet her where she hoped to go. Was it too late now? He sighed, and turned his head uneasily on the pillow. The angry look had gone out of his eyes, and they met Allison's with a question in them. But he did not speak till she said very gently:

"What is it? Can I do anything for you?"

"Has the doctor been saying anything to you of late?" he asked. "Does he think that my time is come, and that I am going to die?"

Allison's face showed only her surprise at the question.

"The doctor has said nothing to me. Are you not so well? Will I send for the doctor?" and she laid her cool fingers on his hand. But he moved it away impatiently.

"What I canna understand is, that you should have come at all. You must have thought that I was going to die, or you wouldna have come."

"Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would have come but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, in that I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and I thought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at the last."

"Forgive—at the last! There's sma' comfort in that, I'm thinking," and not another word was spoken between them that day. And not many were spoken for a good many days after that.

But one morning, when Allison had been detained among her "auld wives" a little longer than usual, she came softly into the room, to find, not Dickson, but an old man with clear, keen eyes and soft white hair sitting beside the bed. His hands were clasped together on the top of his staff, and his face, benign and grave, was turned toward the sick man.

"He seems to be asleep," said Allison softly, as she drew near.

"Yes, he seems to be asleep," said the old man; "but I have a message to him from the Master, and I can wait till he wakens. And who may you be? One who comes on an errand of mercy, or I am greatly mistaken."

"I am a nurse here. And—I am—this man's wife."

She said it in a whisper, having had no thought a moment before of ever uttering the words.

"Ay! ay!" said the old man, in tones which expressed many things— surprise, interest, awakened remembrance. And then Allison turned and met the eyes of her husband.

"It is the minister come to see you," said she, drawing back from his outstretched hand.

"Stay where you are," said he, taking hold of her gown. "Bide still where you are."

"Yes, I will bide. It is Doctor Kirke who has come to see you."

"You have had a long and sore time of trouble and pain," said the minister, gravely.

"Yes, but the worst is over now," said Brownrig, his eyes still fixed on Allison's half-averted face.

"Let us hope so," said the old man, solemnly. "If the Lord's dealing has been taken to heart and His lesson learned, the worst is over."

But he had more to say than this. He was by no means sure that in his sense, or in any sense, the worst was over for this man, who had all his life sinned with a high hand, in the sight of his fellow-men, as well as in the sight of his Maker. His heart was full of pity, but he was one of those whose pity inclines them to be faithful rather than tender.

"Man, you have been a great sinner all your days," he said, slowly and solemnly. Many changes passed over the face of Brownrig as the minister went on, but he never removed his eyes from the face of Allison, nor loosened his firm clasp of her hand.

Faithful! Yes, but yet tender. How full of pity and of entreaty was the old man's voice when he spoke of One who, hating sin, yet loves the sinner; One who is slow to anger, full of compassion and of great mercy, not willing that any should perish, but that all, even the worst, should come unto Him and live.

"And, O man! ye need Him no less, that you may be going back to your life again. The Lord could do wonderful things for the like of you, if ye would but let Him have His will o' ye. Able! ay, is He, and willing as able, and surely He has given you a sign. Look at this woman against whom, it is said, ye woefully sinned! If she, who is but a weak and sinful mortal, has forgiven you, and is caring for you, and would save you, how can there be doubt of Him who gave His life a ransom for you?"

A glance at Allison's face stayed his words. Then he knelt down and prayed—not in many words—not as if entreating One offended or angry, but One waiting, looking, listening, loving; One "mighty to save." And then he rose and touched the hand of each, and went silently away.

Had Brownrig fallen asleep? Allison slowly turned her face toward him. He lay with closed eyes, motionless, and there were tears on his cheeks. As Allison tried gently to withdraw her hand from his clasp his eyes opened.

"Is it true, Allie? Have you forgiven me?"

"I—was sorry for you long since, even before you were hurt. I never wished ill to you. I came when I heard that you were like to die, so that we might forgive one another—"

Allison had gone almost beyond her power of speech by this time, but he held her fast.

"Oh! Allie, ye micht hae made a good man o' me, if ye had but had the patience and the will to try."

But Allison said:

"No, that could never have been. I wasna good myself, and I was dazed with trouble."

"Ay, poor lassie, ye hae much to forgive. But I will make amends, I will make amends. Yes, in the sight of God and man, I will make full amends."

Allison could bear no more. Where was it all to end? Surely she was in the net now, and it was drawing close upon her, and she could not bear it. For a moment it came into her mind to flee. But the temptation did not linger long, nor did it return.

In his accustomed place Dickson was waiting.

"Your master requires you," said Allison, and then she passed on to her refuge among the auld wives, and puir bodies in the wide ward beyond. But it was not a refuge to-day.

"And how is your patient the day, puir man?" said she who was bowed with rheumatism being 'no' fifty yet.

"We heard that the minister had been sent for to see him," said another. "It is to be hoped that he will do him some good."

Allison answered them both quietly: "He is just as usual. Yes, the minister has been there," and moved on to some one else.

It was the hour which she usually spent among them, and she went from one bed to another, saying and doing what was needed for the suffering or fretful poor souls among them, answering kindly and firmly, with never-failing patience, the grateful looks of some, and the dull complaining of others, till the time came which set her free to go her own way again.

She was the better for the hour which she had dreaded when she first came in. She no longer felt the touch of that hot hand on hers, or the gaze of the eager eyes, which she had met with such sinking of heart. She was herself again.

"To think that I should grow fainthearted this day of all days, when for the first time he seemed to be touched by a good man's words. I should be rejoicing and thankful. And whatever else is true, it is true that He who brought me here, kens the end, though I do not."

And so she went home to her rest, and the next day was like all the days, except that the sick man, as Dickson put it, "wasna sae ill to do wi'." It became evident to both doctor and nurse, that Brownrig had at last taken in the thought that he might be going to die. He said nothing for a while, but he marked their words and watched their ways, and when Dr Kirke came, which he did every few days, he listened with patience which grew to pleasure as time went on. When at last he repeated to Doctor Fleming himself, the question which he had put to Allison, the doctor's rather ambiguous answer did not satisfy him.

"I see you have your own thoughts about it," said Brownrig. "I think you are mistaken. I do not mean to die if I can help it. I wish to live, and I mean to live—if such is God's will," he added, after a pause. "I'm no' going to let myself slip out o' life without a struggle for it. I have a strong will, which hasna ay been guided to good ends, ye'll say, and I acknowledge it. But 'all that a man hath will he give for his life,' the Book says, And I will do my best to live."

