"Well, I suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. And I, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things."

"I doubt, sirs," said Janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, "there are some things that haena been put down on yon paper. There was a cum apples, and a bit o' unco spare rib, and—"

"Well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in their accounts yet. That can be seen to another time."

Janet paid no attention to the interruption.

"There were some eggs from Mrs Sterne—a dozen and three, I think—and a goose at the New Year from somebody else; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that Judge Merle brought over when first we came here—"

"Ah! the pie was a present from my wife," said Deacon Fish, on whom Mrs Nasmyth's awful irony was quite lost.

"And I presume Judge Merle didn't mean to charge for the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was," said Deacon Slowcome.

"And what for no'?" demanded Janet, turning on him sharply. "I'm sure we got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o' your bloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. Things should stand on your papers at their true value."

Deacon Slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreak than he had been when his "fore-quarter of bloody beef" had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed Janet's remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the impropriety of "looking a gift horse in the mouth" to pass unanswered.

"You were at liberty to return the beef if you didn't want it," said he, with an injured air.

"Weel, I'll mind that next time," said she in a milder tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. Deacon Fish made a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the new subscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that "didn't look well."

"Ay, on paper," said Janet, dryly. "Figures are no' dollars. And if your folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae been living only on the bits o' things written down on your paper you are mistaken. The gude money that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o' that, as I ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it; but I daresay you're no' needing me longer, sir," she added, addressing the minister, and she left the room.

This matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did Janet a deal of good to think about it. She had no time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. She "was nettled at herself beyond all patience" that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many of the things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good-will.

"Two hundred and seventy dollars and more," she repeated. "Things mount up, I ken weel; but I maun take another look at it. And I'll hae more sense anither time, I'm thinking."

She did not speak to Graeme. There would be no use to vex her; but she would fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce the subject. A circumstance soon occurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed.

March was nearly over. The nights were cold still, but the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of her children. "And time for her," sighed Janet, taking a retrospective view of all that had happened since she saw her face.

The boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposal made to them by their friend Mr Snow. He had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. They were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see the ground and make a beginning. Graeme and the other girls went with them as far as Mr Snow's house, and Janet was left alone. The minister was in his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. She had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, however. A sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare street, and its occupant, Mr Silas Spears, not one of her favourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in "hitching" his horse to the post. Janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him.

"The body has some sense and discretion," said Janet to herself, as he announced instead that he "wa'ant a going to stay but a minute, and it wouldn't be worth while troubling the minister." He did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which was tolerable to Janet in her solitude. He rose to go at last.

"I've got a bucket of sugar out here," said he. "Our folks didn't seem to want it, and I thought I'd fetch it along down. I took it to Cook's store, but they didn't want it, and they didn't care enough about it at Sheldon's to want to pay for it, so I thought I might as well turn it in to pay my minister's tax."

So in he came within a minute.

"There's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. Sugar's been sellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and I guess I ought to have that for it, then we'll be about even, according to my calculation."

"Sugar!" ejaculated Janet, touching the solid black mass with her finger. "Call you that sugar?"

"Why, yes, I call it sugar. Not the best, maybe, but it's better than it looks. It'll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, I expect."

"And weigh considerable lighter, I expect," said Mrs Nasmyth, unconsciously imitating Mr Spears' tone and manner in her rising wrath. "I'm very much obliged to you, but we're in no especial need o' sugar at this time, and we'll do without a while before we spend good siller on staff like that."

"Well I'll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin' time is 'most here. It ain't first-rate," he added, candidly. "It mightn't just do for tea, but it's as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes."

"Many thanks to you. But we're no' given to the makin' o' pies and cakes in this house. Plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does for us, and it's mair than we're like to get, if things dinna mend with us. So you'll just take it with you again."

"Well," said Mr Spears, slightly at a loss, "I guess I'll leave it. I ain't particular about the price. Mr Elliott can allow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. I'll leave it anyhow."

"But you'll no' leave it with my consent. Deacon Slowcome said the minister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o' that we could make no use of."

"The deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but I rather guess he didn't mean you to take him up so. I've been calculating to pay my minister's tax with that sugar, and I don't know as I've got anything else handy. I'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keep it, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he'll give you the money for it. I'll leave it anyhow."

"But you'll no leave it here," exclaimed Mrs Nasmyth, whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished Mr Spears quite realised her intention.

"You'll no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as I hae done before," exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. "If the minister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been used wi', he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. So dinna bring here again what ither folk winna hae from you, for I'll hae none o' it."

