How many thoughts and ideas he surely must have, she used to think, after one of those meetings, when she took her solitary way home, after parting with Jean, and remembered Geordie's remarks, which seemed to throw new light on her favourite histories, and to touch with insight all that was most beautiful and true in them. Often Elsie used to delight the unvocal brother and sister by singing one of her hymns, which for days afterwards would echo in some "odd corner" of the lonely little herd-boy's brain. Sometimes, too, they discussed what they had been hearing on the previous Sunday at Kirklands; and Elsie always felt more interested in the lesson after hearing Geordie's gentle, reverent talk. And to Elsie, who had neither brother nor sister, there was an infinite charm in Geordie's devotion to his sister Jean, and his unwearied anxiety for her happiness. She noticed, too, the tender, chivalrous care with which he ministered to his old grandmother, never wearying of her selfish, querulous ways, and sacrificing himself to her smallest wishes.

So it happened that a warm friendship sprang up between those three who sat side by side in Grace Campbell's little school-room; and their daily lives had become pleasantly interwoven during these past months. To Jean, Elsie appeared the embodiment of all that was worthy of imitation, from her snowy sun-bonnet to her gentle voice, both seeming equally unattainable to the little girl. When Geordie returned to the village on Saturday night, he used generally to hear from Jean some glowing narrative in Elsie's praise, to which Geordie's ears were quite wide open, though he sat bending over his books in the "ingle neuk" of the cottage kitchen.

When her idea of a winter at school had to be abandoned, Grace gave him a few helpful class-books, and tried to direct his efforts to learn as much as was possible; but, during the past year, her aunt's increasing weakness and dependence on her companionship made it impossible for Grace to give the boy such practical help as she would fain have done. But Geordie had been fighting his own battle manfully, and had made more progress than Grace guessed.

Walter had first been telling her as they walked on the terrace together, that the day before he had found Geordie busy with a geography book as he tended his cattle, and how pleased he had been to hear about the new lands Walter had seen. Like Elsie, Walter felt that, in Geordie's mind, things seemed to gather a richness and an interest with which his own impressions had not clothed them.

"You've no idea how many queer questions the fellow asked me about everything," continued Walter. "Indeed, Grace, I couldn't help thinking how much more good Geordie would have got out of all the things and places I've seen since I went away, than I have. And yet he's much too clever for a sailor's life. What can we do with him, Grace? I really can't bear to think of his drudging on as a farm servant to old Gowrie, though he seems quite contented with the prospect," and Walter turned to Grace, who glanced at her brother's kindly face with pleasure, though not unmixed with surprise, that he should take such an interest in her Sunday-scholar.

Walter seemed to look on Grace's class rather in a humorous light when he first heard of its existence on his return to Kirklands. And presently he had begun to grudge that she should devote herself to it, and thus deprive him of the pleasure of her society during the long Sunday afternoons, when they used to be together in the old days. And, in the midst of all her joy in having her brother with her again, Grace had been feeling with sadness that there was as yet no response in Walter's heart to those unseen, eternal things, which, in her efforts to share them with the little company on Sunday, had become increasingly vivid to her own mind. He used occasionally to rally her on her new fancies, which he seemed to think quite harmless and suitable for a girl, provided they did not cross his plans and fancies.

One day, when he was on his way to fish, he had happened to meet Geordie, who was herding his cattle near the stepping-stones. Geordie was a clever angler, and could wile more trout out of the river than most people, and Walter had been delighted with his information as to the fishing capabilities of the Kirklands river. Since that day they had always been friends when they chanced to meet. Walter could never see the sun-bleached locks gleaming in the distance without crossing whatever gate or field happened to lie between, and going to have a talk with him; so the boys had seen much more of each other than Grace knew. She had often been obliged to leave "Walter to solitary rambles, owing to her aunt's, increasing dependence on her during her long illness, so it happened that she felt some surprise when she saw Walter more moved than was his wont as he eagerly discussed plans for helping Geordie.

"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie," said Walter, in his blunt way, as his quick eye detected Grace's slight surprise that he should have so warmly espoused the cause of her Sunday-scholar. "You know I have seen Geordie a good deal lately. We have had a lot of fishing talk, and all that, and I like the chap—he's a first-rate fellow. I can't bear to see a fellow so much better than myself trudging away behind those beasts of Gowrie's day after day. And, besides, Grace, the fact is I owe him something more than anything I may be able to do for him can ever repay. It isn't every fellow, I can tell you, who would have had the courage to say to me what he did," stammered Walter.

"What did he say, Walter?" asked Grace, more astonished than ever. "I thought you hardly knew more of Geordie Baxter than his name. You know he is my favourite scholar. But it is a long time since I have had a quiet talk with him. I well remember the first conversation we had, standing on the stepping-stones near that bend of the river where the birches grow."

"Ah, yes, I know the place. It's curious, it was just about that very spot I was going to tell you. I met him there, one day, not long ago, and he happened to say that he had been asking Gowrie to stop sending the cattle to that bit of pasture, because the stepping-stones made it a thoroughfare, and that bull had been getting more savage lately, and he could not always persuade people that it was dangerous to pass near him; but Gowrie had said it was nonsense, and so forth. Well, you see, I'm not very fond of old Gowrie, and when I saw how meekly Geordie submitted to him, I felt provoked, and began to speak a little strongly, as we middies sometimes do—swore, in fact. And if Geordie didn't make me feel more ashamed of myself than ever I did in my life. You've tried your hand on me before now, Gracie, and I'm sure you'll be glad to hear—well, that I'm going to try to lead a very different life now." Walter's voice faltered, and Grace looked at him with glistening eyes.

