Squire Holt was in "the chair," but the duty of introducing the speakers was performed by Mr Maxwell, for the squire was feeble, and not equal to all that devolved upon him. Indeed, he dropped asleep, poor old gentleman, while the statistics were being given, and lost the point of the stories and got very tired, as Elizabeth could see. But Mr Maxwell did his part well, and just as Betsey settled herself to hear, he introduced Mr Langden, a friend of the cause from the States.

Mr Langden gave them some statistics also, and expressed himself delighted with the gathering, and the evidence of interest in the good cause. He was delighted, too, with their little town and the water-power, and with their country generally, which was a finer country than he had imagined it to be, and not so far behind his own section. He said a great many agreeable things, and though it did not, in the opinion of the critical part of the audience, amount to much as a temperance address, it was such a speech as it was pleasant to hear.

Then Mr Burnet came forward and charmed the audience with his grand flowing periods. But though his words were splendid, they were few; for Mr Burnet did not care to waste his words on a weary and hungry people. And then came the speech of the day.

Just as Mr Maxwell was considering whether he should give the people a ten minutes' address, as was of course expected, or dismiss them at once to the tables, toward which some of them were already directing their steps, Clifton Holt came on to the stand and whispered a few words to him, and then came forward, asking leave, not to make a speech, but to introduce a new speaker. He did make a speech, however, short, but telling, and was cheered heartily; but the cheering rose to its loudest and longest when Mark Varney came forward on the stand.

Was it Mark Varney? It was a very different man from the down-looking, heartless poor fellow who had disappeared from Gershom two years ago. Erect and broad and brown he stood, with a look of strength and firmness on his face, though his lips trembled, that no one remembered to have seen there since his early youth, before his foe had mastered him.

In the silence that fell after the first shout of welcome, the people pressed forward, eager to see and hear. A movement toward the point of interest took place through all the field. Those who had grown tired of listening, and those who had not cared to listen, drew near, and several of those on the platform pressed forward the better to see and hear.

Mr Maxwell did not; he drew back rather, after a glance toward the spot where Miss Holt and Miss Langden were sitting, and, resting his elbow on the back of Squire Holt's chair, leaned his head on his hand. Miss Langden did not see the glance, for she was listening to Clifton, who had returned and was saying something to her. But Elizabeth saw that there was a strange look, grave and glad, on his face, and that he was very pale.

Gradually the rustle and movements which had given Mark time to quiet the trembling of his lips came to an end, and then he and all the throng were startled by a sudden cry—loud and strong, though it was but one man's voice:

"Mark Varney, before all!"

It might have terribly spoiled the effect, but it did not. It gave poor Mark, who was no orator, and who, with his heart full, did not find the right words ready, a beginning.

"Yes, Tim Cuzner, it is Mark Varney, who hasn't been seen in these parts for two years, nor for a good while before that, in his right mind—and you are the very man I want to talk to, Tim, you and a few others. I've got something to tell you. A few others? Yes, I've got something to say to every man in this Grove. I am not going in for a temperance lecture, though it wouldn't be the first time. I was a living temperance lecture in the streets of Gershom for a long while, as Squire Holt and Jacob and all the folks here know.

"But I want to say a word to every young man here because there isn't a young man in this Grove, I don't care who he is, whose feelings as to liquor I don't know all about. I know, and I remember this minute, just how it feels never to have tasted a drop. I remember how the first temptation to drink came to me, and I know how it feels after the first glass, and the second, and the third. I know just how strong and scornful a young man feels when folks begin to warn him, and how impossible it looks to him that danger should be near. I know every step of the dark way that leads down to the gates of death—to the very gates—for I have been there.

"I don't know just how far down that road any of you young men may have got by this time, but I know that some of you are on it somewhere. I know where you used to be, Tim Cuzner, and you haven't been standing still since then. No. Come now, don't get mad and go away. If my life would help you to set your feet on solid ground in any other road, you should have it and welcome. But it wouldn't; no, nor ten such lives.

"But I'll tell you what will help you, and what every young man here who feels the curse of strong drink needs as much as you do, and what we all need to keep us safe from the temptations that are everywhere. There is only one thing in the earth beneath or the heaven above that will touch the spot, and that's the grace of God!

"That doesn't seem much, does it? The grace of God! You've heard old Mr Hollister tell about it time and again, and you've heard Mr Maxwell, and the folks in conference meeting talk of it, and it has got to seem to you just like a word, a name, and that's all. But I tell you, Tim and boys, it is a power. I know it, for it has dealt with me and broken me to pieces, and made me over new."

Mark was no orator, though he had the clear, firm, penetrating voice of one; but his words, because of the surprise of his presence, and the change which had been wrought in him, and because of his earnestness and simplicity, had on his audience all the effect of the loftiest eloquence. He had a great deal more to tell them of the darkness and misery and sin through which he was passing, when the minister found him and laid hands on him, and followed him day in and day out, and never got tired of him, nor discouraged about him, but laboured with him, and encouraged him, and gave him the hope that though he could not save himself, God could save him.

He tried to say a word about the night which they two passed together beside his wife's coffin, but he broke down there, and went on to tell how he went away to give himself a chance, because it had seemed to him then, that if he should stay among his old companions and the daily temptations of his life nothing could save him.

He did not tell his mother, and he did not write to her, because at first he never knew what day his enemy might overcome him, and then she would have had to put away hope and take up her old burden again.

But he had fallen into good hands over yonder in the States, and he had much to tell of the kindness shown him there, and the Lord had stood by him and helped him, as He would help all who came to Him in their need.

The people who heard all this were moved by it in a wonderful way. It was like a miracle, they said to one another, that Mark Varney's lips should be opened to speak as he was speaking. It was like life from the dead to see him standing there, they said, as indeed it was.

"And you must excuse me for saying so much about myself, because that is just what I came here to do. I was coming home soon, at any rate; but when I saw in a newspaper a notice of this gathering in Finlay's Grove, I thought it would be as good a time as any to come and show which side I am on now. And if I can, I mean to get back my farm again. And if I can't, why, I shall have to get another, and if God will let me help Him to save two or three such as I was when our minister found me, I'll be content with my work. I can't talk. I don't suppose I shall ever speak from a platform again as long as I live, but I mean to help some poor souls I know of up out of the pit.

"And I tell you, I'm glad to get home. I have only just seen mother a minute and my little Mary. And I haven't seen Squire Holt yet to speak to, nor the minister."

Then he turned his back on his audience, and a good many people thought that was a lame ending to a good speech, but all did not think so. At least it was good to see the old squire holding his hand, and to hear him telling him that he had got to his right place at last. And it was good to see how he and Mr Maxwell were shaking hands, and all the rest of the people on the stand crowding round to have their turn. Indeed, it seemed to be a general business, for Mr Burnet was shaking hands with Mr Maxwell, and so was the old squire, and John McNider clambered up on the stand on purpose to do the same thing, and so did several other people.

By and by the minister came forward, and they all thought he was going to make a speech. But he did not. He told them tea was ready, and that all the elderly people were to go to the tables first, and that the young people were to serve them. But nobody seemed in a hurry to move, and then Squire Holt came forward, and instead of making a speech, he asked them to sing the Doxology.

And didn't they sing it? Mark Varney, who had led the choir once on a time—and a good many in the crowd vowed that he should lead it again— began in his wonderful, clear tenor, and then the sound rose up like a mighty wind, till all the hills echoed again. And then they all went to tea.

Elizabeth meant that her father should go home at this time, but when Mr Maxwell brought him down to her, he declined to acknowledge himself tired, and went to the table with the rest, and Elizabeth took her place to serve. Miss Langden had a seat at the "speakers' table," and was well served, as was right. Clifton had the grace to deny himself the pleasure of sitting down beside her, as there were more than guests enough for all the seats, but he devoted himself to her service, as every lady said, and enjoyed it as well as he would have enjoyed his tea.

Davie was on the "tea and coffee committee," and his business at this time was to be one of several to carry great pitchers of one or other of those beverages from mighty cauldrons, where they were being made in a corner of the field, to a point where cups could be conveniently filled and distributed at the tables.

But from the midst of the pleasant confusion that reigned supreme in this department, Davie suddenly disappeared, leaving the zealous, but less expert Ben to take his place.

"He's got something else to do, I expect, Aunt Betsey, and you'll have to get along with me somehow, for I saw him tearing down toward the river like sixty, and there would be no catching him even if I was going to try."

"There was nothing the matter, was there, Ben?" asked Katie; but so little did she think it possible, that she did not even wait for the answer which Ben was very ready to give.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

POOR DAVIE.

It was not that Davie thought anything serious was the matter that, as Ben said, "he went tearing" down the hill toward the river, but that he feared there might be before all was done, unless there was some way of preventing it.

"Where are them boys?" he heard one mother say to another, as he passed with his empty pitcher in his hand, and the answer was—

"They've gone down to the river, I expect. But I don't suppose there's any danger—not to Gershom boys, who swim there every summer day of their lives."