The doctor said nothing.

"It is not that I'm feared to die. If all is true that Doctor Kirke has been saying to me, why should I fear? 'More willing to forgive, than ye are to be forgiven,' says he. And I can believe it. I do believe it. If Allison Bain can forgive, surely He will not refuse, who is 'merciful and full of compassion'. And I hope—I believe—that I am forgiven."

Looking up, Doctor Fleming saw the tears on the sick man's cheek. That was all he was permitted to say for the time, for his strength was not great though his will was strong. The rest of the day was passed between sleeping and waking, while Allison sat working in silence by the window. But he returned to his declaration in the morning.

"Yes, I mean to live, but for a' that I may as well be prepared for death. And you'll send Mr Rainy to me this very day. He must just come while I need him—and when I'm at my best and able for him. I'll die none the sooner for setting all things in order to my mind."

So the next day Mr Rainy came, and for a good many days, and went through with him many matters of business, which must be attended to whether he lived or died. He was quite fit for it—a little at a time— Mr Rainy declared. But the doctor wondered that his strength held out through it all. There was no evidence of failure in sense or judgment in all he said or planned, though his memory sometimes was at fault.

There was much to do, and some of it was not of a nature to give either peace or pleasure to the sick man. But it came to an end at last, and there were a few days of quiet till he was rested. Then he began again.

"I may be going to die, or I may be going to live. Who can say? It must be as God wills. But I have settled with myself one thing. Whether I am to live or to die, it is to be in my own house."

This was said to Dickson, who was ready with an answer to please him.

"And the sooner the better, sir, say I. The fine fresh air o' the hills would set you up sooner than a' their doctor's bottles is like to do. If it were only May instead of November, I would say the sooner the better."

"And I say the sooner the better at this time. Yes, it's late, and it's a lang road, and I have little strength to come and go upon. But there are ways o' doing most things—when the siller (money) needna be considered, and where there is a good will to do them."

"Ay, sir, that's true. And I daresay the laird micht send his ain carriage, and ye micht tak' twa days to it, or even three."

"No, no. The sooner the journey could be gotten over the better. But that's a good thought o' yours about the laird's carriage. He'll send it fast enough, if I but ask it. But I'm done out now, and I'll need to lie still a while, to be ready and at my best, when the doctor comes."

But when the doctor came, Brownrig had forgotten his intention to speak, or he did not feel equal to the effort needed for the assertion of his own will in a matter which was of such importance to him. So it was Allison to whom he first spoke of his wish to go home. He said how weary he had grown of the dull room, and the din of the town, and even of the sight of the doctors' faces, and he said how sure he was that he would never gather strength lying there. It would give him new life, he declared, to get home to his own house, and to the free air of the hills.

Allison listened in silence, and when he would be answered, she murmured something about the coming of the summer days making such a move possible, and said that the doctors would have to decide what would be the wisest thing to do.

"They will be the wisest to decide how it is to be done, but it is decided already that the change is to be made. You speak of the summer days! Count ye the months till then, and ask if I could have the patience to wait for them? Yes, there is a risk, I ken that weel, but I may as well die there as here. And to that I have made up my mind."

Allison did not answer him, and he said no more. He had grown wary about wasting his strength, or exciting himself to his own injury, and so he lay quiet.

"You might take the Book," said he in a little.

Yes, there was always "The Book." Allison took the Bible, and as it fell open in her hand, she read: "I will lead the blind by a way they know not," and her head was bowed, and the tears, which were sometimes very near her eyes, fell fast for a single moment. But they fell silently. No sound of voice or movement of hand betrayed her, and there was no bitterness in her tears.

"Yes, it is for me—this word. For surely I am blind. I canna see my way through it all. But if I am to be led by the hand like a little child, and upheld by One who is strong, and who cares for me, who 'has loved me,' shall I be afraid?"

And if her voice trembled now and then as she read, so that at last Brownrig turned uneasily to get a glimpse of her face, he saw no shadow of doubt of fear upon it, nor even the quiet to which he had become accustomed, but a look of rest and peace which it was not given to him to understand. Allison took her work and sat as usual by the window.

"I may have my ups and downs as I have ay had them," she was saying to herself, "but I dinna think I can ever forget—I pray God that I may never forget—that I am 'led.'"

Brownrig lay quiet, but he was not at his ease, Allison could see. He spoke at last.

"Are you sure that you have forgiven me—quite sure—in the way that God forgives? Come and stand where I can see your face."

Allison in her surprise at his words neither answered nor moved.

"For ye see, if ye were to fail me, I doubt I could hardly keep hold of the Lord himself. If there is one thing that the minister has said oftener than another, it is this, that when God forgives He also receives. You believe this surely? Come and stand where I can see your face."

Allison laid down her work, and came and stood not very near him, but where the light fell full upon her.

"I cannot but be sorry for—what happened, but I bear no anger against you for it now. Yes, I have forgiven. I wish you no ill. I wish you every good. I am far sorrier for you than I am for myself. God sees my heart."

She did not need to prove her words. He knew that they were true. If she had not been sorry for him, if she had not forgiven him, and had pity upon him, why should she have come to him at all? But God's way went beyond that. He not only pitied and pardoned, He received, loved, saved. But he was afraid to say all this to her.

"In sickness and trouble she has been willing to stand by me, as she stands by all suffering creatures. That is all. And she is not one of those women who long for ease and prosperous days, or for anything that I could offer her to tempt her. I must just content myself with what she freely gives, nor ask for more."

Then he turned away his face, and Allison did not move till he spoke again.

"You could help me greatly with the doctor, if ye were to try."

Allison made a gesture of dissent.

"That is little likely," said she.

"He thinks much of you, and ye ken it well."

"Does he? It must be because he thinks I am kind to all the poor folk yonder—not because he thinks me wise," added she with a smile.

"As to wisdom,—that's neither here nor there in this matter. I am going hame to my ain house. That's decided, whatever may be said by any doctor o' them a'. As for life and death—they are no' in the doctors' hands, though they whiles seem to think it. I'm going hame, whether it be to live or to die. But I want no vexation about it; I'm no' able to wrangle with them. But if you were to speak to Doctor Fleming—if you were to tell him that you are willing to go with me—to do your best for me, he would make no words about it, but just let me go."

Allison's colour changed, but she stood still and said quietly:

"Do you think Doctor Fleming is a man like that? And don't you think he will be only too glad to send you home when you are able for the journey? Your wisest way will be to trust it all to him."

