"And, Oh! Miss Graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing my mother and Sandy, my heart would fail me quite. And are you quite sure that you are pleased now, dear?"

"Janet, it was because I was selfish that I wasna pleased from the very first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the brae."

Graeme did not look very glad, however. But if the wedding-day was rather sad, Thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. It was spent at the Deacon's. Miss Lovejoy distinguished herself forever by her chicken-pies and fixings. Mr and Mrs Snow surpassed themselves as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. Emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at a loss how to take the change, Menie's delight decided her, and she was delighted, too.

They grew quiet in the evening but not sad. Seated around the fire in the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to Merleville. And then, they went further back, and spoke about their old home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "Steadfast."

"I wonder what has become of Allan Ruthven," said Marian. "It's strange that you have never seen him, Arthur."

"I may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. You mind, I was not on the 'Steadfast' with you."

"But Harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw him."

"And do you know no one of the name?" asked Graeme.

"I have heard of several Ruthvens in Canada West. And the house of Elphinstone and Gilchrist have a Western agent of that name. Do you know anything about him, Harry? Who knows but he may be Allan Ruthven of the 'Steadfast.'"

"No, I thought he might be, and made inquiries," said Harry. "But that Ruthven seems quite an old fogey. He has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood,—at least, a long time. Do you mind Allan Ruthven, Menie?"

"Mind him!" That she did. Menie was very quiet to-night, saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on Graeme's knee.

"Allan was the first one I heard say our Menie was a beauty," said Norman. "Menie, do you mind?"

Menie laughed. "Yes, I mind."

"But I think Rosie was his pet. Graeme, don't you mind how he used to walk up and down the deck, with Rosie in his arms?"

"But that was to rest Graeme," said Harry. "Miss Rosie was a small tyrant in those days."

Rosie shook her head at him.

"Eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said Norman, taking Rosie's fair face between his hands. "Graeme had enough ado with you, I can tell you."

"And with you, too. Never heed him, Rosie," said Graeme, smiling at her darling.

"I used to admire Graeme's patience on the 'Steadfast'," said Harry.

"I did that before the days of the 'Steadfast,'" said Arthur.

Rosie pouted her pretty lips.

"I must have been an awful creature."

"Oh! awful," said Norman.

"A spoilt bairn, if ever there was one," said Harry. "I think I see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us."

"I never thought Graeme could make anything of you," said Norman.

"Graeme has though," said the elder sister, laughing. "I wouldna give my bonny Scottish Rose, for all your western lilies, Norman."

And so they went on, jestingly.

"Menie," said Arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in the fire?"

Menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. She started when her brother spoke.

"I see—Oh! many things. I see our old garden at home,—in Clayton, I mean—and—"

"It must be an imaginary garden, then. I am sure you canna mind that."

"Mind it! indeed I do. I see it as plainly as possible, just as it used to be. Only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. I see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall white rose-bushes blossoming to the very top."

"And the broad green walk," said Harry.

"And the summer-house."

"And the hawthorn hedge."

"And the fir trees, dark and high."

"And the two apple trees."

"Yes,—the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, I used to think them," said Norman.

"And I, too," said Menie. "Whenever I think of the garden of Eden, I fancy it like our garden at home."

"Your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get beyond that for Paradise," said Arthur, laughing.

"Well, maybe not, but I always do think of it so. Oh! it was a bonny place. I wish I could see it again."

"Well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two," said Norman. "You needna laugh, Graeme, I am going home as soon as I get rich."

"In a year or two! you're nae blate!"

"Oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. We'll come back again. It will be time enough to make our fortune then. So be ready, Menie, when I come for you."

"Many a thing may happen, before a year or two," said Marian, gravely.

"Many a thing, indeed," said Graeme and Norman, in a breath. But while Graeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister's flushed face, Norman added, laughingly.

"I shouldn't wonder but you would prefer another escort, before that time comes. I say, Menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you are growing?"

Menie laughed, softly.

"Oh! yes. Emily told me when she came home; and so did Harry. And you have told me so yourself to-day, already."

"You vain fairy! and do you really think you're bonny?"

"Janet says, I'm like Aunt Marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma."

"Like Aunt Marian!" Graeme remembered Janet's words with a pang. But she strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright faces round her, it was not difficult to do to-night. Surely if Marian were ill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. And even Janet's anxiety had been at rest for a while. Menie was better now. How merry she had been with her brothers for the last few days. And though she seemed very weary to-night, no wonder. So were they all. Even Rosie, the tireless, was half asleep on Arthur's knee, and when all the pleasant bustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister would be herself again. Nothing so terrible could be drawing near, as the dread which Janet had startled herewith that day.

"Emily," said Harry, "why do you persist in going back to that horrid school? Why don't you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?"

"I'm not going to any horrid school," said Emily.