"I should like to see the minister a minute," said Mr Spears, seating himself with dignity. "I don't consider that you are the one to settle this business."

"There's many a thing that you dinna consider that there's sense in, notwithstanding. It's just me that is to decide this business, and a' business where the minister's welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. So dinna fash yourself and me mair about it."

"I'd like to see him, anyhow," said he, taking a step towards the study-door.

"But you'll no' see him about any such matter," and Janet placed herself before him. "I'm no' to hae the minister vexed with the like o' that nonsense to-night, or any night. I wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your face to me, forby the minister. What kens the minister about the like o' that? He has other things to think about. It's weel that there's aye me to stand between him and the like o' your 'glegs and corbies'."—And Janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated into Scotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonishment, and listened in silence. Janet was successful. Mr Spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no means sure that he hadn't been abused! "Considerable beat, anyhow."

Scarcely had he taken his departure, when Mr Elliott made his appearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been going on. Though loth to do so, Janet thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken place. He laughed heartily at her success and Mr Spears' discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his ease about the matter.

"I am at a loss to know how all this will end," he said, gravely, after a minute.

"Indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. It will end in a 'toom pantry' for us, and that before very long."

This was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. Much earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, when most of the members of the church were present, the result of his meditations was given to the public. He did not use many words, but they were to the point.

He told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for the future. He told them that the value to his family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, as named in the subscription-lists, their real value he supposed. They could not live in comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. He had a proposal to make to them. The deacon had estimated that an annual amount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. Let each subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. This would be the means of avoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would think it wise to remain in Merleville.

He alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his having money invested in Scotland. In the hand of a friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his education should be completed. He had no more. The comfort of his family must depend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to be paid, must be decided without loss of time.

He said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. He had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to live and die among them. But no real union or confidence could be maintained between them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. He added, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them.

There was quite a gathering that night. Judge Merle was there, and the deacons, and the Pages, and Mr Spears, and a great many besides. Behind the door, in a corner seat, sat Mr Snow, and near him, Mr Greenleaf. He evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, but Sampson laid his hand on his arm.

"Hold on, Squire," he whispered; "as like as not they'd spare us, but I'm bound to see this through."

There was a long pause. Then Deacon Fish got up and cleared his throat, and "felt as though he felt," and went over much ground, without accomplishing much. Deacon Slowcome did pretty much the same. Judge Merle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a movement behind the door, and Sampson Snow rose, and stepped out. He laid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened his lips.

"I expect you'll all think it ain't my place to speak in meetin', and I ain't goin' to say a great deal. It's no more than two hours or so since I got home from Rixford, and Squire Stone, he told me that their minister had given notice that he was goin' to quit. Goin' to Boston, I guess. And the Squire, says he to me, 'We've a notion of talking a little to your Mr Elliott,' and says he, 'We wouldn't begrudge him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.' So now don't worry any about the minister. He's all right, and worth his pay any day. That's all I've got to say," and Mr Snow opened the door and walked out.

Sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, and told. That night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested by Mr Elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. And the good people of Merleville did not regret their promptitude, when the very next week there came a deputation from Rixford, to ascertain whether Mr Elliott was to remain in Merleville, and if not, whether he would accept an invitation to settle in the larger town.

Mr Elliott's answer was brief and decided. He had no wish to leave Merleville while the people wished him to remain. He hoped never to leave them while he lived. And he never did.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Spring came and went. The lads distinguished themselves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work besides. The free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. Mr Foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. In future they were to devote themselves to agriculture.

In vain Janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads," and warned them that they were deciding too soon. In vain Mr Snow said that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a farmer's life. Harry quoted Cincinnatus, and Norman proved to his own satisfaction, if not to Mr Snow's, that on scientific principles every farm in Merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double the profits. Even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of Merleville.

An opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. Early in May a letter was received from Mr Ross, in which he offered to take the charge of Arthur's education on himself, and, as he was well able to do so, Mr Elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. The money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain or valley.

It came, about this time, to the worst, with Mrs Jones and her daughter Celestia. The mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and Squire Skinflint had foreclosed. Nothing remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for herself and her children. On the homestead she was about to leave, the heart and eyes of Mr Snow had long been fixed. As a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, Sampson would fain have it pass into his. But the only condition of sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. Meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had been some failure in Squire Skinflint's Western land speculation, and money must be had. If the widow could have held it still, Mr Snow would never have desired to have the land; but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put into one.

