The next week was hardly so successful. It was cold and rainy. The gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. The inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place it looked. The windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which Janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and Graeme. A very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house occupied by Mr Elliott's predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. When winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it.

The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. Orrin Green spent two days in banking up the house. Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people.

There were some drawbacks. The wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and Janet mortally offended Mr Green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year's salary, at prices which made Janet's indignation overflow. This latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind.

In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. With warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all.

The rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of November was a long and lovely Indian-summer. Then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. Graeme and Rosie and Will went with the rest, and even Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. It was a fine country, nobody could deny; but Janet's eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart.

In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. And a happy month it was for them all. One night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold "the beauty and mystery of the snow." Far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. How strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes.

"It 'minds me of white grave-clothes," said Marian, with a shudder.

"Whist, Menie," said her sister. "It makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. Just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air."

"But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and—"

"Well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. They mind me of beautiful and peaceful things."

"But, Graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark."

"Menie! There are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. And, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again," and Graeme sighed.

But it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was "perfect ruination to their clothes;" and yet Janet had not the heart to forbid it. It was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr Snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. There was room for them all, and for Mr Snow's little Emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road.

"The bonnie creatures!" she exclaimed; and Mr Snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. Away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white "like brides." Marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the other way, past Judge Merle's and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith's shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except Mr Snow's little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little Emily.

"Isna she a queer little creature?" whispered Harry to Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder.

"She's a bonnie little creature," said Graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, "and good, too, I'm sure."

"Grandma don't think so," said the child, gravely.

"No!" exclaimed Harry. "What bad things do you do?"

"I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick over beans."

Harry whistled.

"What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Does she whip you?"

The child's black eyes flashed.

"She daren't. Father wouldn't let her. She gives me stints, and sends me to bed."

"The Turk!" exclaimed Harry. "Run away from her, and come and bide with us."

"Hush, Harry," said Graeme, softly, "grandma is Mr Snow's mother."

There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of her own accord.

"There are no children at our house," said she.

"Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes," said Graeme.

"Yes; when father's gone and mother's sick. Then there's nobody but grandma."

"Have you a doll?" asked Menie.

"No: I have a kitten, though."

"Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald."

Menie's doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls.

"Will you come? Mr Snow," she said, climbing upon the front seat which Norman shared with the driver, "won't you let your little girl come and see my doll?"

"Well, yes; I guess so. If she's half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing."

Menie was down again in a minute.

"Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we'll play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like to come?"

"Yes," said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever.

They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh.

"Is this your little girl, Mr Snow?" said Mr Elliott, taking the child's hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon.

"Yes; she's your Marian's age, and looks a little like her, too. Don't you think so Mrs Nasmyth?"

Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child.

"She might, if she had any flesh on her bones," said she.

"Well, she don't look ragged, that's a fact," said her father.

The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father's heart ache to see.

"The bairn's cold. Let her come in and warm herself," said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children.

"Well, I don't know as I ought to wait. My horses don't like to stand much," said Mr Snow.

"Never mind waiting. If it's too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening."

Emily looked at her father wistfully.

"Would you like to stay, dear?" asked he.

"Yes, sir." And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.

"I'll be along down after dark, sometime," said Mr Snow, as he drove away.

Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.

"And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?" said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. "What is your name, little one?"

"Emily Snow Arnold," answered she, promptly.

"Emily Arnold Snow," said Menie, laughing.

"No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father's own little girl. My father is dead."

She looked grave, and so did the rest.

"But it is just the same. He loves you."

"Oh, yes!" There was a bright look in the eyes for once.

"And you love him all the same?"

"Oh, yes."

So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have "good times" up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme.

"Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn't for father, I don't know what we should do."

Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs Snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of "nerves," and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son's sickly wife. She had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. So old Mrs Snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son's wife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son's warm affection for his little step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when she was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and "good times" were few and far between at their house.

Her acquaintance with the minister's children was the beginning of a new life to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into Janet's bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and Mrs Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr Snow.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

From the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excited great curiosity and interest among the good people of Merleville. The minister himself, as Mr Snow told Mrs Nasmyth, was "popular." Not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless Mr Snow himself did. Every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. Indeed, they were more unanimous, with regard to the minister's faults, than old ladies generally are on important subjects. The matter was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewing-circles, and when Mrs Page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, "that though the minister was a good man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man a good pastor," there was scarcely a dissenting voice.

Mrs Merle had ventured to hint that, "they could not expect everything in one man," but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister's offences was, having been several times in at the Judge's, while he sinfully neglected others of his flock.

