"Which is a great mistake on your part," said her brother.

"Yes; I hope she will be glad to see us. She will be glad to see you, Mr Maxwell."

"She will be glad to see us all," said Clifton.



CHAPTER SIX.

A VISIT TO YTHAN BRAE.

It was a great deal later in the afternoon than it ought to have been for the first visit of the minister, and the chances were he would have been told so in any other house in the parish. But Mrs Fleming welcomed him warmly, and all the more warmly, she intimated, that he came in such good company. The lateness of the hour made this difference in the order of events: they had their tea first, and their visit afterward; a very good arrangement, for their tramp through the fields and woods had made them hungry, and Mrs Fleming's oat-cakes and honey were delicious. There were plenty of other good things on the table, but the honey and oat-cakes were the characteristic part of the meal, never omitted in Mrs Fleming's preparations for visitors. She had not forgotten the old Scottish fashion of pressing the good things upon her guests, but there was not much of this needed now, and she looked on with much enjoyment.

"Will you go ben the house, or bide still where you are?" asked she, when tea was over and they still lingered. "Ben the house"—in the parlour there were tall candles burning, and other arrangements made, but no one seemed inclined to move. The large kitchen in which they were sitting was, at this time of the year, the pleasantest place in the house. Later the cooking-stove, which in summer stood in the outer kitchen would be brought in, and the great fire-place would be shut up, but to-night there was a fire of logs on the wide hearth. It flickered and sparkled, and lighted up the dark face of old Mr Fleming, and the fair face of Miss Elizabeth, as they sat on opposite sides of the hearth, and made shadows in the corners where the shy little Flemings had gathered. It lighted, too, the beautiful old face of the grandmother as she sat in her white cap and kerchief, with folded hands, making, to the minister's pleased eye, a fair picture of the homely scene.

And so they sat still. Katie and her mother moved about quietly for a while, removing the tea-things and doing what was to be done about the house. When all this was over, and they sat down with the rest, Clifton, and even Elizabeth, awaited with a certain curiosity and interest the discussion of some important matter of opinion or doctrine between the old people and the minister, as was the way during the minister's visits to most of the old Scotch houses of the place. But Mrs Fleming had changed, and the times had changed, since the days when old Mr Hollister and his friend went about to discuss the question of a union with the good folks of North Gore, and the household had changed also. The children sitting there so quiet, yet so observant, came in for a share of the minister's notice, and when their grandmother proposed that they should arrange themselves before him in the order of their ages to be catechised by him, he entered into the spirit of the occasion as nobody in Gershom had seen him enter into anything yet. He knew all about it. He had been catechised in his youth in the orthodox manner of his country, and he acquitted himself well. From "What is the chief end of man?" until one after another of the children stopped, and even Katie hesitated, he went with shut book. It was very creditable to him in Mrs Fleming's opinion, quite as satisfactory as a formal discussion would have been in assuring her of the nature and extent of his doctrinal knowledge, and the soundness of his views generally.

"He'll win through," said she to herself; "he has been dazed with books till he has fallen out of acquaintance with his fellow-creatures, and he'll need to ken mair about them before he can do much good in his work. But he'll learn, there is no fear."

The minister had other questions to ask at "the bairns" that had never been written in any catechism, and he had new things to tell them, and old things to tell them in a new way, and, as she looked and listened, Mrs Fleming nodded to her husband and said to herself again, "He'll win through."

"Bairns," said she impressively, "you see the good of learning your Bible and your catechism when you are young; take an example from the minister."

And with this the bairns were dismissed from their position; for the rest of the evening till bedtime it was expected that they were "to be seen and not heard," as was the way with bairns when their grandmother was young. The two eldest, Katie and Davie, were put forward a little, in a quiet way, and encouraged to display their book-learning to their visitors. But Katie was shy and uncomfortable, and did not do herself as much credit as usual. Her grandfather put her forward as a little girl, and the visitors treated her as a grown woman, and she did not like it, and at last took refuge with her knitting at her grandfather's side, and left the field to Davie.

As for Davie, he was shy too, but in some things he was bold to a degree that filled Katie with astonishment. He held his own opinion about various things against the minister, who, to be sure, "was only just trying him." And he and young Mr Holt wrangled together over their opinions and questions good-humouredly enough, but still very much in earnest. Young Mr Holt was the better of the two as to the subjects under discussion, but he was not so well up as he thought he was, or as he ought to have been, considering his advantages, and Davie knew enough to detect his errors, though not enough to correct them. The minister, appealed to by both, would not interfere, but listened smiling. Mr Fleming sat silent, as his manner was, sometimes smiling, but oftener looking grave.

"Softly, Davie. Take heed to your words, my laddie," said his grandmother now and then, and Elizabeth listened well pleased to see her brother, about whom she was sometimes anxious and afraid, taking evident pleasure in it all.

By and by the Book was brought, and Mr Fleming, as head and priest of the household, solemnly asked God's blessing on the Word they were to read, before he gave it to the minister to conduct the evening worship. It chanced that the chapter read was the one from which Mr Maxwell's Sunday text had been taken; and in the pause that followed the unwilling, but unresisting departure of the little ones to bed, Clifton said so. Then he added that he wished Mrs Fleming had been there to hear the sermon, as he would have liked to hear her opinion as to some of the sentiments given in it by the minister. It was said with the hope of drawing the old lady into one of the discussions of which they had heard, Elizabeth knew, but it did not succeed.

"I heard the sermon, and had no fault to find with it; had you?" said Mrs Fleming.

"Fault! No. One would hardly like to find fault with it before the minister," said Clifton, laughing. "I am not very well up in theology myself, but it struck me that the sermon was not just in the style of old Mr Hollister's."

"I doubt you werena in the way of taking much heed of Mr Hollister's sermons, and you can ask Mr Maxwell the meaning of his words if you are not satisfied. What was lacking in the sermon the years will supply to those that are to follow it. It was written at the bidding of the doctors o' divinity at the college, was it not?"

"Yes," said Mr Maxwell with some hesitation, "it was written for them."

"Oh! they would surely be pleased with it. It was sound and sensible and conclusive; that is, you said in it what you set out to say, and that doesna ay happen in sermons. You'll put more heart in your ministrations when you have been a while among us, I hope."

There was a few minutes' silence.

"There is a grave charge implied in your words, Mrs Fleming, and I fear a true one," said the minister.

"I meant none," said Mrs Fleming earnestly. "As for your sermon, what could you expect? It was all the work of your head, your heart had little part in it. It was the doctors of divinity, and the lads, your fellow-students—ilka ane o' them waiting to get a hit at you—that you had in your mind when you were writing it, and no' the like of us poor folk, who are needing to be guided and warned and fed. But it is a grand thing to have a clear head, and to be able to put things in the right way, and, according to the established rules: yon was a fine discourse; though you seemed to take little pleasure in it yourself, sir, I thought, as you went on."

Mr Maxwell smiled rather ruefully. "I took little pleasure in it indeed."

"I saw that. But you have no call to be discouraged. We have the treasure in earthen vessels, as Paul says himself. But a clear head and a ready tongue are wonderful gifts for the Master's use, when they go with a heart that He has made His dwelling. Have patience with yourself. If you are the willing servant of your Master, His word is given for your success in His work. It is Him you are to look to, and not to yourself."

"Ay! there is comfort in that."

"It must be a great change for you coming to a place like this from the companionship of wise men, living and dead, and you are but young and likely to feel it. But you'll come to yourself when the strangeness wears off. Your work lies at your hand, and plenty of it. You'll have thraward folk to counter you, and folk kind and foolish to praise you and your words and works, whatever they may be. A few will give you wholesome counsel, and a smaller few wholesome silence, and you must take them as they come, and carry them one and all to His feet, and there's no fear of you."

The minister said nothing. Clifton looked curiously at his grave face over his sister's shoulder.

"Wholesome silence! It's not much of that he is likely to get in Gershom," said he.

"But," said Mrs Fleming earnestly, "you are not to put on a grave face like that, or I shall think your visit hasna done you good, and that would grieve me. You have no call to look doubtfully before you. You have the very grandest of work laid ready to your hand, and you have the will to do it, and I daresay you are no just that ill prepared for it. At least you are prepared to learn in God's school that He has put you in. And you have His promise that you cannot fail. It is wonderful to think of."

"Who is sufficient for these things?" said the minister gravely.

"Him that God sends He makes sufficient," said Mrs Fleming, cheerfully. "Put your trust in Him, and take good care of yourself, and above all, I would have you to beware of Mrs Jacob Holt's Yankee pies and cakes and hot bread, for they would be just the ruination of you, health and temper, and all. But you needna say I told you."

