Mrs Esselmont smiled as she read. If such a letter had come to her in the days when Mr Rainy knew her best—when she was young—when she had influence in her own circle, and liked well to exercise it, she might have been moved by it even more than it moved her now. For she was moved by it. She had seen and known enough of Allison Bain to cause her to assent willingly to Mr Rainy's opinion, that under favourable circumstances she might hold her own in a position very different from that which she had hitherto occupied.

She had not known Allison during her first months at the manse, when, under the terrible strain of sorrow and fear, she had seemed to break down and lose herself. It was the sight of her beautiful, sad face as she sat in the kirk, that had first touched Mrs Esselmont, and afterward, her firm and gentle dealing with the child Marjorie. Later on she had learned to know well and to admire,—yes, and to love dearly, this reticent, self-respecting, young woman who was living under her roof, a child's nurse—a servant,—yet who in all her words and ways showed herself to be a true lady.

Such help as she could give, she would gladly give to Allison, should she of her own free will choose wealth and a higher position in life. But to seek to influence her choice,—that was quite another matter. No one but Allison herself could take the responsibility of deciding what her future was to be. None knew better than Mrs Esselmont, how little, wealth and the esteem of the world had to do with peace of mind or enduring happiness. She therefore answered Mr Rainy's letter without committing herself. But she told him, that a journey to Aberdeen which she was intending to make, should be hastened, in order that she might the sooner see Allison.

As for the minister, he did with Mr Rainy's letter, what he was in the way of doing with all important matters on which he was called to decide. He considered it well for a night and a day, and then he laid it before his wife. She did not wait long to consider it. She said as she laid it down:

"John Beaton!"

"Well," said the minister, "what of him?"

"He would never wish it. At least I hope he would never wish it."

"And has that anything to do with her refusal, think you?"

Mrs Hume was silent a moment. Then she said:

"No. I do not think so. I am sure it has not. There is no use searching for reasons as far as Allison is concerned. She simply cannot do the thing they are wishing her to do. It is not a matter for reason with her, but a matter of feeling. And I quite understand it, though I could not hope to make this clear to Mr Rainy, perhaps not even to you."

There was more said about John Beaton and his hopes and wishes, but the advice which was to be given to Allison was not to be influenced by any thought of him, or what he might desire. What would be best for Allison herself?

Knowing her well, the minister could not but believe that she would be "a faithful and wise steward" of whatever was committed to her hand. And he could not but have a thought also, as to the direction which her liberality might take under judicious guidance. But for Allison herself, was the possession of so much money desirable? Would she be a happier woman because she lived in a fine house, and had fine folk about her? And would these fine folk ever fully accept her as one of themselves, and give her what was her due,—not as a rich woman, but as a good woman,—one possessing rare qualities of heart and mind, one in herself worthy of high regard and honour? All this was, in Mr Hume's opinion, more than doubtful.

There was this to be said. A measure of happiness cannot but be theirs to whom is given the heart as well as the power to dispense wisely and liberally, and surely Allison would be one of these. Still, the conclusion to which Mr Hume came, was that Allison must be left to decide for herself.

So Mr Hume's reply to Mr Rainy's letter was not very satisfactory to that gentleman, and he could only hope, that as the months went on, something might occur which would suggest more reasonable views to them all.

Mrs Esselmont went to Aberdeen, and it so happened that she had an interview with Mr Rainy before she saw Allison. She owned herself impressed by what he had to say. Therefore when she met Allison, her first words to her were not those which she had intended to use. She spoke very gently and kindly, but it was with the desire to convince Allison that though it might not be for her pleasure, it might still be her duty to yield to wise guidance, and accept the lot which she had not chosen for herself, but which seemed to be the lot appointed for her. She dwelt on the advantages which would naturally follow such an acceptance,—the good which in so many ways Allison might do, the position which she would have, and which she would hold with credit and honour.

There was more said than this, and Allison listened in silence, with a look in her eyes which brought Mrs Esselmont to a pause at last.

"Were these your first thoughts about me when you heard what had befallen me? And do you think that I would be a happier woman or a better, for being a richer woman?" asked Allison quietly.

"Not happier or better, perhaps, but you might be more useful. No, I must own that my first thought was, that you did well to refuse to receive anything from him from whom you had fled, and from whom you had hidden yourself so long. But you owe something to his memory. Do you not see how it would quiet the evil tongues which are raised against him, if you were to take your rightful place and do there the duties which he, I fear, neglected sometimes to do?"

"I could not go there," said Allison.

That was all she had to say. She had no reasons to give, and she had nothing to answer to all the good reasons which Mrs Esselmont had heard from Mr Rainy, and which she tried to set before her.