"At least you will say nothing against it?"

"I shall have nothing to say about it—nothing." She spoke calmly and was quite unmoved, as far as he could see. But she was afraid. She was saying in her heart that her time was coming. Beyond the day! Surely she must look beyond the day. But not now. Not this moment. Even in her dismay she thought of him, and "pitied" him, as he had said.

"You are wearing yourself out," said she gently. "The doctor will not think well of what you have to say, if you are tired and feverish. Lie quiet, and rest till he come."

He did not answer her except with his eager appealing eyes, which she would not meet. She sat by the window sewing steadily on, till the doctor's step came to the door.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

"Look not at thine own peace, but look beyond, And take the Cross for glory and for guide."

It was Allison's way when the doctor came, to answer such questions as he had to ask, and then to call Dickson, and betake herself to the long ward beyond. But to-day Brownrig's first words were:

"I have something to say to you, doctor, and I wish my wife to hear it. Bide ye still, Allison."

"My wife!" Neither the doctor nor Allison had ever heard him utter the word before. Allison took her usual seat by the window, and the doctor placed himself beside the bed. It was the same story over again which Brownrig had to tell. He was going home to his own house. It might be to die, and it might not. But whether he were to live or die, home he must go. He had something to do which could only be done there. The doctors had owned that their skill could do nothing more for him. His cure, if he were to be cured, must be left to time. He would never improve in the dreary dullness of the place, and there were many reasons why he should be determined to go—reasons which would affect other folk as well as himself; go he must, and the sooner the better. He said it all quietly enough, speaking reasonably, but with decision. Doctor Fleming listened in silence, and did not answer immediately. To himself he was saying, that it might be well to let the man have his way. He did not think it would make much difference in the end. There was a chance for him—not for health, but for a few years of such a life as no man could envy, as few men could endure. Staying here, or going there, it would be all the same in the end.

Doctor Fleming had in his thoughts at the moment a life long sufferer, who was happy in the midst of his suffering, and who made the chief happiness of more than one who loved him—one strong in weakness, patient to endure, a scholar, a gentleman; a simple, wise soul, to whom the least of God's works was a wonder and delight; a strong and faithful soul, who, in the darkness of God's mysterious dealings, was content to wait His time—willing to stay, yet longing to go—full of pain, yet full of peace.

"Yes," said the doctor, unconsciously uttering his thought aloud, "full of pain, yet full of peace."

And here was this man, so eager to live—this drunkard and liar and coward! What could life hold for him that he should so desire to prolong it? And what would life with such a man be to such a woman as Allison Bain?

"Yes, I know God can change the heart. He is wise to guide and mighty to save, and they are both in His good hands. May His mercy be vouchsafed to them both."

"Well," said the sick man, as the doctor suddenly rose to his feet.

"Well—it would be a risk, but it would not be impossible for you to be taken home, as you seem to desire it—if only the summer were here."

"Yes, I have been waiting to hear you say that—like the rest," said Brownrig, with the first touch of impatience in his voice; "but the summer days are faraway, and winna be here for a while. And ye ken yourself what chance I have of ever seeing the summer days, whether I bide or whether I go, and go I must."

Then he went on to say how the laird would be sure to send the Blackhills carriage for him—the easy one, which had been made in London for the auld leddy, his mother, and how the journey might be taken slowly and safely.

"And if I were only once there!" he said, looking up with anxious eyes. Then he lay still.

"If you were once there, you think you would be yourself again?"

A sudden spasm passed over the eager face.

"No—not that. I ken, though you have never said it in my hearing, that it is your belief that, be my life long or short, I can never hope to bear my own weight again. My life's over an' done with—in a sense, but then—there is—Allison Bain."

His voice sank to a whisper as he uttered her name.

"Yes," said the doctor to himself, "there is Allison Bain!"

Then he rose and moved about the room. He, too, had something to say of Allison Bain—something which it would be a pain for the sick man to hear, but which must be said, and there might come no better time for saying it than this. And yet he shrunk from the task. He paused by the window and took out his watch.

"Mistress Allison," said he, speaking, as was his way when addressing her, with the utmost gentleness and respect, "I have half an hour at my disposal to-day. Go your ways down to the sands, and breathe the fresh air while I am here. The days are too short to put it off later, and you need the change."

"Yes, I will go," said Allison.

"And do not return to-night, neither here nor to the long ward. Mind, I say you must not."

As her hand was on the latch Brownrig called her name. When she came and stood beside the bed he looked at her, but did not speak.

"Were you needing anything?" she asked, gently.

"No. Oh! no, only just to see your face. You'll come early in the morning?"

"Yes, I will come early."

But as she moved away there came into her eyes a look as of some frightened woodland creature, hemmed in and eager to escape. There was silence for a moment, and just as the doctor was about to speak, Brownrig said:

"Yes, it was well to send her away to get the air, and what I have to say may as well be said now, for it must not be said in her hearing. And it may be better to say it to you than to Rainy, who is but a—no matter what he is. But to you I must say this. Think of Allison Bain! Think of my wife,—for she is my wife, for all that's come and gone. It is for her sake that I would fain win home to Blackhills. It is to help to make it all easy for her afterward. If I were to die here, do you not see that it would be a hard thing for her to go and lay me down yonder, in the sight of them who canna but mind the time, when she seemed to think that the touch of my hand on his coffin would do dishonour to her father's memory among them? It would hurt her to go from my grave to take possession of her own house, with the thought of all that in her mind, and with all their een upon her. But if they were to see us there together, and to ken all that she has done and been to me for the last months, they would see that we had forgiven one another, and they would understand. Then she would take her right place easily and naturally, and none would dare to say that she came home for the sake of taking what was left."

He paused exhausted, but Doctor Fleming said nothing in reply, and he went on.

"It would be better and easier for her to be left in her ain house. And even though my days were shortened by the journey, what is a week or two more or less of life to me? You'll just need to let me go."

In a little he spoke again, saying a few words at a time.

"No, my day is done—but she may have a long life before her. Yes, she has forgiven me—and so I can believe—that God will also forgive. And I am not so very sorry—that my end is near,—because, though I would have tried, I might have failed to make her happy. But no one can ever love her as I have done. Or maybe it was myself I loved—and my own will and pleasure."

There was a long pause, and then he went on speaking rather to himself than to him who sat silent beside him.