Elizabeth and Clifton laughed heartily at the anticlimax. Mr Maxwell laughed too, and hung his head, remembering Mrs Jacob's dainties, which he had not yet been able to do justice to. Mrs Fleming might have enlarged on the subject if time allowed, but they had a long walk before them.

"I hope you'll no be such a stranger now that you have found your way back again," said Mrs Fleming, as Elizabeth was putting on her shawl. "I mind the old days, and you have ay been kind to my Katie, who is growing a woman now, and more in need of kindness and counsel than ever," added she, looking wistfully from the one to the other. For answer, Elizabeth turned and kissed Katie, and then touched with her lips the brown wrinkled hand of the grandmother.

"God bless you and keep you, and give you the desire of your heart," said Mrs Fleming, "if it be the best thing for you," she added, moved by a prudent after-thought, which came to her to-night more quickly than such thoughts were apt to come to her. "I'm no feared for you or Katie. Why should I be? You are both in good keeping. And if you are no dealt with to your pleasure, you will be to your profit, and that is the chief thing."

They had a pleasant walk through the dewy fields in the moonlight, and much to say to one another, but they had fallen into silence before they paused at the gate to say "good-night."

"I suppose on the whole our visit may be considered a success," said Clifton as they lingered.

"Altogether a success," said Elizabeth.

"I am glad I went in your company," said the minister.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth.

"Your are welcome," said her brother, and then he added, laughing, "I hope all the rest of the world will be as well pleased."

This was to be doubted. Mrs Jacob was by no means pleased for one. She had said nothing to Elizabeth on the occasion when Mr Maxwell had stayed away from the sewing-circle, but Elizabeth knew that her silence did not imply either forgetfulness or forgiveness. She could wait long for an opportunity to speak, and could then put much into a few words for the hearing of the offender. It was a renewal of the offence that the minister should have been taken to the hill-farm by Clifton, and then to Ythan Brae by him and his sister, though why she could not have easily explained. Whatever Clifton did was apt to take the form of an indiscretion in her eyes, but neither her sharp words nor her soft words were heeded by him, and she rarely wasted them upon him. But it was different where his sister was concerned. She had turns now and then of taking upon herself the responsibility of Elizabeth, as of a young girl to whom she stood as the nearest female relation, and she knew how to hurt her when she tried. Elizabeth rarely resented openly her little thrusts, but all the same, she unconsciously armed herself for defence in Mrs Jacob's presence, and an attitude of defence is always uncomfortable where relations who meet often are concerned.

They had met a good many times, however, before any allusion was made to the visits which had displeased her. She came one day into Elizabeth's sitting-room to find Mr Maxwell there in animated discussion with Clifton. She hardly recognised him in the new brightness of his face, and the animation of his voice and manner. He was as unlike as possible to the silent, constrained young man who daily sat at her table, and who responded so inadequately to her efforts for his entertainment. She liked the minister, and wished to make him happy in her house, and there was real pain mingled with the unreasonable anger she felt as she watched him. Her first few minutes were occupied in answering the old squire's questions about Jacob and the children. She had startled him from his afternoon's sleep, and he was a little querulous and exacting, as was usual at such times. But in a little she said:

"Mr Maxwell had good visits at the Hill, and at Mr Fleming's, he told us. It is a good thing you thought of going with him, Elizabeth. You and Cousin Betsey have become reconciled."

"Reconciled!" repeated Elizabeth; "we have never quarrelled."

"Oh, of course not. That would not do at all. But you have never been very fond of one another, you know."

"I respect Cousin Betsey entirely, though we do not often see one another," said Elizabeth. "I did not go to the Hill the other day, however. Clifton went with Mr Maxwell, and they enjoyed it, as you say."

The squire was a little deaf, and not catching what was said, needed to have the whole matter explained to him.

"Betsey is a good woman," said he; "I respect Betsey. Her mother isn't much of a business woman, and it is well Betsey is spared to her. It'll be all right about the place; I'll make it all right, and Jacob won't be hard on them."

And so the old man rambled on, till the talk turned to other matters, and Mrs Jacob kept the rest of her remarks for Elizabeth's private ear.

"I am so glad you like Mr Maxwell, Elizabeth. I was afraid you would not; you are so fastidious, you know, and he seems to have so little to say for himself."

"I like him very much, and so does Clifton," said Elizabeth, waiting for more.

"I am very glad. He seems to be having a good influence on Clifton. He hasn't been in any trouble this time, at all, has he? How thankful you must be. Jacob is pleased. I only hope it may last."

The discussion of her younger brother's delinquencies, real or supposed, was almost the only thing that irritated Elizabeth beyond her power of concealment; and if she had been in her sister-in-law's house, this would have been the moment when she would have drawn her visit to a close. Now she could only keep silence.

"I hope Clifton may do well next year," went on Mrs Jacob; "you will miss him, and so shall we."

"We must do as well as we can without him. In summer he will be home for good, I hope."

"Yes, if he should conclude to settle down steadily to business. Time will show, and this winter we have Mr Maxwell. It depends some on Miss Martha Langden, I suppose, how long we shall have him in our house. You have heard all about that, I suppose?" said she, smiling significantly.

Elizabeth smiled too, but shook her head.

"I have heard the name," said she.

"Well, you must not ask me about her. I only know that she gets a good many letters from Gershom about this time. It is not to be spoken of yet."

She rose to go, and Elizabeth went with her to the door, and she laughed to herself as she followed her with her eye down the street. She had heard Miss Martha Langden's name once. It was on the night when Mr Maxwell called on his way from the Hill-farm. He had said that he liked Miss Betsey, and that she reminded him of one of his best friends, Miss Martha Langden, one who had been his mother's friend when he was a child.

Miss Elizabeth laughed again as she turned to go into the house, and she might have laughed all the same, if she had known that the frequent letters to Miss Martha Langden never went without a little note to some one very different from Miss Martha. But she did not know this till long after.

Clifton Holt went back to college again, and Elizabeth prepared for a quiet winter. She knew that, as in other winters, she would be held responsible for a certain amount of entertainment to the young people of the village in the way of gigantic sewing-circles, and no less gigantic evening parties. But these could not fall often to her turn, and they were not exciting affairs, even when the whole responsibility of them fell on herself, as was the case when her brother was away. So it was a very quiet winter to which she looked forward.

And because she did not dread the utter quiet, as she had done in former winters, and because she was able to dismiss from her thoughts, with very little consideration of the matter, a tempting invitation to pass a month or two in the city of Montreal, she fancied she was drawing near to that period in a woman's life, when she is supposed to be becoming content with the existing order of things, when the dreams and hopes, and expectations vague and sweet, which make so large a part in girlish happiness, give place to graver and more earnest thoughts of life and duty, to a juster estimate of what life has to give, and an acquiescent acceptance of the lot which she has not chosen, but which has come to her in it. It is not very often that so desirable a state of mind and heart comes to girls of four-and-twenty. It certainly had not come to Elizabeth. However, it gave her pleasure—and a little pain as well—to think so, and it was a good while before she found out that she had made a mistake.

As for Mr Maxwell, he was "coming to himself," as Mrs Fleming had predicted. His health improved, and as he grew familiar with his new circumstances, the despondency that had weighed him down was dispelled. Before the snow came, he was making visits among the people, without any one to keep him in countenance. Not regular pastoral visits, but quite informal ones, to the farmer in his pasture or wood-lot, or as he followed his oxen over the autumn fields. He dropped now and then into the workshop of Samuel Green, the carpenter, and exchanged a word with John McNider as he passed his forge, where he afterward often stopped to have a talk. The first theological discussion he had in Gershom was held in Peter Longley's shoe-shop, one morning when he found that amiable sceptic alone and disposed—as he generally was—for a declaration of his rather peculiar views of doctrine and practice; and his first temperance lecture was given to an audience of one, as he drove in Mark Varney's ox-cart over that poor man's dreary and neglected fields.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

MINISTER AND PEOPLE.

In Gershom in these primitive days, a deep interest in the affairs of their neighbours, private, personal and relative, and a full and free discussion of the same, implied to the minds of people in general no violation of any law of morals or expediency. It was a part of the established order of things, which had its advantages and disadvantages. Almost everybody had a measure of enjoyment in it, and everybody had to submit to it.