"It's handy by," ventured Mrs Merle, again. But the Judge's wife was no match for the blacksmith's lady, and it was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might be, he was "no hand at visiting." True he had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. But that of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like the affectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and his people. "He might preach like Paul," said Mrs Page, "but unless on week days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would never be gathered in. The minister's face ought to be a familiar sight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into the fold," and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of Merleville. The minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in this respect.

"And what did he say?" asked some one.

"Oh! he didn't say much, but I could see that his conscience wasn't easy. However, there has been no improvement yet," she added, with grave severity.

"He hain't got a horse, and I've heard say, that deacon Fish charges him six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. He couldn't afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year."

This bold speech was ventured by Miss Rebecca Pettimore, Mrs Captain Liscome's help, who took turns with that lady, in attending the sewing-circle. But it was well known, that she was always "on the off side," and Mrs Page deigned no reply. There was a moment's silence.

"Eli heard Mr Snow say so, in Page's shop yesterday," added Rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. Mrs Fish took her up sharply.

"Sampson Snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it for nothing. Mr Fish can't."

"My goodness, Mis' Fish, I wouldn't have said a word, if I'd thought you were here," said Rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh.

"Mr Snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, just to have a talk with him," said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to cover Rebecca's retreat. But Rebecca wouldn't retreat.

"I didn't mean any offence, Mis' Fish, and if it ain't so about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther."

But it was not to be contradicted, and that Mrs Fish well knew, though what business it was of anybody's, and why the minister, who seemed to be well off, shouldn't pay for the use of a horse and cutter, she couldn't understand. The subject was changed by Mrs Slowcome.

"He must have piles and piles of old sermons. It don't seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, as Mrs Nasmyth tells about."

Here there was a murmur of dissent. Would sermons made for the British, be such as to suit free-born American citizens? the children of the Puritans? The prevailing feeling was against such a supposition.

"Old or new, I like them," said Celestia Jones, the pretty black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. "And so do others, who are better judges than I."

"Squire Greenleaf, I suppose," said Ruby Fox, in a loud whisper. "He was up there last Sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all the afternoon."

Celestia's black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly Ruby said no more. Indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for that they were something for the Merleville people to be proud of, all agreed. Mr Elliott's preaching had filled the old meeting-house. People who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out of the town, even. Young Squire Greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospect of succeeding Judge Merle, as the great man of Merleville, had brought over the judges from Rixford, and they had dined at the minister's, and had come to church on Sunday. Young Squire Greenleaf was a triumph of himself. He had never been at meeting "much, if any," since he had completed his legal studies. If he ever did go, it was to the Episcopal church at Rixford, which, to the liberal Mrs Page, looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. Now, he hardly ever lost a Sunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and making frequent visits to the minister's house. Having put all these things together, and considered the matter, Mrs Page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wont to suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity of rejoicing over. The rest rejoiced too. There was a murmur of dissent from Miss Pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. There was a gleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of Miss Celestia, which said more plainly than Miss Pettimore's words could have done, that the squire was better now, than the most in Merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing.

The minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the other members of the family were discussed, with equal interest. Upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. But Mrs Page and her friends were not quite satisfied with Graeme. As the minister's eldest daughter, and "serious," they were disposed to overlook her youthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. But Graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour to herself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. But she was kindly dealt with, even by Mrs Page, for her loving care of the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherly heart among these kind people. And she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen.

There were numberless stories afloat about the boys,—their mirth, their mischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. The boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won for themselves a welcome. It is true, there had been one or two rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other lads of the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner than the mirth, and Norman and Harry were very popular among old and young.

But the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomaly in Merleville society was Janet, or Mrs Nasmyth, as she was generally called. In refusing one of the many invitations which she had shared with the minister and Graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece of her mind. She was, she said, the minister's servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him in any strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same.

"Servant!" echoed Mrs Sterne's help, who was staying to pass the evening, while her mistress went home, "to see about supper."

And, "servant!" echoed the young lady who assisted Mrs Merle in her household affairs.

"I'll let them see that I think myself just as good as Queen Victoria, if I do live out," said another dignified auxiliary.

"She must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature."

"Why, they do say she'll brush them great boys' shoes. I saw her myself, through the study-door, pull off Mr Elliott's boots as humble as could be."

"To see that little girl pouring tea when there's company, and Mrs Nasmyth not sitting down. It's ridiculous."

"I wouldn't do so for the President!"

"Well, they seem to think everything of her," said Miss Pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection.

"Why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. And the way them children hang about her, and fuss over her, I never see. They tell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father."

"And if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's always, 'ask Mrs Nasmyth,' or, 'Mrs Nasmyth will tell you.'"