"Oh! if a man could but have a second chance! If my mother had but lived—I might have been different. But it's too late now—too late! too late! I am done out. I'll try to sleep."

He closed his eyes and turned away his face. Greatly moved, Doctor Fleming sat thinking about it all. He had spoken no word of all he meant to say, and he would never speak now. No word of his was needed. He sat rebuked in this man's presence—this man whom, within the hour, he had called boaster and braggart, liar and coward.

"Truly," he mused, "there is such a thing as getting 'a new heart.' Truly, there is a God who is 'mighty to save!' I will neither make nor meddle in this matter. No, I cannot encourage this woman to forsake him now—at the last—if the end is drawing near—as I cannot but believe. He may live for years, but even so, I dare not say she would be right to leave him. God guide and strengthen her for what may be before her. It will be a sore thing for her to go home and find only graves."

"Doctor," said Brownrig suddenly, "you'll no' set yourself against it longer—for the sake of Allison Bain!"

"My friend," said the doctor, bending forward and taking his hand, "I see what your thought is, and I honour you for it. Wait a day or two more before you make your plans to go, and then, if it is possible for you to have your wish, you shall have it, and all shall be made as easy and safe for you as it can possibly be made. You are right in thinking that you will never—be a strong man again. And after all, it can only be a little sooner or later with you now."

"Av, I ken that well. It is vain to struggle with death."

"And you are not afraid?"

"Whiles—I am afraid. I deserve nothing at His hand, whom I have ay neglected and often set at naught. But, you see, I have His own word for it. Ready to forgive—waiting to be gracious—I am sorry for my sins—for my lost life—and all the ill I have done in it. Do you think I am over-bold just to take Him at His word? Well—I just do that. What else can I do?"

What indeed! There was nothing else to be done—and nothing else was needed.

"He will not fail you," said the doctor gently.

"And you'll speak to—my wife? for I am not sure—that she will wish to go—home." And then he closed his eyes and lay still.

In the meantime Allison had taken her way to the sands, and as she went she was saying to herself:

"I can but go as I am led. God guide me, for the way is dark."

It was a mild November day, still and grey on land and sea. The grey sea had a gleam on it here and there, and the tide was creeping softly in over the sands. Allison walked slowly and wearily, for her heart was heavy. She was saying to herself that at last, that which she feared was come upon her, and there was truly no escape.

"For how can I forsake him now? And yet—how can I go with him—to meet all that may wait me there? Have I been wrong all the way through, from the very first, and is this the way in which my punishment is to come? And is it my own will I have been seeking all this time, while I have been asking to be led?"

There was no wind to battle against to-day, but when she came to the place where she had been once before at a time like this, she sat down at the foot of the great rock, and went over it all again. To what purpose!

There was only one way in which the struggle could end,—just as it had often ended before.

"I will make no plan. I will live just day by day. And if I am led by Him—as the blind are led—what does it matter where?"

So she rose and went slowly home, and was "just as usual," as far as Mrs Robb, or even the clearer-eyed Robert, could see. Robert was back to his classes and his books again, and he took a great but silent interest in Allison's comings and goings, gathering from chance words of hers more than ever she dreamed of disclosing. And from her silence he gathered something too.

A few more days passed, and though little difference could be seen in Brownrig's state from day-to-day, when the week came to an end, even Allison could see that a change of some kind had come, or was drawing near. The sick man spoke, now and then, about getting home, and about the carriage which was to be sent for him, and when the doctor came, he asked, "Will it be to-morrow?" But he hardly heeded the answer when it was given, and seemed to have no knowledge of night or day, or of how the time was passing.

He slumbered and wakened, and looked up to utter a word or two, and then slumbered again. Once or twice he started, as if he were afraid, crying out for help, for he was "slipping away." And hour after hour—how long the hours seemed—Allison sat holding his hand, speaking a word now and then, to soothe or to encourage him, as his eager, anxious eyes sought hers. And as she sat there in the utter quiet of the time, she did get a glimpse of the "wherefore" which had brought her there.

For she did help him. When there came back upon him, like the voice of an accusing enemy, the sudden remembrance of some cruel or questionable deed of his, which he could not put from him as he had done in the days of his strength, he could not shut his eyes and refuse to see his shame, nor his lips, and refuse to utter his fears. He moaned and muttered a name, now and then, which startled Allison as she listened, and brought back to her memory stories which had been whispered through the countryside, of hard measure meted out by the laird's factor, to some who had had no helper—of acts of oppression, even of injustice, against some who had tried to maintain their rights, and against others who yielded in silence, knowing that to strive would be in vain.

Another might not have understood, for he had only strength for a word or two, and he did not always know what he was saying. But Allison understood well, and she could not wonder at the remorse and fear which his words betrayed. Oh! how she pitied him, and soothed and comforted him during these days.

And what could she say to him, but the same words, over and over again? "Mighty to save!—To the very utmost—even the chief of sinners,—for His name's sake."

Yes, she helped him, and gave him hope. And in helping him, she herself was helped.

"I will let it all go," she said to herself, at last. "Was I right? Was I wrong? Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? God knows, who, though I knew it not, has had His hand about me through it all. I am content. As for what may be before me—that is in His hand as well."

Would she have had it otherwise? No, she would not—even if it should come true that the life she had fled from, might still be hers. But that could never be. Brownrig helpless, repentant, was no longer the man whom she had loathed and feared.

Since the Lord himself had interposed to save him, might not she—for His dear name's sake—be willing to serve him in his suffering and weakness, till the end should come? And what did it matter whether the service were done here or there, or whether the time were longer or shorter? And why should she heed what might be said of it all? Even the thought of her brother, who would be angry, and perhaps unreasonable in his anger, must not come between her and her duty to this man, to whom she had been brought as a friend and helper at last.

And so she let all go—her doubts, and fears, and cares, willing to wait God's will. Her face grew white and thin in these days, but very peaceful. At the utterance of some chance word, there came no more a sudden look of doubt or fear into her beautiful, sad eyes. Face, and eyes, and every word and movement told of peace. Whatever struggle she had been passing through, during all these months, it was over now. She was waiting neither for one thing nor another,—to be bound, or to be set free. She was "waiting on God's will, content."

They all saw it—Mistress Robb, in whose house she lived, and Robert Hume, and Doctor Fleming, who had been mindful of her health and comfort all through her stay. Even Mr Rainy, who had little time to spare from his own affairs, took notice of her peaceful face, and her untroubled movements as she went about the sickroom.