Even those among the people who would have found little to interest them in the comings and goings of their neighbours generally, took part in the admiring discussion of the comings and goings of the minister. There was a comfortable sense of duty about the matter, a feeling that they were manifesting an interest in "the cause," and "holding up the minister's hands" on such occasions that was agreeable. There was a sense of satisfaction in the frequent allusions made to the Sunday's sermon, in the repetition of the text and "heads," and in the admiring remarks and comparisons which usually accompanied this, as if it were religious conversation that was being carried on and enjoyed. The pleasing delusion extended to the old people's endless talks about subscription-lists, and ways and means of support and to the young people's plans and preparations for a great fair to be held for the purpose of obtaining funds for the future furnishing and adorning of the parsonage. So it was a happy era in the history of the congregation and the village. Everybody was interested, almost everybody was pleased.

If Mr Maxwell had heard half the kind and admiring things that were said of him, or if he had known a tenth part of what he was expected to accomplish by his sermons, his example, his influence, he would have been filled with confusion and dismay. But happily "a wholesome silence" with regard to these things was at first for the most part preserved toward him, and he took his way among his people unembarrassed by any over-anxious effort to meet expectations too highly raised.

To tell the truth, he was getting a good deal more credit than he deserved just at this time. His devotion to his work, his labours "in season and out of season," his zeal and energy, and kindness in the way of visiting and becoming acquainted with the people, were due less to a conscious desire to do them good, or to serve his Master, than to a growing pleasure in friendly contact with his fellow-creatures. He was entering on a new and wonderful branch of study, the study of living men, and he entered upon it with earnestness and delight.

Hitherto his most intimate acquaintance had been with men, the greater number of whom had been dead for hundreds of years. His living friends had, for the most part, been men of one type, men of more or less intelligence, educated on the same plan, holding the same opinions—men of whose views on most subjects he might have been sure without a word from them. His intercourse with the greater number of them had been formal and conventional; upon very few had he ever had any special claim for sympathy or interest.

All this was different now. The interest of the Gershom people was real and evident, and he had a right to it; and he owed to them, for his Master's sake, both love and service. They were real men he had to deal with, not mere embodiments of certain views and opinions. They were men with feelings and prejudices; they were men who, like himself, sinned and suffered, and were afraid. They had opinions also, on most subjects, firmly held and decidedly expressed. Indeed, some of them had a way of putting things which was a positive refreshment and stimulus to him. It had, for the moment, the effect of genius and originality, and in the first pleasure of contact, he was inclined to give to some of his new friends a higher place intellectually than he gave them afterward. Happily, he kept his opinions of men and things very much to himself in these first days, and scandalised no one by declaring Peter Longley to be a genius, or John McNider to be a hero, or by taking the part of poor Mark Varney, as one more sinned against than sinning.

He owed his reputation for wisdom in these first months quite as much to his silence as to his speech. His own superficial knowledge of men and things got easily from books, seemed to him—as indeed it was—a poor thing in comparison with the wisdom which some of these quiet, unpretending men had almost unconsciously been gathering through the experience of years. But it did not seem so to them. When he did speak, he could, through the discipline of education and training, put into clear right words the thoughts which they found it not easy to utter, and they gave him credit for the thought as his, when often he was only giving back to them what he had received. And he listened well, and he chose his subjects judiciously when he did talk. It was iron with the blacksmith, and wood with the carpenter, and seeds and soils and the rotation of crops with the farmer, and without at all meaning to exalt himself thereby, he would put the reading of some leisure hour into a few well-chosen words, which seemed like treasures of wisdom to men who had gathered their knowledge by the slow process of hearsay and observation; and what with one thing, and what with another, the minister grew in favour with them all.

That there had ever been a latent sense of disappointment in the minds of any great number of the people on his first appearance among them would have been indignantly denied. Possibly, in the varied course of events, some in the parish might have their eyes opened to see failings and faults in him, but in the meantime there existed in the congregation a wonderful unanimity of feeling with regard to him.

"The cause was prospering in their midst," that was the usual formula by which was expressed the satisfaction of the staid and elderly people among them. It meant different things to different people: that the church was well filled; that the weekly meetings were well attended; that the subscription-list looked well; that the North Gore folks were drawing in generally, and identifying themselves with the congregation.

This last sign of prosperity was the one most generally seen and rejoiced over. There had all along been a difference of opinion among the wise men of the church as to the manner in which the desired union was to be brought about. The bolder spirits, and the new-comers, who did not remember the well-meant, but futile attempts of Mr Hollister and Deacon Turner in that direction, were of opinion that formal prospects for union should be made to the North Gore men; that matters of doctrine and discipline should be discussed either publicly or privately as might be decided, and that in some way the outsiders should be made to commit themselves to a general movement in the direction of union. But the more prudent and easy-going of the flock saw difficulties in the way. It was not impossible, the prudent people said, that in the course of discussion new elements of disagreement might manifest themselves, and that the committing might be to the wrong side. The easy-going souls among them were of opinion that it was best "just to let things kind o' happen along easy"—saying that after a while the sensible people of the North Gore would "realise their privileges" and avail themselves of the advantages which church fellowship offered to true Christians, and all agreed, before a year were over, that Mr Maxwell's influence and teaching would help to bring about all that was so much desired.

And as time went on, one thing worked with another toward the desired end. In the course of the winter, several of those who were looked upon as leaders among the North Gore people, both for intelligence and piety, cast in their lot with the village people by uniting formally with the church. A good many more became constant hearers without doing so; some hesitating for one reason, and some for another. Among these were the Flemings, whose reason for keeping aloof was supposed to be Jacob Holt, though no one had a right to speak by their authority, of the matter.

Of course Mr Maxwell had been made acquainted with the peculiar circumstances of the place, and he rejoiced with the rest at such evidences of success in his work as the gathering in of the North Gore implied, but no one had ever told him of any serious difficulty existing between old Mr Fleming and Jacob Holt. It was Squire Holt who first spoke to him about it, and the winter was nearly over before that time.

The squire in one of his retrospective moods went over "the whole story," speaking very kindly of the young lad who had gone astray, and of his brother who had died. He spoke kindly, too, of the old man, with whom he had always been on the most friendly terms, but he did not hesitate to say that he thought him foolish and unreasonable in the position he took toward Jacob.

"It was because of something that happened when his son Hugh went away, but Jacob was no more to blame than others; and it might have been all right if the foolish young man had only stayed at home and taken the risk. I tried at the time to talk things over with the old man, but he never would hear a word. There are folks in Gershom who think hard of Jacob, because of old Mr Fleming's opinion, though they did not know a word about the matter. And I'm afraid it's going to do mischief in the church."

"It is strange that I should never have heard of all this before," said Mr Maxwell, at a loss to decide how much of the regret and anxiety evidently felt by Mr Holt was due to the weakness of age. "During all my visits to Mr Fleming, and you know I saw him frequently during his illness, not a word was ever spoken that could have reference to any trouble between the two, nor has your son—"

Mr Maxwell paused. He was not so sure of the exact correctness of what he had been about to say. A good many hints and remarks of Jacob, and of his wife also, which had seemed vague at the time, and which he had allowed to pass without remark, occurred to him now as possibly having reference to this trouble.

"Probably there has been misunderstanding between them," said he after a little.

"Just so," said the old man eagerly. "Jacob aint the man to be hard on anybody—to say hard; he likes to have what is his own, and being a good man of business he hates shiftless doings, and so shiftless folks think and say hard things of him. But as to taking the advantage of an old man like Mr Fleming—why, it would be about as mean a thing as a man could do, and Jacob aint the man to do it, whatever may be said of him.

"Why, look here, Mr Maxwell. Just let me tell you all about it." And the old man, with perfect fairness and sufficient clearness, went into all particulars as to the state of Mr Fleming's affairs at the time of his son's death, and of Jacob's claims upon him. His real respect and friendship for the old man was evident in all he said, and when he lamented that his old friend's unreasonableness should make a settlement of his affairs so difficult, and should make unpleasant talk and hard feelings in the community, Mr Maxwell could not but spare his regret.

"Why, look here, Mr Maxwell. There hasn't been a cent paid on the principal yet, and not all the interest, though it is years ago now, and some of that has been borrowed money. And there is little prospect of its being any different for years to come. If it had been almost any one else but Jacob, he'd have foreclosed long ago, and I don't know but he had better when the right time comes."

It was on Mr Maxwell's lips to express assent to this, when a glance at the face of Miss Elizabeth arrested his words. It wore a look which he had sometimes seen on it when she wished to turn her father's thoughts away from a subject which was becoming painful to him. There was anxiety, even pain in her face as well, on this occasion, and these deepened as her father went on.