After a few moments' silence, she said, "But Walter, dear, you haven't told me yet what Geordie said."

"Well, Grace, I hardly think I should like to tell you all he said. But he came, and laying his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with those earnest eyes of his. 'You've been very kind to me, Maister Campbell,' he began, 'and it would be ill-done no to min' ye that ye are giving a sore heart to your best Friend ye have by takin' his dear name in vain,' and then he said a little more about it. I was so taken aback, Grace, I could hardly believe my own ears. It must have required a lot of downright courage to speak like that; there isn't a mid in all our crew who would have ventured to do so. And yet I dare say I'm in for something of the same kind when I go back again to the ship. For you know I must be a 'good soldier,' Grace," added Walter, with a gentle, fearless look in his eyes that carried Grace's thoughts back to an early scene, when she stood in the crowded street in her nurse's hand, and watched her father's face as he rode alongside his men to his last battle. And as she looked at Walter's face, she remembered some old words which say, "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city;" and she lifted up her heart, and gave God thanks that this young spirit, so dear and precious to her, had taken him for his Leader and Lord.



CHAPTER V.

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING DAYS CAME TO AN END.

It was a lovely autumn evening. The valley of Kirklands lay flooded in the sunset glow. Its yellowing fields were tinged with warm-crimson and purple, and the golden light shimmered on the trees and fringed the dark fir tops. Never had her home looked more beautiful, Grace thought, when, at last, the brother and sister turned to go indoors, after their earnest talk. She stood leaning on the old carved railing of the steps, taking one more glance at the peaceful scene before she followed Walter into the darkening entrance-hall, when her eye caught sight of a stumpy figure which she thought she recognised.

It was little Jean Baxter, who hurried along the elm avenue as fast as her short legs could carry her. She looked breathless and excited, and when she came nearer Grace saw that she was tearful and dishevelled. She hastened down the steps to meet her, wondering what childish grief could be agitating the mind of the usually imperturbable little Jean. When she caught eight of Grace, she threw up her arms with a loud, bitter wail that rang among the old elms, echoing through their arching branches, and startling the birds that had just gone to roost. "Oh, Miss Cam'ell! Geordie, Geordie!—he's hurt; he's dyin'; Blackie's gotten hold o' him."

It was vain to ask anything more. Jean could only repeat her wailing refrain, so taking the child's hand, Grace quietly asked her to lead the way to where Geordie was, trying to quiet her bitter weeping by such soothing words as she could muster in the midst of her own distress at the possibility of any serious accident having happened to her favourite scholar. But poor little Jean's sad monotone still rang mournfully through the soft evening air as she trotted along by Grace's side—"Geordie's dyin'; Blackie's got hold o' him."

Grace, however, managed to learn from a few incoherent words that the boy was lying, in whatever state he might be, at the river side, near the stepping-stones. He had, that afternoon, taken the cattle, along with the dangerous bull, to the heathery knolls, where Gowrie's careful soul grudged that any morsel of pasture should remain unused. Geordie had always been most careful in warning unwary passers-by of their danger, for, though fearless enough himself, he still held that Blackie was the "ill-natertest bull in all the country-side," and never felt easy in his mind except when he had him within the fences of the upland fields. He had once or twice tried to tether the animal near one of the hillocks, but he saw that it made his temper more dangerous than ever; besides, the little patches of green pasture were so scattered through the heather, and had carefully to be scented out by discriminating noses, that to have fettered poor Blackie to one spot seemed to him a crying injustice, uneasy as he felt at his being able to roam at large so near a thoroughfare. Geordie had never even allowed himself the luxury of Jean's company when there were no fences to put between Blackie and her.

But that day the harvest holidays had been given at the girls' school. There had been prizes distributed and an examination held which lasted till evening. Elsie Gray had got several trophies of her diligence, but the great and unexpected event of the day was that little Jean had actually got a prize. She was nearly beside herself with ecstasy as she clutched the gay crimson and gilt volume which was presented to her, and resented that it should even for a moment be absent from her arms to be admired by her companions. Then Geordie must hear about this unexpected honour, must see and touch the treasure at once; and Jean galloped off with the precious volume to the field where he was generally to be found perched on the paling, awaiting their coming. Elsie Gray followed, eager enough, too, to show her honours to the boy-friend, whose golden opinions she dearly loved to win. There was a pink flush on her usually pale cheek, as she glanced about in search of Geordie when they reached the field, panting and breathless after their race. But no Geordie was visible anywhere, and the field was quite empty and tenantless. Then Jean remembered, what she had forgotten in her excitement, that Geordie was to be herding at the hillocks to-day, and so she started off to find him, forgetful that his present post was forbidden ground.

The girls were not long in reaching the stepping-stones, and presently Jean was at Geordie's side, dancing round him with wild cries of delight, as she flourished her gay prize in his rather bewildered eyes. He had been lying with his face resting on his hands, on one of the soft knolls of turf, looking at the sunset, and thinking of the new lands of which he had lately been hearing from Walter Campbell. He seemed so possessed by his own thoughts and reveries that he heard no sound of coming footsteps till he looked up suddenly, and saw little Jean by his side. He jumped up from the turf, and began to look wistfully towards the river side to see if there was nobody else besides Jean coming to enliven a lonely hour.