But there were many boys and girls also on the grounds who did not belong to Gershom, and to some of them a river big enough for a boat to sail on, would have a charm which must certainly draw them to its banks, and it would have been a good plan to appoint a committee to see to such, Davie thought.

"I'll just have a look down there," he said to himself, and as soon as he was over the fence and out of sight, he ran rapidly toward the river. There were all sorts of children there, some of whom had wandered down to the mill-pond. There were two boats on the river, but there were grown people as well as children in them, and there were grown people walking on the bank who might justly be considered responsible for the safety of those who could not take care of themselves, and Davie was about to turn up the hill again, when a little fellow hailed him.

"I say, Davie, what do you suppose Dannie Green and Frankie Holt and two more boys are doing? They have taken your raft and are going to have a sail on the Black Pool—so they said."

"They could never do it," said Davie, with a sudden fear rising.

There was no turning up the hill after that. He ran across the two fields to the point where the raft had been left. It was gone sure enough, and he hastened on, stumbling over the stones and timber which Jacob Holt had last winter accumulated on the Varney place. Then he went through the strip of woods, and round the rocky point beyond, thinking all the time that such little fellows never could have pushed the raft so far up the stream, and that it was foolish for him to run.

But he was not a minute too soon. He could never tell afterward, whether he saw the raft, or heard the frightened cry first, but he knew that a boy had overbalanced and fallen into the water while trying to reach bottom with his pole in the deeper waters of the pool; and the next moment he had thrown off boots and coat, and was striking out toward the spot where he had disappeared. The boy would rise in a minute, he thought, and he could get hold of him.

But he did not rise for what seemed to Davie a very long time, and might never rise of himself. There was not a particle of risk, Davie knew, in diving to search for him, and if there had been, he would hardly have considered it in the excitement of the moment. It would have been the last of little Frank Holt if he had considered it long. The little fellow had fallen head foremost, and possibly had struck his head on one of the roots or sticks that had accumulated in the bottom of the pool, for when Davie brought him to the surface, he seemed quite insensible, and he struck out for the Ythan side of the pool. He did what he could for the boy, letting the water flow from his mouth and ears, and rubbing him rapidly for a time.

He caught sight of the other lads as they reached the opposite shore with the raft, and saw them running at full speed in the direction of the Grove. But he felt that he must not wait for the help they would be sure to send, and gently lifting the boy in his arms, he went with him with all speed through the wood and up the hill to the house.

A single sentence told the story, and in a minute little Frank was in a warm bath and then in a warm bed. He soon showed such signs of life as encouraged them to hope that there was not much the matter with him; and then Davie thought of the consternation which the other lads would cause when they carried the tale to the Grove.

"I doubt you'll need to go as quick as you can, Davie. Think of the poor father and mother if they should hear."

"Ay, lad, make what haste you can," said his grandfather, and neither of them were the less urgent that the child was the son of their "enemy."

So Davie went down the field again in his wet clothes, but that mattered the less as he had the river to swim, the raft being on the other side. He put on his dry coat over his wet garments, and no one seemed to notice as he entered the Grove. No rumour of the accident had as yet spread through the crowd, and Davie spoke only to Miss Elizabeth, as he met her on the way home with her father. Happily the father and mother knew nothing of the matter, till by and by the boy, wrapped in one of Mrs Fleming's best blankets, was carried and set with his bundle of wet clothes in the hall. It was his uncle Clifton who took him home, and all that he could tell about the matter was that he had fallen into the Black Pool, and somebody had taken him out.

Dan Green kept his own counsel, running straight home and putting himself to bed. After his first sleep, however, he woke in such a fright that he could keep the tale no longer, but told it to his mother with many sobs and tears. His mother soothed and comforted him, believing that he had been startled out of a troubled dream. But the next day the story was told in Gershom at least a thousand times; and when Davie went into the post-office for his grandfather's weekly paper, he heard, with mingled amazement and disgust, extravagant praises of his courage in saving the boy's life.

"Courage? Nonsense! Risk? Stuff!" He never bathed in Black Pool that he did not dive in at one side and come out at the other. Why, his little brother could do that. There was no more danger for them than for a musk-rat, and Davie hurried away to escape more words about it, and to avoid meeting Mr Maxwell and his friends, who were coming down the street. In his haste he nearly stumbled over Jacob Holt, who held him fast, and that was worse than all the rest. For Jacob could not utter a word, but choked and mumbled and shook his hand a great many times, and when David fairly got away, he vowed that he should not be seen at the post-office again for a while, and he was not, but it was for a better reason than he gave to himself then.

For Davie went about all next day with a heavy weight upon him, and a dull aching at his bones, as new as it was painful. He refused his dinner, and grew sick at the sight of his supper; and tossed, and turned, and muttered all night upon his bed, longing for the day. But the slow-coming light made him wish for the darkness again, for it dazzled his heavy eyes, and put strange shapes on the most familiar objects, and set them all in motion in the oddest way. A queer sort of light it seemed to be, for though he closed his eyes he did not shut it out, and the changes on things and the odd movements seemed to be going on still within the lids.

So in a little he rose and dressed, and roused his brothers to bring the cows into the yard, meaning to help as usual with the milking. But the milking was done and the breakfast over, and worship, and no one had seen Davie. He was lying tossing and muttering on the hay in the big barn, and there at last, in the course of his morning's work, his grandfather found him. He turned a dull, dazed look upon him as he raised himself up, but he did not speak.

"Are you no' well, Davie? Why did you no' come to your breakfast?"

"I'm coming," said Davie, but he did not move.

His grandfather touched his burning hand and his heart sank.

"Come awa' to your grandmother."

"Yes, we'll go to grannie," said Davie.

Blinded by the sunlight, he staggered on, and his grandfather put his arm about him. Mrs Fleming met them at the door as they drew near.

"What can ail the laddie?" asked his grandfather, with terror in his eyes.

They made him sit down, and Katie brought some cold water. He drank some and put some on his head, and declared himself better.

"It is some trash that he has eaten at that weary picnic," said grannie.

"No, grannie, I hadna a chance to eat."

"And you have eaten little since. Well, never mind. You'll go to your bed, and I'll get your mother to make you some of her herb tea."

"And I'll be better the morn, grannie," said Davie, with an uncertain smile.

He drank his mother's bitter infusion, and tossed and turned and moaned and muttered, all day and all night, and for many days and nights, till weeks had passed away, and a time of sore trial it was to them all.

He was never very ill, they said. He was never many hours together that he did not know those who were about his bed, and young Dr Wainwright, who came every day to see him, never allowed that he was in great danger. But as day after day went on, and he was no better, their hearts grew sick with hope deferred. Grannie alone never gave way to fear. She grew weak and weary, and could only sit beside him, little able to help him; but he never opened his eyes but her cheerful smile greeted him, and her cheerful words encouraged him. His mother waited on him for a while, but she was not strong, and had no spring of hope within her. Katie worked all day and watched all night, and scorned the idea of weariness, but the Ythan water that trickled around her milk-pans in the dairy, carried daily some tears of hers down to the Black Pool.

"It is grandfather I'm thinking about," said she one day when she burst out crying in Miss Betsey's sight. "I am afraid I shall never be able to keep from thinking that God has been hard on grandfather, if anything should happen to Davie."

"But God is not hard on your grandfather and there is nothing going to happen to Davie," said Betsey, too honest to reprove the girl for the expression of thoughts which she had not been able to keep out of her own mind. It was the plunge into the Black Pool and the going about afterward in his wet clothes that had brought on this illness, and that it should be God's will that David Fleming's grandson, his hope and stay, should lose his health, perhaps his life, in saving the son of Jacob Holt, looked to Miss Betsey a terrible mystery. She did not say that God was hard on him, as poor Katie was afraid of doing; but when, now and then, there came a half hour when it seemed doubtful whether Davie would get through, the thought that God would not afflict His servant to the uttermost helped her to still hope for the lad. As far as words and deeds went, she showed herself always hopeful for him, and did more than even the doctor himself in helping him to pull through.

In country places like Gershom, where professional nurses were not often to be found, when severe sickness comes into a family necessitating constant attention by night as well as by day, the neighbours, far and near, might be relied upon for help, as far as it could be given by persons coming and going for a night or a day. The Flemings had had severe sickness among them more than once, but they had never called on their neighbours for help, and they could not bring themselves to do so now, even for night-watching. That she should trust Davie to any of the kind young fellows who night after night offered, their services, was to grannie impossible. She did not doubt their good-will, but she doubted their wisdom and their power to keep awake after their long day's work. "And it is no' our way," said Mrs Fleming, and that ended the discussions, as it had ended them on former occasions.

"But they never can get through it alone this time," said Miss Betsey, "and I don't know but it is my duty to see about it, as much as anybody."