"Only the other day Jacob was talking to me about it. 'Father,' says he, 'why can't you just say a word to the old man about letting me have a piece of his land on the river, and settle matters all up. He'll hear you,' says he. 'I don't want to make hard feelings in the church, or anywhere else,' says he. 'It's as much for the old man's interest to have his affairs all straightened out, as it is for me, and more. There need be no trouble about it, if he'd only listen to reason.' I expect I shall have to have a talk with Mr Fleming about it some time," added the old man gravely. "Or you might speak, Mr Maxwell. He would listen to you."

"Only, father, it would be as well to wait till the old gentleman is quite well and strong again," said Elizabeth, rising and folding up her work, and moving about as if to prevent the chance of more talk.

"Well, I guess so, and then I don't suppose it would amount to much anything I could say to him. I wouldn't like to say anything to vex or worry him. He has had a deal of trouble one way and another, since he came to the place, and it has kind of soured him, but he is always as sweet as milk to me. You aren't going away, are you, Mr Maxwell? There, I have tired you all out with my talk, and I've tired myself too. But don't you hurry away. I'll go and step round a little to get the fresh air, and then I'll lie down a spell, and rest. And, Lizzie, you find 'The Puritan' for Mr Maxwell, and he can take a look at that in the meantime."

Elizabeth did as she was bidden, and managed to make the minister understand, without saying so, that she would like him not to go away. So he sat down to the doubtful enjoyment of the paper while Elizabeth followed her father from the room.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

TAKING COUNSEL.

It was one of those soft, bright days of early March that might beguile a new-comer to the country into a temporary belief that spring had come at last, and Elizabeth, tying her "cloud" over her head, followed her father out into the yard. To take a walk just for the sake of the walk was not likely to suit old Mr Holt, or to do him much good. But he and Elizabeth went about here and there, in the yard and up and down the well-swept walk from the gate to the door, where the snow lay still on either side as high as the squire's shoulder, and Elizabeth talked to him about the great wood-pile, and praised the industry and energy of Nathan Pell, the hired man, and of his team, Dick and Doll, that were making it longer every day. She spoke of the great drifts that must be cleared away before the thaw came, of the bough which last night's wind had brought down from the elm in the corner, of the broken bit of fence beyond the gate, of anything to lead his thoughts away from the theme which for the last hour had occupied and excited him.

She succeeded so well, that he went away by himself, to get a hammer and nails to mend the broken paling, and Elizabeth, leaning over the little white gate while she waited for him to return, had an unexpected pleasure—a little chat with Mrs Jacob. It was not the chat which gave her the pleasure, it was her own thought that amused her, and the knowledge of her sister-in-law's thoughts as well.

She knew that though Mrs Jacob declined to come in now at her invitation, she had come up the street with the full design of doing so, and she knew that she was saying to herself that Mr Maxwell could not be in the house, though Jacob had seen him going that way, or Lizzie would never be standing so long at the gate, looking down the street.

"I am waiting for father," said Elizabeth; "he has gone in for the hammer to drive some nails in the fence. I suppose Nathan must have driven against it last night in the dark." She was hoping that Mr Maxwell was enjoying "The Puritan" so well that he would not be tempted to look out of the window so as to be seen.

"Here is father; he will be glad to see you; it is a long time since you were here. Won't you change your mind and come in?"

"Well, no, not to-day. I am going in to see Miss Ball a minute about my bonnet, and I ought to hurry home."

Mrs Jacob knew that she would have to answer many questions about Jacob and the children. Probably the squire had seen them all to-day already, and would see them all again before the day was over.

"I think I'll go, and not hinder him about the fence, since he doesn't know I am here. Why don't you come up sometimes? Well, good-bye; I guess I'll go."

"Good-bye," said Elizabeth. "And now when she finds out that Mr Maxwell was here all the time, though I was standing at the gate, she will make herself and Jacob, too, believe that I am a deceitful girl; though why I should tell her, since she did not ask, I do not quite see."

She took the nail-box from her father's hand and followed him out of the gate, giving him each nail as he wanted it, making suggestions and praising his work as one might do with a child. It was soon finished to the old man's satisfaction, and by that time his excitement and his troubled thoughts were gone, and he was ready for his afternoon's rest.

"You have something to say to me, Miss Holt," said the minister, when she came again into the sitting-room.

"No—I am not sure that I have, though a little ago I thought I had."

"But, Miss Holt, I am almost sure you must have something to say," said Mr Maxwell, after a pause. "I have sometimes found that I have got a clearer view of vexed questions in village politics, and even in church matters, where there are no vexations as yet, after a little talk with you, than after many and long talks with other people."

Elizabeth laughed.

"Thank you. The reason is, that all the rest are on one side or the other of all vexed questions, and not being specially concerned in them, at least not personally concerned in them, I can see all sides: and usually there is little to see that might not as well be ignored."

"Well, does not that hold good in this case also?"

"But in this case I may be supposed to take a side."

The minister smiled.

"But not so as to prevent you from seeing clearly all sides. You are not going to tire of the task of keeping me right in village matters?"

Even when the sunshine is bright above the March air is keen and cold, and so Elizabeth, chilled with lingering so long at the gate, leaned toward the open fire, shading her face with her hand. She was silent for some time, thinking of several things.

"At least tell me that in this case, also, there is little to see, or I shall begin to fear that your father may be right when he says there may be danger of trouble arising out of this matter to us all."

"No. There need be no trouble, if people would only not talk," said Elizabeth, raising her head and turning so as to look at the minister. "I will tell you what I was thinking about before I went out; I was sorry that my father had spoken to you about Mr Fleming's affairs, or that he should have suggested the idea of your speaking to the old man about them; I wanted you not to promise to speak—I mean I do not think it would do any good were you to do so."

"Well, I did not promise."

"No; and I think my father may forget that he has spoken to you about it; he forgets many things now. And if you would forget all about it too, it would be all the better."

"I will be silent, and that will answer every purpose of forgetfulness, or ignorance, will it not?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Not quite; and since I have said so much, I ought to say a little more. I can see all sides of this matter with sufficient clearness to be aware that trouble to a good many people, or at least discomfort and annoyance, might easily spring out of it. As to the church, I am not sure. But if everybody would keep silence, there need be no trouble. And to tell the truth, Mr Maxwell, I was not thinking of Mr Fleming or of Jacob, or of what my father was telling yon, except in its relation to you. It is a pity that you should have been told any of those old grievances."

Elizabeth rose and took the brush from its hook, and swept up the ashes and embers that had fallen upon the hearth. Then she seated herself in her own low chair by the window, and took up her work, but laid it down again, and folded her hands on her lap.

Mr Maxwell smiled. "I see I am not expected to stay much longer. But really, Miss Holt, I don't quite see 'the pity' of it. Why am I not to know all that is going on as well as the rest? Besides, if your father had not told me, some one else would have done so."

"True."

"And I might in such a case have committed myself to the doing or saying of something foolish at a first hearing, as I should have done to-day but that your face made me pause."

"Did it?" said Elizabeth, demurely.

"And if silence is the thing to be desired, I shall be all the more likely to keep silence to others, if you give me the right and true version of troubles past, and of troubles possible in the future, with regard to this matter. Will you take up your work again, and tell me all? Or shall I come another time, Miss Elizabeth?"

But Miss Elizabeth had little to add to the story which her father had told. Jacob was hard, she supposed, just as business men were obliged to be hard sometimes. But then Mr Fleming was not to be regarded just as another man in the same position might be regarded—especially he was not to be so regarded by her brother Jacob. In the sore troubles that had come into the old man's life. Jacob had had a part. What part Elizabeth did not know she did not even know the nature of the trouble, but she knew, though she had only learned it lately, that the very sight of her brother was like wormwood to Mr Fleming; that even Mrs Fleming, friendly and sweet to all the world, was cold and distant to Jacob. And all this seemed to Elizabeth a sufficient reason why he should be more gentle and forbearing with them than with others, that he should be willing to forego his just claims rather than to lay himself open to the charge of wishing or even seeming to be "hard on them."

"For what is a little land, more or less, to Jacob, who has so much? And why should he wish to take even a small part of what old Mr Fleming has worked so hard to improve—has put his life into, as one may say?"

"But does he want to take it? Have you ever spoken to your brother about this?"

"He is supposed to want it for the site of the new buildings to be put up for the manufacturing company—if it ever comes into existence. But he does not want it without a sufficient allowance to the old man for it. Only, I suppose, the debt would cover it all. But I have never spoken about it to Jacob. It is not easy to speak to him about business unless he wishes," said Elizabeth, hesitating. "But Clifton, who is quite inclined to be hard on Jacob, laughs at the idea of his doing unjustly or even severely by Mr Fleming."