Elsie had crossed the stepping-stones, and was moving towards the hillock on which he stood, with her sun-bonnet in one hand, and her heavy armful of shining prize books in the other with the golden sun's rays falling on her. Her dusky hair was hanging rather more loosely than usual, shaken out of its general smoothness by her hot face. The pale face was all aglow with pleasure, and her large eyes looked radiant with delight at the thoughts of the pleasure that little Jean's success, as well as her own, would give to Geordie. The boy stood with his flaxen hair all gilded by the sun, looking at her with a glad light in his blue eyes. For a moment only, and then, with a look of terror, he glanced in the opposite direction, remembering that this was dangerous ground. Blackie had been roused from his sleepy grazing by little Jean's cry of delight, and, looking up, his evil eye caught sight of Elsie, with her bright colours, made more dazzling by the sunset tints. With a toss of his head, and a few wild plunges, the brute, with his head near to the ground, and his eyes fixed on his prey, made his way towards her. Geordie shouted, "Back, Elsie; back on the stepping-stones!" but it was too late.

Elsie lost her presence of mind, and wavered backward and forward for a moment, till it was impossible to save herself by taking refuge on the other side of the stream, where Blackie, not knowing the advantage of stepping-stones, would probably not have troubled himself to follow her. In an instant Geordie had flung himself between the roused animal and Elsie. His stick still lay on the hillock, where he had been resting, so he had no weapon of defence, and Blackie, in his rage, would not spare the faithful lad, who had spent so many lonely hours by his side. In another moment, Geordie was lying gored and senseless on the heather.

Elsie had reached the stepping-stones, and stood there transfixed like a marble statue. Blackie might follow her now if he had a mind to, but he had not. After a glance at Geordie, he plunged away with his heels in the air through the heather, having an uneasy consciousness that he had lost his temper, and treated a good friend rather roughly.

As for little Jean, she had fortunately happened to be beyond Blackie's range of observation; for it was on Elsie that his sole gaze had been fixed, and he only vented his baulked fury on Geordie when the vision of bright colours slipped away. Gowrie's ploughman happened to be passing near, and had been a witness of the scene, though it was impossible for him to give timely help. Elsie Gray, he noticed, was now safe on the stepping-stones, and Geordie lying on the heather, with all the mischief done to him that Blackie was likely to do. But the enraged animal might attack somebody else presently, and the man thought the best service he could render was to secure Blackie against doing further injury. Never did repentant criminal receive handcuffs with more submission than the guilt-stricken Blackie the badge of punishment. There was a subdued pathetic look of almost human remorse and woe in the eye of the brute, as he was led past the place where Geordie lay low among the heather. The hands that had so often fed him and made a clean soft bed for him at night, often stroking his great knotted neck, and never raised in unjust punishment, lying helpless and shattered now, and the fair locks hung across his face, all dabbled with blood. Elsie was now kneeling by his side, but he was quite unconscious of her presence, and heedless of her low wailing, as she looked wildly round to see if nobody was coming to help Geordie, who had helped her so bravely. Little Jean had hurried shrieking to the farm, with the news of the accident, and Mistress Gowrie presently appeared, to Elsie's intense relief. She was a kindly woman, and felt conscience-stricken as she kneeled beside the little herd-boy; for she knew that it was not with his will that Blackie roamed at large among those knolls. She had happened to hear his last expostulation with her husband on the point; and this was how it had ended. But she did not think he was dead. Elsie could hardly restrain a cry of delight when she heard the whispered word that he lived still. How joyfully she carried water in her sun-bonnet from the flowing river, how tenderly she sprinkled it on his face and hands, and wiped the bloodstained locks.

And then old Farmer Gowrie came and stood with his hands behind his back, and a shadow on his furrowed face, as he gazed on his young servant with an uneasy stare. He kept restlessly moving backwards and forwards to see whether the still motionless figure showed any sign of life, till his wife reminded him that Granny Baxter was probably ignorant of the terrible accident which had happened to her grandson, and asked him to go and break the news to her. Little Jean had been there before him, however; and Gowrie found the old woman crawling helplessly along in the direction of the knolls, quite stupefied by the terrible tidings that Jean had managed to convey to her deaf ears. The little girl seemed possessed with the idea that Miss Campbell would be sure to be able to help Geordie in this extremity; and so she left her old granny to find her way alone, and had hurried away in the direction of Kirklands to tell her sorrowful tale, meeting Grace, as we know, in the elm avenue, after her eventful talk with her brother.

They were already half-way to the stepping-stones, when Grace remembered—feeling it unaccountable that, even in her anxiety, she should have forgotten for an instant—that Walter must know what had happened to Geordie—Geordie, to whom he owed so much. She felt that she could not leave the little weeping girl to go on her way alone; but just as she was standing hesitating what it might be best to do, she met one of the dwellers in the valley, who promised to go at once and convey a message to her brother, and then she and Jean hurried on towards the fatal pasture lands. Before they crossed the stepping-stones which led to the knolls, Grace could see a little group bending over a spot in the heather; but no sound reached them through the calm evening air, except the rippling of the sunset-tinted river, which rolled between. And so Geordie was lying there gored, maimed, perhaps dying, as Jean persisted in saying. Grace felt her heart sink with fear, lest the sorrowful refrain should be true, as she crept silently near to the place where the little company was gathered. But Geordie was not dead.

"Here comes Miss Campbell," somebody said, and then the circle opened up, and Grace caught a glimpse of her scholar lying very quietly among the heather with his blue eye turned gladly to welcome his friend.

"It was only a faint, after all,—and some bruises that will soon heal," Mistress Gowrie said, in a tone of relieved anxiety, as she rose from the turf where she had been kneeling to make way for Grace, who felt an intense relief as she bent smilingly over him, and talked gently of the danger past, with her heart full of thankfulness.

When little Jean saw the happy aspect of matters, her grief gave place to the wildest ecstasy of delight. Throwing herself down beside her brother, she shouted gleefully, "Oh, Geordie, Geordie, ye're no dyin' after all, ye're all right. I'll never greet again all the days o' my life," was the rash promise which she made in her joy, remembering Geordie's dislike to tears. Presently her thoughts reverted to her treasure, which, in her grief, had been forgotten. It had been dropped on the knoll when the accident happened, and Jean now bounded off gleefully in search of it.

A doctor had been sent for soon after the accident, but Geordie seemed so well that old Gowrie already began to regret that they had been in such haste in sending to fetch him. Presently Mistress Gowrie left the knolls and returned to her usual evening duties, which she felt were put sadly in arrear owing to this outbreak of Blackie's, and feeling truly thankful that it had ended so fortunately. She invited old Granny Baxter to have a cup of tea with her at the farm, which was a very great mark of graciousness on the part of "the mistress," and extremely gratifying to the old woman, to whom attentions of the kind came rarely.

It had been arranged, also, by the farmer's wife that Geordie should be moved into the "best bedroom" before the doctor came, and Granny Baxter was filled with pride when she was shown the woodruff-scented chamber, with its dark shining floor, and among other impressive decorations from the farmyard, a waving canopy of peacock feathers above the ancient chimney-piece, where Geordie was to sleep among snowy sheets that night. But each time that they proposed he should be carried there from his rough bed among the heather, Geordie pled rather wistfully, "Just wait a wee while. I'm right comfortable here among the heather," and once he added with a sad smile as he glanced at the farmer's wife, "But I'll no be able to supper the beasts the night, Mistress Gowrie. Maybe Sandy will look to them. Puir Blackie! give him a good supper; he didn't mean any ill."

Only Elsie Gray, of all the original group, still sat near Geordie, where she could watch every movement, though she could not be seen by him. She kept gazing at him with unutterable anguish in her eyes, and only she detected the sharp spasms that occasionally crossed his face, and felt his frame quiver with pain which he tried to conceal.

"Miss Campbell," she whispered to Grace who was seated near her, "he's very sore hurt, I'm sure of it. Oh, will the doctor no come soon!" and when Grace looked into Geordie's face she began to share Elsie's fears.

Presently Jean came bounding back in delight with her recovered treasure to lay it in Geordie's hands. He looked at the gaily-bound book with his most pleased smile, and then glancing at Jean proudly, he said, "Eh, Jean, but ye'll be learnin' to be a grand scholar. I'm right glad ye have got to the school."

Then the eager little girl must needs have the book in her own hands again, to search among the leaves for the illustrations which were interspersed, so that Geordie might be introduced to all the beauties of this wonderful volume. Geordie kept looking at her as she turned the leaves with a somewhat pitiful gaze, and presently he said in a low tone, "Jean, come a little nearer. I want to speak to ye, Jeanie. Do ye ken I'm maybe goin' til the grand school the good Maister keeps waitin' for us in the heavenly land? And I'll be learnin' a deal o' things there that we canna learn down here," he added, with a smile; and then he paused.

Jean looked up from her boot with bewildered eyes as she listened to Geordie's words; a grave expression came into her face, but the shadow was only caused by her not understanding what he meant, for she knew that Geordie occasionally went beyond her depth.

"I'll no ever herd Gowrie's cows again, Jean, or wait at the fences for Elsie and you. I'm dyin' Jeanie," he added in a hoarse whisper, as he gazed sorrowfully at the little girl.

There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, and little Jean, dropping her precious book, burst into loud sobbing, as she flung herself on Geordie.

Grace had been watching the boy with a sinking heart, and a great fear began to take possession of her that what he said might be true, as a terrible spasm of agony crossed his face, and a groan of pain escaped him. She looked anxiously to see if there was any sign of the doctor coming, and taking little Jean aside, she told her that if she loved Geordie she must be brave and quiet, even though he was so very ill, as he seemed to think. Then she tried to speak some soothing words of comfort, but little Jean wailed out with a fresh burst of sorrow:

"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, why didn't God keep him from Blackie, if he loves him as ye say? Ye mind how ye read to us in the Bible about him saving the herd-laddie out o' the jaws o' the bear; oh, but, I think, he might have taken care of our Geordie;" and poor little Jean would not be comforted.

"Where's granny?" Geordie had whispered, and Elsie rose from her post at Geordie's head and flitted away like a little noiseless ghost to find the old woman. She met her at the farm, where, having finished her cup of tea, she was being shown some of Mistress Gowrie's feathered favourites in the farmyard.

"Mistress Gowrie, he's not better, as ye think; he says he's dyin', and wants to see granny," Elsie said, with quivering lips, as she reached them.

"Dying, child, nonsense! what do you mean?" said the farmer's wife, looking at Elsie to see if she was not dreaming. But Elsie looked terribly wide-awake and sorrow-stricken, and Mistress Gowrie went off in search of her husband.

Then Granny Baxter began to perceive that there was something wrong, and presently Elsie succeeded in making her understand, and began to guide her slow steps to where her grandson still lay. Oh, how slow they were, Elsie thought, as she glanced along the straight field path still to be crossed before they reached the knolls, and thought of what might be going on there. But had not Geordie wanted to see his grandmother, and surely she might endure for him who had done so much for her? So the little girl kept close by the old woman's side, who leant her wrinkled hand on Elsie's shoulder, while, with the help of her staff in the other, she hobbled along, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, groaning and muttering about this terrible blow that seemed likely to fall upon her.

"Granny, granny, I've been wearyin' for you," said Geordie, holding out both his hands, when at last Elsie's patience had guided the old woman to the spot. "Oh, but I'm no able to make her hear. Nae words o' mine can travel to her ear, and I had much to say to her," Geordie cried, with a suppressed sob, as some terrible internal pain seemed to seize him.

The old woman had seated herself by his side, and her withered fingers wandered trembling among his hair, as she moaned helplessly, "Oh, laddie, laddie, what's this that's come upon us?"

Suddenly, Geordie seemed to remember something, and, smiling brightly, he feebly raised his hand to his jacket-pocket, and drew out the little chamois bag, containing the slowly-gathered store of money with which he intended to buy the ear-trumpet for his poor deaf granny.

"I gathered the last sixpence yestreen, for holding the minister's horse," he said, as he laid the bag in her hand, "It's to buy a thing that makes deaf folk hear, granny. But she can't understand me, Miss Cam'ell," he murmured, sadly, as he looked at Grace, who was leaning over him; "and, oh, I would have liked well to tell her before I go away about the Good Shepherd that you first told me about, Miss Cam'ell. I dinna think she understands right what a Friend he can be to a body; and I've always been waitin' till I got that horn for makin her hear to tell her all about him, for it's no a thing that a body wad just like to roar at the tap o' their voice. But you'll maybe speak to her some of the things ye spak' to us, Miss Cam'ell. Ye'll have one less at the school now, ye see," he added, smiling sadly; and then turning with a look of tender pity on his grandmother, who watched him with wistful eyes, as if she knew that his lips were moving for her, he said, "Oh, tell her to listen to his voice, and let the sound into her heart. He was aye able to mak' deaf folk hear, wasn't he, Miss Cam'ell?" said Geordie, with a bright smile as he turned to his young teacher.

They had now got ready a sort of litter, on which they meant to carry him to the farm; for Mistress Gowrie felt convinced that only more comfortable surroundings and a visit from the doctor was necessary for his complete recovery, and was resolved that no care of nursing on her part should be wanting to atone for any past indifference to the welfare of the little herd-boy with which she might reproach herself.

Geordie, seeing her anxiety to perform this deed of kindness, at last consented that they should take him from his lowly heather couch, and carry him to all the comforts of the best bedroom at Gowrie. But each time they tried to lift him the boy got so deathly pale, and seemed to suffer so intensely, that even Mistress Gowrie was obliged to acknowledge that it might be best to wait till the doctor came. Indeed, it soon became evident to all that Blackie's blows had touched some vital part, and Geordie's herding days were done.

He lay for a little while with closed eyes, seeming thankful to be undisturbed, and a silence fell on the group round him, not broken when Walter Campbell joined it; for a glance from Grace, and a look at Geordie's face, told him all. He stood there, in the freshness and strength of his youth, looking at the ebbing life of the boy whom he felt then as if he would have died to save. How he longed to tell him of all the blessing his words had brought to his soul, of the life-long gratitude which must surround his memory; but it was too late. Walter felt that he could not disturb the passing soul with anything so personal; but in the land where Geordie was going they would meet one day; and he would keep his thanks till then.

The silence had not been broken for several minutes. Poor little Jean had been trying to keep very brave and quiet, since Grace explained to her how much her noisy grief would vex Geordie. But Elsie, who had returned to her post at Geordie's head, and was seated silently there, now gave a smothered sob, which seemed to fall on Geordie's ear. He opened his blue eyes, and looking wistfully about, said in a faint whisper, "Elsie, I didna know ye was here. I saw you on the stepping-stones just when I was meetin' Blackie, but I thought you had been away home before now; it surely must be far on in the gloamin'. Eh, Elsie, but I'll no be able to keep the tryst for the bramble gatherin' wi' you," he said, in a mournful tone, turning towards her, and referring to a long-planned holiday, when they were to go together to search for brambles for Mistress Gowrie and the forester's wife's joint jam making. "But, Elsie, speak to me," he continued, feebly, holding out his hand, for he could not see her face where she sat, "We'll keep our tryst in the bonnie land beside the green pastures and the still waters ye often read to me about. Will we no', Elsie?"

"Oh, Geordie, I can't bear it. Why did you no let Blackie get hold o' me? Oh, Geordie, Geordie!" Elsie sobbed, as she crept round within sight of the boy, and knelt beside him with clasped hands and lines of agony on her face, that made the fair child look like a suffering woman.

Geordie turned his dying eyes upon her with a look of mingled love and sorrow, which none who saw it could ever forget; and stretching out both his hands, he said, "Oh, Elsie, will ye no give me one kiss afore I dee?"

And Elsie lifted up her fair face, which had been covered with her hands, and bending down, kissed the dying lips. Then, with a look of unutterable gladness and contentment, Geordie closed his eyes as if he was going to sleep.

Walter Campbell turned away for a moment, for, as he afterwards told one of his shipmates, "It was more than a fellow could stand, and he didn't mind confessing that he hadn't stood it." Presently he hurriedly joined the little group again, determined that Geordie must yet hear before he went away how his faithful words had, through God's grace burnt themselves into a wayward heart, and set a dead soul on fire. But he found that another Voice was falling on Geordie's ear, which was closed to all earthly sounds now; even that greeting to faithful ones which bids them enter into the joy of their Lord.

And so the poor bruised body did lie in Mistress Gowrie's woodruff-scented best bedroom, and among her snowy linen, that night after all, but Geordie was not there; his home was henceforth in the many mansions of the Father's house.



CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME

"Now, children, here we are at Kirklands, at last," said a lady with a pleasant voice, to an eager-looking group of boys and girls, who were clustering round her, in a large open travelling carriage, which had just drawn up in front of an old gateway, and waited for admittance.

"Kirklands at last," was re-echoed among the little party. The two boys seated beside the coachman glanced round at the occupants of the inside seats, feeling sure that, their higher position secured them superior information, and shouted in chorus, "Mamma, mamma, Kirklands at last."

"As if we didn't know that as well as you do," shouted back Willie, a curly-headed little fellow, seated beside his mother, who had a secret hankering after the higher place of his elder brothers, along with a desire to prove to them that their position was in no way superior to his own.

The old gates closed behind them, and the carriage bowled swiftly along the smooth avenue, with its branching elms overhead. The pleasant vistas of green, on all sides, were very grateful to the eyes of the young travellers, wearied with miles of a white dusty turnpike-road, on a hot July afternoon. They looked with delighted gaze on the new fair scene, and thought what happy evenings they would have among those green glades during the long summer days.

But there was one of the party to whom this scene was not new, but old and familiar, written over with many memories, some well-nigh overlaid in the turmoil of life, but which flickered up with new vividness as she looked on the calm sunlighted scene, and thought of other days. The years had brought many changes to her, and it was with mingled feelings that she gazed on this unchanged spot. Each grey-lichened rock stood out from the mossy floor with a face that was familiar; all the little winding woodland paths, she knew where they led to, and could take the children to many a nook where wild flowers and delicate green ferns still loved to grow, at they did long ago when she used to gather them in these woods.

"Seventeen years ago! is it possible?" she murmured, as she leaned back in a corner of the carriage, and thought of the many leaves in the book of her life which had been folded-down since she took farewell of these green glades in her girlish days. And as she sits, quietly thinking, while the little group round her are making the green aisles resound with their merry laughter, we fancy, as we glance at her face, that it is one we have seen before in this valley. The "stealthy day by day" has certainly done its work; the outline of Grace's cheek is sharper than it used to be, and the eager, speaking eyes have lost somewhat of their fire, but there is a calm gladness in their gaze as she glances at the joyous faces round her, that speaks of lessons learnt, and sorrows past, during chequered days which have lain between the autumn evening, when we saw her last, and this July afternoon, when she is coming with her "two bands" to the home of her girlhood.

Miss Hume, Grace's aunt, had passed away from this world during that autumn seventeen years ago, and Grace had never revisited Kirklands since. Walter, to whom it belonged, was still a naval officer. His home on the sea had still more fascination for him than the inland beauties of Kirklands, which had been left to strangers during the intervening years.

For some time past it had stood empty and tenantless, and Walter had suggested that his sister, who had just come from a long sojourn abroad, should, with her children, take up her abode there. Her husband, Colonel Foster, was still on foreign service; and Grace, who longed to see the old home after all her wanderings, had readily agreed to go with her little flock and introduce them to the spot which was their dreamland of romance, the historic ground of all the pleasantest stories in their mother's mental library, often ransacked for their benefit.

Mrs. Foster's servants were already at Kirklands, making preparations for the arrival. The old rooms were being opened up once again, and shafts of golden sunlight streamed through the long-darkened windows, on the dark-panelled walls, as if to herald joyously the good news that "life and thought" were coming back to the deserted house.

As the carriage followed the windings of the avenue, the grey gables of the old mansion began to peep through the green boughs, their first appearance being announced by a jubilant chorus from the elder boys on the box, which made little Willie feel painfully that his range of vision was far from satisfactory. Presently, however, the timeworn walls could be seen by all the party, as the carriage wheeled round the old terrace, and the travellers reached the end of their journey. Then eager feet began to trot up and down the grass-grown steps, and climb on the old carved railing, where the griffins fascinated little Grace by their stony stare, as they used to do her mother years ago. The long-silent corridors began to resound with joyous laughter, as the merry party rambled through the old rooms, wishing to identify each place with historical recollections, founded on their mother's and Uncle Walter's stories. And was that really the tree that Uncle Walter made believe to be the rigging of a ship, and one day fell from one of its highest boughs? And where used they to keep their rabbits, and in what room did they learn their lessons? These, and such questions, were generally asked in chorus, to which their mother had to endeavour to reply, as she wandered among the familiar rooms with her merry boys and girls.

"Mamma, do you know what I should like to see best of all? Two things, mamma," whispered little Grace, as she caught hold of her mother's dress.

"And what would my little girl like to see—the toys mamma used to play with when she was a little girl like Gracie? I believe I've carried the key of the chest where they lie buried about with me all these years;" and Mrs. Foster began to look in the little basket she held in her hand for a shining bunch of keys.

"It wasn't the toys I meant, though I should like to see them very much," replied the little girl, who was more timid and gentle than her brothers and sisters, and generally required more encouragement to unburden her small mind, "it is the room where you taught Geordie that I want to see—and Geordie's grave among the heather."

Some quick ears had caught a name that seemed to be a household word, and louder voices said, as the boy's clustered round their mother, "Oh yes, mamma, do show us where you taught Geordie and little Jean."

So Grace led the way through the dim passages that had once frightened little Jean, and whose gloom now made the small Grace cling close to her mother's side. The still-room was dark and unopened, for the servants had not thought it necessary to include it in their preparations. Grace went to the window and undid the fastenings, and the yellow afternoon sun streamed on the dusty wooden bench where Geordie, and Jean, and Elsie used to sit.

The merry voices were hushed for a moment, and the children looked in awed silence into the little room, as if it had been a shrine.

After they had gazed long and silently, and their mother went to fasten the window again, she said, "Children, we will come here and read God's Word on Sunday afternoons, as the little company you know about used to do long ago; and I hope you will all listen to the Good Shepherd's voice, and follow it as Geordie did;" and presently the children trooped quietly away along the dark vaulted passages.

There was no faithful Margery now to be trusted with everything, and able to put things straight in the twinkling of an eye, as her young mistress used to declare she alone was capable of doing, so Mrs. Foster had some unpacking and arranging preliminaries to superintend before she could join her eager little party out of doors. But when tea was over, and the sun had begun to scatter its orange and crimson tints over the Kirklands valley, Grace thought she would like to take a stroll among some familiar places before the darkness came.

After lingering on the old terrace for a little, she gathered her boys and girls round her, and said she was going to take them across the park. She wanted to visit a place she remembered well, a pleasant angle of a rising glade of birches, where she once stood mourning over the traces of an uprooted cottage. But Grace knew that another home had grown on the ruins of the former dwelling, and to it she bent her steps now, for there was one of its inmates whom she longed to see. There was something of the mingled feeling of interest and romance with which her children wore viewing these now yet familiar scenes, in Grace's desire to look on a face she had not seen for many years. Its image would rise before her, chubby, smiling, and childlike, as of old; and then she remembered the evening when she had first seen it tear-stained and sad, as she crossed this path with the little fat hand in hers, as her own Grace's was now.

But Joan had not shed many tears since then. There was no happier home in all the valley than the white cottage, over which the birch-trees lovingly stretched their delicate fringes, her husband, the village carrier, used to think when he came within sight of it, after his day's journey was over, his parcels all delivered, and his horses "suppered" for the night. Generally his bright-looking wife was hovering near the door, waiting his coming with a little group round her as merry as the one that was now making the woods of Kirklands ring with their light-hearted laughter.

Grace had not told the children that she meant to take them to see little Jean that evening. She wanted first to go alone to the cottage and see her quietly there, for she had many things to hear and ask. Still, Grace had not been altogether a stranger to the home life there. Sometimes a letter, written and addressed with laborious carefulness, had followed her to remote foreign stations, and brought pleasant memories of dewy heather and fragrant birches as she read it among waving oleanders and palms. During all those years Grace had watched over Jean's welfare, and many things in her pretty home told of her thoughtful remembrance of Geordie's sister.



The arrival of the family at Kirklands had taken place a few days earlier than was intended, so Jean had not happened to hear the news, and was all unconscious of the pleasure in store for her. How often she had longed to see the "young leddy of Kirklands," as she still called her, how many times she said to her husband that she would be sure to know her anywhere, though it was so many years since she had looked into her face. But now, as Jean sat matron-like with her sewing, in front of her cottage, while her children played near, she wondered what "strange lady" could be coming along the path. She called her straying little ones to her, in case they should be in the way, but she noticed that the stranger did not seem to think so, for she had just stopped kindly to stroke one little flaxen head, and Jean, with a mother's pride, felt grateful that "her bairn should be respeckit among the rest." But when the lady, still holding the little boy's hand, began to climb the mossy bank, and came towards her, Jean thought she had surely seen that face before. Though not till Grace had smiled, and said, holding out her hand, "Jean, is it possible you do not know me?" did she recognise her old teacher.

"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, Miss Cam'ell!" she said, with a cry of delight as she dropped her mending and rose to meet her. "Is it really yourself? I canna believe my verra eyes."

And when Grace gazed questioningly into the serene, beaming face of the little matron, she saw it had kept all that was best of its childish lineaments, and felt with thankful gladness that Geordie's Shepherd had not forgotten little Jean. Meanwhile the little loitering party came along the road, and seeing their mother engaged in conversation beside the pretty cottage door, they were eager to know who of all the old friends she was talking to. Willie was the first to clamber up the mossy bank and reach the cottage. The others were following, when he joined them with an expression of mingled interest and disappointment on his face.

"I say Walter—Grace,—can you guess who mamma is speaking to? Well, it's Geordie's sister,—little Jean."

Then they all crept shyly near their mother while she talked at the cottage door, glancing with interest at the inmate. But when little Grace could find an opportunity she whispered in a tone of disappointment, "Oh, mamma, is it really true what Willie says?" and then she added with a sigh, when Willie's news had been confirmed, "Oh, I'm so sorry; I do wish she could have stayed a little girl."

Her mother smiled at the childish idea; but she presently remembered that it was as the little herd-boy Geordie's image still lived in her memory, though nearly twenty summers had come and gone since he entered on that life in which earthly days and years are merged into eternity, where the old and feeble renew their strength, and the young grow wiser than the wisest hero.

Grace's boys and girls had all to be introduced by name to the smiling little matron, whose eye rested on them more or less appreciatively, as she recognised a likeness to their mother or their Uncle Walter.

Presently Grace turned to the little group, and said softly, "Children, would you like to come to the knolls of heather on the other side of the hill? I am going there now."

"Oh yes, mamma, I want to go," chimed an eager though subdued chorus of voices; and then the childish feet followed the two mothers as they wandered slowly through the birch trees and crossed the path which led to the stepping-stones. The water still splashed and gurgled noisily round them, and the knolls of heather stretched with unchanged contour on the other side. Beyond rose the white gables and thatched roof of the old farm of Gowrie; but the former master and mistress were gone now; and the young farmer, who had taken the lease, chafed considerably that he had not been able to include the bit of heathery pasture lands in the fields, seeing it had been previously secured by another tenant. It was the only piece of land owned by Grace in the valley, and through all these years of absence she had jealously guarded any encroachment upon her territory. Old Gowrie had, at her earnest request, relinquished his right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for he ceased to wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.

So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed its face, and had much of its ruggedness smoothed away in the course of years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed. It was still a thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a grave.

On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard. It was a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never penetrated through its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank grass, and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were traces of unloving carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory. Miss Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a burying-place.

The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group stood on the bank of the river. The yellow sunlight was merging into deep orange and crimson, tinging with a wonderful variety of tints the lower landscape. The rippling water looked as if a sudden cross current of red wine had come flowing into it, and the little hillocks beyond, golden with gorse, were steeped in the mellow light.

The children followed their mother and Jean, with awed faces and hushed voices, along the little gleaming sheep-walk, fringed by sweet wild thyme and dog violets, with tendrils of deerhorn moss flinging their arms across the path. At length they came on a little marble slab, by the side of one of the knolls. The last golden shafts of sunlight were stealing over its memorial words, and the young eyes read in silence:—

IN MEMORY OF

GEORDIE BAXTER,

Who went to the Fold above on the 7th of August, 185—.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want."

Presently, the silent group heard footsteps behind, and when Grace glanced round she saw a woman, with two little boys by her side, coming along the little path towards the headstone. She stopped suddenly when she saw the strangers, evidently surprised by the unusual presence of visitors in that unfrequented spot, and, turning down another path, went away in the opposite direction. "Who is that, Jean?" asked Mrs. Foster; "surely I have seen the face before."

"Dear heart, do ye not know her? It's Elsie Gray. We dinna think, John and me, that her bonnie face is much changed; but then we see it every day," Jean replied, looking fondly after the retreating figure.

"Ah, is it really Elsie? I was just going to ask about her, Jean. But who are those children with her? I thought you told me in one of your letters that she lived quite alone?" asked Grace, stooping down to pluck a bluebell from Geordie's grave, instead of hurrying after this old friend, as the little Grace expected her mother to do.

Then the little matron went on to narrate how Elsie's home was still the forester's pretty cottage, though her father and mother were both dead. She had never been married, which Jean remarked was a great pity, and hinted that a good many other people were of her opinion. But how the parish of Kirklands could ever have got on without her if she had gone away, or what life would be if she had not Elsie to go to in every joy and sorrow, Jean could not imagine, as she said she frequently remarked to "her John." Nobody's hands seemed to be fuller of helpful work, and nobody did it more cheerily, than Elsie Gray.

Then Jean explained that the two little boys were orphans whom she had taken to her comfortable home; and "it wasn't the first pair o' laddies she had made good for something," Jean added, admiringly.

"Oh, mamma, don't you want to speak to her? She has such a nice, beautiful face. Do let me run after her, and ask her to stop for a minute," said little Grace, eagerly.

Mrs. Foster glanced musingly across the knolls at Elsie's slender figure, as she sauntered peacefully home with her charge, and then she said, "No, my dear, we shall not trouble Elsie to-night; but I shall take you with me to see her in her own home to-morrow, if you wish it. I shall be going there."

The cold, grey light was beginning to steal over the woods of Kirklands, and the rosy tints that still hovered about the knolls would soon give place to the gloom of night, so Grace gathered her little party, and turned her steps towards the river.

The merry voices, hushed for a time, began again to resound through the still evening air, and the children went hurrying on with Jean, who had told them she must be going home to see after the milking of her cows, and cordially responded to their wish to join her at the process.

So Grace had been following slowly, and when she crossed the stepping-stones, she looked lingeringly back, for, with the sound of the rippling water had come the remembered echoes of Geordie's voice as she heard it first. Then she called to mind the chilly spring day when she had started on the search, pronounced so hopeless by old Adam the gardener, and how gleefully she hailed the unexpected appearance of the little herd-boy. She smiled as she remembered the childish eagerness that made her fear that he would not appear at Kirklands, as he had promised, and his rather reproachful reply that he "Aye keepit his trysts." And then there rose mingled memories of those trysts, which be had so faithfully kept in the little still-room, of her own childish incapacity for the work she had so longed to do, and of the sense of failure that hung over it so long.

And as she turned to follow her merry boys, who were clambering up the mossy bank, where the silvery bark of the old birch-trees were still streaked with rosy sunset hues, she felt how much she had learnt from the tender, earnest heart of Geordie.

"And comforted, she praised the grace Which him had led to be, An early seeker of that Face Which he should early see."

THE END