It was just in the hot days in the beginning of August when Betsey was wont to give up butter-making and set to the making of cheese, the very worst time of the year for her to get away from home. But she saw no help for it.

"You must do the best you can, mother, you and Cynthy, and Ben will give what help you need with the lifting. If I should never make another cheese as long as I live, I can't let Mrs Fleming wear herself out, and maybe lose her boy after all."

So Miss Betsey went over one morning "to inquire," she said, and some trifling help being needed for a minute, she took off her bonnet, and "concluded to stay a spell," and that night Ben brought her bag over which she had packed in the morning, and she stayed as long as she was needed, to the help and comfort of them all.

As for the grandfather, it went hard with him these days. He was outwardly silent and grave as usual, giving no voice to the anxiety that devoured him. But at night when his wife slumbered, worn out with the day's watching, or when she seemed to slumber, and in Pine-tree Hollow, which in the time of his former troubles had become to him a refuge and a sanctuary, his cry ascended to God in an agony of confession and entreaty. He, too, wondered that it should be God's will that the child of his enemy should be saved, and his child's life made the sacrifice; but he did not consciously rebel against that will. It was God's doing; Davie had not even known whose child it was whom he tried to save. This was God's doing from beginning to end.

Far be it from him to rebel against God, he said to his wife when, fearing for him and all that he might be thinking, she spoke to him about it. It was a terrible trouble, but it did not embitter him as former trouble had done, and his enemy had fewer of his thoughts at this time than might have been supposed.

But he had not forgiven him. He knew in his heart that he had not forgiven him. When Jacob came with his wife, grateful and sorry, and eager to do something to express it, he kept quiet in a corner of Davie's room, into which they were not permitted to enter. Mrs Fleming said all that was needful on the occasion, and when Jacob broke down and could not speak of his boy who had been given back to them almost from the dead, she laid her hand gently upon his arm and said, "Let God's goodness make a better man of you," and even Mrs Jacob did not feel like resenting the words. But there was no one who could help them in their present trouble, she repeated, as they went sorrowfully away.

No one except Miss Betsey, grannie felt gratefully, as she turned into the house again—Miss Betsey, who seemed made of iron, and never owned to being tired. She slept one night in three, when Katie and her mother kept the watching, and at other times she took "catnaps" in the rocking-chair, or on Mrs Fleming's bed, when grannie was at her brightest and could care for Davie in the early part of the day.

And poor Davie tossed and muttered through many days and nights, never so delirious as to have forgotten the summer's work, but never quite clear in his mind, and always struggling with some unknown power that, against his will, kept him back from doing his part in it. Till one day he looked into his grandfather's face with comprehending eyes, and said weakly, but clearly:

"It must be time for the cutting of the wheat, grandfather; I have been sick a good while, surely?"

"Ay, have you; a good while. But you are better now, the doctor says. But never heed about the cutting of the wheat. Mark Varney has done all that, and more. We have had a good harvest, Davie."

"Have we, grandfather?" said Davie, looking with surprise and dismay at the tears on his grandfather's face.

"God has been good to us, laddie," said Mr Fleming, trying to speak calmly, and then he rose and went out.

"So we've had a good harvest, have we? And Mark Varney! I wonder where he turned up. Oh, well! it's all right I daresay—and—I'm tired already." And he turned his head on the pillow and fell asleep.

Yes, Mark Varney had taken Davie's work into his own hand. He came over with Mr Maxwell as soon as he heard the lad was ill. He made no formal offer of help, but just set himself to do what was to be done. He had all his own way about it, for Mr Fleming was too anxious to take much heed of the work, since some one else had taken it in hand; and no one knew better how work should be done than Mark. He had all the help he needed, for the neighbours were glad to offer help, and give it, too, in this time of need. The harvest was got through and the grain housed as successfully as the hay had been before Davie, lank and stooping, crept out over the fields of Ythan.

It was Sunday afternoon again when Katie and he went slowly down the brae toward the cherry-trees. Their grandfather and grandmother looked after them with loving eyes.

"The Lord is ay kind," said Mrs Fleming, and then she read the 103rd Psalm in the old Scottish version, which she "whiles" liked to do. She paused now and then because her voice trembled, and on some of the verses she lingered, reading them twice over, seeking from her husband audible assent to the comfort they gave:

"'The Lord our God is merciful, And He is gracious, Long-suffering, and slow to wrath, In mercy plenteous.'

"Ay is He! as we ken well this day. And again:—

"'Such pity as a father hath Unto his children dear, Like pity shows the Lord to such As worship Him in fear.'

"'Such pity as a father hath.' We ken well what that means, Dawvid; a father's pity; such pity and love as we felt for our Davie, when he lay tossing in his bed, poor laddie. And—as we felt for—him that's gone—"

She could say no more at the moment, even if it would have been wise to do so. But by and by she rose and came toward him, and standing half behind him, laying her soft, wrinkled old hand on his grey head, she said softly:

"If I could but hear you say that you forgive—Jacob Holt!"

Then there was a long silence in which she did not move.

"Because—I have been thinking that the Lord let our laddie do that— good turn for His—to put us in mind—" Again she paused. "And I would fain hear you say it, for His sake who has loved us, and forgiven so much to us."

"I wish him no ill. I wouldna hurt a hair of his head. I leave him in God's hands."

He spoke huskily, with long pauses between the sentences. Whether he would have said more or not she could not tell. There was no time for more, for the bairns came in with their mother from the Sunday-school, and quiet was at an end for the moment.

It was a long time before the subject was touched upon between them again, and it was he who spoke first.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

POOR GRANNIE.

The Langdens had stayed ten days in Gershom. Half the time Miss Langden had passed with Miss Holt, and they had both enjoyed the visit, though not quite in the same way. Her father needed much of Elizabeth's care and attention at this time, and it would not have been possible for her to devote herself constantly to her visitor. But Miss Essie was not a difficult person to entertain—quite the contrary.

She took interest in many things. She had her journal to keep up, and many letters to write. And then Mr Clifton Holt was at home, and at her service. Mr Maxwell was a frequent visitor also; and when he came, Miss Holt felt at liberty to attend to her own affairs, knowing that they did not need her presence. Clifton was not so mindful of their old friendship, or not so well aware of their present relation, for he did not seem to think it was the thing to do to leave their visitors to entertain each other; and certainly he was never made to feel himself to be an intruder, though his sister often feared that he might be so.

Then Miss Langden had a great desire to see as much as possible of "this interesting country" as she politely called Canada; and as much of it as could be seen while driving about with Clifton in his sister's low carriage, or in the larger carriage with Clifton and Mr Maxwell, or her father, she saw, and professed herself delighted with it. She admired the farm-houses and the farmers, and the farmers' wives and daughters, and laid herself out to captivate them in a way that Clifton declared to be wonderful. To Elizabeth it seemed natural enough.

They saw a good deal of company in a quiet way. The Holts took pains to invite, at one time or another, the greater part of Mr Maxwell's friends, in order that Mr Langden and his daughter might make their acquaintance, and both in different ways won golden opinions among them.

The good people of Gershom were naturally well-disposed toward the friends of their minister, and Mr Langden was a quiet, shrewd business man, without a particle of pretence, whose company they would have enjoyed under even less favourable circumstances. He took much interest in listening to the very things they liked best to tell about—the early settlement of that part of the country, its features and resources, agricultural, mineral, commercial; the history of railroads, manufactures, and business ventures generally. If there were anything worth knowing about any of these matters that Mr Langden did not know before his visit came to an end, it was not for want of questions asked, Clifton Holt said, laughing, to his daughter. Which was quite true—and he had asked some questions and received some answers which neither Clifton nor Jacob had heard, and knew more about some things in Gershom than Clifton himself knew at that time. Some hints that there had been thoughts of business as well as pleasure in his mind in visiting Gershom had transpired, and it would have been agreeable to hear more about it, but Mr Langden was better at asking questions than at answering them, and no one knew any more about his plans when he went than when he came. But people liked him, and liked to talk about him and his visit afterward.

And his daughter was very much admired also. That is to say, she was admired in her character of visitor to Miss Elizabeth—as a pretty and amiable and beautifully-dressed young lady from "the States." But when the discussion went farther, and her possible future as a resident of Gershom was hinted at, all were not so sure about her. A minister's wife! That was another affair. Would she fit into that spot? She did not look much like the ministers' wives that the Gershom people knew most about.

"I suppose it comes as natural to her to have gloves, and boots, and bonnets to match every gown she puts on, as it does for the most of folk to wear one pair as long as they'll last," said Miss Smith from Fosbrooke—a much more primitive place than Gershom—"and she looks as if she set a value on such things, as even good folks will do till they've learned better."

"And the minister's salary isn't equal to all that, and wouldn't be, not if it was raised to eight hundred dollars, which isn't likely yet a spell," said Mrs Coleman, the new deacon's wife.