"At least he has done nothing yet, it seems."

"No, Clifton says that Mr Fleming's dislike of Jacob has become a sort of mania with him, and that he would not yield to him even if it were for his own advantage—he has brooded over his trouble so long and so sadly, poor old man!"

"That is quite possible," said Mr Maxwell, gravely. "And you think I should not speak to him about his trouble?"

"Not about his trouble with Jacob. Indeed, it is said that he will not speak of it, nor hear of it. It would do no good. And then he likes you so much, Mr Maxwell, and comes to church as he did not always do, and seems to take such pleasure in hearing you. It would be a pity to risk disturbing these pleasant relations between you with so small a chance of any good being done by it. And besides," Elizabeth made a long pause before she added: "besides, if trouble is before us because of this, and if it should come to taking sides, as almost always happens in the vexing questions of Gershom life, it would be far better that you should know nothing about the matter—that at least you should not have seemed to commit yourself to any decided opinion with regard to it. I cannot bear to think that your comfort and usefulness may be endangered through the affairs of those who should be your chief supports. Not that I think this likely to happen," added Elizabeth, colouring with the fear of having spoken too earnestly; "I daresay, after all, I am 'making mountains of mole-hills.'"

Mr Maxwell rose and took his hat.

"Well, to sum up," said he.

"Oh, to sum up! I believe the whole of what I wanted to say was this, that I don't want you to be vexed or troubled about it," said Elizabeth, rising also.

"It is kind in you to say so."

"Yes, kind to ourselves. And I daresay I may have given you a wrong impression about the matter after all, and that it looks more serious to you than it needs do. I had much better have kept silent, as I would have other people do."

"Don't say that, Miss Elizabeth. What should I do without you to set me right, and to keep me right about so many matters? Be anything but silent, my friend."

There was a good deal more said about Mr Fleming's affairs, and about other affairs, though Mr Maxwell stood all the time with his hat in his hand. But enough has been told to give an idea of the way in which these young people talked to each other. Mr Maxwell never went from the house without congratulating himself on the friendship of Miss Holt. How much good she always did him! What a blessing it was for him that there was one person in his congregation to whom he might speak unreservedly, and who had sense and judgment to see and say just what was best for him to do or to refrain from doing.

This was putting it rather strongly. Elizabeth was far from assuming such a position in relation to the minister. But she had sense and judgment, and frankness and simplicity of manner, and no doubt she found it pleasant to be listened to, and deferred to, as Mr Maxwell was in the habit of doing. And she knew she could help him, and that she had helped him, many a time. He was inexperienced, to say nothing more, and she gave him many a hint with regard to some of the doubtful measures and crooked natures in Gershom society, which prevented some stumbles, and guided him safely past some difficult places on his first entrance into it. But she had done more and better than that for him though she herself hardly knew it.

Squire Holt's house was a pleasant house to visit, and during the first homesick and miserable days of his stay in Gershom, when he would gladly have turned his back on his vocation and his duties, the bright and cheerful welcome there that Elizabeth gave him on that first night when Clifton took him home with him, and ever after that night, was like a strengthening cordial to one who needed it surely. Miss Elizabeth was several years younger than he, but she felt a great deal older and wiser in some respects than the student whose experience of life had been so limited and so different, and so it came to pass that, at the very first, she had fallen into the way of advising him, and even of expostulating with him on small occasions, and he had not resented it, but had been grateful for it, and at last rather liked it. He had brightened under her influence, and now the thought of her was associated with all the agreeable and hopeful circumstances of his new life and work.

He said to himself often, and he wrote to his friend Miss Martha Langden, that the friendship of Miss Elizabeth Holt was one of his best helps in the faithful performance of his pastoral duties, and that excellent and venerable lady at once assigned to Mr Maxwell's friend the same place in his regard, and in his parish generally, that she herself had occupied in the regard of several successive pastors, and in her native parish for forty years at least. It never occurred to Miss Langden, and it certainly never occurred to Mr Maxwell, that this friendship could be in any danger of interfering with the wishes and plans of former years. That it might affect in any way his future relations with the pretty and amiable young person whom Miss Langden was educating to be his wife, and the model for all the ministers' wives of the generation, never came into the mind of either. Miss Elizabeth was a true and useful friend, and the satisfaction that this afforded him was not to his consciousness incompatible with a happy and just appreciation of his good fortune in having a claim on the affection of Miss Langden's niece.

Elizabeth did not know at this time of the existence of Miss Langden's niece. If she had known it, it is not at all likely that she would have allowed such knowledge to interfere with the friendly relations into which she had fallen with the minister. She would have liked him none the less had she known of his tacit engagement to that young lady, and would have manifested her friendliness none the less, but rather the more because of it. And, on the whole, it was a pity that she did not know it.



CHAPTER NINE.

MASTER AND PUPILS.

At Ythan Brae the winter opened sadly. The grandfather had an illness which kept both Davie and Katie at home from the school for a while; and what was worse, when he grew better he would fain have kept them at home still. This would have been a serious matter to Davie, and he vexed Katie and his grandmother by suggesting possible and painful consequences all round should his grandfather persist. For the lad had been seized with a great hunger for knowledge. He desired it partly for its own sake, but partly also because he had heard many a time and implicitly believed that "knowledge is power," which is true in a certain sense, but not in the sense or to the extent that it seemed true to Davie. His grandfather was afraid of the boy's eager craving, and of what might come of it, and would far rather have seen him content, as his father had been, to plod through the winter, busy with the occupations which the season brought, than so eager to get away to Mr Burnet and his books. The grandfather had his sorrowful reasons for wishing to keep the lad in the quiet and safe paths which his father had trod. The grandmother knew how it was with him, and Katie and Davie guessed something of what his reasons might be. "And, bairns," said their grandmother, "ye are no to doubt that your grandfather is right, though he doesna see as ye do in this matter. For knowledge is whiles a snare and a curse; and a true heart, and an honest life, and a will to do your duty in the place in which your Maker has putten you are better than a' the uncanny wisdom that men gather from books, whether you believe it or not, Davie, my man. I canna say that I have any special fear for you myself, but one can never ken. And your grandfather, he canna forget; it's no' his nature. There was once one like you, Davie lad, that lost himself through ill-doing folk, and—I canna speak about it—and what must it be to him?"

"But, grannie," said Davie after a little, "it's different. Nobody will follow after me because I am so handsome and clever and kindly. And folk say it needna have been so bad with him, if my grandfather hadna been hard on him."

"Whisht, laddie," said his grandmother, with a gasp. Katie looked at him with beseeching eyes, and Davie hung his head.

"Davie, my laddie, have patience," said his grandmother in a little; "what is a year or two out of a young life like yours compared with giving a sore heart to an old man like your grandfather? He has had sore trouble to thole in his lifetime, some that you can guess, and some that you will never ken, and his heart is just set on Katie and you."

"But, grannie, there's no fear of me. I'll have no time for ill company. I'm no to be an idle gowk like Clifton Holt, to throw away my chances. And here's Katie ay to take care of me and keep me out of mischief."

"My lad, speak no ill of your neighbours. You'll need all the sense you have before you get far through the world. And you'll need grace and wisdom from above, as well, whether your work lie in high places with the great men of the earth, or just sowing and reaping in Ythan Brae. And as for Katie and her care of you, there's many a true word spoken in jest, and you maun be a good laddie, Davie."

It was all settled with fewer words than the grandmother feared would be needed, and a happy winter began to the brother and sister. They were young and strong and hopeful. No serious trouble was pressing on them or theirs. Just to be alive in such circumstances is happiness, only it is a kind of happiness that is seldom realised while the time is going on. When it is looked back upon over years of pain or care, it is seen clearly and valued truely, and sometimes—oh, how bitterly regretted.

They had their troubles. There was the mortgage about which they fancied they were anxious and afraid. They were just enough anxious about it to find in it an endless theme for planning and castle-building—a motive for the wonderful things they were to accomplish in the way of making money for their grandfather, and as a means of triumphing over Jacob Holt, whom they were inclined to regard as the villain of their life-story.

From all the drawbacks common to the old-time schools in this part of Canada, Gershom High-School had, to some extent, suffered. The restraints of limited means, the value of the labour even of children on a new farm, the frequent change of teachers, the endless variety of text-books, the vexing elements of national prejudice and religious differences, had told on its efficiency and success. Yet it had been a power for good in Gershom and in all the country round. From the earliest settlement of the place the leading men had taken pains to encourage and support it. Its teachers had generally been college students from the neighbouring States, who taught one year to get money to carry them through the next, or graduates who were willing to pass a year or two in teaching between their college course and their choice or pursuit of a profession. Among them had come, now and then, a youth of rare gifts, one, not only strong to govern and skilled to teach, but who kindled in the minds of the pupils an eager desire for self-improvement, an enthusiasm of mental activity which outlasted his term of office, and which influenced for good a far greater number than those whom he taught, or with whom he came personally in contact.