"But oh! I'm wae for the puir lassie," said he, falling like the rest into Scotch when much moved. "She kens little what's before her. He is like a lamb now; but when his strength comes back, if it ever comes back,—she will hae her ain adoes with him. Still—she's a sensible woman, and she canna but hae her ain thochts about him, and—and about— ahem—the gear he must soon—in the course o' nature—leave behind him. Weel! it will fall into good hands; it could hardly fall into better, unless indeed, the Brownrig, that young Douglas of Fourden married against the will o' his friends some forty years ago, should turn out to be the factor's eldest sister, and a soldier lad I ken o', should be her son. It is to a man's own flesh and blood, that his siller (money) should go by rights. But yet a man can do what he likes with what he has won for himsel'—"

All this or something like it, Mr Rainy had said to himself a good many times of late, and one day he said it to Doctor Fleming, with whom, since they both had so much to do with Brownrig, he had fallen into a sort of intimacy.

"Yes, she is a sensible woman, and may make a good use of it. But it is to a man's ain flesh and blood that his gear should go. I have been taking some trouble in the looking up of a nephew of his, to whom he has left five hundred pounds, and I doubt the lad will not be well pleased, that all the rest should go as it's going."

The doctor had not much to say about the matter. But he answered:

"As to Mistress Allison's being ready to take up the guiding of Brownrig's fine house when he is done with it, I cannot make myself believe it beforehand. She has no such thought as that, or I am greatly mistaken. By all means, do you what may be done to find this nephew of her husband's."

"Is it that you are thinking she will refuse to go with Brownrig to Blackhills?"

"I cannot say. I am to speak to her to-morrow. If he is to go, it must be soon."

"She'll go," said Mr Rainy.

"Yes, I think she may go," said the doctor; but though they agreed, or seemed to agree, their thoughts about the matter were as different as could well be.

The next day Doctor Fleming stood long by the bed, looking on the face of the sleeper. It had changed greatly since the sick man lay down there. He had grown thin and pale, and all traces of the self-indulgence which had so injured him, had passed away. He looked haggard and wan—the face was the face of an old man. But even so, it was a better face, and pleasanter to look on, than it had ever been in his time of health.

"A spoiled life!" the doctor was saying to himself. "With a face and a head like that, he ought to have been a wiser and better man. I need not disturb him to-day," said he to Allison, as he turned to go.

He beckoned to her when he reached the door.

"Mistress Allison, answer truly the question I am going to put to you. Will it be more than you are able to bear, to go with him to his home, and wait there for the end?"

"Surely, I am able. I never meant to go till lately. But I could never forsake him now. Oh! yes, I will be ready to go, when you shall say the time is come."

She spoke very quietly, not at all as if it cost her anything to say it. Indeed, in a sense, it did not. She was willing now to go.

The doctor looked at her gravely.

"Are you able—quite able? I do not think he will need you for a very long time. I am glad you are willing to go, though I never would have urged you to do so, or have blamed you if you had refused."

In his heart he doubted whether the journey could ever be taken. Days passed and little change appeared. The sick man was conscious when he was spoken to, and answered clearly enough the questions that were put to him by the doctors; but he had either given up, or had forgotten his determination to get home to die. Allison stayed in the place by night as well as by day, and while she rested close at hand, Robert Hume or the faithful Dickson took the watch. She would not leave him. He might rouse himself and ask for her, and she would not fail him at the last. She did not fail him. For one morning as she stood looking down upon him, when the others had gone away, he opened his eyes and spoke her name. She stooped to catch his words.

"Is it all forgiven?" he said faintly.

"All forgiven!" she answered, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she bent her head and touched her lips to his.

A strange brightness passed over the dying face.

"Forgiven!" he breathed. It was his last word.

He lingered still a few days more. Long, silent days, in which there was little to be done but to wait for the end. Through them all, Allison sat beside the bed, slumbering now and then, when some one came to share her watch, but ready at the faintest moan or movement of the dying man, with voice or touch, to soothe or satisfy him. Her strength and courage held out till her hand was laid on the closed eyes, and then she went home to rest.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"Choosing to walk in the shadow, Patient and not afraid."

Allison had need of rest, greater need than she knew. The first days after her long watch and service came to an end were passed in utter quiet. No one came to disturb her, either with question or counsel. Mr Rainy, of course, took the management of affairs into his hands; and if he could have had his own way, everything which was to be done, and the manner of doing it, would have been submitted to her for direction or approval. It would, to him, have seemed right that she should go at once to Blackhills, to await in the forsaken house the coming home of its dead master.

But Doctor Fleming had something to say about the matter. He would not allow a word to be spoken to her concerning any arrangement which was to be made.

"You know that you have full power to do as you think fit with regard to the burial, and all else that may require your oversight. Any reference which you would be likely to make to Mistress Allison, would be a mere matter of form, and I will not have her disturbed. Man! ye little ken how ill able she is to bear what ye would lay upon her. As to her even hearing a word about going up yonder, it is out of the question. Leave her in peace for a while, and you will have the better chance of getting your own way with her later."

"As you say, doctor, it is a mere matter of form. But forms and ceremonies cannot ay be dispensed with. She might like to have her ain say, as is the way with women. However, I can wait till later on, as you advise."

So Allison was left in quiet. Brownrig was carried to his own house, and for a few days his coffin stood there in the unbroken silence of the place.

Then his neighbours gathered to his burial, and "gentle and simple" followed him to his grave. As the long procession moved slowly on, many a low-spoken word was exchanged between friends concerning the dead man and his doings during the years he had been in the countryside. His strong will, his uncertain temper, his faithful service to an easy and improvident employer, all were discussed and commented upon freely enough, yet with a certain reticence and forbearance also, since "he had gone to his account."

It was a pity that he had become so careless about himself of late, they said. That was the mild way in which they put it, when they alluded to "the drink" which had been "the death of him." And who was to come after him? Who was to get the good of what he had left?

Allison Bain's name was spoken also. Had she been wrong to go away? Had she been right? If she had accepted her lot, might she have saved him, and lived to be a happy woman in spite of all? Who could say? But if all was true that his man Dickson was saying, she had helped to save him at last.

In silence they laid him down within sight of the grave where Allison had knelt one sorrowful day, and there they left him to his rest.