"Not unless she has money of her own. And if she has—well, ministers' folks are pretty much so, wherever they be, or whatever they've got; and such articles of luxury are not the thing for ministers' wives—not in this wooden country."

"I know one thing," said Miss Hall, the dressmaker. "Her trunk was never packed to come here short of five hundred dollars, to say nothing of jewellery. I've handled considerable dry-goods in my time, and I know that much."

"Ah, well. I guess any one that's lived in 'the States,' and that talks as cool as a cucumber about going to travel in Europe, isn't very likely to settle down in Gershom—not and be contented," said Myrilla Green, who had lived in "the States" herself, and was supposed to know the difference.

"Ah! I guess there's as good folks as her in Gershom;" and so the talk went on.

But it was the opinion of several of the ladies interested in the discussion, that clothes, and even money, did not amount to much in some cases. The young lady had the missionary spirit, as any one who had heard her talk must see, and she was not likely to be influenced by secondary motives.

Of course the discussion of the possibility implied by all this was inevitable in the circumstances, though no one in Gershom knew anything about the matter; and the parties most concerned could have given them little satisfactory information with regard to it. The first of the two years of probation, which Mr Langden had insisted upon, had not yet passed, and Mr Maxwell could not have renewed the question of an engagement, if he had wished to do so, or if Miss Essie had given him an opportunity, which she did not. Not a word was spoken between them that all Gershom might not have heard, though nothing could be more friendly and pleasant than their intercourse during these ten days.

But then Miss Essie was on friendly terms with every one. Nothing could be more charming than her manners, it was said. She was "not a bit stuck up," the Gershom girls acknowledged. If she had any "citified airs" they were not of the kind that are especially displeasing to country people. She was friendly with every one, and before her visit came to an end, it came into Elizabeth's mind that she was particularly pleasant in words and ways with her brother Clifton.

It had come into Clifton's mind also, and Elizabeth longed to tell him just how matters stood between Miss Langden and Mr Maxwell. But she did not feel at liberty to do so, and she could only hope that Clifton's devotion would be in this case, as it had been in others, only transitory, and that he would not suffer more than was reasonable for his folly. Of what passed between Mr Langden and Jacob Holt very little was known. They went together over the ground which Jacob had so long coveted, and Mr Langden saw the advantages which the locality offered for the purpose proposed. He would have considered the purchase of the land to be a good investment, but Jacob could not bring himself to urge the unpleasant subject of sale on Mr Fleming, now that Davie was so ill, and he knew that urging would avail nothing, but it was a great disappointment to him.

He said little about it to Mr Langden; but that gentleman knew more of the relations existing between him and Mr Fleming, and of other things besides, than Jacob fancied. They saw a good many people who were interested in the proposed enterprise, and got information which would help him to decide about future investments, he said, but he took no definite step with regard to the matter before he went away.

It had been understood that Mr Maxwell was to take his "vacation" at this time, and that he was to go with his friends through a part of their travels. But Davie Fleming was at the worst, and his mother and his grandparents were in great trouble, and the minister could not bring himself to leave them. Of course his friends were disappointed, but not unreasonably so, for they could understand his feeling, and it was agreed that if it were possible he should join them at some point in their route, and so they said good-bye lightly.

Clifton Holt went with them to the city of Montreal, where they stayed a few days, as all American tourists do. Then they sailed down the Saint Lawrence to Quebec and farther, and up the Saguenay, and he sailed with them, and doubtless added to their pleasure by the information he was able to give as to events and places in which all travellers are supposed to interest themselves.

Clifton enjoyed it, and would have enjoyed going farther with them. But on their return to Montreal, they met with a party of friends whom they found it expedient to join, and so Clifton returned to Gershom, with the intention of remaining at home for a time. His father was still feeble, and Clifton seemed inclined to take the advice which his sister had long ago given him, to seek to obtain some knowledge of the business which Jacob had hitherto been carrying on in his own name and his father's.

Elizabeth received a little note or two from Miss Langden before she left Canada, in which much admiration was expressed for her friend's "interesting country," and much pleasure in her remembrance of the days spent in Gershom; and she had another after her return to her aunt's house, where she was to pass some time. And then she did not hear from her again for a long time.

Davie got better, but not very rapidly. He remained gaunt and stooping, and had little strength, and Miss Betsey, who still considered herself responsible for his health, carried him away to the Hill; and then giving Ben a holiday after his busy summer, sent them both away to visit her cousin Abiah, who had a clearing and a saw-mill ten miles away. There were partridges there, and rumours of a bear having been seen, and there was fishing at any rate, and Davie was assured that ten days of such sport as could be got there in the woods ought to make a new man of him.

But Betsey had another reason for sending him away. On the day of her visit, Mrs Fleming, who had acknowledged herself to be weak and weary from anxiety and watching, knew herself to be ill; not very ill, however. She had often, in her younger days, kept about the house, and done all her work when she felt far worse than she did now, she said. But she could not "keep about" now, and that was the difference. Davie would be well away, for he would fret about his grandmother, and that would do neither of them any good.

Davie's visit to the woods did not make a new man of him; but it did him good, and he needed all his strength and courage when he came home again, for grannie, who had been "not just very well" when he went away, was no better when he returned.

"And they never told me, grannie," said he, indignantly.

"There was nothing to tell, my laddie, and you are better for going. And now you must help Katie to cheer your grandfather, and keep your brothers at their work."

And Davie saw that his grandfather needed to be cheered. He seemed to have grown a very old man during the last few months, he thought. He had gone about the farm, and kept the boys at their work, and had helped sometimes, Katie said, while Davie was away. But now he gave all that up to him. Mark Varney came now and then when there was anything extra to be done; and though Davie was not so strong as before his illness, they were as well on with their fall work as the neighbours generally.

But except with a word of advice, or an answer to questions, which Davie was pertinacious in asking, as to what was to be done, and what left undone, the old man took little part in what had filled his life before. He went about the house and barns, with his head bowed, and his hands clasped behind him, making Katie wild with the wistful, helpless longing of his face.

"It is no good for grannie to see you so downcast, grandfather. Courage is what is needed more than anything in a time of sickness, Betsey says. And, grandfather, grannie is no' so very ill."

"Is she no', think you, Katie? She says it, but oh, my heart fails me."

"She says it, and I think she is right. And, grandfather, she often says, you ken that the Lord is ay kind."

"Ay, lass! but His kindest touch cuts sore whiles. And if He were to deal with me after my sins—"

"But, grandfather; He never does, and He hurts to heal—as I have heard you say yourself."

"Ay. I have said it with my lips, but I doubt I was carrying a sore and angry heart whiles, when I was putting the folk in mind. And, oh, Katie, lassie, He is far awa'. He has hidden His face from me."

"But only for a moment, grandfather; don't you mind, 'For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I visit thee'? And grannie is no' so very ill."

She drew him gently from the room where grannie was slumbering, so that she need not be disturbed. It seemed to her the strangest thing that her grandfather should speak to her in this way, and that she should have courage to answer him. He sat down on a seat by the door, and leaned his chin on the hand that rested on his staff, and looked away over Ythan fields to the hills beyond. But whether he saw them or not was doubtful, for his eyes were dazed and heavy with trouble, and Katie could not bear to see him so.

"She is not so very ill," she repeated. "She is sometimes better and sometimes worse, but she has no thought that she is going to die. She will be better soon."

"She is a good ten years younger than I am. I should go first by rights. But she has had much to weary her, and she would doubtless be glad to rest."

"No, grandfather, she would not. She is glad at the thought that she will be spared a little while for—all our sakes."

"Who is that coming down the road? It is the minister, I think, and Betsey Holt."

The old man rose hastily.

"I'll awa' up the brae," said he. "No, it is no disrespect to the minister, but I canna hear his words to-day."

And up the hill he went to the pasture-bars, and through the pasture "to Pine-tree Hollow," Katie thought, as her eyes followed him anxiously.

"But He may show him His face, up yonder," said Katie, with tears; "and I am sure, and so is Miss Betsey, that she is no' so very ill."

Grannie had never thought herself very ill. Even when all her days were spent in bed, she only called herself weary at first. There had been a very warm week about that time, and she had suffered from the heat, and had kept herself quiet. But she did not think herself ill, and certainly Katie did not think it. For though she was not strong, she did not suffer much, except that she was feverish and restless now and then, and she was always sweet and bright and easily pleased, and not at all like the sick people that Katie had seen. It was a pleasure to be with her, to wait on her, and to listen to her. For there were times when she had much to say, soothing her own restlessness with happy talk of many things which Katie liked to hear.

She told her about her father—so grave and kind and trustworthy—and about Hughie, who was so good and clever, but who had "gone wrong," and been lost to them, leaving their life so dreary. And once or twice she spoke of one over whom she had kept the silence of many a year. It was Katie's own name she heard—but it was of another "bonnie Katie" that her grandmother murmured so fondly, one who had been beguiled—who had sinned and suffered, and died long ago. But she always spoke brokenly of her when she was restless and feverish, and Katie, though she would have liked to hear more, strove always to turn her thoughts away.