"They couldn't get along without her. If I was her I'd show them that I was as good as them, and no servant."

"She's used to it. She's been brought up so. But now that she's got here, I should think she'd be sick of it."

"I suppose 'servant' there, means pretty much what 'help' does here. There don't seem to be difference enough to talk about," said Rebecca.

"I see considerable difference," said Mrs Merle's young lady.

"It beats all," said another.

Yes, it did beat all. It was incomprehensible to these dignified people, how Janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. And that "Mrs Nasmyth thought considerable of herself," many of the curious ladies of Merleville had occasion to know. The relations existing between her and "the bairns," could not easily be understood. She acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. She enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking to dispute her right. They went to her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, or consoled them, as the case might need. That they were as the very apple of her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see.

There were stories going about in the village to prove that she had a sharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek to deny. Of course, it was the duty of all the female part of the congregation to visit at the minister's house, and to give such advice and assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to be required of them. It is possible they took more interest in the matter than if there had been a mistress in the house. "More liberties," Janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the answering of impertinent questions. According to her own confession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed without due discretion, a "downsetting," and Graeme and the boys, and even Mr Elliott, had an idea that a downsetting from Janet must be something serious. It is true her victims' ignorance of the Scottish tongue must have taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upsettin' bodies," and "meddlesome bodies," that bestowed too much time on their neighbours' affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on the subject.

But she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and soft came very naturally to Janet's lips when her heart was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willing hands relieved. For every sharp word brought up against her, there could be told a kindly deed, and Janet's friends were the most numerous at the sewing-circle that night.

Merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, it seemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. But between the hills lay many a fertile valley. Except toward the west, where the hills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of which were occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. The village was not large enough to have a society within itself independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even to the borders of the "ten miles square," considered themselves neighbours. They were very socially inclined, for the most part, and Merleville was a very pleasant place to live in.

Winter was the time for visiting. There was very little formality in their entertainments. Nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, was usually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal invitations were given. Then, it must be confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass all others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. But for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they dropped in on one another in a friendly way.

The minister's family were not overlooked. Scarcely an evening passed but some of their neighbours came in. Indeed, this happened too frequently for Janet's patience, for she sorely begrudged the time taken from the minister's books, to the entertainment of "ilka idle body that took leave to come in." It gave her great delight to see him really interested with visitors, but she set her face against his being troubled at all hours on every day in the week.

"If it's anything particular I'll tell the minister you're here," she used to say; "but he bade the bairns be quiet, and I doubt he wouldna like to be disturbed. Sit down a minute, and I'll speak to Miss Graeme, and I dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly."

Generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her bright kitchen for a chat with her and the children. It was partly these evening visits that won for Mrs Nasmyth her popularity. Even in her gloomy days—and she had some days gloomy enough about this time—she would exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young people the visitor was generally well entertained. Such singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in the pleasant firelight! There was no such thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o'clock worship came before the visitor was aware.

Even Judge Merle and young Squire Greenleaf were sometimes detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the minister was more than usually engaged.

"For you see, sir," said she, on one occasion, "what with ae thing and what with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this week already, that I dinna like to disturb him. But if you'll sit down here for a minute or two, I daresay he'll be ben and I'll speak to Miss Graeme."

"Mr Elliott seems a close student," said the Judge, as he took the offered seat by the fire.

"Ay, is he. Though if you are like the lave o' the folk, you'll think no more o' him for that. Folk o' my country judge o' a minister by the time he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of his duty, unless he's ca'ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife's tale."

"But," said the Judge, much amused, "the minister has been studying all his life. It seems as though he might draw on old stores now."

"Ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. The minister's no one that puts his people off with 'cauld kail het again,' and he canna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time."

"And he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. That would be to the point at present," said the Judge, laughing, "I think I'll be going."

"'Deed, no, sir," said Janet, earnestly, "I didna mean you. I'm aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. It cheers him. But this week it's been worse than ever. He has hardly had an unbroken hour. But sit still, sir. He would be ill-pleased if you went away without seeing him."

"I'll speak to papa, Judge Merle," said Graeme.

"Never mind, my dear. Come and speak to me yourself. I think Mrs Nasmyth is right. The minister ought not to be disturbed. I have nothing particular to say to him. I came because it's a pleasure to come, and I did not think about its being so near the end of the week."

Graeme looked rather anxiously from him to Janet.

"My dear, you needna trouble yourself. It's no' folk like the Judge and young Mr Greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while here. It's folk like the 'smith yonder, or Orrin Green, the upsettin' body. But you can go in now and see if your papa's at leisure, and tell him the Judge is here."