Allison was worn and spent, but she was a strong woman and she would soon be herself again, she said, and her friends said so also. They did not know that Doctor Fleming had, at this time, some anxiety about her. He remembered the first days of his acquaintance with her, and the dull despair into which she had fallen, before he sent her to Nethermuir, and he would not have been surprised if, after the long strain upon mind and body through which she had passed, the same suffering had fallen upon her again. Therefore it was that he used both his authority as a physician and his influence as a friend, to prevent any allusion to business matters; and though he was guarded in all that he said to Mr Rainy on the subject, he yet said enough to show him the propriety of letting all things remain as they were, for a time.

So Allison was left at peace,—in the quiet little house which she was beginning to call her home. She had been asked, and even entreated by Mrs Hume, to come to the manse for a while. Mrs Beaton had written to say how glad it would make her if Allison would come to her for a week or two. But remembering the misery of her first months in Nethermuir, Allison hesitated at first, and then refused them both. She was better where she was, she said, and in a few days she would be ready for her work again.

She did not say it to them, and she hardly confessed it to herself, but she shrank from the thought of the eyes that would be looking at her, and the tongues that would be discussing her, now that her secret was known. For of course it could not be kept. All her small world would know how who she was, and why she had come to take refuge in the manse. They would think well of her, or ill of her, according to their natures, but that would not trouble her if she were not there to hear and see. So she stayed where she was, and as she could not do what she would have liked best, she made up her mind to go back to the infirmary again.

She would have liked best to go away at once to her brother in America, and some of her friends were inclined to wonder that she did not do so. But Allison had her reasons, some of which she was not prepared to discuss with any one,—which indeed she did not like to dwell upon herself. She had been asked to come to the home of the Haddens to stay there till her brother was ready for her. When she was stronger and surer of herself, she would accept their kind invitation, and then she would go to Willie—it did not matter where. East or West, far or near, would be all the same to her in that strange land, so that she and Willie might be able to help one another.

"And, oh! I wish the time were only come," said she.

Since this must be waited for, she would have liked well to ask kind Doctor Thorne, who had called her "a born nurse," to let her come to him, that she might be at his bidding, and live her life, and do some good in the world. The first time that Doctor Fleming had come to see her, after her long labour and care were over, it had been on her lips to ask him to speak to the good London doctor for her. But that was at the very first, and the fear that Doctor Fleming might wonder at her for thinking of new plans, before the dead man was laid in his grave, had kept her silent. After that she hesitated for other reasons. London was faraway, and the journey was expensive, and it would only be for a year at most, and possibly for less, as whenever her brother said he was ready for her she must go. So there was nothing better for her to do than just to return to her work in the infirmary, and wait with patience.

"And surely that ought to be enough for me, after all I have come through, just to stay there quietly and wait. I ought to ken by this time—and I do ken—that no real ill can come upon me.

"Pain? Yes, and sorrow, and disappointment. But neither doubt, nor fear, nor any real ill can harm me. I may be well content, since I am sure of that. And I am content, only—whiles, I am foolish and forget."

She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But she must have forgotten—being foolish—one night on which Doctor Fleming came in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were traces of tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was brought in. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knew nothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tears to-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it.

Was he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was to be said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, and the saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear.

"Are you rested?" said he. "Are you quite strong and well again?"

"Yes, I am quite well and strong."

"And cheerful? And hopeful?"

"Surely," said Allison, looking at him in surprise.

"Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letter to-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from—my Marjorie. I don't know—I canna tell why it should—"

"Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, never mind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than you were, I am glad to say."

"Yes, I am quite well and cheerful,—only—"

But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it.

"It is Mr Rainy. He has come to speak about—business. But he will not keep you long to-night."

Mr Rainy had never come much into contact with Allison Bain. She was to him "just a woman, like the lave." He had no wife, and no near kin among women, and it is possible that he knew less of the sex than he thought he did. He did not pretend to know much about Allison, but he knew that several people, whose sense and judgment he respected, thought well of her. She was tall and strong, and had a face at which it was a pleasure to look, and, judging from all that he had heard about her, she might be freer than most, from the little vanities and weaknesses usual to her kind. She was a reasonable woman, he had heard, and that he should have anything to do to-night, except to explain how matters stood, and to suggest the time and the manner of certain necessary arrangements, he had not imagined.

He came prepared to be well received, and he did not for a moment doubt that he should make good his claim to be heard and heeded in all that concerned the affairs which Brownrig had left in his hands. So he greeted Allison with gravity suited to the occasion, yet with a cheerfulness which seemed to imply that he had pleasant news to tell. Allison received him with a quietness which, he told himself, it cost her something to maintain. But he thought none the less of her for that.

"No woman could stand in her shoes this night, and not be moved, and that greatly. And not one in ten could keep a grip of herself as she is doing—no, nor one in fifty," said he to himself. Aloud he said: "I ought, perhaps, to have given you longer time to consider when you could receive me. But the doctor informed me that you had been at the infirmary to-day, and as he was at liberty he suggested that you would doubtless be willing to see us to-night. There are certain matters that must be attended to at once."

"For the present I come home early," said Allison. "The evening is the only time I have to myself."

"Yes. For the present, as you say. Ahem! You are aware, perhaps, that for years I was employed by—by Mr Brownrig in the transaction of so much of his business as was in my line. And you know that during his last illness I was often with him, and was consulted by him. In short, the arrangement of his affairs was left to me."

This was but the introduction to much more. Allison listened in silence, and when he came to a pause she said quietly:

"And what can I have to do with all this?"

Mr Rainy looked a little startled.

"You are not, I should suppose, altogether unaware of the manner in which—I mean of the provisions of your husband's will?"

"I know nothing about it," said Allison.

"Then let me have the pleasure of telling you that by this will, you are, on certain conditions, to be put in possession of all of which Mr Brownrig died possessed. There are a few unimportant legacies to friends." He mentioned the names of several persons, and then went on with his explanations.

Allison understood some things which he said, and some things she neither understood nor heeded. When he came to an end at last, she did not, as he expected, ask what was the condition to which he had referred, but said:

"And what will happen if I say that I can take nothing?"

Mr Rainy looked at her in astonishment.

"That is easily told," said he, with a queer contortion of his face. "The property of the deceased would go to the next of kin."

Then Mr Rainy waited to hear more,—waited "to see what it was that she would be at," he said to himself.

"And it is your place to settle it all, to see that all is put right as it should be?"

"Yes, that is my place, with the help of one or two others. Your friend Doctor Fleming has something to do with your affairs, under the will."

"What you have to do will be to put the will aside, as if it had never been made. I hope it will not add to the trouble you must have to settle everything without it."