"You can't make me believe that you would rather be at school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good time with Rose and Menie here."

Emily laughed. "I would like that; but I like going back to school too."

"But you'll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking to you, if you stay much longer."

"In that case, it might do you good to listen," said Emily, laughing.

"But you are altogether too wise already," Harry persisted. "I really am quite afraid to open my lips in your presence."

"We have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it," said Arthur.

"But, indeed, I must have a word with the deacon about it," said Harry. "I can't understand how he has allowed it so long already. I must bring my influence to bear on him."

"You needn't," said Emily. "I have almost prevailed upon Graeme, to let Menie go back with me. There will be two learned ladies then."

Graeme smiled, and shook her head.

"Not till summer. We'll see what summer brings. Many things may happen before summer," she added, gravely.

They all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. They grew quiet after that, and each sat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow's parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meet on earth again.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

They all went away—the lads and Emily, and quietness fell on those that remained. The reaction from the excitement in which they had been living for the last few weeks was very evident in all. Even Will and Rosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoyment of their old pleasures; and so Graeme did not wonder that Marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. The weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. So Marian occupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to her were, for a time, at rest. For she did not look ill; she was as cheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which Janet's departure rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with Graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy with heavier matters.

There was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyes of Mrs Snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of two households, and though no longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in their domestic affairs. With her usual care for the welfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced Hannah Lovejoy up the brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" Sephronia, Hannah's less helpful younger sister. There was a great difference between the service of love that had all their life long shielded them from trouble and annoyance, and Miss Lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. But Hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "a treasure," in these days of destitution in the way of help; and if her service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, while her wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities were not so disagreeable to Graeme as she had feared. Indeed, by the time the first letter from Norman came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest. Her faith in Hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some expostulations from Mrs Snow to prevent her from letting the supreme power, as to household matters, pass into the hands of her energetic auxiliary.

"My dear," said she, "there's many a thing that Hannah could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. It's better for her, and it's better for you, too. Every woman should take pleasure in these household cares. If they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used to them; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. There is great comfort in it sometimes."

Graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but Mrs Snow was not to be moved.

"My dear, that may be all true. I ken books are fine things to keep folk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away that way comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing their duty that the Lord gives them abiding comfort. I ken by myself. There have been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or my brain grown crazed, if I hadna needed to do this and to do that, to go here and to go there. My dear, woman's work, that's never done, is a great help to many a one, as well as me. And trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought to know and do in your father's house."

So Graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way that excited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable Hannah.

So a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to grow long again, before the old dread was awakened in Graeme. For only in one way was Marian different from her old self. She did not come to exert herself. She was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and in the affairs of the village. Almost every day, after the sleighing became good, she enjoyed a drive with Graeme or her father, or with Mr Snow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys." They paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at Judge Merle's or Mr Greenleaf's, or at some other friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long time come into Graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that was invisible as yet to hers. So the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy household knew that each day that passed so peacefully over them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow.

The first fear was awakened in Graeme by a very little thing. After several stormy Sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out.

"I am very sorry not to go, Graeme," said she; "but I was so weary last time. Let me stay at home to-day."

So she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. Nor was the shadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she seemed to-day. It was well that the sunshine, coming in on the corner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. When the services were over, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering more inquiries about Marian, and hastened away, though she knew that Mrs Merle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that Mrs Greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy till she should speak a word with her. But she could not trust herself to meet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. So she went home again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, till Menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both pain and darkness away.

But when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the Sabbath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a little Marian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the Bible that she held in her hand. As Graeme listened to her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. But she put the thought from her. It was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herself for always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and told herself that she must change in this respect. With all her might she strove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief it was that Menie could be going to die—Menie, who had always been so well and so merry. She was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to some quiet place by the sea-shore, and run about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again.

"If spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. But first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and Graeme could not reason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and Menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chase it away.

After this, for a few days, Graeme grow impatient of her sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. She would have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. But this was not for long. Menie yielded always, and tried with all her might to seem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and Graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again.

"I will speak to Doctor Chittenden, and know the worst," said Graeme, to herself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst might be.

By and by there came a mild bright day, more like April than January. Mr Elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, and had taken Will and Rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone. Graeme would have gladly availed herself of Deacon Snow's offer to lend them grey Major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. The day was so fine, she said to Menie; but she was loth to go. It would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. Or, if Graeme liked, they might send down for Janet in the afternoon. Graeme sighed, and urged no more.

"We can finish our book, you know," went on Menie. "And there are the last letters to read to Mrs Snow. I hope nobody will come in. We shall have such a quiet day."

But this was not to be. There was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath the window, and Graeme looked out.

"It is Doctor Chittenden," said she.

Marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the Doctor came, to look strong and well. She did not take his visits to herself. Doctor Chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. Graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him.

"My child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, "are you quite well to-day?"

"Quite well," said Graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his.

"You are quite well, I see," said he, as Marian came forward to greet him.

"I ought to be," said Marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece.

"I see. We must have it replenished."

"Don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said Marian, making a pitiful face. "Graeme don't think it does me much good."

"Miss Graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. But, I'll see. I have some doubts about them myself. You ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and I'm afraid you are not," said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. He looked up, and met Graeme's look fixed anxiously upon him. He did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. The gravity of his look deepened as he met hers.

"Where has your father gone?" asked he.

"To the Bell neighbourhood, for the day. The children have gone with him, and Graeme and I are going to have a nice quiet day," said Marian.

"You are going with me," said the doctor.

"With you!"

"Yes. Have you any objections?"

"No. Only I don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, without having anywhere to go."

"But, I am going to take you somewhere. I came for that purpose. Mrs Greenleaf sent me. She wants you to-day."

"But, I can go there any time. I was there, not long ago; I would rather stay at home to-day with Graeme, thank you."

"And what am I to say to Mrs Greenleaf? No, I'm not going without you. So, get ready and come with me."

Menie pouted. "And Graeme had just consented to my staying at home quietly for the day."

"Which does not prove Miss Graeme's wisdom," said the doctor. "Why, child, how many April days do you think we are going to have in January? Be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if I am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. Miss Graeme, get your sister's things. It is health for her to be out in such a day."

Graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said,—

"There is no haste. I am going farther, and will call as I come back. Lie down, dear child, and rest just now."

Graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study.

"You don't mean to tell me that Menie is in danger?" said she, with a gasp.

"I am by no means sure what I shall say to you. It will depend on how you are likely to listen," said the doctor, gravely.

Graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly.

"Anything is better than suspense." Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "She is not worse! Surely you would have told us!—"

"My dear young lady, calm yourself. She is not worse than she has been. The chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. The indications of disease are comparatively slight—that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. If the month of March were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. Your mother did not die of consumption?"

"No, but—" The remembrance of what Janet had told her about their "bonny Aunt Marian" took away Graeme's power to speak.

"Well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful."

"She is always cheerful."

"Well—that's well. You must not let her do anything to weary herself. I don't like the stove-heat for her. You should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. When the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and I will send her something. My dear, you have no occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her favour."

He went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to Graeme.

"And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?"

A strong shudder passed over Graeme. The doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face.

"Nay, my child—if you could keep her here and assure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the 'rest that remaineth?' For her it would be far better to go, and for you—when your time comes to lie down and die—would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?"

Graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. Her friend did not seek to check them.

"I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. Mine are nearly all there. I would not have it otherwise—and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. You will be glad for yourself by and by. You should be glad for your sister now."

"If I were sure—if I were quite sure," murmured Graeme through her weeping.

"Sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. "I think you may be sure—as sure as one can be in such a case! It is a great mystery. Your father will know best. God is good. Pray for her."

"My father! He does not even think of danger." Graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion.

"Miss Graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your father yet. Marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. A sudden shock might—" He paused.

"Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?" asked Graeme.

"Quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. But it will do no good to disturb him now. I will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. In the meantime you must be cheerful. You have no cause to be otherwise."

It was easy to say "be cheerful." But Graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. Often and often she repeated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. The great dread was always upon her. She never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's state, till her friends—and even the faithful Janet, who knew her so well—doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. But she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strove successfully. But these quiet, cheerful hours in Marian's room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to Him who is full of compassion, even when His chastisements are most severe.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of her hand lay always Menie's little Bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise.

Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them.

"Graeme," said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside me and rest, before Will and Rosie come home."

Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. But she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence.

"Graeme," said Marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?"

"What love?"

"That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme?"

Graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,—

"You're no' feared, Menie?"

"No," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "Do you think I need to fear, Graeme?"

If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it.

"None need fear who trust in Jesus," said she, softly.

"No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trust, now that I am going to die? I know He is able to save."

"All who come to him," whispered Graeme. "My darling, have you come?"

"I think he has drawn me to Himself. I think I am His very own. Graeme, I know I am not wise like you—and I have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often—but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, too."

She lay quietly down again.

"Graeme, are you afraid for me?"

"I canna be afraid for one who trusts in Jesus."

It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy.

"There is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said Marian, again. "My life has been such a happy life. I have had no tribulation that the Bible speaks of—no buffetting—no tossing to and fro. I have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering."

"God has been very good to you, dear."

"And you'll let me go willingly, Graeme?"

"Oh! Menie, must you go. Could you no' bide with us a little while?" said Graeme, her tears coming fast. A look of pain came to her sister's face.

"Graeme," said she, softly; "at first I thought I couldna bear to go and leave you all. But it seems easy now. And you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?"

"No, no! my darling."

"At first you'll all be sorry, but God will comfort you. And my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have Rosie and Will—and, Graeme, you will tell papa?"

"Yes, I will tell him."

"He'll grieve at first, and I could not bear to see him grieve. After he has time to think about it, he will be glad."

"And Arthur, and all the rest—" murmured Graeme.

A momentary shadow passed over Marian's face.

"Oh! Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart to leave you all—but I am willing now. God, I trust, has made me willing. And after a while they will be happy again. But they will never forget me, will they, Graeme?"

"My darling! never!"

"Sometimes I wish I had known—I wish I had been quite sure, when they were all at home. I would like to have said something. But it doesna really matter. They will never forget me."

"We will send for them," said Graeme, through her tears.

"I don't know. I think not. It would grieve them, and I can bear so little now. And we were so happy the last time. I think they had best not come, Graeme."

But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer.

"Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would think of me as I used to be, than to see me now. No, Graeme, I think I will wait."

In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times.

"It won't be long. And, Graeme—I shall see our mother first—and you must have patience, and wait. We shall all get safe home at last—I am quite, quite sure of that."

A step was heard at the door, and Mrs Snow entered.

"Weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. She saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting.

"Have the bairns come?" asked Menie.

"No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae again. Do you want them home?"

"Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them."

The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence.

"It's no' like spring to-night, Janet," said Menie.

"No, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. But the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again."

"Yes; I hope so," said Menie, softly.

"Are you wearying for the spring, dear?"

"Whiles I weary." But the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, Janet well knew.

"I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. It was long before this time of the year—and it seems long to wait for spring."

"Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary."

Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever.

"Janet, when will Sandy come? Have you got a letter yet?"

"Yes; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now."

"Oh! I hope not. I want to see him and your mother. I want them to see me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards."

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. It will rest you, and I'll bide with Menie here."

Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. Not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the March wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. Up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. Conscious only of one thought, that Menie must die, and that the time was hastening.

Yes. It was coming very near now. God help them all. Weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. She bowed herself utterly down.

"So let it be! God's will be done!"

And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. God gives power to his children to pray—face to face—in His very presence. Giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "I am Thine. Save me." Between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. No foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than Menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places.

She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met Mr Snow's look, so grave in its kindliness.

"Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?"

"No," said Graeme, humbly. "I am going in." But she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand.

"Miss Graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He's a mind to about it?"

"Yes," said Graeme, "I give up. His will be done."

"Amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, Deacon Snow's prayer for her found a place.

She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into Hannah's bright kitchen.

"Will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke.

"Well, I guess I'll sit down here. It won't be long before Mis' Snow'll be going along down. But don't you wait. Go right in to your father."

Graeme opened the study-door and went in.

"I will tell him to-night," said she. "God help us."

Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand.

"Graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen Janet?"

"Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago."

"Poor Janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always "Mistress Snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and Graeme wondered to-night.

"Has anything happened?" asked she.

"Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her mother is dead."

The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand.

"Yes," continued her father. "It was rather sudden, it seems—soon after she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!"

Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. "Poor Janet!" well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. It was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. It did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend.

Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme found when she entered her sister's room. Marian was asleep, and coming close to Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm's about her neck without a word. At first Graeme thought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "You see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans."

"Oh, Janet! There's nothing in all the world that we can trust in."

"Ay, you may weel say that. But it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the Lord winna let us forget."

There was a pause.

"When was it?" asked Graeme, softly.

"Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since I sat here. Her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go."

"And would she have come?"

"Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from the beginning. I thought I asked God's guiding, and I was persuaded into thinking I had gotten it. But you see my heart was set on it from the very first—guiding or no guiding—and now the Lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking."

"Oh, Janet!" said Graeme, remonstratingly.

"My dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. I have more need to take the lesson to heart. May the Lord give me grace to do it."

Graeme could say nothing, and Janet continued—

"It's ill done in me to grieve for her. She is far better off than ever I could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me—I must submit."

"You have Sandy still."

"Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping."

"And he will come yet."

"Yes, I have little doubt. But I'll no' set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best."

After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a time till Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near the very last.

They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. They had been sitting thus a long time—so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father's eyes were upon her.

"You are tired to-night, Graeme," said he, at last. Graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed.

"It will not be long now."

Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak.

"We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her mother first. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!"

Graeme's head drooped down on the table. If she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. She trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. Her father watched her for a moment.

"Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?"

"Not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "I am almost willing now."

"What is the happiest life here—and Menie's has been happy—to the blessedness of the rest which I confidently believe awaits her, dear child?"

"It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be left behind."

"Ay, love! But we must bide God's time. And you will have your brothers and Rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts."

Graeme's head drooped lower. She was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. Her father went on—

"And afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. I used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. If it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, I might have borne it better, I thought. But God knows. There are some things for which we cannot prepare."

There was a long silence.

"Graeme, I have something which I must say to you," said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "If the time comes—when the time comes—my child, I grieve to give you pain, but what I have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. My child, I have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together—" Graeme did not move.

"My child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. I stand now, and see all the way by which God has led me, with a grieved wonder, that I should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. The dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty—Mounts of God, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. And yet, I mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable.

"My child, are you hearing me? Oh! if my experience could teach you! I know it cannot be. The blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and I need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of God, for which there is no balm. You are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. But there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that He will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. Are you hearing me, my child?"

Graeme gave a mute sign of assent.

"Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. Yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. God make us patient in it,—patient and helpful. Short as your sister's life has been, it has not been in vain. She has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness—and to you Graeme, most of all."

Graeme's lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. Her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little.

"Hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "Nay," he added, as she would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired Graeme, my child, my best comforter always."

Graeme's frame shook with sobs.

"Don't papa—I cannot bear it—"

She struggled with herself, and grew calm again.

"Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, it is not because I am altogether unhappy, or because I am not willing to let her go—"

"Hush, love, I know. You are your mother's own patient child. I trust you quite, Graeme, and that is why I have courage to give you pain. For I must say more to-night. If anything should happen to me—hush, love. My saying it does not hasten it. But when I am gone, you will care for the others. I do not fear for you. You will always have kind friends in Janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, I am sure. But Graeme, I would like you all to keep together. Be one family, as long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, that you should keep together."

The shock which her father's words gave, calmed Graeme in a moment.

"But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?"

"No, love, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. That is all I had to say, love."

But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,—

"I trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your mother and me."

It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. They were all together in Marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. It was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. Not that any of them thought it would be to-night. Mrs Snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. She had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as Mrs Snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,—

"Janet, is it to be to-night? Are they all here? Papa, Graeme. Where is Graeme?"

They were with her in a moment, and Graeme's cheek was laid on her sister's wasted hand.

"Well, my lammie!" said her father, softly.

"Papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?"

Her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek.

"You are not afraid, my child?"

Afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. Her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the King's messenger was come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but Janet's toil-worn hand laid over them.

Graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move.

"There is no need. Let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank God for the momentary forgetfulness which He has given her."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

That night, Graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or Mrs Snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still.

"She is weary," they said, in whispers. "Let her rest." Kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. "Let her rest," said all.

But when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, Mrs Snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. Graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to Mrs Snow's question whether she felt rested, she said, "Oh! yes," but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. Janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. Just then, her husband came in.

"Is anything the matter?" asked he, anxiously.

"No," said his wife, rousing herself. "Only, I dinna ken weel what to do."

"Is Miss Graeme sick? or is she asleep?"

"I hope she's no' sick. I ken she's no sleeping. But she ought to be roused, and when I think what she's to be roused to—. But, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before—before she's laid in—"

A strong shudder passed over her.

"Oh! man! it's awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin—"

"Need she see her again?" asked Mr Snow.

"Oh! yes, I doubt she must. And the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now."

"Her father," suggested Mr Snow.

"He has seen her. He was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. But he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. I canna disturb him."

"Couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed—to her father or the little ones? She would rouse herself if they needed her."

"That's weel said," said Mrs Snow, gratefully. "Go you down the brae for the bairns, and I'll go and speak to her again."

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said she, softly; "could you speak to me a minute?"

Her manner was quite calm. It was so like the manner in which Graeme had been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the time or circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly,—

"Well, what is it, Janet?"

"My dear, it is the bairns. There is nothing the matter with them," added she hastily, as Graeme started. "They have been down the brae with Emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben yonder, and I think they should see her before—before she's moved, and I dinna like to disturb your father. My bairn, are you able to rise and take Will and wee Rosie ben yonder."

Graeme raised herself slowly up.

"Janet, I have been forgetting the bairns."

Mrs Snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully:

"My dear, you were weary, and they have had Emily."

She would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. Janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. She was ready at last.

"Are they come?" asked Graeme, faintly.

"No, dear. There's no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. My dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as Graeme rose.

"Yes, I think so. But I would like to go alone, first."

"My poor lamb! If I were but sure that I have been right," thought Janet, as she sat down to wait.

An hour passed, and when the door opened, and Graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest.

"She hasna' been alone all this time, as I might have known," said Janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "I'm faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but I needna fear for them. The worst is over now."

And was the worst over? After that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. There was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. There was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,—the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone.

By and by, came letters from the lads; those of Norman and Harry full of bitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again.

The coming of the "bonny spring days" for which Norman had so wished, wakened "vain longings for the dead." The brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with Menie's voice. The flowers which she had planted,—the May-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie's eyes. The odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to Graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and Menie was a happy child. All these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content.

And Mrs Snow, watching both the minister and Graeme, "couldna be thankful enough" for what she saw. But as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. "As though the Lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful," she said to herself, many a time. At last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of Graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen.

"It's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't it?" said Mr Snow, but his face was grave, too.

"I dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. She wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder," said Mrs Snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. "And no wonder. Even Emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. I dare say I'm troubling myself when there is no need."

"The children, Will, and Rosie, don't worry her with their lessons, do they?"

"I dinna ken. Sometimes I think they do. But she would weary far more without them. We must have patience. It would never do to vex the minister with fears for her."

"No, it won't do to alarm him," said Mr Snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. In a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind.

"It ain't worth while to worry her with it. I don't more than half believe it myself. Doctors don't know everything. It seems as though it couldn't be so—and if it is so, it's best to keep still about it— for a spell, anyhow."

And Mr Snow vaguely wished that Doctor Chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms.

"And the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought to keep still. Can't nothing be done for him? I'll have a talk with the squire, anyhow."

That night Mr and Mrs Snow were startled by a message from Graeme. Her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seized with illness. The doctor looked very grave this time, but seeing Graeme's pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was something more than the indigestion which it had been called—severe but not dangerous. The worst was over for this time, and Graeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by.

The minister was better, but his recovery was very slow—so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two Sabbaths in succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. It was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, Graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow dark. She roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts.

"Shall I read to you, papa? You have hardly looked at the book that Mr Snow brought. I am sure you will like it. Shall I read awhile."

"Yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. There is no haste. I have been thinking as I sat here, Graeme—and I shall find no better time than this to speak of it to you—that—"

But what he had been thinking Graeme was not to hear that night, for a hand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to Graeme's invitation, Mr and Mrs Snow came in, "just to see how the folks were getting along," said Mr Snow, as Graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. But there was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather abruptly after a little.

"They've been talking things over, down there to the village, and they've come to the conclusion that they'd better send you off—for a spell—most anywhere—so that you come back rugged again. Some say to the seaside, and some say to the mountains, but I say to Canada. It's all fixed. There's no trouble about ways and means. It's in gold, to save the discount," added he, rising, and laying on the table something that jingled. "For they do say they are pretty considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in Canada, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper," and he sat down again, as though there was enough said, and then he rose as if to go. Graeme was startled, and so was her father.

"Sit down, deacon, and tell me more. No, I'm not going to thank you— you need not run away. Tell me how it happened."

"They don't think papa so very ill?" said Graeme, alarmed.

"Well—he ain't so rugged as he might be—now is he?" said Mr Snow, seating himself. "But he ain't so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him—I don't suppose he'd care about going by himself. And Mis' Snow, and me—we'll take care of the children—"

"And what about this, deacon?" asked Mr Elliott, laying his hand on the purse that Sampson had placed on the table.

But Mr Snow had little to say about it. If he knew where the idea of the minister's holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and Graeme.

"But that matters little, as long as it is to be," said Mrs Snow, coming to the deacon's relief. "And it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives," added she, looking anxiously from Graeme to her father.

"You need not be afraid, my kind friends," said Mr Elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. "The gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. It gives me great pleasure."

"And, Miss Graeme, my dear," continued Mrs Snow, earnestly, "you needna look so grave about it. It is only what is right and just to your father—and no favour—though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. And surely, if I'm satisfied, you may be."

Sampson gave a short laugh.

"She's changed her mind about us Merleville folks lately—"

"Whist, man! I did that long ago. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that Harry tells us of! It will be almost like seeing Scotland again, to be in the Queen's dominions. My dear, you'll be quite glad when you get time to think about it."

"Yes—but do they really think papa is so ill?"

She had risen to get a light, and Mrs Snow had followed her from the room.

"Ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him from home? But he needs a rest, and a change—and, my dear, you do that yourself, and I think it's just providential. Not but that you could have gone without their help, but this was done in love, and I would fain have you take pleasure in it, as I do."

And Graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and "though it wasna just the thing for the Sabbath night," as Janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. They returned to the study with the light just as Mr Elliott was saying,—

"And so, I thought, having the prospect of but few Sabbaths, I would like to spend them all at home."

Janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether Graeme had heard her father's words. She evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. There was nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband's face, Mrs Snow thought, but his words were cheerful.

"Well, yes, I vote for Canada. We ain't going to believe all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys."

Graeme laughed softly. The boys would not have been the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring Canada as the scene of their summer wanderings. She did not join in the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyful.

If Mrs Snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to the true state of the minister's health, she said nothing of it to Graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. Indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. Ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where half the number would have served. Her affairs were made a personal matter by all her friends. Each vied with the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble; and if the reputation of Merleville, for all future time, had depended on the perfect fit of Graeme's one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as Mrs Snow rather sharply remarked, "have been more fuss made about it." And she had a chance to know, for the deacon's house was the scene of their labours of love. For Mrs Snow declared "she wouldna have the minister and Miss Graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be done at all."

But Mrs Snow's interest and delight in all the preparations were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offended at her sharpness. In her heart Mrs Snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, but in public, "saw no good in making a work about it," and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the kindness of the people as their proper right and due. When Mrs Page identified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to Rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest Boston fashion for sleeves, before Graeme's dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which that lady's advances were always met; and listened rather coldly to Graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same lady presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warm enough in her thanks to Becky Pettimore—I beg her pardon, Mrs Eli Stone—for the soft lamb's wool socks, spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her regrets that her baby's teeth would not permit her to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than were Mrs Page's profuse offers of assistance.

On the whole, it was manifest that Mrs Snow appreciated the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment of thanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the "deacon's wife," and her appreciation of them and their favours. Nothing could be more easily seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed her mind about many things, since the minister's Janet used "to speak her mind to the Merleville folk," before they were so well known to her.

As for Graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no means arduous. She was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. It was some time before Will and Rosie could be persuaded that it was right for Graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogether delightful to live all the time at Mr Snow's, and go to school in the village—to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of Merleville. But they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that Graeme should afterward have nothing to teach them. About the little ones, the elder sister's heart was quite at rest. It was not the leaving them alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who had cared for them all their lives.

Graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. She never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow Lovejoy, and her father's voice repeating,—

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." Long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow's groans had risen, Graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face—the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond— the very shadows of the maples on the grass. Then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon—the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her.

Afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. He had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to Graeme, of the early days of their married-life—of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. And more than once he said,—

"You are like your mother, Graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. You must be more hopeful and courageous, my child."

He spoke of Marian, Graeme remembered afterward. Not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. Of the lads far-away, he always spoke as "your brothers, Graeme." He spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too.

"For many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and I know not whether they have all found it yet. Not that I am afraid of them. I believe it will be well with them at last. But in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. You must be patient with your brothers, Graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother's sake and mine."

He spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, "of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon."

"We might have come here, love, had your mother lived. And yet, I do not know. The ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. Her departure made all the rest easy for me, and I am quite convinced our coming was for the best. There is only one thing that I have wished, and I know it is a vain thing." He paused a moment.

"Of late I have sometimes thought—I mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden—that I would like to rest beside her at last. But it is only a fancy. I know it will make no difference in the end."

If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. If it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. She saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. The peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "feared no evil."

Afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought—forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them.

They all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. The preparations for the journey were all made. The good-byes were said to all except to Mrs Snow and Emily. The last night was come, and Graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. She was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. The shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as Menie's resting-place. How peaceful it looked! Graeme thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by Menie's side. She thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. She thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that God suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on Him, for which He does not also provide a balm.

"I will trust and not be afraid," she murmured.

She thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams.

At least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. She did not hear it when she listened for it again. She did not think of Rosie or Will, but went straight to her father's room. Through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. The lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. The moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, Graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

It was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when Arthur took them home with him to Montreal. A very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. Home! Could it ever seem like home to them? Think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. Graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning.

Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. From the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a Lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as Harry's grand river. On the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. The brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. From Graeme's room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden—a very pretty garden. It was only a glimpse—a small part of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it—many panes of glass when the sun was gone. The garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home.

For it was summer—the very prime of summer-time—and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times.

How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of Merleville.

"If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said Rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden."

For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingratitude to Arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. They seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. Harry's hours were long, and Arthur's business was increasing so as to require close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur's business was not strictly professional—that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake.

Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy—too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made—when the taste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strength failed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. She did not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself—at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home.

Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. For though Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu' at the making of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. If it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without Graeme's special overlooking. She would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her.

But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harry was at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. But when any effort was necessary—when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when Arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. She might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless.

Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of Carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same. If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left Merleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of home she thought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. She started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed.

Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must get either better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur and Harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh.

"Graeme!" exclaimed Harry, "what ails you! Such a face! Look here, I have something for you. Guess what."

"A letter," said Rose. "Oh! Graeme look!"

But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startled and tried to raise her.

"Don't, Arthur," said Rose; "let her lie down. She will be better in a little. Harry get some water."

Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do.

"You don't mean that she has been like this before?" said Arthur, in alarm.

"Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better, now."

In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, she said, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened Arthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, and when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,—

"Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it is partly because Graeme is homesick."

"Homesick!" repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath.

"Perhaps not homesick exactly," said Rose, eagerly addressing her brother. "She would not go back again you know; but everything is so different—no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here."

Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down, too.

"Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?"

"I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. She does not think that I know."

"Know what?" asked Arthur.

"That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watched her, and I know."

"Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said Arthur, anxiously.

But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter with Graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,—

"Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness."

Arthur hesitated a moment.

"There was long illness in the family—and then death—my sister's first, and then my father's. And then I brought the rest here."

It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he added with an effort,—

"I fear I have not done well in bringing them. But they wished to come, and I could not leave them."

"You did right, I have no doubt," said the doctor. "Your sister might have been ill anywhere. She might have been worse without a change. The thing is to make her well again—which, I trust, we can soon do— with the help of Miss Rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, I am sure."

"Yes," said Rose, gravely. "I will try."

Arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town.

"Yes," said the doctor. "The heat is bad. But it will not last long now, and on the whole, I think she is better where she is, at present. There is no danger. She will soon be as well as usual, I think."

But it was not very soon. Indeed, it was a long time before Graeme was as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered and grey, and the summer had quite gone. Not until kind Doctor McCulloch had come almost daily for many weeks—long enough for him to become much interested in both patient and nurse.

A wonderful nurse Rose proved herself to be. At first something was said about introducing a more experienced person into Graeme's chamber, but both Rose and Nelly Anderson objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that Rosie kept well and cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. She kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected during the day, Rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while the other stayed with Graeme, and by this means the health and spirits of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. For indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the rest depended upon her. But she bore the trial well, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with by her brothers. She quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when Graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that this time did Rose no harm, but a great deal of good.

As for Nelly Anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a most extraordinary manner—not as a nurse, however. Her efforts in that line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to Graeme not to lose heart. But in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment of the household, and her own most of all. When Arthur had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be made to Graeme in household matters, Nelly had helplessly betaken herself to Rose, and Rose had as helplessly betaken herself to "Catherine Beecher." Nothing short of the state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced Nelly to put faith in a "printed book," in any matter where the labour of her hands was concerned. But her accomplishments as a cook did not extend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes," and more was required. So with fear and trembling, Rose and she "laid their heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexperienced housekeepers, and the result was success—indeed a series of successes. For emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, Nelly want on and prospered; and Rose, content that she should have all the honour of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also.

Almost every morning Rose had a walk, either with Harry to his office, or with Will, to the school, while Arthur stayed with Graeme. The walk was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time if Harry was with her, and then she was ready for her long day at home. She sometimes lingered on the way back. On the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their play. She used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. And whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. She was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have considered advisable.

One bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. For the first time she found the large gate wide open. There was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. This time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given.

The garden belonged to Mr Elphinstone, a great man—at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. One of Rose's amusements during the time she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than Rose herself. Sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. Rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will.

"How happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. "If she is a nice young lady, as I am almost sure she is, she would rather that I enjoyed her flowers than not. At any rate I am going to walk round just once—and then go."

But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and Rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. It took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger. She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her—

"You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now."

Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder.

"If you'll come, round this way I'll show you flowers that are worth looking at," said he.

"He thinks I am a visitor," said Rose to herself. "I'm sure I admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. It won't trouble him much to show them to me, and I'll just go with him."

So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! What verbenas and heliotropes!—what purples—crimsons—scarlets! Rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight.

At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly—

"I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came in. I couldn't help it."

It was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at the great house or not.

"You ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can be said of some of the visitors here."

He led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever Rose had seen before.

"It was just like what a bower ought to be," she told Graeme, afterwards. "It was just like a lady's bower in a book."

There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close by grew a great many flowers. Not rare flowers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. It was Miss Elphinstone's own bower, the gardener said, and these were her favourite flowers. Rose bent over a pale little blossom near the path—

"What is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name.

"Surely you have seen that—and you from Scotland? That's a gowan."

"A gowan!" She was on her knees beside it in a moment. "Is it the real gowan, 'that glints on bank and brae'? No, I never saw one; at least I don't remember. I was only a child when I came away. Oh! how Graeme would like to see them. And I must tell Janet. A real gowan! 'Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower'—you mind? And here is a white one, 'With silver crest and golden eye.' Oh! if Graeme could only see them! Give me just one for my sister who is ill. She has gathered them on the braes at home."

"Ahem! I don't know," said her friend, in a changed voice. "These are Miss Elphinstone's own flowers. I wouldna just like to meddle with them. But you can ask her yourself."

Rose turned. The pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing beside her. Rose's confusion was too deep for words. She felt for a minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing to intrude. The young lady's answer was to stoop down and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. When she gave them into Rose's hand she asked,—

"Is your sister very ill? I have seen the doctor going often to your house."

"She is getting better now. She has been very ill. The doctor says she will soon be well."

"And have you taken care of her all the time? Is there no one else?"

"I have taken care of her, Nelly Anderson and I, all the day, and our brothers are home at night."

"I am glad she is getting better. Is she fond of flowers. Mr Stirling is thinking I haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you put them in water, you know."

"Oh! thank you. They are beautiful. Yes, Graeme is very fond of flowers. This will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the country, I mean. And besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at home."