"We had Mr Greenleaf here awhile the ither night," she continued, as Graeme disappeared. "A nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no' ae bit o' a Yankee."

The Judge opened his eyes. It was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. But he was not one of the kind to take offence, as Janet justly said.



CHAPTER NINE.

Other favourites of Mrs Nasmyth's were Mr Snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. Mr Snow had been their friend from the very first. He had made good his promise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. He had taught them to skate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pockets full of rosy apples to the little ones. They made many a day pleasant for his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thought nothing too much to do for those who were kind to Emily.

Janet's kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energies exercised in behalf of Mr Snow's melancholy, nervous wife. In upon the monotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine into her room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. During a long and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after the minister's arrival in Merleville, Janet had watched with her a good many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was at the minister's, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness of them all. But it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm room in wintry weather, and Sampson's visits were made alone, or in company with little Emily.

The schoolmaster, Mr Isaac Newton Foster, came often, partly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. The night of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to grow weary.

Graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soon became interested in their studies for their own sake, and Mr Foster had not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. Janet had her doubts about her "taking up with books that were fit only for laddies," but Mr Foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were altogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did not object, and Graeme herself had great delight in it, she made no objections. Her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. But by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect for Mr Foster.

But all the evenings when Mr Foster was with them were not given up to lessons. When, as sometimes happened, Mr Snow or Mr Greenleaf came in, something much more exciting took the place of Algebra. Mr Greenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even Graeme and Janet, in the discussion of some exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institutions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to the willing Mr Foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. They seldom lost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favoured occasions. For Janet and Janet's bairns were prompt to do battle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though Mr Foster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. He could not conscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. Mr Snow was ready too with his hints about "despotism" and "aristocracy," and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things in general, and Yankee institutions in particular. It is to be feared the disputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used; but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot words spoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came.

A chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one night when Mr Snow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. The lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due to Mr Foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resent it, and Mr Snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of this particular occasion. The strife was getting warm when Mr Greenleaf's knock was heard. Norman was in the act of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster's devoted head, while Mr Foster strove hard to shield himself by holding up "Britain's wretched operatives and starving poor."

"Come along, Squire," said Mr Snow. "We want you to settle this little difficulty. Mrs Nasmyth ain't going to let you into the study just now, at least she wouldn't let me. The minister's busy to-night."

Mr Greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew Marian to his knee.

Neither Norman nor Mr Foster was so eager to go on as Mr Snow was to have them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, they were soon in "full blast," as he whispered to his friend. The discussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. It was not confined to Norman and Mr Foster. All the rest had something to say; even Janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. But Norman was the chief speaker on his side. The subject had been discussed in the village School Lyceum, and Norman had distinguished himself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of his arguments—certainly not by their originality. But he thundered forth the lines beginning "I would not have a slave," etcetera, to the intense delight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of the other.

To-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and Mr Foster complained at last.

"But, Norman, you don't keep to the point."

"Talks all round the lot," said Mr Snow.

"I'm afraid that is not confined to Norman," said Mr Greenleaf.

"Norman is right, anyway," pronounced Menie.

"He reasons in a circle," said the master. "And because slavery is the only flaw in—"

"The only flaw!" said Norman, with awful irony.

"Well, yes," interposed Mr Snow. "But we have had enough of the Constitution for to-night. Let's look at our country. It can't be beaten any way you take it. Physically or morally," pursued he, with great gravity, "it can't be beaten. There are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. Our laws and our institutions generally are just about what they ought to see. Even foreigners see that, and prove it, by coming to share our privileges. Where will you find such a general diffusion of knowledge among all classes? Classes? There is only one class. All are free and equal."

"Folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal," said Mrs Nasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. "For my part, I never saw pride—really to call pride—till I saw it in this fine country o' yours—ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour."

"Well—so they be. Liberty and equality is our ticket."

"But ye're no' a' equal. There's as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. There are folk coming and going here, that in my country I would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. Gentlemen like the Judge, or like Mr Greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister's time; but upsettin' bodies such as I could name—"

"Well, I wouldn't name them, I guess. General principles are best in such a case," said Mr Snow. "And I am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. Your friend the Judge belongs to that and your father, Miss Graeme; and I expect Squire Greenleaf will, too, when he goes to Congress. But no man is great here just because his father was before him. Everybody has a chance. Now, on your side of the water, 'a man must be just what his father was.' Folks must stay just there. That's a fact."

"You seem to be weel informed," said Janet drily.

"Ah! yes; I know all about it. Anybody may know anything and everything in this country. We're a great people. Ain't that so, Mr Foster?"

"It must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that Britain has produced some great men," said Mr Foster, breaking out in a new spot as Mr Snow whispered to the Squire.