But almost always her talk was happy and bright. In those days Katie heard more of her grandmother's youthful days than she had ever heard before. She spoke about her home, and her brothers and sisters, and about "the gowany braes" and "the silver Ythan," and the songs they used to sing, before it had ever come into her mind that there was trouble and care before her. She even tried to sing again, in her faint sweet voice, some of the dear old songs, laughing softly at her own foolishness.

But she never once spoke as though she thought she might not recover; even when she gave Katie words of counsel or caution, it was just in the way she used to do when they were going about their work together, and the girl was sure that she would soon be well again, and that that was Miss Betsey's thought too.

But seeing her as she stood looking down on her grandmother's sleeping face that morning, Katie was not so sure of what Miss Betsey's thoughts might be. Still, her grandmother's eyes opened and she smiled her old cheerful smile, as she said she was glad to see them.

"You must tell grandfather that the minister is come, Katie," said she.

Mr Maxwell had seen Mr Fleming stepping up the brae, and he knew well that no words of his could comfort him. He could only hope as Katie did, that his Lord and Master might show him His face in the solitude he sought.

He had few words to say to Mrs Fleming, for she seemed inclined to slumber through the afternoon.

"I wish you could stay with us to-night, Miss Betsey," said Katie's mother. "I am afraid grandmother is not so well."

"There is not much difference either way, I think. I would be glad to stay, but Uncle Gershom has had another bad turn, and I promised cousin Lizzie I would stay with her to-night. But I will come over to-morrow morning before I go home if I can get away."

"Do you think her very ill?" asked Mr Maxwell as they walked down the hill together.

"I have not thought her very ill. I don't know that she is worse to-day, but she is certainly no better. I suppose it depends on whether her strength holds out. She is an old woman now."

These were anxious days to Katie; but her grandfather had more of her thoughts than her grandmother.

"And it is a wonder to me that he should be so broken down, a good man like him, even by such sore trouble. Even the loss of grannie would be but for a few days, and he has the Lord Himself in the midst of it all."

But this was a mistake on Katie's part. For all this time, strangely and sadly enough, he was ringing the changes on his old complaint: "Thou art a God that hidest Thyself." He had not the Lord Himself in those days. Even when he pleaded, as he did day and night, for Davie's life, it was the cry of despair that came out of his sore trouble, rather than the "prayer of faith" to which the promise of healing to the sick is given.

And as he bowed himself down beneath the pines, it was the same. He was in a maze of perplexity and fear. Had he been sinning against God all this time? Had he been hating not the sin, but the sinner? Had it been beneath God's hand that he had been refusing to bow? And now was God leaving him to hardness of heart?

For he was utterly broken and spent, and in the weakness of mind which exhaustion of body caused, he had almost lost the power to discriminate or reason. He could not command his thoughts. The wind moaned in the pines above him, and the sunshine came and went, flickering and fading, and brightening again, and with the monotonous sound and the ever-changing light, there came voices and visions, and he seemed to listen as in a dream:

"It was God's will, grandfather. God kens, and it was His will. I would fain hear you say once that you have forgiven your enemy."

His enemy! Was Jacob Holt his enemy? And if he were, could even an enemy bring evil on him or his without permission? What had it all come to—the long pain, the persistent shrinking from this man, whom God alone might judge? Had he been hating him all this time—bringing leanness to his own soul, and darkness, and all the evil that hatred must ever bring? And where was it all to end? And what must he do, now that his sin had found him out?

For his time was short, and the end near. And then his thoughts wandered away to the old squire lying on his death-bed—the man who had declared himself willing to stand on the same platform with old David Fleming, when his time should come to be judged. And that time was close at hand now, and his own time could not be far away, and then he must stand face to face with Him whose last words were, "Father, forgive them!"—face to face with Him who had said, "Love your enemies," "Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you."

Over and over the same round his thoughts went, till, worn out with anxiety and watching, and lulled unconsciously by the soft "sough" of the wind in the pines, he fell asleep. Pine-tree Hollow was all in shadow when he awoke, but when he had gone a few steps, he saw the sunlight lying on the high hills to the east. His first thoughts were of what might have been happening at home while he slept, and he quickened his steps.

And as he walked he was conscious that his sleep had done him good. He was stronger and calmer, and could command his thoughts again, and he hurried eagerly on. The sight of Katie passing quietly out and in to the dairy quieted him still more. It must be well with grannie or Katie would not be there.

"Well, my lassie?"

"Yes. Grannie has been sleeping, but she is awake now, and has been asking for you. Mother is with her now."

He went into the house slowly and quietly. Katie's mother was sitting by the bed, with her sad eyes fastened on the face of the grandmother, who seemed to have fallen into slumber again.

"She has been wandering a little, I think," said Mrs James.

"Wandering?" repeated Mr Fleming drearily.

Grannie opened her eyes, and looked first at one and then at the other.

"No, my dear, it wasna that I was wandering. I was dreaming, I think—a strange grand dream—of a far country. And—Dawvid—I saw our Katie there, and her little bairn—and I saw our Hughie, and James, and many another. But I saw them first and best; and we have no cause to fear."

Even as she spoke her eyes closed again. The old man sat down with a sinking heart. Did not these sound like "last words?" Had she not got a first glimpse of the "far country" to which she was hastening? How vain to struggle against God, he thought. He never uttered a word. His daughter-in-law looked at him with compassionate eyes that he could hardly bear. Katie came in with a glass of milk in her hand.

"She is not asleep again, is she? Well, I must waken her, because she must take something. The sleeping is good for her, but she must take something to keep up her strength. Grannie dear, take this," and she raised her gently.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

"Oh, ay! I'll take it. And I could take a bit of bread, I think."

"Well, mother will bring a bit." But Katie was greatly surprised.

"I think I'm better, if I were only stronger a bit," said grannie.

Over Katie's bright face Mr Fleming saw the grave face of her mother, and though he knew that it was her way rather to fear than to hope, his heart sank.

"I'll soon be better, I think. Are you there, Dawvid? You ken I couldna go and stand before the Lord and tell Him that you hadna forgiven your enemy."

"She is wandering," whispered Katie's mother.

"No; I'm no wandering, but whiles I feel—as if I were slipping awa'— and you'll give me your hand, Dawvid, and that will keep me back. Ay. That will do," and her eyes closed again.

Katie followed her mother from the room.

"It is not far away now."

"Mother, don't say it. She is not going to die. Oh, mother! mother! Surely God is not going to take her from us yet. No. I'm not going to cry; I havena time," said Katie. "And, mother, she says it herself, and I don't think she is going to die. Oh, if Miss Betsey could have been here to-night!"

Katie resolutely put away her tears and her fears, and prepared for a night of watching. First, she made her mother lie down with a warm wrapper on her, so that she might be ready to come at any moment. Then she sent the bairns to their beds, and wished that Davie would come home. Then she remembered, with a pang of remorse, that her grandfather had not had his supper, and she got his accustomed bowl of bread and milk, and carried it into the room. Neither of them had moved, and stooping and listening, it seemed to Katie that her grandmother was sleeping naturally and sweetly. Her grandfather shook his head at the sight of the food.

"You must take it, grandfather," said Katie in a whisper.

She put the bowl on a chair, and knelt down beside him.

"You need not move," she said softly, and she fed him as he had often fed her when she was a little child.

"My good Katie!" said he, but it would not have been well for him to try to say more.

Davie came in before the supper was over. Katie nodded cheerfully, but did not speak till they were both in the kitchen.

"Well?" said Davie.

"She is no worse. I think she seems better. She has eaten a wee bit of bread, but mother says you cannot always tell by that. We must just wait."

It was a long and anxious night to these two. It was well that grannie should sleep, but in her utter weakness it was also necessary that she should have nourishment often. She had grown sick of the sight of everything in the way of food, and she had had her choice of whatever the best housewives of Gershom could supply. For days she had only taken a little milk, and to-night she seemed to take it with relish. In a little she woke and spoke:

"Are you no' coming to your bed, Dawvid? It is time surely."

Her clasp of his hand loosened as Katie offered the milk to her lips. The old man rose, but he had been sitting in an uneasy posture, and tottered as he moved to the door.

"Grandfather," said Davie, "lie down on the other side. It will be better for you and grannie too. Come grandfather. Katie, lay the pillow straight."

"But I might disturb her—and I might fall asleep."

But he yielded.

"She would like it, grandfather, and we can waken you if you fall asleep."

So the two old people slumbered together, and Katie had to steal away to weep a few tears in the dark while her brother watched beside them, and they did not dare to ask themselves whether they hoped or feared in the stillness that fell on them.

"They say this is the old squire's last night," whispered Davie at last. "I saw Ben coming out as I passed."