"Are you in earnest?" asked Mr Rainy gravely.

"Surely, I am in earnest."

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to receive the property which your husband left to you? Is it because of the condition? No, it cannot be that, for I named no condition. And indeed it is hardly a condition. It is rather a request."

Allison asked no question, though he paused expectant.

"The condition—if it can be called a condition—is easy enough to fulfil. It is to take possession of a fine house, and live in it—a while every year, anyway, and to call yourself by your husband's name. Is that a hard thing to do?"

Allison grew red and then pale.

"I have nothing to say about any condition. With no condition my decision would have been the same. What you have to do must be done with no thought of me."

"But what is your reason? What would you have? You were friends with him. You were good to him all those long months. You had forgiven him before he died."

"I think I had forgiven him long before that time. I came to him because I was sorry for him, and he, too, had something to forgive. I wished to be at peace with him before he died, for his sake and for my own."

"What more need be said? You had forgiven one another, and he wished to make amends. Give me a reason for this most astonishing resolution."

"I can give you no reason, except that I cannot take what you say he has left to me. I have no right to it. It should go to those of his own blood."

There was more said, but not much, and not another word was spoken by Allison. Doctor Fleming, who had been silent hitherto, said something about taking longer time to consider the matter—that there was no need for haste. She should take time, and consult her friends. But he did not seem surprised at her decision, and indeed "spoke in a half-hearted kind of a way, which was likely to do little ill, little good in this strange matter," Mr Rainy declared, with an echo of reproach in his voice, as they left the house together.

"Is she a' there, think ye? It canna surely be that she refuses to be beholden to him, because of the ill turn he did her when he married her? She forgave him, and that should end all ill thoughts. Yes, she had forgiven him; no one could doubt that who saw her as you saw her. And no one would think of casting up to her that she served him with any thought of what he had to leave behind him. But she might think so, and I daresay she has her ain pride, for all her gentle ways. You must have a word with her, doctor. It is easy seen that your word would go far with her. As for me, I canna follow her, nor understand her, unless it is that she has a want or a weakness about her somewhere."

"No," said the doctor, "it cannot be explained in that way."

"Well, what would she have? Man! think ye what many a woman would give for her chance! A house of her own, and wealth, no responsibilities, no incumbrances, and not a true word to be spoken against her. Why! it would be the beginning of a new life to her. With her good looks, and the grip she has of herself (her self-possession), she would hold her own—no fear of that. And no one has a right to meddle with her. There is her brother, but it is hardly likely he will trouble her. And she is the stronger of the two, and she has had experience since the old days. I canna fathom it—unless there be somebody else," said Mr Rainy, standing still in the street. "Doctor, can you tell me that? I think I would have heard of him, surely. And he would be a queer lad that would object to her coming to him with her hands full. And there is not a word said about her not marrying again. No, it must just be that she is a woman of weak judgment."

They had walked a long way by this time, and now they turned into another street, and soon came to Mr Rainy's door.

"Come in, doctor, come in. You surely must have something to say about this strange freak, though I own I have not given you much chance to say it. Come in if you can spare the time. It's early yet."

The doctor went in with him, but he had not much to say except that he was not altogether surprised at Mistress Allison's decision. Indeed he owned that he would have been surprised had she decided otherwise.

"But what, I ask, in the name of common sense, is the reason? You must know, for you seem to have foreseen her refusal."

"I do not believe she herself could find a reason, except that she cannot do this thing. The reason lies in her nature. She came to him, as she says, because she was sorry for him, and because she wished that they might forgive one another before he died. And I daresay she thought she might do him some good. And so she did. May God bless her! But as to what he had, or what he might do with it, I doubt if the thought of it ever came into her mind, till you spoke the word to-night."

Mr Rainy shook his head.

"I don't say that it is altogether beyond possibility. She seems to be a simple-minded creature in some ways, but she's a woman. And just think of it! A free life before her, and all that money can give—I mean of the things dear to women—even to good and sensible women—gowns and bonnets and—things. It couldna but have come into her mind."

"But even if she has thought of all these things, she refuses them now."

"Yes, she does that, but why? It may be that she hasna confidence in herself. But that would come. There is no fear of a fine, stately woman like her. It is a pity that the poor man didna get to his own house to die."

"Yes, it was Brownrig's sole reason for wishing to go, that all might be made easier for her. He was eager to see her in the possession of all he had to give. It was too late, however. He failed rapidly, after he told me his wish. Still, I do not think that her being there would have made any difference in the end."

"Do you mean that she would have said the same in those circumstances, and that she will hold out now? That she will go her own ways, and earn her bread, and call herself Allison Bain to the end of her days? No, no! she will come round. We'll give her time, and she'll come round, and ken her ain mind better. A year and a day I'll give her, and by that time she will be wiser and less—less, what shall I call it? Less scrupulous."

"There are, doubtless, folk ready to put in a claim for a share of what is left, should she refuse."

"There is one man, and he has a family. I have had my eye on him for a while. He knows his connection with Brownrig. I don't think he is proud of it. But he will have no scruples about taking all that he can get, I daresay. The will, as it stands, is not to be meddled with. I hope he may have to content himself with his five hundred pounds."

Doctor Fleming smiled.

"I should say that he stands a fair chance of taking that and all else besides. Time will show."

"I think, doctor," said Mr Rainy gravely, "if you were to give your mind to it, you could make her see her interest, and her duty as well."

"I am not so sure of that. Nor would I like to say, that to take your way, would be either her interest or her duty."

"Nonsense, man! Consider the good a woman like that might do. I think I'll send a letter to her friend Mr Hume. He can set her duty before her, as to the spending of the money. They are good at that, these ministers. And there is Mrs Esselmont! If she were to take up Allison Bain, it would be the making of her. And she might well do it. For John Bain came of as good a stock as any Esselmont of them all. Only of late they let slip their chances—set them at naught, I daresay, as Mistress Allison is like to do. Yes, I'll write to Mrs Esselmont. She has taken to serious things of late, I hear, but she kens as weel as anither the value of a competence to a young woman like Allison Bain."

"Does Mistress Allison know anything of this nephew of Brownrig's?"

"All that she knows is that there are folk who can claim kinship with her husband."

"Well, I hope he is a good man if this money is to go to him, as I cannot but think it may."

Mr Rainy said nothing for a moment, but looked doubtfully at the doctor.