"Surely that would be granting too much," said Norman.

"But," pursued Mr Foster, "Britons themselves confess that it is on this Western Continent that the Anglo-Saxon race is destined to triumph. Descended from Britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall—which must—which—"

"Sounds considerable like the glorious Fourth, don't it?" whispered Mr Snow.

"Which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet," said the literal Mrs Nasmyth.

"I was about to say that—that—"

"That the British can lick all creation, and we can lick the British," said Mr Snow.

"Any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority," said Mr Foster, taking a new start.

"That's been proved already," said Mr Snow, watching the sparkle in Graeme's eye. She laughed merrily.

"No, Mr Snow. They may fight it out without me to-night."

"I am glad you are growing prudent. Mrs Nasmyth, you wouldn't believe how angry she was with me one night."

"Angry!" repeated Graeme. "Ask Celestia."

"Well, I guess I shouldn't have much chance between Celestia and you. But I said then, and I say now, you'll make a first-rate Yankee girl yourself before seven years."

"A Yankee!" repeated her brothers.

"A Yankee," echoed Menie.

"Hush, Menie. Mr Snow is laughing at us," said Graeme.

"I would rather be just a little Scotch lassie, than a Yankee Queen," said Menie, firmly.

There was a laugh, and Menie was indignant at her brothers for joining.

"You mean a president's wife. We don't allow queens here—in this free country," said Mr Snow.

"But it is dreadful that you should hate us so," said the Squire.

"I like you, and the Judge. And I like Mrs Merle."

"And is that all?" asked Mr Snow, solemnly.

"I like Emily. And I like you when you don't vex Graeme."

"And who else?" asked Mr Greenleaf.

"I like Celestia. She's nice, and doesna ask questions. And so does Graeme. And Janet says that Celestia is a lady. Don't you like her?" asked Menie, thinking her friend unresponsive.

"You seem to be good at asking questions yourself, Menie, my woman," interposed Mrs Nasmyth. "I doubt you should be in your bed by this time." But Mr Snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy.

"And don't Cousin Celestia like me?" asked he.

"Yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?"

"Well, not exactly—we're not very near cousins. But I see to her some, and mean to. I like her."

The study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as Mr Snow went up the hill he said to himself: "Yes, I shall see to her. She is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to Congress."



CHAPTER TEN.

"I like the wood fires," said Graeme. "They are far clearer than the peat fires at home."

They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again.

Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight.

Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through Graeme's dream and disturbed it at last. Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly:

"The winter's near over now, Janet."

"Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way," said Janet. She knew that Graeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. And the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to Janet.

To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. The lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed the winter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to Rose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, Mr Elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years.

But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. Home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. Night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. Morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces.

The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. Arthur's letters to his father and Graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, "so like a printed book," made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over Sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. She had of old justly prided herself on Sandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition.

Poor Sandy! He had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. In wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. There was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! Mr More of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that Mrs Smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at Saughless for the winter after all.

There were other troubles too, that Janet had to bear alone. The cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. Unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the New England winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour spent in Mrs Snow's hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "Steadfast" had been. To say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. She was angry at her folly, and called herself "silly body" and "useless body," striving with all her might to throw the burden from her.

Then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. They were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written," self-satisfied and curious. The fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in Merleville. She never could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves.

Mrs Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister's in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them Mrs Page evidently believed it to be herself. Mrs Merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while Mrs Page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. Both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. She was out of her element. Things were quite different from anything she had been used with. She grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her.

Some thought of all this came into Graeme's mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little of Janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father's study. She blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew nearer.

"What is it, Janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. "Winna you tell me?"

Janet gave a startled look into her face.

"What is what, my dear?"

"Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me," said Graeme, reproachfully.

"Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I'm weel enough."

"You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it's hardly time yet, Janet."

"I'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort."

"Then something ails you, and you winna tell me," said Graeme again, in a grieved voice.

"My dear, I hae naething to tell."

"Is it me, Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I wouldna willingly do wrong?" pleaded Graeme.

Janet put her fingers over the girl's lips.

"Whist, my lammie. It's naething—or naething that can be helpit," and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. Graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it.

"Lassie, lassie! I canna help it," and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on Graeme's bent head like rain. Graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that God would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted.

"I am an auld fule, I believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it's ain mind, and I think I'm growing waur ilka day," and she paused to wipe the tears from her face.

"But what is it, Janet?" asked Graeme, softly.

"It's naething, dear, naething that I can tell to mortal. I dinna ken what has come ower me. It's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, and move I canna. But surely I'll be set free in time."