"Maybe no," said Katie, who was determined to be hopeful to-night. "They have said that before. Maybe he'll win through this time too."

"Ay. But he is an old man, and it must come soon."

Now and then they exchanged a word or two, and Katie put the cup to her grandmother's lips, and the night wore on. Whether their grandfather slept or not they could not tell, but he made no movement that could disturb her, and he still held her hand, to keep her from "slipping away," as she had said.

Once the mother came in and looked, but she only said she was sleeping quietly, and they made her lie down again. Toward morning Katie brought a quilt and a pillow, and Davie lay down on the floor beside the bed, and Katie prayed and waited for the dawn.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

POOR OLD SQUIRE.

Betsey Holt had not found the old squire so low as she expected to find him when she went to his house after leaving Mr Fleming's, and seeing him comfortable, and apparently no weaker than she had seen him before, she hesitated as to what she ought to do.

"There will be nights when you will need me more cousin," said she, "and I think—"

But Elizabeth's face made her pause.

"Dear cousin, stay with me to-night. No, I do not think he is going to die to-night, though Dr Wainwright thought it could not be long. But do stay with me, cousin. I seem to be alone and good for nothing."

"You are tired, and no wonder. You look sick. Yes, I'll stay. I think, on the whole, I'd better."

Betsey did not say that it was Mrs Fleming she had been thinking of when she hesitated. She took off her bonnet and prepared to stay.

"I made up my mind to be here to-night as soon as I heard that your father wasn't well. I thought once I'd go home and come back after sundown, but it doesn't matter about going. They'll know why I stay, and I guess likely Ben will come along over after milking is done."

"Is there no one we could get to help your mother and Cynthia for a few days? I would send anywhere for help to them if you could only stay with me till—"

"Oh, I guess they'll get along, and Hepsey Bean is near by. If they get into a fix they can send for her. I'll stay anyway. Isn't your brother Clifton round?"

"No, he went to the city yesterday; he left before we thought my father worse. I hope he will be home to-morrow."

"Well, I hope he will, and I guess he'd better stay a spell next time he comes."

Elizabeth had been up for the night, and after a visit to her father, who was still sleeping quietly, Betsey persuaded her to go and lie down, promising to call her at the turn of the night, or sooner if there should be any change. Elizabeth was glad to go, for she was very tired.

"I feel so safe in leaving him with you, cousin," said Elizabeth, the tears starting in her eyes. "You must not think that I am always so— downhearted, but I feel as if I might give way—as if I might lay a little of my burden on you, and—"

"And so you may, with no if about it, only there is a better place to lay it, as you don't need me to tell you by this time. She thinks she knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does," continued Betsey as she followed Elizabeth with her thoughts. "For trouble is just as folks take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto. But I guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to. The Lord sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn't worry about her. She'll be kept safe through it all."

But she gave a good many thoughts to Elizabeth's possible troubles as she sat there alone. Before the "turn of the night" Elizabeth came down rested and refreshed, she said. Jacob came in and sat a while, but scarcely a word was spoken. He offered to stay, but it was not necessary, his sister said.

"No! When is Clifton coming back?" asked he.

"To-morrow, I hope," said Elizabeth.

"He must not go away again."

"No. Not for a time."

Elizabeth's rest and refreshment "did not seem to amount to much," Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth's face the look it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds in her father's room, she sat perfectly motionless, "limp and hopeless," Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:

"Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be 'swallowed up of overmuch sorrow,' are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep of misery to a Christian than that."

Elizabeth looked up startled.

"I don't think I rebel, but—"

"You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very old man now, Lizzie."

"He is all I have got."

"You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn't all you've got by many."

"He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not, though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little while."

"Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less truth than of most."

Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.

"You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make them. I don't believe anybody ever saw your face who didn't want to see it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness."

Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.

"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.

"Well, that's the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there you'll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And you'll get your wages—rest, and a quiet mind."

Elizabeth's eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be in the shadow, and then she went on:

"You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left."

Elizabeth said nothing to this.

"Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won't be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes."

There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.

"It will not be to-night," said she softly. Then she sat down again.

"Cousin," said she gravely in a little, "you are not worrying about your father, as though it may—not be well with him now?"

Elizabeth looked at her startled.

Betsey went on:

"I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord's side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them."

Elizabeth's face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.

"A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him more than a little. I couldn't bear to have him miss the privilege— deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He appointed. He didn't consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I said a word to him about it—at the time my father died that was.

"I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough—a hypocrite, almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one sense. But out Lord said, 'Except ye be converted and become as little children,' and he had the heart of a little child about some things, more than any one I ever knew.

"Cousin, if I were to tell you—but I couldn't begin to tell you, all he has done for us—for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he needn't be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness— yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a man your father was."

Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but she said nothing.

"I never could tell you—never! My father, for a good while, wasn't easy to get along with. Well, he wasn't himself all the time, and if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom—

"But there—I mustn't talk about it, not to-night," she said, rising and walking about the room. "It kind of puts me off the balance to go back to those days, and I'd better let it alone to-night."

"Some time you will tell me," said Elizabeth.

"Well, I don't promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face of an angel your father's face has been to me many and many a time."

"I think I know," said Elizabeth.

"And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don't deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went—to sit down at the Lord's table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it above, and I wish he might even yet."

"I'll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real difference—"

"Betsey," said the squire's voice from the other room.

They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.

"Did I hear Betsey's voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie? Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I've got something to say to Betsey. It isn't best to put off these things too long."

Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered. After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.

"Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn't here, is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn't know now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is, and your mother's little wheel, and you'll find what I want—the old saddle-bag—in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but you'd better bring the bag down."

Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he did not.

"I feel rested. It won't hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it over with—"

Elizabeth looked at her cousin.

"You'd better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do anything about it."

Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.

"I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago," said the old man, laying his hand on it. "Where are my glasses? But I guess you'll find what I want, Lizzie."

There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire's first marriage, his wife's letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, "well-nigh on fifty year ago." Then there was a bundle of papers marked "Brother Reuben."

"That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you'll have to do it, Lizzie."

There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was written, "Paid for my Joe," and a date; on another, "Lent to my son. Parley, at the time he went west," and several more of the same kind. The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.

"He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always," said the squire. "He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn't have it. I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly."

He seemed to have forgotten Betsey's presence, for he went on:

"I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn't hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn't a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed—the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn't mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble."

"Father, I will burn them now; that will be best," said Elizabeth, eagerly.

"And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it."

"Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together."

"Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I'm tired now. Look out the rest of them when you have time, and you'll know what to burn. There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I often have been sorry that I didn't just take old Mr Fleming's note, instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings. There, that's all. I feel better, I'll try and sleep again."

They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.

"Cousin Lizzie," said Betsey, "wait a minute. I don't more than half believe it's lawful to burn these notes and things."

"It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them."

"But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?"

"Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary, and that—that I should hear more about it soon."

"They say it's pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin."

"I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe."

She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one into the fire.

"Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will never speak of this again."

Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she might see it.

"It is Hughie Fleming's writing! I know it well," said Betsey.

"It looks as if it had never been opened," Elizabeth said, turning it over and over in her hand. "How strange! My father must surely have read it?"

"Who knows? It is possible he never did."

"I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?"

Betsey shook her head.

"It isn't likely he'd remember it, and it might trouble him. It is about that old trouble likely."

"Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?"

"It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would make me think less of poor Hugh."

"But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?"

Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or two.

"It looks like a message from the dead," said she.

"Open it, cousin. You remember him and his trouble better than I can. Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to know, you shall burn it without a word."

Betsey still hesitated.

"It comes from the dead," said she, but she opened it at last, cutting round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first letter:

"Honoured Sir:—I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full restitution shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?"

And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.

"Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!" said Betsey softly. "Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy's death," added she, looking at the date on the letter.

"My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this," said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, "I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked."

She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.

"And now what shall we do about this?" asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.

It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.

"I don't know, the least in the world," said Betsey, much moved. "It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison."

"But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also."

"Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him."

They were greatly at a loss what to do.

"If we could consult some one."

"It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it. If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There is no better time to give it."

Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.

"I hope it is not wrong."

"It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now."

A single glance was enough.

"Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight."

Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden weeping.

"And he never saw his father again."

"No. And the father never saw the words his son had written," said Betsey, scarcely less moved.

Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps at the door. Then Jacob's voice was heard, and remembering that the squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth's eyes alone, Betsey lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the night had been passed.

"He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly," said Elizabeth.

"And he seemed quite revived when he was awake last," Betsey added, as she came out of his room.

"Mr Maxwell, Jacob," said Elizabeth, "the strangest thing has happened. Jacob, look at this," and she put into his hand the letter with the red seal on it, on which his eyes had been fixed since ever he came in.