Mr Burnet, Davie's teacher, was not one of these. His college days had long been over, before he crossed the sea. He had been unfortunate in many ways, but most of all in this, that he had been brought up to consider wise and right that which became sin and misery to him, because of the strength of his appetite and the weakness of his will. And so woeful days came to him and his, and he was sent over the sea, as so many another has been sent, to be out of sight. But on this side of the sea, too, woeful days awaited him, and after many a to and fro, he was stranded, an utter wreck as it seemed, on the village of Gershom. His wife was dead by this time, and his two forlorn little daughters had been sent home in rags to their mother's sister, and there was no visible reason why the wretched man should not die also, except, as he said to them who tried to help him, that, after all, his soul might have a chance to be saved.

He did not die; he lived a free man, and when the time came for Davie and Katie to go back to die school, he had been its teacher for more than a year. Not so good a teacher in some respects as two or three of the orderly, methodical college lads, who were still remembered with affection in Gershom; but in other respects he surpassed any of them— all of them together. It was said of him that he had forgotten more than all the rest of Gershom ever knew; and that he had a tongue that would wile the very birds from the trees. He was an eloquent man, and he had not only "words," but he had something to say. From the treasures of a highly-cultivated mind he brought, for the instruction of his pupils, and sometimes for the instruction and delight of larger audiences, things new and old. As an orator he was greatly admired, as a man he was much esteemed, as a teacher he was regarded with the respect due to his great powers, and with the tolerance which the defects accompanying them needed.

He had decided defects as a school-master. His government of his school was imperfect; he took it up by fits and starts, having his stern days, when the falling of a pin might be heard in his domain, and days when the boys and girls were mostly left to their own devices; but there were no idle days among them. No teacher who had ever ruled in the High-School could compare with him in the power he had to make the young people care for their books and their school-work, or to present to the clever idle ones among them the most enticing motives to exertion. "He got them on," the fathers and mothers said, and though he made no pretension to being a very good man, and sometimes used sharper words than were pleasant to hear, he loved the truth and hated a lie, and lived an honourable life among them, and all men regarded him with respect, and most men with affection.

So, putting all things together, Davie and Katie and the other young people of Gershom had a fair chance of a happy winter, and so it proved to the brother and sister. There were plenty of amusements going on in the village, but with these they had little to do. Their grandfather fretted if they were not at home in the evening, and it was no self-denial for them to stay away from all gay village doings—at least it was none to Davie. Except the master's lectures, and those debates and spelling-schools in which the reputation and honour of the High-School were concerned, he scorned them all. Katie did not scorn them. She would have enjoyed more of them than fell to her share, but yet was willing to agree with her grandmother that more might not be good for her, and was on the whole content without them.

Very rarely does there come in a lifetime a triumph so unmixed as the boy enjoys who is not only declared first, but shows himself before his whole world to be first in the village school. It does not matter whether he distinguishes himself by the spelling of many-syllabled words, and the repeating of rules and the multiplication table, or by his proficiency in higher branches, which are mysteries to the greater part of the admiring audience. It is all the same a triumph, pure, unmixed, satisfying. At least it possesses all these qualities in a higher degree than any future triumph can possibly possess them.

Such a triumph was Davie's. It was Katie's too in a way, but it was Davie's chiefly on this occasion, because it was his for the first time. But that did not spoil Katie's pleasure at all. Quite the contrary. Davie's triumph was hers, and she almost forgot to answer when her own name was called to receive her merited share of the honours, so full was she of the thought of what her grandfather would say when she should tell him about Davie.

And Katie had a little triumph all her own. It troubled her for a while, and did not come to anything after all, but still it was a triumph, and acknowledged to be such by all Gershom. She was chosen out of all the girls who had been Mr Burnet's pupils during the winter, to teach the village school. The village school stood next to the High-School, and for Katie Fleming, not yet sixteen, to be chosen a teacher, was a feather in her cap indeed. Her grandfather was greatly pleased and so was Miss Elizabeth. Mrs Fleming, coveting for her good and clever Katie advantages which in their circumstances she could only hope to enjoy through her own exertions, would have been willing to spare her from home, and Miss Elizabeth, who had come to love the girl dearly, knew that she could often have her with her, should she be in the village during the summer. But Katie never kept the village school, nor any school. Her grandfather did not like the idea of it, nor did Davie. Miss Betsey Holt set her face against it from the very first, though why she should interest herself especially in the matter did not clearly appear. The chances were that it would be but a poor school that a child like Katie Fleming would keep, clever scholar though she was, Miss Betsey said, which was very possibly quite true. But it was on Katie's own account that she did not approve of the place.

"Not that it would hurt her as it might some girls to 'board round' in the village houses, a week at a time, as she would have to do, and leave her evenings free to spend with the idle young folks of the place. It, maybe, wouldn't spoil that pretty pot of violets to have the street dust blow on them for an hour or two, but you wouldn't care about having them set out to catch it. And Katie Fleming is better at home making butter for her grandmother than she would be anywhere else, and happier too, if she only knew it."

Miss Betsey said this to Miss Elizabeth one day when she called, having some business with the squire, and she said something like it to the grandmother, which helped to a decision that Katie was to stay at home. Katie was a little disappointed for the moment, but she acknowledged that she might have failed with the school, and that she was much needed at home; and Davie's satisfaction at the decision did much to reconcile her to it. And all the rest were satisfied as well as Davie, for Katie's being at home made a great deal of difference in the house.

Even Mrs Fleming, with her hopeful nature and her firm trust in God, had times of great anxiety with regard to Davie. He was so like the son who had gone so early astray, who had darkened all his father's life, and nearly broken his heart, that she could not but anxiously watch his words and his ways, attaching to them sometimes an importance that was neither wise nor reasonable. His grandfather's discipline was strict, not to say severe, and Davie's resistance, or rather his unwilling submission and obedience, for he seldom resisted his grandfather's will, made her afraid. Though she would not have acknowledged it to Davie, she knew that his grandfather was hard on him sometimes, far harder than, for such faults as Davie's, she herself would have been, and she feared that unwilling or resentful obedience might in time change to rebellion, and beyond such a possibility as that the anxious grandmother did not dare to look.

But it was only once in a great while that she suffered herself to contemplate the possibility of "anything happening" to Davie. The sore troubles she had passed through had shaken her somewhat, and she was growing old, but her bright and sunny nature generally asserted itself, in spite of the weakness which troubles and old age bring. So when she had occasion to speak to the old man about Davie, trying to make him more hopeful concerning him, and more patient with his faults, she could do so with a faith in the boy's future which could not fail sometimes to inspire him with the same hopefulness.

And indeed Davie was not more wilful and wayward than is often the case with lads of his age, nor was he idle, or inclined to do less than his just share of what was to be done. On the contrary, he had great good sense and perseverance in carrying out any plans of work which suited his ideas of how work ought to be done. But unfortunately his plans were not always exactly those of his grandfather. Of course he did not hesitate to acknowledge his grandfather's right to do as he pleased in his own place, when his grandmother put it to him in that way, and he was quite as ready to acknowledge that his wisdom as to matters in general, and as to farm-work in particular, was "not to be mentioned in the same day" with that of his grandfather. But when the work was to be done, he did not yield readily to suggestions, or even to commands, and had a way of coming back to the disputed point, and even of carrying it, to a certain extent, which looked to his grandfather like sheer perversity.

And even when Davie's plans proved themselves to have been worthy of consideration, because of the success that attended them now and then, even success seemed a small matter to the stern old man, because of the disobedience to his commands, or the ignoring of his known wishes which the success implied.

So dear, bright, patient grannie had "her own adoes" between these two whom she loved so well, and her best hope and comfort in all matters which concerned them was Katie.

For Katie's first thought always was, her grandfather. That he should have nothing to vex him, that his days should be brightened and his cares lightened, seemed to Katie the chief thing there was to think about. She had learned this from her grandmother, whose first thought he had been for many a year and day, and Katie's many pretty ways of "doing good to grandfather" did quite as much good to grannie.