"He is an unworldly kind of a man," said he to himself, "and though he has not said as much, I daresay he is thinking in his heart that it is a fine thing in Allison Bain to be firm in refusing to take the benefit of what was left to her. And if I were to tell who the next of kin is, it might confirm her in her foolishness. But I'll say nothing to him, nor to Mrs Esselmont."

Then he added aloud:

"Speak you a word to her. She will hear you if she will hear any one. Make her see that it is her duty to give up her own will, and take what is hers, and help other folk with it. She is one of the kind that thinks much of doing her duty, I should say."

Doctor Fleming smiled.

"Yes, that is quite true; if I were only sure as to what is her duty, I would set it before her clearly. I will speak to her, however, since you wish it, but I will let a few days pass first."

That night Robert Hume looked in upon Allison, as was his custom now and then. Marjorie's letter lay on the table.

"There is no bad news, I hope?" said he as he met Allison's glance.

"No. Marjorie would like me to come 'home,' as she calls it. Or, if that canna be, she would like to come here."

"She could hardly come here, but you should go to the manse. You must go when spring comes."

"I would like to go for some reasons. But—I would like to see my Marjorie, and the sight of your mother would do me good, and yet I canna think of going with any pleasure. But I may feel differently when the spring comes."

"You went back to your auld wives too soon," said Robin.

"No, it is not that. If I am not fit to go to them, what am I fit for?" And, to Robert's consternation, the tears came into her eyes.

"Allie," said he, "come away home to my mother."

But when Allison found her voice again, she said "no" to that.

"I havena the heart to go anywhere. My auld wives are my best friends now. I must just have patience and wait."

"Allison," said Robert gravely, "would you not like to come with me to America?"

Allison looked at him in astonishment.

"With you! To America!"

"Yes, with me. Why not? They have fine colleges. I could learn to be a doctor as well there as here, at least I could learn well enough. And then there is your brother, and—John Beaton. The change is what you need. You wouldna, maybe, like to go by yourself, and I could take care of you as well as another."

This hold and wise proposal had the effect of staying Allison's tears, which was something.

"And what would your father and mother say to that, think ye?" said Allison with a smile.

"I dinna—just ken. But I ken one thing. They would listen to reason. They ay do that. And a little sooner or later, what difference would it make? For it is there I am going some time, and that soon."

"And so am I, I hope—but not just yet. I couldna go to a strange land, to bide among strange folk, until—I am fitter for it. If my brother had a house of his own, I might go."

"But when your brother gets a house of his own, he'll be taking a wife," said Robert gravely.

"Surely! I would like that well."

"Oh! it will come whether you like it or no. If he canna get one, he'll get another—there's no fear."

"Ah! but if he canna get the right one, he should take none. And he would ay have me."

Robin might have had his own thoughts about that matter. He said nothing, however, but that night he wrote a letter to his mother. He wrote about various matters, as once every week it was his duty and pleasure to do. And when he had said all else that was to be said, he added, that Allison Bain whiles looked as she used to look in her first days in Nethermuir—as though she had lost all her friends, and as though she might lose herself next.

"I told her to-night that her best wisdom would be to come away with me to America. I meant, of course, that I would go with her if she was afraid to go by herself. For they say there are fine colleges in America, and I could keep on with my work there. Allison is getting no good here, among her auld wives."

Mrs Hume smiled at Robert's proposal, and so did the minister, but they both looked grave at his account of Allison.

"It is a pity that she refuses to come here for a few weeks," said Mr Hume.

"Yes, it might do her good. Still it would not be as it was at first. It was because her hands were busy and her days full, that she was helped then. It would be different now. And more than that, she seems quite to shrink from the thought of it. We will wait a while, and all that may pass away."



CHAPTER THIRTY.

"Then fare ye weel, my ain true love, And fare ye weel a while."

But Allison was in no such evil case as her friends were inclined to believe. She was growing strong again, and she had enough to do, and a will to do it, which to reasonable folk means content, if it does not quite mean happiness. She still lived in Mrs Robb's house, and went to the infirmary every day, and took pleasure in her work, the best of pleasure,—knowing that she was doing something to soothe the pains of those whose portion in life seemed to be only suffering and sorrow.

In helping these, she helped herself also. She forgot her own sadness, when she saw the weary, pain-drawn faces brighten as she came near, and she felt her own courage revived, and her strength renewed, when any weak and hesitating word of hers had power to comfort the hearts of some whom care or poverty or ill-requited affection had made sick, or sour, or hopeless.

There were complaining and ingratitude to meet now and then, from some of them. But, poor souls! they needed help and comfort all the more, because of their unreasonable anger, or their querulous discontent. Her kindest words, and softest touches, and longest patience were for these. And when the cloud parted, and a light from Heaven shone in upon one sitting in darkness, or when, for a moment, the troubled and angry spirit was made to feel what the coming of God's grace into the heart is like,—was not that enough to make her content?

Doctor Fleming, though he said little to her about herself or her health, still kept his eye upon her, and soon became quite satisfied about her. Mr Rainy, who sometimes saw her passing through the street, wondered when she would begin to tire of her self-imposed labour, and of getting her own will and be ready to listen to reason. But he acknowledged to himself, that, if one could judge by her look, she seemed well pleased with her work and her own ways thus far.

"She goes by, not seeming to see me or any other body, but her thoughts are good and pleasant thoughts, or I am mistaken. Still, I doubt, when she comes to stand face to face with 'the next of kin,' she may have a qualm of repentance for her foolishness. But a last will and testament is no' to be lightly meddled with, and I will do my best for her."

So he wrote to Mr Hume, asking him to use his influence with Allison. He wrote also to Mrs Esselmont, whom he had known long and well. He had known her best in her youth, when, as he said to himself, she had kept as firm a grip of the good things of this life as most folk. He assured her that there was no reason, either in law or in morals, why Allison Bain should not have and hold, and make a good use of all that her husband had left to her, and he believed that no one would be so well able to set all this before her as Mrs Esselmont, since, as he had heard, she had for some time taken an interest in the young woman; and then he added:

"She has both sense and discretion, except with regard to this one matter She has been living a repressed sort of life of late,—indeed from all that I can gather, she never has had any other kind of life, which goes far to account for her hesitation—I will not say refusal—to receive what is rightfully hers. I think that she is afraid of the responsibility, and that she is not sure of herself, or of doing well the duties of a higher station. But she would soon learn to have confidence in herself; and with the friendship and the countenance of Mrs Esselmont, she need care little for the favour or disfavour of any of the rest."