He grew pale when he saw his father's name in the once familiar handwriting, and when he saw the money, and read the words to his father, written on the other side, he sat down suddenly without a word. If Elizabeth had thought a moment, she might have hesitated about giving it to him while others were looking on. Betsey was glad that she had done it. Elizabeth took the letter which Jacob had laid down and gave it to Mr Maxwell:

"You have heard of Hugh Fleming, the lad who went wrong. Betsey can tell you more than I can. I found the letter among some old papers of my father's. I think he cannot have read it, for the seal was not broken. There must have been some mistake."

Mr Maxwell read it in silence.

"But it is this that has troubled us. A letter from Hugh to his father. Think of it, Jacob. After all these years!"

Yes. After all these years! "Be sure your sin will find you out." That is what Jacob was saying to himself. Even Betsey could have found it in her heart to pity the misery seen in his face.

"He can't be so cold-blooded as people suppose," thought she.

"Should it be given to his father at once? I think the worst part of the trouble to him has been the thought that his son was cut off so suddenly—that he died unrepenting."

Mr Maxwell looked at the folded paper and then at Jacob.

"It may trouble the old man, but I do not think we have a right to withhold it."

Elizabeth was about to say that she had looked at the note, but Betsey interrupted her:

"He was sorry for his sin—whatever it was. His written words to Uncle Gershom prove that. And if there is in it any kind of sorrow, or any proof that others were more guilty than he, it might comfort the old man."

"Will you take it to him by and by, Mr Maxwell?" said Elizabeth.

"If I am the best person to take it. But he has never spoken to me of his son."

"He has never spoken a word to any one but the mother. And I feel that there is comfort to him in this little letter, and you will be glad to carry him comfort, I know."

"Thank you. Well, I will take it at once. Some one will be up at this early hour with the grandmother. I will go now."

Elizabeth put the folded paper in her father's letter with the money and gave it to him.

"I will go too," said Jacob, rising.

"Had you better?"

Both Elizabeth and Betsey spoke these words with a little excitement. He turned a strange look from one to the other. Whether it was of pain or anger, neither knew, and he went out with the minister. Elizabeth watching, saw them turn into the path that led a near way to the North Gore road.

"Oh, Betsey! I hope we have done right. God comfort the poor father by these words," cried Elizabeth, with a sudden rush of tears.

"Amen!" said Betsey, solemnly.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

FORGIVENESS.

The longed-for dawn came to Katie with a sudden chill and sinking of the heart that felt for a minute like the utter failure of bodily strength. When she put the lamp out, and put aside the curtain so that the daylight fell on the two grey old faces lying on the same pillow, her heart beat hard with sudden fear.

How wan and sunken and spent they looked! What if they were both to die? The little gleam of red that had now and then, through all her illness, showed itself on grannie's cheeks was quite gone now, and she would never be whiter, Katie thought, as she bent down to catch the sound of her breath coming and going so faintly. The two wrinkled, toil-worn hands still clasped each other in sleep.

"They should go together," said Katie, with a sob, "but oh! not yet."

She was not experienced enough to know whether this motionless sleep, so different from the fitful, broken slumbers of the last few weeks, was a hopeful sign or not; if her strength could be kept up, the doctor had said, and so had Miss Betsey—and perhaps she ought to wake her and give her something. As she stood looking at her, her grandfather opened his eyes.

"Grannie's better, I think," said she, with a quick impulse to give him comfort. "She has been sleeping quietly, and her hand is cool and moist. If you'll bide still beside her, I'll go and get a drop of warm milk from Brownie, to be ready when she wakes."

If she had stayed a minute longer she must have cried at the sight of the old man's face as he raised himself up and bent over that other face so white and still. She did cry a little when she went out, and shivered in the chill of the September morning, but she did not linger over her task. When she came in she found her grandfather risen, and standing by the bed. Her grandmother was awake now.

"Are you there, Katie? Is your tea masket? Give a cup of tea to your grandfather now; it will refresh him; and I think I could take a cup myself."

"All right, grannie dear," said Katie, cheerfully; "and in the meantime take a little milk," and she held the cup to her lips. "And now, if you should fall asleep, it will be all the better till the tea be ready."

Katie smoothed the pillows and put the bedclothes straight, and touched her lips to the white cheek; then it was turned to rest on the thin hand and grannie fell asleep. Davie rose up at Katie's bidding, and went to get wood to kindle the fire. Katie let the curtain fall again over the open window, and softly closed the door, as she followed her grandfather out of the room.

"We'll let her sleep," said the old man, and he went out with slow, languid steps into the sunshine.

It was hardly sunshine yet, for though the light lay clear on the hill-tops, all the valley was in shadow, and the mist lay low along the course of Beaver River in great irregular masses, white, but with great "splatches" of colour here and there where the sun touched it. The dew lay heavy on the grass, and the garden bushes and the orchard trees, and on Katie's flowers, and the sweet breath of green things came pleasantly to his sense as he sat down on his accustomed seat by the door.

Birds were chirping in the orchard trees, and there was the scarcely less pleasant sound of barn-door fowls near at hand. The sheep behind the pasture-bars sent their greeting over the dewy fields, and the cows in the yard "mowed" placidly as they stirred one another with soft, slow movements. How fair and peaceful the place looked! How full of calm and quiet, yet strong life!

The old man closed his eyes on it all. He was not thinking, he was hardly feeling. The night had brought broken slumbers, but not rest, and he was very weary. A wondering question, whether she could be going to die on such a day as this, passed through his mind. It did not seem possible.

"And besides, she and he said she could not die till I had forgiven my enemy."

But he was too weary to go over it all again—the long heart-breaking story. He could only sit still with closed eyes, waiting.

And it was thus that the minister and Jacob Holt found him. They had said little to one another as they passed through the dewy fields, and under the long shadows of the wayside trees together. Mr Maxwell at first had said a word as to the mission they had undertaken, and asked a question or two as to how they had better make it known, but Jacob had answered in monosyllables, or not at all.

The last part of their walk had been over the fields again, and they came suddenly upon Mr Fleming sitting at the door. Katie had seen them coming, and was standing at her grandfather's side, her hand laid on his shoulder, and she looked at them as they drew near with questioning, almost angry eyes. Mr Maxwell held out his hand to her.

"Is he sleeping, Katie?"

But as he spoke Mr Fleming looked up. He did not see Jacob for the moment. He held out his hand and tried to rise.

"No; sit still," and Mr Maxwell sat down beside him.

"It is kind of you to come so early. Katie thinks her—no worse this morning. But you must think her dying to come so soon again, and at this hour."

"No. I am glad she is no worse. It was not that I thought her dying. I came for another reason."

"Well, you are kindly welcome anyway."

"I went to see Squire Holt this morning. No—he is not dying, though it cannot be long now."

"Ay! ay! Well, he is an old man, and he is ending a useful life."

He spoke dreamily in his utter weariness, looking away over the fields to the sunshiny hills beyond.

"I have something to give you, Mr Fleming," said the minister gently, "something which Miss Holt found among her father's papers."

"Well, well," said the old man, waiting quietly, almost indifferently, for what might be said.

"It is a letter, written long ago by one dead and gone, who was very dear to you."

A change came over her grandfather's face, but whether it was because of what Mr Maxwell had said, or because he saw Jacob Holt standing before him, and quite near him, Katie could not tell. Jacob moistened his dry lips, and tried twice to speak before a sound came.

"It is a letter—and before you read it—I beg you to forgive me for any harm I may ever have done—to you or yours."

The little Flemings had gathered about the door, but their mother drew them away into the house. Katie kept her place by her grandfather, and so did Davie, but he was out of sight in the porch. Mr Fleming rose, and stood face to face with his enemy; but when he spoke it was to Mr Maxwell that he turned.

"She said, she could never go—up yonder—till I have forgiven him—and I am an old man, now."

He tottered a little as he turned to Jacob, but he held out his hand:

"God forgive you. And God help me to forgive you. And God forgive me too, for I doubt it has been rebellion with me all this time."

"Amen," said Jacob, and then he moved away, and Mr Fleming sank down on the seat again. He seemed to have forgotten that there was anything more to be said, and after a moment's hesitation, Mr Maxwell put the letter into Katie's hand.

"The letter, grandfather," said she softly.

"Ay, the letter."

He took it, holding it out at arm's length that he might see, but when his eye rested on the familiar characters he uttered a sharp, inarticulate cry and let it fall. The blood rushed to his face till it was crimson, and then receding, left him pale as death.

"Grandfather, come into grannie," said Katie, putting her arms about him. "Davie, come and help our grandfather."

"Grannie's better, grandfather," said Davie; "come."

"But the letter," said the old man, faintly. "Oh, ay! Grandmother will like to see the letter!"

But he did not rise.

"The letter. Where's the letter?"

Jacob Holt stooped and lifted it from the grass where it had fallen, and Davie looked at him with amazed and angry eyes, as he opened it and taking out the folded slip of paper, offered it to him, while he kept the squire's letter and the money in his hand.