There was nothing Graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on Janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it.

"Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme," cried Janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. "What will come o' us if you give way. There's naething ails me but that I'm an auld fule, and I canna help that, you ken."

"Janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and Sandy to come with us. I never thought till to-night how great it must have been."

"Ay, lassie. I'll no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge it now. It wasna made in a right sperit, and that the Lord is showing me. I thought you couldna do without me."

"We couldna, Janet."

"And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father and your father's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. And I hae gotten my wish. You're a' weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. God help me."

"God will help you," said Graeme, softly. "It is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by Babel stream. But the Lord never brought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will pass away."

"Weel, it may be. That's what my mother said, or something like it. He means to let me see that you can do without me. But I'll bide still awhile, anyway."

Graeme's face was fall of dismay.

"Janet! what could we ever do without you?"

"Oh, you could learn. But I'm not going to leave you yet. The giant shallna master me with my will. But, oh! lassie, whiles I think the Lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride."

"But, Janet," said Graeme, gravely, "the Lord never turns against his own people. And if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. It is for us you are living, and not for yourself."

Janet shook her head.

"And, Janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. The weight will be lifted off, I'm sure it will. And, Janet, about Sandy—. You may be sure o' him. If you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. But now the Lord will have him in His keeping, for, Janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and He will never forsake him—never, never!"

Janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens.

"And, Janet, we all love you dearly." Graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. "Sometimes the boys are rough, and don't seem to care, but they do care; and I'm thoughtless, too, and careless," she added, humbly, "but I was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken I loved her dearly." And the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. Janet held her close.

"And, Janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. When I get a book, you ken I forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother's sake. We have no mother, Janet, and what could we do without you? And all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again."

And so it was. The worst was over after that night. Much more was said before they separated, and Graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as Janet was concerned. Housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce system was a great embarrassment to her. This getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "a corn tawties" from another, she could not endure. It was "living from hand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the least delicate among the people called it.

"And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. For I hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. Things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things."

Graeme looked grave. "I wonder what my father thinks," said she. Janet shook her head.

"We mauna trouble your father if we can help it. The last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. I'm no' feared but we'll be provided for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you'll need to begin and keep an account again."

Janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and Graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mind easy, and the household accounts straight.

Weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let Janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. The letter that Harry brought in with a shout before March was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused Janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was the writer still. The two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. A new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with Sandy, "as you will see by this letter, mother," he wrote, "I hope it will be better worth reading than the last."

If Mrs Smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. Janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of Saughless. And Sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them.

And her heart was set at rest; and Janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Miss Graeme," said Janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. Graeme was at her side in a moment.

"Never mind putting by your book, I only want to tell you, that I'm going up the brae to see Mrs Snow awhile. It's no' cold, and I'll take the bairns with me. So just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. I winna bide late."

Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones.

"I wish I could up with you, Janet. How mild and bright it is to-day."

"But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long with your book, you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark."

"Think long!" echoed Graeme. "Not if I'm left at peace with my book—I only hope no one will come."

"My dear!" remonstrated Janet, "that's no' hospitable. I daresay if anybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. You maun try and make friends with folk, like Menie here."

Graeme laughed. "It's easy for Menie, she's a child. But I have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. I would far rather have the afternoon to myself."

She watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. Life was very pleasant to Graeme, these days. She did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother's death. But it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with Janet, or merry play with the little ones. Janet's returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear.

She was fast growing into companionship with her father. She knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. In all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. In other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years.

And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. She was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Not that she would have confessed this. Not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont to declare to Janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. But it was agreeable to her all the same.

She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of Janet, and the tea-kettle. Then there came a knock at the door, and Graeme opened it to Mr Greenleaf. If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. He did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in.

What the charm was, that beguiled Mr Greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister's study, the good people of Merleville found it difficult to say. The squire's ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. For once, Mrs Page had been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of Mrs Page's standard of excellence. But to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest.

"If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he shook hands with Mr Elliott, over a table covered with books and papers.

"You can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. "I am nearly done for the night. Excuse me, for a minute only."

Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty.

"I have something for you," said Mr Greenleaf, in a minute. Graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. It was a note this time.

"From Celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little.

Graeme did not aspire to the honour of Celestia's confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and Mr Greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands.

"Read it," said he.

Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note was very brief. Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. Mr Greenleaf would fetch her.

"Celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up.

"Yes," said he, "have you not heard it?"

"I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would still stay in Merleville."

"So did I," said Mr Greenleaf, gravely.

"When will they go?"

"Miss Jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at Rixford. They are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go."

"To her uncle?"