Just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law's generosity had placed at his disposal. A very few words settled the matter. The minister lent the money to Mr Snow, and for the annual interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. The arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and before May was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds of Janet and the bairns.

And a very pleasant home it promised to be. Even in that beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier spot. Sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around it. Close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay Merle pond, the very loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these mountains. Over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that fringed the village street. Close by the farm-house, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran Carson's brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of the name of river as the Merle itself. Before the house was a large grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led to the door. There were shade trees, too. Once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large garden. Some of these had been injured because of the insufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the name of trees. There were elms whose branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been clipped and cared for by experienced hands. There had been locusts once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look upon as home.

Formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and borders now. There were a few perennials easy to cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. There was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. But, though it looked like a wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, Janet's quick eye foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, Janet saw clearly.

There was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. It was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. Much of it had been little used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. But all this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these disappeared in time.

For, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident landlord's own hands. He had no mind to pay out money for what he could do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. A good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home were being told over by the children, the living so near to Mr Snow and little Emily was never left till the last.

A very pleasant summer thus began to them all. It would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. But Janet's prophecy came true. The newness of farming proved to be its chief charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would not have been much to show for the summer's work. But their father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of Mr Snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously.

Not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. There was not a lazy bone in their bodies, Mr Snow declared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than he. But their strength and energy were not exerted always in a direction that would pay, according to Mr Snow's idea of remuneration. Much time and labour were expended on the building of a bridge over Carson's brook, between the house and Pine Grove Hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. Even Mr Snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. When the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine grove at the top. Then, among the pines, there was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and creeping plants. The Grotto, the children called it, Mr Snow called it the Cave. A wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. To be sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their labours.

The lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. The girls helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as well. Even Graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even Graeme would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again.

As for Janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the brae. With the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace of mind. The first basket of eggs collected by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. Not that she valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they brought to the household. She had a natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned to know and love her in return. All helpless creatures seemed to come to her naturally. A dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship again. The very bees, at swarming time, did not sting Janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. And so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange—"unco like" in her new home.

Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. Not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to "Fleckie" or "Blackie," now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. But "Brindle and Spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name," and many a child in Merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. Morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in Merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old Mrs Snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. And when in the fall Mr Snow went to Boston with the produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of Janet's butter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price," and other things besides, which at Merleville and at Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained.

The Indian-summer had come again. Its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. The minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first Sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utter despairing home-sickness. She could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. Even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. So she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when Mr Snow appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep.

"Your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he.

"The minister is in his study, and Miss Graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. Your Emily's with them."

"Yes, I reckoned so. I've just got home from Rixford. It wouldn't amount to much, all I could do to-night, so I thought I'd come along up a spell."

Janet repeated her kindly welcome.

"The minister's busy, I presume," said he.

"Yes,—as it's Saturday,—but he winna be busy very long now. If you'll bide a moment, he'll be out, I daresay."

"There's no hurry. It's nothing particular."

But Mr Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, Janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face.

"Are you no' weel the night?" she asked.

"Sartain. I never was sick in my life."

"And how are they all down-by?" meaning at Mr Snow's house, by "down-by."

"Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness."

There was a long silence after that. Mr Snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them.

"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last.

"Ay," said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. He sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure Carson's brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. He was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, Janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. At last, a thought struck her.

"What for wasna you at the Lord's table, on the Sabbath-day?" asked she.

Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh.

"Well, I guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if I had undertook to go there."

Janet looked at him in some surprise.

"And what for no? I ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. Though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their Lord, is more than I can understand. What hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?"

There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and said, gravely.

"Mis' Nasmyth, I ain't a professor. I'm one of the world's people Deacon Fish tells about."

Janet looked grave.

"Come now, Mis' Nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought I was one of the good ones?"

"You ought to be," said she, gravely.

"Well,—yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain't a great sight of difference between folks,—leastways, between Merleville folks. I know all about them. I was the first white child born in the town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I'm related to most folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by this time. Except on Sundays, I expect they're all pretty much so. It wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people, that I'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. Now that's a fact."

"You're no' far wrong there, I daresay," said Janet, with emphasis. "But that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken."

"No,—I don't know as it is. But it kind o' makes me feel as though there wasn't much in religion, anyway."

Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued.