"Read that first," said Jacob hoarsely, and then he went away round the corner of the house out of sight, and Mr Maxwell followed him.

"Read it, Katie, lassie."

With trembling fingers Davie opened the letter and gave it to his sister. Kneeling beside him, Katie read:

"Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son."

There was more written, but she got no further, for a cry burst from his lips—whether of joy or pain they could not tell—and his head fell on Katie's shoulder.

"Whisht, Davie. Lay him down gently, and get a little water. Be quiet, man. Grannie will hear you."

For Davie had cried out in his terror at the sight of his grandfather's deathlike face. The cry brought out his mother, and Mr Maxwell and Jacob hurried back again. He was better in a minute, and they led him into the house, and made him lie down. In a little while Katie brought him some tea.

"Grannie bade me, grandfather, and you must take it you ken."

She knelt beside him, holding the cup for him, and by coaxing and entreating made him take a little food.

"And now you must just rest a while."

They had brought him into the front room "for quiet," Katie said, as he looked round in surprise; "rest and think about it," she whispered, hardly venturing to say more. Gradually it came back to him that something had happened. By this time breakfast was over, and worship, and Katie brought Mr Maxwell in and left him there.

Jacob Holt would not stay to breakfast, though Davie and his mother had asked him to stay. Before he went he gave the squire's letter to Davie.

"Give it to your grandfather, but do not read it," said he.

He had something to say to Mr Maxwell also.

"I don't know just how much Mr Fleming knows of what happened long ago. Hugh Fleming, after much entreaty from several of us, signed my father's name where he ought not. He alone had the skill to do it. It was to save—some of us from much trouble. He was not in the scrape. He was not to be benefited personally by it, except that he was persuaded that some foolish deed of his could be more easily kept from his father's knowledge if he helped to screen the rest by yielding. If he had stayed at home and met it, it would have been well; my father made no trouble about it. But he went away—and died. And you must tell his father—"

Jacob turned his back upon the minister for a full minute, and then without another word went away.

It was Mr Maxwell who read the letter to Mr Fleming after all. There were only a few lines more than Katie read: "I trust God has forgiven me, and that He will keep me safe from sin. Forgive me, dear father and mother and James."

And then his name and another line: "I will make up to you, dear father, for all you suffer now for me."

"And He has kept him safe," said the minister, "all these years."

Katie came now and then, and looked in, but she did not speak, except once to say that grannie was sleeping still. Even Katie never knew how the minister and her grandfather passed the long morning. It was noon when she went in and told them that dinner was nearly ready, and that grannie was awake and asking for them. Afterward Mr Maxwell told Miss Elizabeth something about it.

How as it gradually became clear to the father that his dear son's light had not gone out in darkness, but that he had repented of his sin, and confessed it, and had been as he trusted forgiven, his grief and shame and penitence were even deeper than his joy.

"To think that I should have been misdoubting the Lord all this time, as though He had broken His promise to me! And how patient He has been— long-suffering and full of compassion. I have been hard on Jacob Holt. If God had dealt with me as I have in my heart dealt with him!"

The minister did not always know whether he was speaking to him, or to himself. By and by, when he got calmer, and "better acquainted" with the thought of the new joy, he told the minister, in broken words, the story of his love for his son, and the bitterness of his loss, and his wonder and sympathy grew as he listened.

What depths of woe the old man had sounded! With what agonies of bitterness and anger which had grown to be hatred almost, as the years went on, had he struggled. And he had sometimes yielded to the misery of doubt of God's care. He had thought the struggle vain.

He had never been quite at peace with himself through it all. God had never left him to an easy conscience, where Jacob Holt was concerned, even at his quietest time, and when things were at their best with him. He had never left him to himself, and now the evil spirit was cast out.

"The patience He has had with me. It is wonderful!" he said again and again. "And now I ask nothing but that He may do His will with me and mine," he added, as Katie came in.

"I think grannie is no worse, though she is very weak and cannot bear much," was Katie's gentle caution, lest she should be excited overmuch.

He did not answer her, but turned to Mr Maxwell and repeated his words:

"I ask nothing but that God may do His will with me and mine."

"That is always best," said the minister.

Katie looked from one to the other.

"Come, grandfather," said she.

He went slowly out, touching the door and the walls to steady himself by, and when he went in to grannie, Katie softly shut the door. There was no one to tell what was said there between the two. If Mr Fleming had needed anything utterly to break his heart with loving shame, and thankfulness, and sorrow, the glad serenity and trust of his dear old wife would have done it. He put restraint upon himself lest he should excite her beyond her strength, but she smiled at him.

"Joy seldom does harm, and I am better, though I am but weak and feckless. I'll soon mend now."

"And are you really better? I could almost find it in my heart to let you go to Him, nay, I canna say gladly, but God's will be done, whether you be to stay or go."

"Surely. And in His good time He'll take me, but no' just yet. You canna spare me yet."

The old man laughed a glad, tremulous laugh, but the tears were not very far from his eyes, and he patted gently the wrinkled hand, grown thin and limp.

"And you'll just go to your dinner with the minister and the bairns, and I'll rest myself a wee while, for, oh! I have little strength. But I'll soon have more."

After dinner Mr Maxwell came in to say a few words to Mrs Fleming, and "to give thanks," as she said, and then the old people were left alone together again. Whether they slept or not, grannie could not tell.

"But we didna think long, my dear," said she to Katie, with her faint, glad smile.

Mr Maxwell would have liked to lie all the afternoon on the orchard grass, with Davie and his mother sitting near, and Katie and the rest coming and going, as the work permitted, for it was sweet and restful there. But the old squire might wish to see him. He had visited him almost daily for a while, and so after a little he rose and said he must go.

"And grannie is better, but Miss Elizabeth will have no glad morning. Oh, if we could comfort her," said Katie, gravely.

"And don't you think that all that has comforted you all to-day, will comfort her also?" said Mr Maxwell.

"Miss Elizabeth has always rejoiced with the joyful, and sympathised with those who were in sorrow," said Katie's mother.

"And that is why she is loved so dearly," said Katie.

"And she was ay fond of grannie," said Davie.

"She will be comforted," said the minister.

And Miss Betsey had her wish. One day her mother and Cynthia came down, and Ben went over for Mr Fleming, and old Mrs Wainwright, and Deacon Stone, and two or three others, and the minister, and they all remembered their Lord together. The "cup of blessing" was passed from the trembling hands of Mr Fleming to the hands of Jacob Holt, which trembled also, and so the very last drop of bitterness passed out of the old man's heart forever.

The end was drawing near now, and the old squire, looking glad and solemn too, held his daughter's hand, and welcomed them all by name as they came, and bade them farewell as they went away, "hoping to see them again," he said, but knowing, as did they all, that it must be on "the other side." Mr Fleming stayed when the others went away, and Elizabeth gave him her seat by her father for a little while. They had not much to say to one another. In all their intercourse the squire had been the talker, but he was past all that now. But he was not past noticing the peaceful look that had already come to the face of his friend.

"You feel better, don't you? It has done you good?" meaning doubtless the communion they had enjoyed together with their Lord and Master.

Mr Fleming hardly knew what he meant, but he said gently, "Ay, it has done me good."

For a moment it came into his thoughts to speak to the squire about the letter, and the joy it had brought to him at last. But he was tired and his thoughts were beginning to wander, and he doubted whether he could make him understand.

"He'll ken where he is going," said he to himself, but to the dying man he said nothing but "Fare ye well; and the Lord be with you in the valley." And then he went away.

But not without a word from Elizabeth.

"Dear Mr Fleming," said she, holding his hand when they were at the door, "you must let me say how glad I am for you and for his mother."

"Ay, that you are, I am very sure."

"If only it had come—long ago," said Elizabeth.

A momentary shadow passed over his face.

"Ay. It seems strange to us. There is only one thing sure—His time is best."

Then Elizabeth sent her love to Mrs Fleming and to Katie, and her mother, and then she touched with her lips the old man's furrowed cheek, and some who saw him leave his old friend's house could not but wonder at the peaceful brightness of his face that day.

There was another day of watching and waiting, and then a few days of silence in the darkened house, and then the old squire was laid in his grave with such marks of honour as his fellow-townsmen could give. People from other towns, and from all the country round, came to Gershom that day, and many a kindly word was spoken of the dead, and many a tale told of good deeds done in secret, of friendly help and counsel given in time of need, and all agreed that a good man and true had gone to his rest from among them, and that not many like him were left behind.

And though all that great multitude could not see the open grave and Elizabeth and Clifton and Jacob at the head, and Betsey and her mother and Ben and all the rest standing near, no man left Gershom that day who had not heard how, when the first clods fell on the coffin-lid, and Jacob shuddered and grew white as death, old David Fleming, one of the bearers, went forward and gave him his arm to lean upon till the grave was filled and the last word spoken. Of course these strangers did not know all that this implied to both these men, but every one in Gershom knew and was glad for them both.