As to Davie's "fancies," as she called his many plans and projects, she had great interest in some of them, and gave him good help in carrying them out, but she had no sympathy or patience with any sign of willfulness, or carelessness where their grandfather was concerned. But she loved her brother dearly, and helped him through some difficulties with others besides her grandfather, and Davie, having confidence in her affections, submitted to her guidance, and was more influenced by her opinions and wishes than he knew. And though she scolded him heartily sometimes, and set her face against any disobedience or seeming disrespect to their grandfather, she gave him good help often, and so eagerly entered into all his plans, when she saw her way clearly to the end of them, that he heeded her all the more readily when she differed from him and refused her help.

So Mrs Fleming's dependence on Katie was not misplaced, and she wondered at herself, when she had time to think about it, that she should ever have supposed it possible that she could be spared from home.

"But, oh, my dear!" said she one day to Katie's mother, "it's a woeful thing to set up idols, and you must put me in mind, as I must put you, that we're both in danger here. For who among them all is like our Katie? Not but that she has her faults," added she, coming back to the business of the moment, as she watched Katie letting her full pail run over, while she enticed the kitten into a race after its tail: "Katie, my woman, you should leave the like of that to wee Nannie; I think you'll need all your time till supper-time.—But faults, did I say? It is scarcely a fault to be lighthearted, and easily pleased. But oh, Anne, my dear, we have need to take care."



CHAPTER TEN.

KATIE'S FRIENDSHIPS.

The life which healthy, good-tempered, unsophisticated children may live on a farm has in it more of the elements of true enjoyment than can be found in almost any other kind of life. If poverty or the necessity of constant work press too severely upon them, of course the enjoyment is interfered with, but not even poverty or hard work can spoil it altogether. There are always the sunshine and the sweet air; there are the freshness and the beauty of the early morning, which not one in ten of the dwellers in town know anything of by experience; the dawn, the sunrise, the glitter of dewdrops, the numberless sweet sounds and scents that belong to no other time. Young people with open eyes and quick sympathies find countless sources of interest and enjoyment in the beautiful growing things of the woods and fields, and in the ceaseless changes going on among them. Almost unconsciously they gain through all these a wisdom which is better than book lore, a discipline of heart and mind and temper which tends to soften and elevate the whole nature, leaving them less open to the temptations incident to youth and evil companionships.

They were very happy together, these two fast and true friends, as they never might have become had they had at this time more frequent intercourse with other young people; and true friendship between brother and sister is the perfect ideal of friendship. It does not always exist even between brothers and sisters who love each other dearly. It is something more than the natural affection which strengthens (as children grow older) into brotherly and sisterly love. It implies something that is not always found where the ties of blood and kindred are most warmly cherished, not a blindness to each other's faults or defects of character, but a full and loving appreciation of all admirable qualities both of mind and heart, a harmony of feeling, sentiments, and tastes which does not exist between brothers and sisters generally.

Day by day Mrs Fleming grew more and more at ease about Davie, seeing the love between the brother and sister.

"A year or two and the laddie's restless time will be over, and all that makes us anxious about him now, his plans and fancies, his craze for books, and his longing to put his hand to the guiding of his ain life will be modified by the knowledge that comes with experience. But, eh me! What is the use of speaking o' experience? If only the good Father above would take him in hand! And who shall say that He is not doing it even now, and making our bonny Katie the instrument of His will for her brother's good? And, Dawvid, we mustna be hard on the laddie, but just let him have his fancies about things, and let him carry them out when they are harmless, and when they dinna cost ower muckle money," added grannie, with prudent afterthought, for some of Davie's fancies would have cost money if he had been allowed "to go the full length of his tether."

"And after all is said, there is sense in his fancies. It would be a grand thing to have a hundredweight or two of honey, as he says we might, and never kill the bees. Think of that now! And nothing spent on them, but all the blossom on the trees, and all the flowers of the field theirs for the taking. And as for the new milk-house, with ice in it, and running water, it would be a grand thing. And, as Katie says, it's almost as easy to take care of the milk of ten cows as six, and there is pasture enough. As to the churning, if it could be done by the running water, wouldna that be a fine help? And we must just have patience with him, as the Lord has had with us this many a year and day."

Mrs Fleming got no answer to all this. She did not expect one. This was the way she took to familiarise the grandfather's mind with plans that might come to something. The old man's habitual caution was changing with the passing years into timidity and dread of change; and his long dwelling on his state of indebtedness, and the subjection to his "enemy" that it implied, made him afraid of anything that would render it necessary to dispense the smallest sum for any other purpose than the payment of this debt. His son James had let his money go from him with a free hand, and though he might have got it back again had he lived, his father could not but remember that it was through his plans, through his desire to improve the fortunes of his family, which had carried him beyond his means, that this debt, or a part of it, had been left upon them.

As for Davie, what could a lad like him know about such things? Fancies that would lead to nothing but waste and want! And yet his wife's words told upon him as all her words did sooner or later.

"Would you like it then, Katie, my woman?" said he, as one night, when all the work was over, he came on Katie sitting with Nannie and Sandy on the bank of the burn. Davie was on the other side pacing up and down, measuring out, as they had done together many times before, the site of the new milk-house. Many thoughts and words had Davie expended upon it, and so had Katie for that matter. So she rose and walked with her grandfather along the burnside, out of Davie's hearing, and then she answered brightly:

"Ay, that I would, grandfather; not just now, ye ken, but after a while, when it can be done without going into debt. It would be grand. And I could sell twice as much butter as we make now, if we had it. I like butter-making." And so on, touching on more of Davie's fancies than her grandfather had heard of yet, till they came back to the lad, still intent on his measurements, with his eyes fixed on a paper on which he was industriously figuring.

"The foundation must be of stone, Katie, because of the swelling of the burn in spring and fall, but the stones are at hand, and cost no money. And we might gather them on rainy days, grandfather, not to take time from other work; I can make the frame myself, but the foundation must be of stone."

Katie stood still, surprised and a little frightened. She was not sure how all this might be taken, for though they had made much enjoyment for themselves out of the new dairy that was to be, and had spoken to "grannie" and their mother about it, this was the first direct intimation they had given to their grandfather. He smiled grimly, however; indeed he laughed, which did not often happen with him.

"A foundation! and stone, too! I didna think you needed foundations to your fancies, Davie, lad."

"Well, maybe no' just as long as they are fancies, grandfather," said Davie, looking outwardly a little sheepish, but with inward triumph, as Katie knew quite well. For to get his grandfather to listen to him was a great step. "And now, Katie, I'll just ask grandfather which is right, you or me. Come over here, grandfather, and tell us which you think the best place for it. Katie thinks this is ower far from the house, but I think not."

The grandfather actually crossed the burn, and went with him, Katie following with a smiling face and joyful heart. They did not decide much that night, but ever after the new milk-house was considered a settled thing, and much good they got out of it before either stone or stick was laid down beside the burn. For Davie got on better with his grandfather after that, and fifteen-year lad as he was, did a grown man's work from day to day, growing thin upon it for a while, but growing tall also, and losing his pretty boyish looks, of which Katie and his mother had been so proud.

So the summer work was done, and the summer pleasure, which was greater than they knew, as the pleasure which comes with busy uneventful days generally is. But it was a happy summer, and must have been so even if the drawbacks had been more numerous and harder to bear.

Katie had one pleasure which her brother could not share, but which pleased her grandmother well: this was the friendship of Miss Elizabeth. Ever since the night of her first visit with her brother and the minister, Elizabeth had taken pains to renew her intimacy with Mrs Fleming and Katie, to their mutual satisfaction. On stormy nights during the winter, Elizabeth had sometimes sent for Katie to the school, that she might be saved the long cold walk home, and Katie liked to go. During the summer she could not be spared often, but she went now and then, and their friendship grew apace.

On Katie's part it was more than friendship. It was like "falling in love." She did not say much about it, it was not her way. But she thought of her friend's words and ways, and opinions, and seeing her superiority to people in general, Miss Elizabeth became to her the ideal of all womanly sweetness and excellence. Miss Elizabeth could not but be touched and charmed by the affection which was thus rather betrayed than expressed, and though she was sometimes amused by her devotion, it greatly pleased her as well.

"Yours must be such a happy life, Miss Elizabeth," said Katie one night when she was visiting her friend, and they were sitting together after Mrs Holt had gone to bed.

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. "Tell me what my life is like?"

There was a pause, during which Katie considered.

"You have a quiet life, and you are a comfort to your father, and everybody loves you."

"I am afraid there are some people who do not love me much. As to my father, yes. I shall never be quite a useless person while he needs me. But as to my life being a happy life—"

"You have leisure," said Katie after a little, "and you take pleasure in so many things—things going on far away, and that happened long ago. And you care for books, and you understand people. And you believe in great principles of action, and you are not afraid. I cannot say just what I mean."