Mrs Esselmont kept her best argument till the last. It was not one which had been suggested to her by Mr Rainy.

"Allison, I can understand why you may shrink from the responsibility which the acceptance of your husband's will would bring upon you. But in a way, the responsibility would remain, even were you to refuse. You do not know into whose hands this money may fall. Think of the evil influence which a bad rich man might exert through all the countryside. What is known of this stranger who is putting in his claim as next of kin?"

"Mr Rainy knows that he is the man that he declares himself to be. He has long known about him, and has always kept him in view. Doctor Fleming told me that. Yes, I have thought of what you say. But if Mr Rainy is satisfied, I think I am free to do as I desire to do—as I must do."

"Is it your brother who is seeking to influence you in this matter, Allison?"

"No. I have thought of what might be his wish. But I have had no word from him since—I do not even know whether he has heard of—what has happened. No one has influenced me. I am sure I am right in refusing; but right or wrong, I must refuse. Oh! say no more, for I cannot bear it."

She was doing her best to keep herself quiet, but the constant dwelling on this matter had vexed and wearied her, and Mrs Esselmont was startled by the look which came to her face, as she rose and took a step toward the door.

"Allison, my dear," said she, "you are worn out and need to be taken care of and comforted. Leave it all for the present, and come home with me."

The ready tears came to Allison's eyes.

"You are very kind, but I think I am better here. Mrs Hume has asked me to come to the manse, and Mrs Beaton would like me to go to her. You are all very kind, but I think it is better for me just to bide where I am, and keep myself busy for the present."

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking earnestly for several minutes. Then she said gravely:

"Allison, listen to me for a moment, and put out of your thoughts all that I hose been saying. You have been long enough under my roof to know something of me. You know that I am growing an old woman now, and that I am much alone, having no one very near to me who could be with me always. I am often very lonely. One daughter is taken up with the care of her large family, and has other claims upon her besides, and my Mary is over the sea. Will you come to me, Allison? Not as a servant,—as a companion and friend. I like you greatly, my dear. I may say I love you dearly. Will you come to me?"

She held out her hand. Allison took it in both hers, and stooping, she kissed it, and her tears fell upon it.

"If my brother did not need me I would come with good will. But I must go to him when he is ready for me."

"Will you come to me till he sends for you? If he were to marry he would not need you. You would be happy with me, I am sure, my dear."

"That you should even wish me to come, makes me very glad, but I can say nothing now."

"Well, think about it. We would suit one another, my dear. And we might have our Marjorie with us now and then."

Mrs Esselmont went back to Firhill, and Allison went daily to the infirmary again. She kept herself busy, as was best for her, and no one came to trouble her any more with counsel or expostulation. She did her work and thought her own thoughts in peace.

"I will wait patiently till this troublesome business is settled, and then I will know what I may do. I am not losing my time and I can wait."

Having quite made up her mind as to her duty with regard to "this troublesome business," she put it out of her thoughts and grew cheerful and content, and able to take the good of such solace or pleasure as came in her way.

Robert Hume was a help to her at this time. He looked in upon her often, and gave her such items of news as came to him from the manse or from Nethermuir. He brought her books now and then, to improve her mind and pass the time, he told her, and Allison began, to her own surprise, to take pleasure in them, such as she had taken in books in the days of her youth, before all things went wrong with them, and all the world was changed.

A letter came from her brother at last. It was dated at a strange place in the West, and it was not a cheerful letter.

"It is a long time since I wrote to you," he said. "I had no heart to write. I was grieved and angry, and I would only have hurt you with my words. But I have not made so much of my own life that I should venture to find fault with what you are doing with yours. As to my plans that you asked about, I have none now. I may wait a while before I think of getting a home of my own, since I am not like to have any one to share it with me. Oh! Allie, how is it that all our fine hopes and plans have come to nothing? It was your duty, you thought, to take the step you have taken. I cannot see it so. Having once gone to him, you can never leave him till death comes to part you. You might as well have gone at the first as at the last, and you would have saved yourself the trouble of years. But it is useless to say more—"

Then he went on to tell her that he had come West to see the country— and a fine country it was, grand for growing grain. He had not made up his mind to stay in it. "It is a fine country, but it has a dreary look to me. There is not a hill to be seen far or near, and in some parts, not a tree for scores of miles. I hardly think I will stay here long."

Allison read all this with painful misgivings. Willie alone and discouraged, and alas! open to temptation, perhaps, as he had been before—how would it end? Her heart sank within her, and she said to herself, that there was no need for her to wait for a settlement of that troublesome business. There were those who could settle it without her help, and she would away to her brother.

His name was signed at the end of the page, but she turned the leaf over and read a few lines more.