"No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. They will live by themselves, with the children."

"How sorry Celestia will be to go away," said Graeme, sadly.

"She will not be persuaded to stay," said Mr Greenleaf.

Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "Have you asked her?" He answered her in words.

"Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay."

There was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. There was none of the bitterness which, while it made Celestia's heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right.

"Oh! it's not that," said Graeme, earnestly, "I'm sure she cares. I mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it."

"Is it right to make herself and me unhappy?"

"But her mother and the rest. They are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them."

"It need not. They might stay with her."

"I think, perhaps—I don't think—" Graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly,—

"Are you rich, Mr Greenleaf?" He laughed.

"I believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I may safely answer, yes. I have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes."

"Yes; but—I think,—oh, I can't say what I think; but I'm sure Celestia is right. I am quite sure of that."

Mr Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Graeme feared he might, at her bold speech.

"I don't believe I had better take you to see her to-morrow. You will encourage her to hold out against me."

"Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, it would make no difference. Celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right."

"Wise and strong," repeated Mr Greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. Mr Elliott made a movement to join them, and Graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away.

"Never mind," she whispered, "it will all end well. Things always do when people do right."

Mr Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. Not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. He had more than once that very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the "strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to her friend. So that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him.

They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by Graeme, and before tea was over, Janet and the bairns came home. The boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in Mr Snow's sleigh. To escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, Mr Greenleaf and the minister went into the study again.

During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into Mr Greenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. It was a source of wonder to him that a man of Mr Elliott's intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. Mr Elliott smiled.

"I don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. Indeed, I should say, far less wonderful. You are young and have the world before you."

"But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a living, and I mean to get a good one too, and besides," added he, laughing, "Merleville is as good a place as any other to go to Congress from; there is no American but may have that before him you know."

"As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. For the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. I am thankful for my field of labour."

Mr Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "for what they were worth," as a correct thing for a minister to say. But the quiet earnestness and simplicity of Mr Elliott's manner struck him as being not just a matter of course.

"He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. There must be something in it." He did not answer him, however.

"There is one thing which is worth consideration," continued Mr Elliott, "you may be disappointed, but I cannot be so, in the nature of things."

"About getting a living?" said Mr Greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of Deacons Fish and Slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair.

"That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may be sure of that, too. 'Your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.' And there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which I really am labouring, the glory of God, and the good of souls."

"Well," said Mr Greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it that I don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. It is by no means impossible that I may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine—I may say it without vanity—have risen higher than to the Congress of our country. I don't look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in Merleville made straight! Well, to say the least, I don't see how you can be very sanguine about it."

"Well, I don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of Him whom I serve to accomplish. But though I may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that I am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule in the White House even, which is not beyond your ambition either, I suppose. You know how a promise may be 'kept to the ear and broken to the heart,' as somebody says."

"I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. But even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain."

Mr Elliott smiled.

"I suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. The promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. I am not afraid."

"And, certainly," thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopeful enough."

"And," added Mr Elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, I think mine may well bear comparison to yours."

"Yes, in one sense, I suppose—though I don't understand it. I can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement—a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but—I was not looking at the matter from your point of view."

"But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen," said Mr Elliott, quietly.

"Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. One ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and I fancy that can be said of few."

"I don't understand you," said Mr Elliott. "Do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer."

"By no means. My thoughts were altogether in another direction. In fact, I was thinking of the great 'bread and butter' struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession."

Mr Elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. Mr Greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on.

"Constituted as we are, I don't see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. The shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. I don't know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. I don't mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. Comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. Such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. There is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. It is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. And what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. No, really, I cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one."

"I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it," said Mr Elliott.

"I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but I cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. Why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves—might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. How they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. They will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years."

"Unless they have some charm against it—which may very well be," said Mr Elliott, quietly.

"I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. He was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. But if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. He has since gone West, I hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. The circumstances of his predecessor were no better. He died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the matter somewhere."

There was a pause, and then Mr Greenleaf continued.

"It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in Merleville. Still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what I fear awaits you. Otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all."

"I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture," said Mr Elliott.

"Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more than enough in my earnestness. I am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise."

"I like you already," said Mr Elliott, smiling. "I assure you I had a great respect for you as the children of the Puritans, before ever I saw you."

"Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. We are the children of the Puritans, but very little, I daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. Mind, I don't allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers' sakes. But we are different. It is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence—one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us."

"Well," said Mr Elliott, as his friend paused.

"Oh! I have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in Merleville. You have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker."

"I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen," said the minister.

"Earnestness!" said Mr Greenleaf. "No, we are earnest enough here in Merleville. But the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form—the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. At least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it."