"But, Katie, all that is as true of you as it is of me, except perhaps the leisure."

"I am only a child almost," said Katie, with a little rising colour. "But when I am a woman I should like my life to be just like yours."

There was silence for a minute or two, then Katie went on:

"I once heard Mr Burnet tell my grandfather that you did more by the real interest you take in everything that is good and right, and by your bright, unselfish ways, to keep up a healthy, happy state of things among the young people of the place, than even the minister's preaching. That was in old Mr Hollister's time, however," added the truth-loving Katie reflectively.

Miss Elizabeth smiled. "Mr Burnet is partial in his judgment."

"But you are happy, Miss Elizabeth," said Katie wistfully.

"Am I? I ought to be, I suppose; yes, I think so. I am content, and that is better than happiness, they say."

This was something that required consideration.

"'Godliness with contentment is great gain;' that is what Paul said. Perhaps he thought it better than happiness too."

"And Solomon says, 'A contented mind is a continual feast,'" said Miss Elizabeth, smiling at her face of grave consideration.

"I wonder what is the difference?" said Katie. "Folk are contented without knowing it, I suppose. I have been contented all my life, and if I had my wish about some things I would be happy."

"What things?"

"If we had no debt," said Katie, decidedly. "And if we had a little more money, so that we would not need to consider about things so much, and so that Davie could go to school all the year, and perhaps to the college, and the rest too, Nannie and Sandy and all. And we should have the dairy built over the burn, with a store of ice in it, and marble shelves, like one grandmother saw at Braemar. Well, not marble perhaps. That might be foolish, but we should have everything to make the work light, and there would be time for other things. My grandfather should plant trees, and graft them and prime them and work away at his leisure, not troubling himself as to how it was all to come out at the end of the year. And my mother should have a low carriage, just like yours, Miss Elizabeth, and old Kelso should have nothing to do but draw it for her pleasure. And grannie—oh, grannie should wear a soft grey gown every day of the year, and neck-kerchiefs of the finest lawn, as she used to do—and such sheets and table-cloths as she should have, and she should never need to wet her fingers—only I am not sure that she would be any happier for that," said Katie, pulling herself up suddenly.

"And what would you have for yourself?" said Miss Elizabeth, wishing to hear more.

"I should have leisure," said Katie decidedly, as though she had thought it over and made up her mind. "I should have time for fine sewing, and to learn things—not just making lessons of them, and hurrying over them as they do at the school. I should have time to think about them, and I should have books and music, and a room like yours. Oh, dear me! What is the use of thinking about it," said Katie, with a sigh.

"And after all, contentment with things as they are, would answer every purpose," said Miss Elizabeth.

"Yes, but there are some things with which it is impossible to be contented—without wishing to change them, I mean—debt, and sickness, and having too much to do. And there are some things in people's lives that cannot be changed."

"And with such things we must just try and content ourselves," said Elizabeth.

"Yes. And contentment depends more on ourselves, and less on other folk, than happiness does. And so we are safer with just contentment," said Katie, and in a little she added, "Submission to God's will, that would be contentment."

"That would be happiness," said Elizabeth, and there was nothing more said for a long time.

They were sitting in Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room, a perfect room to Katie Fleming's mind, and the only light came from the red embers of the wood-fire, now falling low. Miss Elizabeth was leaning back among the cushions of her father's great arm-chair, and Katie sat on a low chair opposite, with a book on her lap. Miss Elizabeth was "seeing things in the fire," Katie knew, by the look on her face, wondering what she saw. She looked "like a picture," sitting there in her pretty dress, with her cheek upon her hand. What a soft white hand it was, with its one bright ring sparkling in the firelight! Katie looked at it, and then at her own. Hers was not very large, but it was red and roughened, bearing traces of her daily work. She held it up and looked at it in the firelight, not at all knowing why she did it, but with the strangest feeling of discomfort. It was not the difference of the hands that troubled her. Somehow she seemed to be looking, not at the two hands, but at the two lives, hers and Miss Elizabeth's.

For Miss Elizabeth's was a pleasant life, though she had looked grave when she said so. She had so many things to enjoy—her music, her reading, her flowers, with only pleasant household duties, and above all she had leisure. Katie thought of her as she had seen her often, sitting in the church, or in the garden among her flowers, or under the trees in the village street, looking so fair and sweet, so different from any one else, so very different from Katie herself, and a momentary overpowering discontent seized her—discontent with herself, her home, her manner of life, with the constant daily work which seemed to come to nothing but just a bare living. It was the same thing over and over again, housework and dairy-work, and waking and sleeping, with nothing to show for it all at the year's end. What was the good of it all?

Katie let her book fall on the floor as she put her hands together with a sudden impatient movement, and the sound startled her out of her vexing thoughts.

"What would grannie say, I wonder, if she knew?" muttered she, as she stooped to pick up the book. She felt her face grow hot, and then she laughed at her foolishness, and looked up to meet Miss Elizabeth's eye.

"What is it, Katie? What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about—grannie," said Katie in confusion.

"Well, what about her?"

"Oh! I don't know. I cannot tell you. Only I shall never be so good a woman as grannie, I'm afraid."

"But then you have a long time before you. I don't think you need to be discouraged yet," said Miss Elizabeth, laughing.

But Katie was very much ashamed of herself, and did not forgive herself till she had talked the matter over, first with her grandmother, and then with Davie. Davie only laughed at her with a little good-natured contempt. He did not share his sister's enthusiasm about Miss Elizabeth, and did not quite approve of the great friendship between them. But as to making a sin of a moment's envy of her friend, and a moment's discontent with her own life—Davie laughed at the idea.

But her grandmother did not laugh.

"My dear lassie, it is the way with us all. We are ready to turn our best helps into snares to catch our feet. Miss Elizabeth's kindness may do you much good in many ways, but if it should make you envious, and should fill you with discontent, that would be sad indeed. And I doubt you'll need to watch yourself, and maybe punish yourself, by hiding away from her for a while."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

GERSHOM MANUFACTURING COMPANY.

The possibility and desirableness of advancing the interests of the town of Gershom by the still further "utilising" of the waters of the Beaver River for manufacturing purposes, had long been a matter earnestly discussed among the people. At various towns within the last five years measures had been proposed, tending toward the accomplishment of this object, but hitherto it had been with little result.

As a rule, the various industries which now gave prosperity and importance to the place had grown out of small beginnings. On the spot where now stood Cartwright's Carriage Factory, well known through all the countryside, old Joshua Cartwright had faithfully and laboriously spent his days in making tubs and stools, sugar-troughs, and axe-helves for the early settlers. The shed where, in those days, Simon Horton had shod their horses and oxen, had grown in the course of years into the Gershom axe-factory, which bade fair to make a rich man of his daughter's son.

But the slow and sure process which had served their fathers in their advances toward wealth were not likely to content the men of Gershom now, and there had been much talk among them about the forming of a company to be called "The Gershom Manufacturing Company," the object of which was to be the establishment of new industries in the town.

Meetings were held, and speeches were made. The "enterprise and public spirit of certain of our fellow-townsmen" were highly lauded, and a wonderful future of prosperity for the town of Gershom and the surrounding country was foretold as the result of the step about to be taken. The Beaver River was made the subject of long and laudatory discussion. Its motive power was calculated and valued, and the long running to waste of its waters deplored. A committee was appointed for the arranging of preliminaries, and that was as far as the matter progressed at that time.

Other attempts were made later in the same direction. Some of them passed beyond preliminary arrangements, and more than once the more sanguine among the promoters of these schemes made sure of a successful issue, but all had failed when the practical part of the business had been touched.

The cause of this did not always clearly appear. Once at least it was attributed by some of the disappointed towns-people to the obstinacy and avarice of Jacob Holt. The old woollen-mill built by Gershom Holt in the early days of the settlement had served a good purpose in the country for a good many years. But it was time now, it was thought, for the work to be carried on in Gershom on a larger scale. The old building itself was of little value, and the old-fashioned machinery it contained was of less, but the site was considered to be the best in Gershom for a manufactory of the kind. Jacob Holt professed to be quite ready to dispose of it to the company on reasonable terms; but when it came to the point, no agreement could be made as to what were reasonable terms, and so the old mill plodded on in the old way for a while, and within a year a new mill was built in the neighbouring township of Fosbrooke. There was much indignation expressed with regard to this matter in Gershom, but Jacob troubled himself little about it. The old mill had gone the way of most old mills since then; it had caught fire one wintry night and burned to the ground, and the Gershom paper-mill had been built on the site.