"Well now, see here, I'll tell you just how it is. There ain't one of them that don't think I'm a sinner of the worst kind—gospel hardened. They've about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone the talk, I don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the Lord knows I'm bad enough. And so you see, I've about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, I haven't never come across the real article."

"That's like enough," said Janet, with a groan. "I canna say that I have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. But I canna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word."

"Well, yes. I've always had the Bible, and I've read it considerable, but I never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. And it ain't because I ain't tried, either. There was one spell that I was dreadful down, and says I to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, I'm bound to have it. So I began at the beginning about the creation, and Adam and Eve, but I didn't seem to get much comfort there. There was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that I could see nothing to. Some of the Psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the Proverbs are first-rate. I tell you he knew something of human nature, that wrote them."

"There's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in Genesis," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner. You should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to look for comfort."

"Yes. I knew that before, but I couldn't seem to make it go. Then I thought, maybe I didn't understand it right, so I talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best I could, thinking surely what other folks had got, and I hadn't, would come sometime. But it didn't. The talking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me.

"Now there's Deacon Sterne; he'd put it right to me. He'd say, says he, 'Sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. You've got to give up, and bow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke.' Well, 'I'd say, I'd be glad to, if I only knew how to.' Then he'd say, 'But you can't do it yourself, no how. You're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'll have to perish, if the Lord don't take right hold to save you.' Then says I, 'I wish to mercy He would.' Then he'd talk and talk, but it all came to about that, 'I must, and I couldn't,' and it didn't help me a mite.

"That was a spell ago, after Captain Jennings' folks went West. I wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she wouldn't hear a word of it. I was awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and I tell you, I'd ha' given most anything, to have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to."

Mr Snow paused. There was no doubting his earnestness now. Janet did not speak, and in a little while he went on again.

"I'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in getting religion. Sometimes I seem to see that there is, and then again I think, why don't it help folks more. Now, there's Deacon Sterne, he's one of the best of them. He wouldn't swerve a hair, from what he believed to be right, not to save a limb. He is one of the real old Puritan sort, not a mite like Fish and Slowcome. But he ain't one of the meek and lowly, I can tell you. And he's made some awful mistakes in his lifetime. He's been awful hard and strict in his family. His first children got along pretty well. Most of them were girls, and their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their father's hardness. And besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards keeping things straight. But his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. They both went, as soon as ever they were of age. Silas came home afterwards, and died. Joshua went West, and I don't believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. The girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married again, Abby Sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought to have married him. She was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. She has changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. Her children all died when they were babies, except William, the eldest,—wilful Will, they call him, and I don't know but he'd have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course with him, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother's heart to boot. Now, what I want to know is—if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes in life?"

Janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and Sampson did not give her time to consider.

"Now there's Becky Pettimore, she's got religion. But it don't keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall—"

"Whist, man!" interrupted Janet. "It ill becomes the like o' you to speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon—one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and many another trial. She's a worthy woman, and her deeds prove it, for all her sourness. There's few women in the town that I respect as I do her."

"Well, that's so. I know it. I know she gets a dollar a week the year round at Captain Liscome's, and earns it, too; and I know she gives half of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. But it's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant."

"One mustna judge another," said Mrs Nasmyth, gently.

"No, and I don't want to. Only I wish—but there's no good talking. Still I must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't take more comfort out of it. Now there's mother; she's a pillar in the church, and a good woman, I believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. Now it seems to me, if I had all they say a Christian has, and expects to have, I'd let the rest go. They don't half of them live as if they took more comfort than I do, and there are spells when I don't take much."

Janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. There was some surprise in them, too. Mr Snow continued—

"Yes, I do get pretty sick of it all by spells. After father died—and other things—I got over caring about going out West, and I thought it as good to settle down on the old place as any where. So I fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, and made believe happy. And I don't know but I should have stayed so, only I heard that Joe Arnold had died out West—he had married Rachel Jennings, you know; so I got kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. Rachel had changed considerable. She had seen trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but I brought her right home—her and little Emily. Well—it didn't suit mother. I hadn't said anything to her when I went off. I hadn't anything to say, not knowing how things might be with Rachel. Come to get home, things didn't go smooth. Mother worried, and Rachel worried, and life wasn't what I expected it was going to be, and I worried for a spell. And Mis' Nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, I should have got it then, for I tried hard, and I wanted something to help me bad enough. There didn't seem to be anything else worth caring about any way.

"Well, that was a spell ago. Emily wasn't but three years old when I brought them home. We've lived along, taking some comfort, as much as folks in general, I reckon. I had got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me as discontented with myself and everything else as well."

"You should thank the Lord for that," interrupted Janet, devoutly.

"Well, I don't know about that. Sometimes when he has been speaking, I seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and make property. But then again, I don't see but it's just what folks do who have got religion. Most of the professors that I know—"

"Man!" exclaimed Janet, hotly, "I hae no patience with you and your professors. What need you aye to cast them up? Canna you read your Bible? It's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last."

"Just so, Mis' Nasmyth," said Mr Snow, deprecatingly, and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. "But it does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world; now don't it?"

"There's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your Fishes and your Slowcomes. It's no breach o' charity to say that they dinna adorn the doctrine. But there are other folk that I could name, that are both light and salt on the earth."

"Well, yes," admitted Sampson; "since I've seen your folks, I've about got cured of one thing. I see now there is something in religion with some folks. Your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. He's a good man."

"You may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as I have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters."

"Yes, I expect he's just about what he ought to be. But then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten."

"Man! it never fails!" exclaimed Janet, with kindling eye. "It never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. And lad! take heed to yourself. That's Satan's net spread out to catch your unwary soul. It may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a time coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the Lord in 'that day.' You have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the Fishes and Slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you."

Sampson opened his eyes.

"But you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. I ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, I'm grieving for myself. If religion ain't changed them, how can I expect that it will change me; and I need changing bad enough, as you say."

"If it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said Mrs Nasmyth, earnestly. "A Christian, and no' a changed man! Is he no' a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive—born again to a new life? Has he not the Spirit of God abiding in him? And no' changed!—No' that I wish to judge any man," added she, more gently. "We dinna ken other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. We have all reason to be thankful that it's the Lord and no' man that is to be our judge. Maybe I have been over hard on those men."

Here was a wonder! Mrs Nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. Sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. He was more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show.

"Well, I expect there's something in it, whether I ever see it with my own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go.

"Ay, is there," said Mrs Nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened."

"Mis' Nasmyth," said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, "I may be deceiving myself in this matter. I seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over these things. But I do think I am in earnest. Surely I'll get help some time?"

"Ay—that you will, as God is true. But oh man! go straight to Him. It's between you and Him, this matter. But winna you bide still? I daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now."

"I guess not. I hadn't much particular to say to him. I can just as well come again." And without turning his face toward her, he went away.

Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,—

"If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show what He could make of him. Something to His praise, I hae no doubt—Yankee though he be. God forgive me for saying it. I daresay I hae nae all the charity I might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and Merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. But the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the Merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant.

The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. The tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill.

The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfilment.

Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful William's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will's bride that was, Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet.

Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, "yearning for the privileges he left behind,"—or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to "come over and help us." But on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, Deacon Fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper.

Mr Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. His nephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, Mr Page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. Mrs Page enjoys it well, and goes often to Rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young Mrs Merle, and young Mrs Greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends— which are audible enough, too—whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace.

Becky Pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. And so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. But it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in Becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring Becky's enjoyment of it. It may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but Becky's own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give.

Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. It is neat without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and little shoes upon the floor. At this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits Arthur Elliott Greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. And no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. Beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits Celestia with her needle in her hand—a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is "ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home.

The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. "He is growing old while he is young," as Mrs Nasmyth says, "Yankees have a knack of doing—standing still at middle age and never changing more." But despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him.

As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says:

"See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says," and then goes on to read.

"Now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got to Boston."

"See here, Elliott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently.

"Ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "I wouldn't make quite so much noise, dear."

"Why, mother, I'm the cars," says Elliott.

"But hadn't you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where's Carlo? I haven't seen Carlo for a long time. Where's Carlo?"

It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. They do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little Elliott.

It is a happy home, the Greenleaf's. There are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. There are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow's declaration, that "the Greenleafs take their comfort as they go along."

But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the change that has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwelling once—twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now.

But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him.

"He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come and make our abode with him."

That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny— the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. He has learned of the "meek and lowly." He is a Christian at last. He has "experienced religion," the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be.

Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He "stood it" through "a season of interest," when Deacons Fish and Slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." Good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some were gathered into the Church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow never flagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He heard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." He was formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old ladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville.

After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Different from other folks before, he was different from them still. He did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sunday evening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helping them.

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto Me," were words that Sampson seemed to believe.

"He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not," said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know.

As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens God had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, God took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more.

If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. She must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for.

"Sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with a tender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing every day more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson's youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him.

But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for Emily. It cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. For he could not but see that Emily's happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. She could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother's room. She was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old Mrs Snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. To be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks around her." And, besides, "what was the use of Emily Arnold?" And so, what with one thing and another, little Emily's cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming, came back to her eyes again.

"There is no kind o' use for Emily's being kept at work," said her father. "She ain't strong; and there's Hannah Lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and I'd be glad to pay her for it. Emily may have a good time as well as not."

But his mother was not to be moved.

"Girls used to have a good time and work too, when I was young. Emily Arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put notions in her head. And as for Hannah, I'll have none of her."

So Mr Snow saw that if Emily was to have a good time it must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have done for her. He fitted her out, and sent her to Mount Holyoke seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions New England girls. And a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. There were the first inevitable pangs of home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his darling after all. But, in a little, her letters were merry and healthful enough. One would never have found out from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on recreation day. Pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home at the close of the year, Mrs Snow had gone, where the household work is done without weariness. Her father would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of Hannah Lovejoy in the deserted home again.

By the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the departure of Deacons Fish and Slowcome, elected to fill the place of one of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. He was "lonesome, awful lonesome," at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and at many another house, than he.

There have been changes in the minister's household, too. When his course in college was over, Arthur came out to the rest. He lingered one delightful summer in Merleville, and then betook himself to Canada, to study his profession of the law. For Arthur, wise as the Merleville people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. He could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a Yankee; so, for the sake of living in the Queen's dominions, he went to Canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as a place of residence than Greenland or Kamtschatka.

That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a struggle since then. By sometimes teaching dull boys Latin, sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt; and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. He has visited Merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy.

Norman and Harry have both left home, too. Mr Snow did his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. To college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. Norman writes hopefully from the far West. He is an engineer, and will be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe him with a difference.

"He will make money enough," Janet says, "but as to his keeping it, that's another matter."

Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Arthur's example and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to Janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that he is very rich indeed.

Those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There was no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The very pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which Graeme Elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her.

She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. Seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. The glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. It looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills.

"There is no place like Merleville," Graeme thinks in her heart. It is home to them all now. There were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. It came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first Sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. Yes; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But the thought of it came with no painful longing. Even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all.

And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. Something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away.

"It is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. "I won't believe it; and yet—oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?"

"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. Graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. It was only Mr Snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road.

Mr Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. He had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and Graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. And yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house.

There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:

"Mrs Nasmyth."

For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn's own Janet still. There was no coaxing echo in Graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs.

"Are you not going to sit down?" asked Graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. "I wonder where the bairns are?"

"The bairns are gone down the brae," said Mrs Nasmyth; "and I'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while."

But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room.

"Janet," said she, at last, "what brings Deacon Snow so often up here of late?"

Janet's back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, she answered:

"I dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. He never stayed long away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him." There was another pause.

"Janet," said Graeme again, "what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told me all Merleville is saying?"

Janet expressed no curiosity.

"They say Deacon Snow wants to take you down the brae."

Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer.

"He hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed Graeme interrogatively.

"No' to me," said Janet, quietly, "but the minister."

"The minister! He's no' blate! To think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! And what did my father say?"

"I dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and—"

"Janet!" Graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, Mrs Nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning.

"Janet! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I declare I'll take second thoughts and go away myself."

"Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave Mr Foster his answer," said Janet, not heeding Graeme's impatient answer.

"Janet! A sticket minister!"

"My dear, he's no' a sticket minister. He passed his examinations with great credit to himself. You hae your father's word for that, who was there to hear him. And he's a grand scholar—that's weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. I aye thought you might do worse than go with him. He's a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him."

"Thank you. But when I marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. I'm content with the home I have."

"Ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said Janet, with a sigh; "but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day."

"The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems," said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. If I'm worth the keeping here, I'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good a right as another."

"Right, indeed! Nobody has any right to you but ourselves. You are ours, and we'll never, never let you go."

"It's no' far down the brae," said Janet, gently.

"Janet! You'll never think of going! Surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your own mother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us—!" Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back.

"Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, hae patience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way. I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here."

Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words.

"It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while I manage all things, as I do."

But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.

"You can manage far best," said she.

"That's no to be denied," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to think that I am taking upon myself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, I ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!"

There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms.

"And if I should go," continued Janet, "and there's many an if between me and going—but if I should go, I'll be near at hand in time of need—"

"I know I am very useless," broke in Graeme. "I don't care for these things as I ought—I have left you with too many cares, and I don't wonder that you want to go away."

"Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. And if I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she met them."

Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence.

"And, dear," said Janet, in a little, "your father tells me that Mr Snow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again." She had no power to add more.

"But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago."

"My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to give her."

There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said,—

"It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happy lately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming."

Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute Marian entered.

"Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself," said Janet, tenderly.

"We have only been down at Mr Snow's barn watching the threshing. But, indeed, I have wearied myself." And sitting down on the floor at Janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns.

"You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?"

Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.

"Oh! Janet, I'm better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. She looks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you, Graeme?"

"My dear," remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you; and go to the sofa, and I'll go up the stair for the bottle."

Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange; for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. At length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again.

"Miss Graeme," said she, in a little, "I dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from God, and as though He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases."

"I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for the better."

"That's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. You mind what the Word says, 'As an eagle stirreth up her nest.' And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord's children, He'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves."

A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly.

"How lovely she is!" whispered she.

A crimson flush was rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept.

"Ay, she was aye bonny," said Janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now."

Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again.

"Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?"

No, Graeme could not.

"Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have had her away to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was.

"For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming—except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand—the first of the season—and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spoke again."

Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.

"She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. She 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers."

Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceased speaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale.

"Janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie's not going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!" Her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on.

"I cannot tell. I dinna ken—sometimes I'm feared to think how it may end. But oh! Miss Graeme—my darling—"

"But it is quite impossible—it can't be, Janet," broke in Graeme.

"God knows, dear." Janet said no more. The look on Graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, and Janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her—she could not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day.

There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible—it could not be true—it could never, never be true, that her sister was going to die. She tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in God's hands, whatever His will might be, the words would not come to her. It was, "No, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream.

"What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face.

"Graeme, tea's over. Where have you been all this time?" asked Rose.

"My father was asking where you were. He wants to see you," said Will.

"I'll go ben now," said Graeme, rising.

The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister was sitting in the firelight alone. He did not move when the door opened, until Graeme spoke.

"I'm here, papa. Did you want me?"

"Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to say to you."

She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. He was looking troubled and anxious, Graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. Indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. The hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. It came into Graeme's mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that Janet's words had implied.

"My dear," said the minister, at last, "has Mrs Nasmyth been speaking to you?"

"About—" Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word.

"About Mr Snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. Graeme started. She had quite forgotten.

"Mrs Greenleaf told me something—and—"

"I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty—as indeed why should it not?" said the minister. "He seems bent on taking Janet from us, Graeme."

"Papa! it is too absurd," said Graeme, all her old vexation coming back. Mr Elliott smiled.

"I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, and I had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. But we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for Mrs Nasmyth's advantage."

"But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. Why should there be a change now?"

"If the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. But, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, I fear it will be a difficult matter."

"But, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment."

"My dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. She only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us."

"But she has been quite happy with us."

"Yes, love—happy in doing what she believed to be her duty—as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. I have been thinking of her to-night, Graeme. What a self-denying life Janet's has been! She must be considered first in this matter."

"Yes, if it would make her happier—but it seems strange that—"

"Graeme, Mr Snow is to send for her mother and her son. I could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. It will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. And she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers."

Graeme sighed, and was silent.

"If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life."

"But, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one."

"I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell me that; but Graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. Not that I fear for you. You are all young and strong, and the God whom I have sought to serve, will never leave my children. But Janet is growing old, Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentially opened to her."

"If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa—" Graeme hesitated and coloured. Her father smiled.

"Mrs Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will see things differently. And besides, she always liked and respected Mr Snow. I have no doubt she will be very happy with him."

"We all liked him," said Graeme, sighing. "But oh! I dread changes. I can't bear to break up our old ways."

"Graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. We have been very happy of late—so happy that I fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. We may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us."

The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak.

"I know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon you. It will add greatly to your cares to have Mrs Nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and—"

"Oh, papa! it is not that—I mean it is not that altogether, but—" Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. In a little, she asked.

"When is it to be?"

"I don't know, indeed, but soon, I suppose; and my dear child, I trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. The change you dread so much, will not be very great. Our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. I have no doubt, it will be for the best."

"Shall I light your lamp, papa?" said Graeme, in a little while.

"No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night."

Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. When she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. So she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too.

"Only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said. It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. They had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again.

"As an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "Well, I ought no' to fear the changes He brings—But, oh! I am afraid."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

The rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going to take place among them, in a very different way from Graeme. Their astonishment at the idea of Janet's marriage was great, but it did not equal their delight. Graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to keep quiet. But then Janet was in the minority, too, and Mr Snow's suit was anything but prosperous for some time. Indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minister's house, Mrs Nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. Her unhappiness was manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring Sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff would have been; and while Mrs Nasmyth's silence grieved Mr Snow, the elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that "she would get over it," that "it would all come right in the end," were more than she could sometimes patiently endure.

"He's like the lave o' them," said she to Graeme one day, after having closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all necessary. "Give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. Because I didna just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but 'when will it be?' and 'when will it be?' till I have no peace of my life with him."

Graeme could not help laughing at her excitement.

"But, when will it be?" asked she.

"My dear, I'm no sure that it will ever be."

"Janet!" exclaimed Graeme. "What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened; but I'm no' sure but I ought to have put a stop to the matter at the very first. I dinna weel ken what to do."

"Janet," said Graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so—so strange as it did at first—and you should speak to Mr Snow about it, at any rate."

"To put him out o' pain," said Janet, smiling grimly. "There's no fear o' him. But I'll speak to him this very night."

And so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. But Janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. With tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for Marian, and said, "It would seem like forsaking the bairns in their trouble, to leave them now." Mr Snow's kind heart was much shocked at the thought of Marian's danger. She had been his favourite among the bairns, and Emily's chief friend from the very first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason for her stay.

"So you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. He winna ask any questions, I dare say."

But in this Janet was mistaken. He did ask a great many questions, and failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the marriage. In vain Janet protested and held back. He said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to think and decide for her. As to Marian's illness being an excuse, it was quite the reverse. If she was afraid Marian would not be well cared for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she went away. And then he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words.

"And, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "I shall feel, when I am to be taken away, I shall not leave my children desolate, while they have you to care for them."

So for Mrs Nasmyth there was no help. But on one thing she was determined. The day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. They might come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. She would fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she gave the minister. To Mr Snow, who doubted whether "them boys" would care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear.

"If they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. They must be asked, any way."

And so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying that both Harry and Arthur would be home for a week at the time appointed. From Norman there came no letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, Norman came himself. His first greeting to Janet was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking her "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a crisis much sooner. He rejoiced Mr Snow's heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if Mrs Snow was not henceforth the happiest woman in Merleville.

Norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than either of his brothers, the sisters thought. Arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and Harry was a boy with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. But, with Norman's brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance.

But, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. Norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. He was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and Graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all.

Norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. If his active and exposed life as an engineer at the West had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. His "once upon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to Norman's rambling stories. Nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in Norman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero begun.

There was one story which they were never tired of hearing. It needed none of Norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. It was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little Hilda Bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family of eight. Father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue that she could not understand. It would, perhaps, have been wiser in Norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents in their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clung to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could not bear to send her away.

"These people were poor, and had many children of their own," said Norman. "I would have thought it a hard lot for Menie or Rosie to go with them; and when she begged to stay with me, I could not send her with them. If it had not been so far, I would have sent her to you, Graeme. But as I could not do that, I kept her with me while I stayed in C, and there I sent her to school. They say she bids fair to be a learned lady some day."

This was an item of news that Norman's letters had not conveyed. They only knew that he had saved Hilda from the burning boat, and that he had been kind to her afterwards.

"But Norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent Mrs Nasmyth, "you havena surely run yourself in debt?" Norman laughed.

"No; but it has been close shaving sometimes. However, it would have been that anyway. I am afraid I have not the faculty for keeping money, and I might have spent it to worse purpose."

"And is the little thing grateful?" asked Graeme.

"Oh! yes; I suppose so. She is a good little thing, and is always glad to see me in her quiet way."

"It's a pity she's no' bonny," said Marian.

"Oh! she is bonny in German fashion; fair and fat."

"How old is she?" asked Mrs Nasmyth.

Norman considered.

"Well, I really can't say. Judging by her inches, I should say about Rosie's age. But she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be Rosie's grandmother. She's a queer little thing."

"Tell us more," said Rose; "do you go to see her often?"

"As often as I can. She is very quiet; she was the only girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. You should hear her talk about her little business matters. My dear Mrs Nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to account.

"I have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, Graeme. It seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home but a school. She seems happy enough, however."

"And would she like to come?"

"She says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she were once here. I must see about it in the spring."

The wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was rather a sad day to them all. It found Janet still "in a swither." She could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "the bairns."