"I have gotten a letter from John Beaton, and I have made up my mind to go back to Barstow. John says he is going home to bring out his mother, and he will give you all the news—so no more at present."

Allison's heart was lightened as she read.

"There cannot be much wrong with him since he is going back again," she thought, "and I can wait patiently till his friend comes, to hear more."

She had not long to wait. One night, when she came home in the early gloaming, she found Mrs Robb standing at the door.

"Mr Robert is in the room," said she, "and a friend with him. He asked for you, and I thought ye might maybe like to take off your cap and change your gown before you went in to them."

"I may as well," said Allison. "It is some one from Nethermuir, I suppose," she thought as she went up the stair.

So she came down quite unprepared to find John Beaton standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the door. They stood for a moment looking at one another, and then their hands met, but not a word of greeting passed between them. Then Allison sat down, and John took a turn up and down the room.

"I heard from my brother that you were coming home for your mother, but I did not think it was to be so soon," said Allison.

"It is the best time for me to leave my work. It is rather early in the season for my mother, I am afraid. But the voyage is shorter than it used to be, and she can have every comfort."

"She will be glad to go," said Allison.

"Yes, for some reasons. But at her age, changes are neither easy nor welcome. Still, I am sure she will be glad to go."

"You have something to tell me about my brother," said Allison.

"Yes, I have much to tell you—and nothing but good."

"I was thankful when I heard that he was to go back again to Mr Strong's house. It has been like home to him a long time. Did he send a letter to me?"

"Yes—but it is a very little one. I am to tell you all the news," said John, taking from his pocketbook a tiny, folded paper. Allison opened it and read:

"Dear Allie, it was all a mistake; it was me she cared for all the time. Oh! Allie, you must love her dearly for my sake."

It seemed to take Allison a good while to read it, short as it was. When at last she looked up and met John's eyes, a sudden rush of colour made her hide her face in her hands.

"Don't be sorry, Allie; you would not if you knew all," said John.

"Oh! no. It is not that I am sorry. But—he will not need me now. Oh! I am not sorry. I am glad for him." But her voice trembled as she said it.

"Will he not need his sister? You would not say so if you knew what the thought of you has been to him all these years. You have not seen your brother for a long time, but it is you who have made a man of him, for all that."

"Have I made a man of him? It has been with your good help then."

"Yes, I think I may have helped him. We have been friends, and more, ever since we met that night by the lake shore."

"Ah! he needed a friend then. I seemed to forget my fears for him, after I heard that you had found him. I do not know how to thank you for all you have been to him."

"I will tell you how," said John. But he did not. He rose and walked up and down again. After a little he sat down beside her, and had more to say. He spoke of his first meeting with her brother, of Willie's illness, and of the good fortune that came to them both on the day when they took shelter from the rain in Mr Strong's barn. He told her much more than that. Some things she had heard before, and some things she heard now for the first time. She listened to all with a lightened heart, and more than once the happy tears came to her eyes. And when John ended thus, "You will be proud of your brother yet, Allison," she put out her hand, and John took it, and, for a moment, held it closely.

Before Allison came in John had said to Robert:

"You are not to go away; I have nothing to say to Allison Bain to-night that all Nethermuir might not hear."

But for the moment he wished the words unsaid. A wild desire "to put all to the touch" and know his fate assailed him. He spoke quietly enough, however, when he went on to tell, in answer to Allison's questions, why Willie had gone away so suddenly to the West.

He had always intended to go out there some time, but with the suddenness of his going Mr Strong had something to do. It never seemed to have come into the father's mind that his little Elsie was not a child any longer, and when he began to notice the look that came into Willie's eyes when they lighted on her, he was startled first, and then he was angry, and he let his anger be seen, which was foolish. I am afraid he spoke to Elsie herself, which was more foolish still. For she became conscious, and shy, and ill at ease, and these two, who up to that time had been like brother and sister, had little to say to one another. When Elsie was sent away to visit an aunt, Willie grew restless and angry, and, in a moment when something had vexed him, he told Mr Strong that he had made up his mind to go West.

"Mr Strong said 'all right' a little too readily perhaps, and gave the lad no time to reconsider his decision, and so Willie went away. It happened when I was in another town, where I had building going on. I heard of the matter first from a letter which Willie sent me, and hurried back as soon as possible, hoping to induce him to wait for a while, that I might go with him, as I had always meant to do. I was too late. But it has all ended well. Willie was glad to get home again, and they were all glad to have him home. Mr Strong had missed the lad more than he had been willing to confess, even to himself."

"And is that what you call ending well? Is that to be the end?" said Robert, speaking for the first time.

John laughed. "That is as far as it has gone yet, and it as well as well can be. We must wait for the rest."

"Tell me about Elsie," said Allison.

John had a good deal to tell about Elsie, and about other people. He had much to say about Mr Hadden and his family, and about their great kindness to both Willie and himself. He had something also to say of his own business and of his success in it, and Robin drew him out to describe the house he had built for himself among the maples, by the lake. A pleasant place he said it was, but it would have to wait a while yet before it could be called a home.

Then Robin challenged him to say truly, whether, after all, he was quite contented with his life in the new world, and whether he had not had times of being homesick, repentant, miserable?

No, John had never repented. He had succeeded in every way, far better than he had had any reason to expect or hope. Miserable? No. No one need be miserable anywhere, who had enough to do, and a measure of success in doing it.

"As to homesickness—it depends on what you call homesickness. My heart was ay turning homewards, but not with any thought that I had been wrong or foolish to leave Scotland. No, I am not sorry I went to America when I did."

And then, turning to Allison he added:

"And yet I had no intention of staying there when I went. If it hadna been the thought of finding Willie, I would never have turned my face to Barstow. Indeed, I think your Willie and his trust in me, and perhaps also my care for him, has had more to do with my contentment, yes, and with my success, than all else together."

"I am glad," said Allison, and her impulse was to put out her hand again. But she did not. She only said:

"How long do you think of staying in Scotland?"

"Only as long as my mother needs to make ready for the journey."

"And when you go will you pass this way? I should like well to see your mother, and say good-bye before she goes away."

"You must go borne for a while to the manse, Allie. That is what you must do," said Robert.

"No," said Allison, "I would like a quiet day with her here far better."

"And you shall have it," said John heartily. "That will be far better than to be there in the confusion of leaving."

Then John rose, saying it was time to go, and Robert, who was to see him a few miles on his journey, remembered that there was still something to be done, and hurried away.

He might as well have stayed where he was, for the parting between these two was as undemonstrative as their meeting had been. But when the young men had gone a few steps down the pavement, John turned back again to the door where Allison was still standing.

"Allie," said he, "say a kind word to me before I go. Tell me you have forgiven the presumption of that night."

"I have had none but kind thoughts of you since then, John," said she, giving him her hand.

He stooped and kissed it.

"I am not going to ask anything from you just now, because—But I must tell you—that I love you dearly,—so dearly, that I can wait patiently till you shall bid me come again."

Laying her hand upon his shoulder, Allison whispered softly:

"Will you wait till the year is over, John?"



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

"And I will come again, my love, Though 'twere ten thousand mile."

A year and a day Mr Rainy had given to Allison Bain, in which to reconsider her decision as to her refusal to be benefited by the provisions of Brownrig's will, and now the year was drawing to a close. "The next of kin" had signified his intention of returning to Scotland immediately, and as he was an officer in the army, who might be sent on short notice to any part of the empire, it was desirable that he should know as soon as might be, what chance there was of his inheriting the property which his uncle had left.

Mr Rainy had written cautiously to this man at first. He had had little doubt that Brownrig's widow, as he always called Allison in his thoughts, would be brought to her senses and hear reason, before the year was out. So he had not given the next of kin much encouragement to believe that more than his five hundred pounds would fall to his share.

It was a matter of conscience with Mr Rainy. Whatever any one else might think or say, or whatever his own private opinion might be, it was clearly his duty to use all diligence in carrying out the expressed wishes of the testator. In the meantime he left Allison to herself, believing that frequent discussion would only make her—womanlike—hold the more firmly to her first determination.

But after all was said and done, this "troublesome business," which had caused care and anxiety to several people besides Allison, was brought to a happy end. Mr Rainy's house was the place appointed for the meeting of all those who had anything to do with the matter, either officially or otherwise; and on the day named, shy and anxious, but quite determined as to what she was to say and do, Allison took her way thither. She told herself that she would have at least one friend there. Doctor Fleming had promised not to fail her, and though he had never spoken many words to her about the will, she knew that he would stand by her in the decision to which she had come. She had confidence in his kindness and consideration. No word to deride her foolishness would fall from his lips, and even Mr Rainy's half-contemptuous expostulations would be restrained by the good doctor's presence.

She reached the house at the appointed hour, and found all who had a right to be present on the occasion, already there. It was her friend Doctor Fleming who came forward to the door, and led her into the room.

"Mrs Esselmont!" said Allison, as the lady advanced to meet her.

"Yes, Allison, I am here," said she gravely.

There were a number of gentlemen present, and voices were heard also, in the room beyond. Mrs Esselmont's presence and support were just what Allison needed to help her self-possession, as Mr Rainy brought one after another to greet her; and she went through the ceremony of introduction with a gentle dignity which surprised only those to whom she was a stranger. The last hand that was held out to her was that of "the next of kin," as Mr Rainy announced gravely.

He was a tall man, with a brown face and smiling eyes, and the grasp of his hand was firm and kindly. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Allison turned a triumphant glance on Mr Rainy.

"Mistress Allison," said the new-comer, "I have been hearing strange things about you."

"But only things of which you are glad to hear," said Allison eagerly. "I have heard of you too, though I do not remember ever to have heard your name."

"I am Allan Douglas, the son of Mr Brownrig's eldest sister."

He had not time to say more. Allison put her other hand on the hand which held hers.

"Not Captain Douglas from Canada? Not Miss Mary's husband?" said Allison, speaking very softly.

She saw the answer in his smiling eyes, even before he spoke, "Yes, the husband of Mary Esselmont,—the daughter of your friend."

Allison turned with a radiant face to those who were looking on.

"And is not this the best way? Is not this as right as right can be?" said she, still speaking low.

Not one of them had a word to answer her. But they said to one another that she was a strange creature, a grand creature, a woman among a thousand. Allison might well laugh at all this when it was told her afterward. For what had she done? She had held to her first determination, and had taken her own will against the advice and even the entreaty of those who were supposed to be wiser than she. She had only refused to take up a burden which she could not have borne. What was there that was grand in all that?

"As right as right can be," she repeated, as she went over to the sofa where Mrs Esselmont was sitting. "And now you will have your Mary home again," said she.

Her Mary was there already. A fair, slender woman with a delicate face, was holding out her hand to Allison.

"I am glad to see the Allison of whom my mother has so often told me," said she.

"And I am glad you are come home for her sake," said Allison.

There was no long discussion of the matter needed after this. Mr Rainy might be trusted to complete all arrangements as speedily as might be, and it was with a lightened heart that Allison saw one after another of those concerned take their departure.

Captain Douglas had still something to say to Allison, and he came and sat down by the side of his wife.

"Have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know that I went to see him before I left America?"

"No," said Allison in surprise. "I have had no letter for a month and more. Was it by chance that you met in that great country?"

"Oh! no. When Mr Rainy told me of your decision, he also told me that you had a brother in America, and gave me his address. The place was not very faraway from the town where we were stationed, and I made up my mind to see him before I returned home. Mr Rainy could not tell me whether you had consulted with your brother or not, and I thought it was right for your sake as well as for my own, that I should see him and learn his opinion of the matter."

"Well?" said Allison anxiously.

"Well, he answered me scornfully enough, at first, and told me I was welcome to take possession of a bad man's ill-gotten gains, and more angry words he added. But that was only at first. He had a friend with him who sent me away, and bade me come again in the morning. From him I heard something of the cause of your brother's anger against my uncle. We were on better terms, your brother and I, before I left."

"And was he angry with me? I mean, was he angry that I was with your uncle at the end?"

"He did not speak of that. You must let me thank you for all you did for my uncle in his last days."

"Oh! no. You must not thank me. It was only my duty; I could not have done otherwise," said Allison. "And did Willie not speak of me at all?"

"Yes. He said that there was not in all Scotland another woman like his sister Allie, nor in America either."

Allison, smiled at that.

"And did he send no letter to me?"

"Yes, he sent a letter. I have it with me. No, I gave it to a friend, who said he would put it into your own hand."

"It was to your brother's friend that he gave the letter," said Mrs Esselmont in a whisper.

So when Allison came home to see a light in the parlour window, and a tall shadow moving back and forth upon the blind, she knew who was waiting for her there.

An hour later Robert Hume came to the house.

"Mistress Allison must have gone to the inn with Mrs Esselmont and her friends," said Mrs Robb, "and here has the poor lad been waiting for her in the parlour an hour and more. What can be keepin' her, think you? And I dinna just like to open the door."

Robert laughed. "Poor fellow, indeed!" said he. "I suppose we may at least knock and ask leave to open it."

They had seen each other already, but the hands of the two young men met in a clasp which said some things which neither would have cared to put into words for the other's hearing. Then Robert turned to Allison, who was sitting there "just as usual," he thought at first. But there was a look on her face, which neither he nor any one else had seen there till now.

"No. I am not going to sit down," said Robert. "But I promised my mother that I would write to-night, to tell her how it all ended, and I need my time."

"Ended! It is only beginning," said John.

"Robert," said Allison gravely, "does John ken?"

Robert laughed.

"There are few things that John doesna ken, I'm thinking. What I mean is this. How did old Rainy and you agree at last?"

"Yes, Allison, I ken," said John, as she turned to him, "and I say as you said: The end is as right as right can be."

"Were you there, John?" said Allison wondering.

"Surely, I was there as Captain Douglas' friend. He had a right to ask me, you see."

"You know him, John, and Miss Mary?"

"We sailed together, and I had seen Captain Douglas before that time."

"Yes, when he went to see my brother. A friend helped him, he told me, a friend of Willie's, and I knew it must be you."

John told something of the interview between them, and when a pause came, Robert, who had been standing all this time, said:

"There is just one thing more which I must tell my mother. When are you coming home to the manse? and—when is it to be?"

"You are a bold lad, Robin. I have not dared to ask that yet," said John.

But when Robert was gone he asked it, and Allison was kind and let him "name the day."

"A week hence! But is not that very soon, considering all you have to do?"

"Oh, no! All that I have to do can be done after," said John. "Will it be too soon for you?"

Allison's modest "providing" had been growing under her own busy hands, during the brief leisure which her daily duties left her. It was all of the plainest and simplest, but it was sufficient in her esteem.

"Yes," said she after a moment's hesitation, "I can be ready, and— whatever more you think I need—you will have to give me, John."

John laughed and kissed her hand. Then he said gravely:

"And, dear, I made a promise once, for you and for myself. I said, if this happy day should ever come, I would take my wife, first of all, to the manse of Kilgower—to get an old man's blessing."

Kilgower! At the name, a shadow of the old trouble fell on Allison's face—for the last time.

"I will go anywhere with you, John," said she.

The next day Allison went home to the manse—another "happy homecoming," as Marjorie called it,—though she was to be there only a little while. There were few changes in the manse since the old days. There was a gleam of silver on the dark hair of the minister, and the face of the minister's wife showed a touch of care, now and then, when she fell into silence. But in the home there were cheerfulness and content, and a hopeful outlook as there had always been, and the peace which comes as the fulfilment of a promise which cannot be broken.

The boys had grown bigger and stronger, and they had three sisters now. Jack was not at home. Jack was in the South learning to make steam engines, and when he had learned, he was going to America to make his fortune, like John Beaton. And so was Davie. Only Davie was to have land—a farm of a thousand acres. To America the thoughts and hopes of all the young people of the manse were turning, it seemed, and the thoughts of a good many in the town, as well.

John Beaton's success in the new country to which he had gone, was the theme of admiring discussion among the townsfolk, and when John came to Nethermuir, before the week was over, he found that all arrangements had been made for a lecture about America, which was to be delivered in the kirk. John saw at once that he could not refuse to speak. But it would be no lecture that he could give, he declared. If any one had any questions to ask, he would answer them as well as he could. And this he did, to the general satisfaction.

As to his own success—yes, he had been successful in so far, that he had made a beginning. That was all he had done as yet. It was a beginning indeed, which gave him good reason for thankfulness and for hope.

"Oh! yes. America is a fine country. But after all, the chief thing is, that there is room for folk out there. When one comes to speak about success, courage and patience and strength and hard work are as necessary to ensure it there as they are here in Scotland. But there is this to be said. When a man's land is his own, and he kens that every stroke of his axe and every furrow of his plough is to tell to his own advantage, it makes a wonderful difference." And so on, to the pleasure and profit of all who heard it.

Allison did not hear the lecture, nor Marjorie. They were at Mrs Esselmont's. Marjorie enjoyed the visit and had much to say of it, when she came home. Allison did not enjoy it so well. She was a little doubtful as to how John would be pleased when he came to hear all. That was what troubled Allison,—that, and the fear that Mrs Esselmont and Mrs Douglas might see her trouble.

For it seemed that it was not to be left to John to supply all the rest that was needed in the way of Allison's "providing." For a glimpse was given her of a great many beautiful things,—"naiprie," and bed linen, and gowns and shawls, and other things which a bride is supposed to require. And something was said of china and silver, that were waiting to be sent away to the ship when the time for sailing came. And Allison was not sure how John might like all this. But she need not have been afraid.

Mrs Esselmont had a word with John that night, when he came after his "lecture" to take Allison home. On their way thither, he said to her:

"What did Mrs Esselmont mean when she said to me, that she had at one time hoped that you would come home to her, to be to her a daughter in her old age?"

"Did she say that? It was friend and companion that she said to me. It was at the worst time of all, when Willie had written to me that he was going away to the far West. I was longing to get away, but I couldna go, not knowing that Willie wanted me, and because—until—Oh! yes, I was sad and lonely, and not very strong, and Mrs Esselmont asked me. But it was not daughter she said to me, but companion and friend."

"And what answer did you give her?"

"I thanked her, but I couldna promise, since I must go to my brother sooner or later."

"And was it only of your brother that you thought, Allison?"

"I had no right to think of any one else then, and besides—"

"Well, besides?" said John after a pause.

"It was you that Elsie liked best, Willie thought—and that her father liked best, as well—"

"Did the foolish fellow tell you that?"

"He said that Elsie was ay friendly with you, and that she had hardly a word or a look for him, and he was afraid that it might break friendship between you if he stayed on, and he said he was going away."

"And he did go, the foolish lad. Friendly! Yes, Elsie and I were friendly, but it was Willie who had her heart. But his going away did no harm in the end."

Allison sighed.

"It was ay Willie's way to yield to impulse, and ill came of it whiles."

"It is his way still—whiles. But it is good that mostly comes of it now. And in Elsie's hands, a thread will guide him. You will love Elsie dearly, Allison."

"I love her dearly already."

They had reached the manse by this time, and as they lingered a moment in the close, John said:

"And were you pleased with all the bonny things that Mrs Esselmont has been speaking to me about?"

Allison started, and laid her hand on his arm.

"Are you pleased, John? I was afraid—"

"Yes, I am pleased. She is very kind."

John kept her hand in his, and led her on till they came to the garden-gate.

"Now tell me of what you are afraid, Allie," said he.

"Oh! not afraid. But I was glad to come to you with little, because I knew you would be glad to give me all. And I thought that—perhaps— you—But Mrs Esselmont is very kind."

"My dear, I would be ill to please indeed, if I were not both pleased and proud to hear the words which Mrs Esselmont said of you to-night. Yes, she is more than kind, and she has a right to give you what she pleases, because she loves you dearly."

Allison gave a sigh of pleasure.

"Oh! it was not that I was afraid. But I was, for so long a time, troubled and anxious,—that—whiles I think I am not just like other women—and that you might—"

John uttered a little note of triumph.

"Like other women? You are very little like the most of them, I should say."

"It is not of you—it is of myself I am afraid. You think too well of me, John. I am not so good and wise as you believe, but I love you, John."

That ought to have been enough, and there were only a few words more, and this was one of them:

"Allie," said John gravely, "I doubt that I am neither so wise nor so good as you think me to be. You will need to have patience with me. There are some who say I am hard, and ower-full of myself, and whiles I have thought it of myself. But, Allie, if I am ever hard with you, or forgetful, or if I ever hurt you by word or deed, it will not be because I do not love you dearly. And you will ay have patience with me, dear, and trust me?"

"I am not afraid, John."

The happy day came, and the marriage in the manse parlour was a very quiet affair, as those who were most concerned desired it to be. But in the opinion of Nethermuir generally, a great mistake had been made. The marriage should have been in the kirk, it was said, so that all the town might have seen it.

Robert was best-man, and Marjorie was best-maid. Mrs Esselmont and her daughter and son-in-law were there, and one other guest.

"Think of it!" folk said. "Only one asked to the marriage out of the whole town, and that one auld Saunners Crombie!"

There was a good reason for that in John's esteem, and in Allison's. Saunners appreciated the honour which was done him. He also did honour to the occasion—pronouncing with unction over the bride and bridegroom the blessings so long ago spoken at the gate of Bethlehem.

It was not quite springtime yet, but the day was like a spring day, with a grey sky, and a west wind blowing softly, when John and Allison came in sight of the kirk of Kilgower. Only the voice of the brown burn broke the stillness, murmuring its way past the manse garden, and the kirkyard wall, and over the stepping-stones on which Allison had not dared to rest her tired feet, on the morning when she saw it last, and she said in her heart:

"Oh! can it be that I am the same woman who would fain have died on that day?"

They went into the kirkyard first. The tears which fell on the white headstone were not all tears of sorrow. They told of full submission, of glad acceptance of God's will in all the past, and of gratitude for all that the future promised.

"John," said she softly. But her voice failed her to say more.

"We will come again, dear," said he gently, and he led her away.

And so they went on to the manse, and Allison bowed her head while the good old man blessed her, and was glad, though the tears were very near her eyes. John had much to tell the minister about his son and his happy family, and of their way of life, and the good which they did in the town; and after a little Allison smiled as she met her husband's kind eyes, and was ready with her answers when Dr Hadden turned to her.

They were to stay over the Sabbath. Surely they must stay over the Sabbath, the minister said, and the reason which he gave for their staying was the one which John would have given for wishing to go away.

"There will be so many at the kirk who will like to see Allison Bain's face again," said he.

But when he added reverently, "And doubtless it is in her heart to thank God in His own house, for all the way by which He has led her since that sorrowful day," what could they do but promise to remain?

In the gloaming they went down by the burn side, and past the stepping-stones, and round the hill to the cottage of Janet Mair. It was a dark little place. The tiny peat fire on the hearth cast only a faint light, and it was some moments before they caught a glimpse of the wee bowed wifie, who had befriended Allison in her time of need.

"Come ye awa ben," said she. "Is it Betty, or is it the minister's Barbara? Bide still till I licht my bit lampie."

But when the lamp was lighted, she "wasna just sae sure," even then, who it was that had come in.

"Dinna ye mind Allie Bain, and how good ye were to her, the day she gaed awa?"

"Ay do I. Weel that. Eh, woman! Are ye Allie Bain?"

The lamp did not cast a very bright light, but it fell full on Allison's face.

"Eh! but ye're grown a bonny woman! Sit ye doon and rest yersel'. And wha is this? Is it witless Willie, as I've heard folk ca' him?"

She did not wait for an answer, but wandered away to other matters. She seemed quite to have forgotten the events of the last years. But she told them about her mother, and about the man she should have married, who were both lying in the kirkyard doon by, and about her father and her brothers who were lost at sea.

"I'm sair failed," said she. "It has been an unco hard winter, and I hae had to keep the hoose. But I'll be mysel' again, when the bonny spring days come, and I can win out to the kirkyard. It's a bonny place, and wholesome."

And so on she wandered. They did not try to bring her thoughts back to later days. "It was as well not," Allison said sadly.

Yes, she was sore failed, but she brightened wonderfully at the touch of a golden piece which John put into her hand.

"I'll tak' it to the manse and get it changed for the bawbees and pennies that are gaithered in the kirk. It'll tak' twa or three Sabbaths o' them, I daursay, to mak' it out. Eh! but ye're a braw lad, and a weelfaured," added she, holding up the lamp and peering into his face. "And muckle gude be wi' ye a' ye're days," she added as they went away.

"You have never told me of all the help she gave you," said John as they went down the burn side together.

"Sometime I will tell you; I would fain forget it all just now."

The next day they went to Grassie, to see the two or three with whom Allison could claim kindred in the countryside. She had seen them last on her father's burial-day. Then they went to many a spot where in their happy childhood Allison and her brother used to play together. John had heard of some of these before, he said. He knew the spot at the edge of the moor, where young Alex. Hadden had rescued Willie from the jaws of death, and he recognised the clump of dark old firs, where the hoodie-crows used to take counsel together, and the lithe nook where the two bairns were wont to shelter from the east wind or the rain. And he reminded Allison of things which she had herself forgotten. At some of them she wept, and at others she laughed, joyful to think that her brother should remember them so well. And she too had some things to tell, and some sweet words to say, in the gladness of her heart, which John might never have heard but for their walk over the hills that day.

They went to the kirk on the Sabbath, and sat, not in the minister's pew, but in the very seat where Allison used to sit with her father and her mother and Willie before trouble came. And when the silence was broken by the minister's voice saying: "Oh! Thou who art mighty to save!" did not her heart respond joyfully to the words? The tears rose as she bowed her head, but her heart was glad as she listened to the good words spoken. When they came out into the kirkyard, where, one by one, at first, and afterward by twos and threes, the folk who had known her all her life came up to greet her, there were neither tears nor smiles on her face, but a look at once gentle, and firm, and grave—the look of a strong, patient, self-respecting woman, who had passed through the darkness of suffering and sorrow into the light at last.

John stood a little apart, watching and waiting for her, and in his heart he was saying, "May I grow worthy of her and of her love." When there had been "quite enough of it," as he thought, and he was about to put an end to it, there drew near, doubtful, yet eager, an old bowed man, to take her hand, and then John saw his wife's face, "as if it had been the face of an angel."

She had waited for all the rest to come to her, but she went forward to meet this man with both hands held out to him, and they went aside together. Then, Allison stooped toward him, speaking softly, and while he listened, the tears were running down his withered cheeks, but he smiled and prayed God bless her, at the end.

"Who was your last friend?" said John when they had left the kirkyard, and were drawing near the manse.

"It was—the father of Annie Brand. She died—over yonder—"

She could not say more, and she did not need to. John had heard the story of Annie Brand and of others, also, from her friend Doctor Fleming, and in his heart he said again:

"O God! make me worthy of her love."

They did not linger long after the Sabbath, though their old friend asked for all the time which they could freely give. They were not specially pressed for time, John acknowledged, but there were several places to which they meant to go—to some of them for business, to all of them for pleasure. He had left all his affairs "on the other side" in good hands, so that they need not be in haste to return, and they were free to go about at their leisure.

"And it is quite right you are," said Doctor Hadden. "It is wonderful what a bonny world it is that happy eyes look out upon. And you will have the sight of many a fair picture, that you will recall together in the years that are to come. And with all this, and the voyage that lies before you, you will have time to get acquaint with one another, before the warstle of common life begins."

And so they went away. And their "happy eyes" saw many a fair picture, and day by day they "got acquaint" with one another, as their dear old friend had said.

And in due time they sailed away in to the West, to begin together a new life in a new land.

THE END