"You are severe," said the minister, quietly.

"Not too severe. This seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. And such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. There are not many men among us here—I don't know more than two or three—who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends—even by shaving closely in matters of business."

"And yet you say their standard is a high one?"

"High or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt their own Christianity on account of these things. And what is more, they don't seem to lose faith in each other. But how it will all seem to you is another matter."

"How does it seem to you?"

"Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, I am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, I am disposed to think little of the whole matter. With you it is different."

"Yes, with me it is indeed different," said the minister, gravely—so gravely, that Mr Greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject.

"It must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations," said he, in a little. Mr Elliott started,—

"No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers."

Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr Greenleaf said no more. In a little Mr Elliott went on,—

"It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. We had always looked forward to it sometime. And when I was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and the longing to get away—anywhere—brought me here."

He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly.

"Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. I thought it would be better for my children when I left them to leave them here. But God knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to America."

"We can live on little. I trust you will be mistaken in your fears. But if these troubles do come, we must try, with God's grace, and Mrs Nasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. We might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one."

"The love and pursuit of the 'almighty dollar,' is most certainly a national characteristic. As to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course I have not the means of judging. Here I know it has been bad enough in the past."

"Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto," said Mr Elliott.

"Have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind.

"No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, I suppose it will come soon. Still I have no fears—I think I need have none. It is not theirs but them I seek."

"Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you? I saw you there among the rest. If my heart rose up in thankfulness to God that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. God is my witness that I saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls— living souls to be encouraged—slumbering souls to be aroused—dead souls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, spoken by me and blessed by Him.

"No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this matter. I may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to God's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but God will bless his Word. And even if I do not live to see it, I can rest in the assurance that afterward, 'both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.'"

He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful.

"The peace that passeth understanding," thought the young man, with a sigh. For he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that Mr Elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. It came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. So he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The minister looked up and met his eye.

"And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. You may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. But for me, all must end well—let the end be what it may."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

The time of settlement came at last. The members of the church and congregation were requested to bring to Deacon Sterne and his coadjutors an account of money and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister's support during the ensuing half year. After a delay which, considering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and the different accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval.

This was done by Deacons Fish and Slowcome alone. Deacon Sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to Mrs Nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. Deacon Fish "expected" that brother Sterne had got into trouble. It had been coming on for some time. His son, the only boy he had left, had been over to Rixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. Deacon Sterne was Janet's favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regret that he should not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly concerned for him on his own account.

"Dear me!" said she, "I saw him at the kirk on the Sabbath-day, looking just as usual."

"Well, yes, I expect so," said Mr Fish. "Brother Sterne looks always pretty much so. He ain't apt to show his feelin's, if he's got any. He'll have something to suffer with his son William, I guess, whether he shows it or not."

Janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the town that there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. The minister awaited them, and business began. First was displayed the list of subscriptions for the coming half-year. This was quite encouraging. Three hundred and fifty and odd dollars. This looked well. There had never been so much subscribed in Merleville before. The deacons were elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, too. He would be well off now, said they. But the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year's settlement was turned to.

There were several sheets of it. The minister in danger of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. "Two hundred and seventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents." He was a little mystified still, and looked so.

"If there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be put right," said Deacon Slowcome.

Deacon Fish presumed, "that when Mr Elliott should have compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be all right."

Mr Elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. He supposed it was all it should be. He really could say nothing with regard to it. He left the management of household affairs entirely to his daughter and Mrs Nasmyth. It was suggested that Mrs Nasmyth should be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her.

"If there's anything you don't seem to understand or remember," prefaced the accommodating Deacon Slowcome, "don't feel troubled about saying so. I expect we'll make things pretty straight after a while."

Mrs Nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look at her, and the reading began. After the name of each person, came the days' work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. Deacon Fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. The former had carried the minister on two or three of his most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. It was overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of.

"There ain't no matter about it. It can go right on to the next half year. It ain't no matter about it anyhow," said he, in liberal mood.

He had an attentive listener. Mrs Nasmyth listened with vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when Mr Slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say interrogatively,—

"You remember?"

It dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up the subscription for the half year that was over; but except that her face changed a little, she gave no sign. It is possible the deacon had had some slight misgiving as to how Mrs Nasmyth might receive the statement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at last read the sum total: "Two hundred and seventy-two dollars sixty-two and a-half cents."

Again Janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he did not avoid her look. The rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. Intense amusement at Janet's changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for a moment, every other feeling. But that passed, and by the look that followed Janet knew that she must keep back the words that were rising to her lips. It required an effort, however, and a rather awkward silence followed. Deacon Slowcome spoke first: