She made no secret of her pleasure in the prospect of living in a nice house with pretty things about her, and discussed her plans and intentions with great enjoyment with her cousin Shenac, who did not laugh at her little ambitions as much as might have been expected. Indeed, she was rather grave and quiet about this time, and seemed to shun, rather than to seek, these confidences. She was too busy now that Mary and Annie were both gone, to leave home often, and when our Shenac wished to see her she had to go in search of her. It was not quite so formidable an affair as it used to be to go to Angus Dhu's house now, and Shenac and her brother often found themselves there on summer evenings. But at home, as elsewhere, Shenac Dhu was quiet and staid, and not at all like the merry Shenac of former times.

This change was not noticed by Shenac Bhan so quickly as it would have been if she had been less occupied with her own affairs; but she did notice it at last, and one night, drawing her away from the door-step where the rest were sitting, she told her what she was thinking, and entreated to know what ailed her.

"What ails me?" repeated Shenac Dhu, reddening a little. "What in the world should all me? I am busier than I used to be, that is all."

"You were always busy; it is not that. I think you might tell me, Shenac."

"Well," began her cousin mysteriously, "I will tell you if you will promise not to mention it. I am growing wise."

Shenac Bhan laughed.

"Well, I don't see what there is to laugh at. It's time for me to grow wise, when you are growing foolish."

Shenac Bhan looked at her cousin a little wistfully.

"Am I growing foolish, Shenac? Is it about the house and all the things? Perhaps I am thinking too much about them. But it is not for myself, Shenac; at least, it's not all for myself."

But Shenac Dhu stopped her.

"You really are foolish now. No; of course the house has nothing to do with it. I called you foolish for saying that something ails me, which is nonsense, you know. What could ail me? I put it to yourself."

"But that is what I am asking you. How can I tell? Many a thing might go wrong with you," said Shenac Bhan.

"Yes; I might take the small-pox, or the bank might break and I might lose my money, or many a thing might happen, as you say; and when anything does happen, I'll tell you, you may be sure. Now tell me, is the wide stripe in the new carpet to be red or green?"

"You are laughing at me, Cousin Shenac," said our Shenac, gravely. "I daresay it is foolish in me, and may be wrong, to be thinking so much about these things and teasing you about them; but, Shenac, our Allister is a man now, and folk think much of him, and I want his house to be nice, and I do take pleasure in thinking about it. And you know we have been so poor and so hard pressed for the last few years, with no time to think of anything but just what must be done to live; and it will be so nice when we are fairly settled. And, Shenac, our Allister is so good. There never was such a brother as Allister—never. I would not speak so to every one, Shenac; but you know."

Shenac Dhu nodded. "Yes, I know."

"If my mother were only well!" continued Shenac Bhan, and the tears that had risen to her eyes fell on her cheeks now. "We would be too happy then, I suppose. But it seems sad enough that she should not be able to enjoy it all, and take her own place in the new house, after all she has gone through."

"Yes," said Shenac Dhu, "it is very sad."

"And yet I cannot but take pleasure in it; and perhaps it is foolish and unkind to my mother too. Is it, Shenac?"

There were two or three pairs of eyes watching—no, not watching, but seeing—the two girls from the doorstep, and Shenac Dhu drew her cousin down the garden-path towards the plum-tree before she answered her. Then she put her arms round her neck, and kissed her two or three times before she answered,—

"You are not wrong or foolish. You are right to take pride and pleasure in your brother and his house, and in all that belongs to him. And he is just as proud of you, Shenac, my darling."

"That is nonsense, you know, Cousin Shenac," said Allister's sister; but she smiled and blushed too, as she said it, with pure pleasure.

There was no chance after this to say anything more about the change, real or supposed, that had taken place in Shenac Dhu, for she talked on, allowing no pause till they had come quite round the garden and back to the door-step; but Shenac Bhan knew all about it before she saw her cousin again.

That night, as she was going home through the field with Allister, he asked her rather suddenly,—

"What were you and Cousin Shenac speaking about to-night when you went round the garden?"

"Allister," said his sister, "do you think Cousin Shenac is changed lately?"

"Changed!" repeated Allister. "How?"

"Oh, of course you cannot tell; but she used to be so merry, and now she is quite quiet and grave, and we hardly ever see her over with us now. I was asking her what ailed her."

"And what did she say?"

"Oh, she laughed at me, and denied that anything ailed her, and then she said she was growing wise. But I know something is wrong with her, though she would not tell me."

"What do you think it is, Shenac?"

"I cannot tell. It is not only that she is quieter—I could understand that; but she hardly ever comes over now, and something is vexing her, I'm sure. Could it be anything Dan has said? He used to vex her sometimes. What do you think it can be, Allister?"

There was a little pause, and then Allister said,—

"I think I know what it is, Shenac."

"You!" exclaimed Shenac. "What is it? Have I anything to do with it? Am I to blame?"

"You have something to do with it, but you are not to blame," said Allister.

"Tell me, Allister," said his sister.

There was a silence of several minutes, and then Allister said,—

"Shenac, I have asked Cousin Shenac to be my wife." Shenac stood perfectly still in her surprise and dismay. Yes, she was dismayed. I have heard it said that the tidings of a brother's engagement rarely bring unmixed pleasure to a sister. I daresay there is some truth in this. Many sisters make their brothers their first object in life— pride themselves on their talents, their worth, their success, live in their lives, glory in their triumphs; till a day comes when it is softly said of some stranger, or some friend—it may be none the pleasanter to hear because it is a friend—"She is more to him than you could ever be." Is it only to jealous hearts, ignoble minds, that such tidings come with a shock of pain? Nay, the truer the heart the keener the pain. It may be short, but it is sharp. The second thought may be, "It is well for him; I am glad for him." But the pang is first, and inevitable.

Allister had been always first, after Hamish, in Shenac's heart—perhaps not even after Hamish. She had never thought of him in connection with any change of this kind. In all her plans for the future, no thought of possible separation had come. She stood perfectly still, till her brother touched her.

"Well, Shenac?"

Then she moved on without speaking. She was searching about among her astonished and dismayed thoughts for something to say, for she felt that Allister was waiting for her to speak. At last she made a grasp at the question they had been discussing, and said hurriedly,—

"But there is nothing to vex Shenac in that, surely?"

"No; unless she is right in thinking that you will not be glad too."

"I am glad it is Shenac. I would rather it would be Shenac than any one else in the whole world—"

"I was sure of it," said her brother, kissing her fondly.

Even without the kiss she would hardly have had the courage to add,—

"If it must be anyone."

"And, Shenac," continued her brother, "you must tell her so. She fancies that for some things you will not like it, and she wants to put it off for ever so long—till—till something happens—till you are married yourself, I suppose."

Now Shenac was vexed. She was in the way—at least, Allister and Shenac Dhu thought so. It was quite as well that the sound of footsteps gave her no time to speak the words that rose to her lips. They were overtaken by Mr Stewart and Hamish. It had been to see the minister that they had all gone to Angus Dhu's, for he was going away in the morning, and they did not know when they might see him again. It was late, and the farewells were brief and earnest.

"God bless you, Shenac!" was all that Mr Stewart said; and Shenac answered never a word.

"I'll walk a little way with you," said Allister. Hamish and Shenac stood watching them till they passed through the gate, and then Shenac sat down on the doorstep with a sigh, and laid her face upon her hands. Hamish looked a little astonished, but he smiled too.

"He will come back again, Shenac," he said at last.

"Yes, I know," said she, rising slowly. "I must tell you before he comes. We must not stay here. Come in; you will take cold. I don't know what to think. He expected me to be pleased, and I shall be in a little while, I think, after I have told you. Do you know it, Hamish?"

"I know—he told me; but I thought he had not spoken to you," said the puzzled Hamish.

"Did Allister tell you? Are you glad, Hamish?"

"Allister?" repeated Hamish.

"Allister has asked Shenac Dhu to be his wife," said Shenac in a whisper.

"Is that it? No, I had not heard that, though I thought it might be— some time. You must have seen it, Shenac?"

"Seen it! the thought never came into my mind—never once—till he told me to-night."

"Well, that's odd, too," said Hamish, smiling. "They say girls are quick enough to see such things. Are you not pleased, Shenac?"

"I don't know. Should I be pleased, Hamish? I think perhaps in a little while I shall be." Then she added, "It will make a great difference."

"Will it?" asked Hamish. "Cousin Shenac has almost been like one of ourselves so long."

"I suppose it is foolish, and maybe it is wrong, but it does seem to put Allister farther from us—from me, at least. He seems less our own."

"Don't say that, Shenac dear," said her brother gently. "Allister can never be less than a dear and loving brother to us all. It is very natural and right that this should happen. It might have been a stranger. We all love Shenac Dhu dearly."

"Yes," said Shenac; "I said that to Allister."

"And, Shenac, I am very glad this should happen. Allister will settle down content, and be a good and useful man."

"He would have done that anyway," said Shenac, a little dolefully.

"He might, but he might not," said Hamish. "They say marriage is the natural and proper state. I am glad for Allister, Shenac; and you will be glad by-and-by. I wish I had known this a little sooner. I am very glad, Shenac."

Shenac sighed. "I suppose it is altogether mean and miserable in me not to be glad all at once; and I'll try to be. I suppose we must stay here now, Hamish," she added, glancing round the low room.

"Do you think so?" said Hamish in surprise. "No, you must not say so. I am sure it would grieve Cousin Shenac."

"There are so many of us, Hamish, and our mother is a great care; it would not be fair to Shenac. I must stay here and take care of my mother and you."

There was a long silence.

"Shenac," said her brother at last, "don't think about this just now; don't make up your mind. It is not going to happen soon."

"Allister says soon, but Shenac says not till—" She stopped.

"Well, soon or late, never mind; it will all come right. Let us be more anxious to do right than for anything else. God will guide us, Shenac. Don't let us say anything to vex Allister. It would vex him greatly, I know, to think that you and all of us would not go with him and Shenac."

"But it would not be fair to Shenac herself. Think what a large family there is of us."

"Whisht, Shenac, there may be fewer of us soon. You may marry yourself."

"And leave my mother and you?" Shenac smiled incredulously.

"Stranger things have happened," said her brother. "But, Shenac, our mother will not be here long, and Allister's house is her place, and you can care for her all the same there—better indeed. I am glad of this marriage, for all our sakes. Shenac Dhu is like one of ourselves; she will always care for the little ones as no stranger could, and for our mother. It is a little hard that you should not have the first place in the new house for a while, till you get a home of your own, after all the care and trouble you have had for us here—"

"Do you think that has anything to do with it, Hamish?" said Shenac reproachfully. "It never came into my mind; only when Allister told me it seemed as though I would be so little to him now. Maybe you are right, though. Everybody seems to think that I like to be first. I know I have thought a great deal about the new house; but it has been for the rest, and for Allister most of all."

"Shenac, you must not vex yourself thinking about it," said her brother. "I am more glad of this for your sake than for all the rest. I cannot tell you how glad I am."

"Well, I am glad too—I think I am glad; I think it will be all right, Hamish. I am not really afraid of anything that can happen now."

"You need not be, dear; why should you be afraid even of trouble?" said her brother. "And this is not trouble, but a great blessing for us all."

But Shenac thought about it a great deal, and, I am afraid, vexed herself somewhat, too. She did not see Shenac Dhu for a day or two, for her cousin was away; and it was as well to have a little time to think about it before she saw her. There came no order out of the confusion, however, with all her thinking. That they were all to be one family she knew was Allister's plan, and Hamish approved it, though the brothers had not exchanged a word about the matter. But this did not seem the best plan to her, nor did she think it would seem so to her cousin; it was not best for any of them. She could do far better for her mother, and Hamish too, living quietly in their present home; and the young people would be better without them. Of course they must get their living from the farm, at least partly; but she could do many things to earn something. She could spin and knit, and she would get a loom and learn to weave, and little Flora should help her.

"If Allister would only be convinced; but they will think I am vexed about the house, and I don't think I really cared much about it for myself—it was for Allister and the rest. Oh, if my mother were only able to decide it, I do think she would agree with me about it."

She thought and thought till she was weary, and it all came to this:—

"I will wait and see what will happen, and I will trust. Surely nothing can go wrong when God guides us. At any rate, I shall say nothing to vex Allister or Shenac; but I wish it was well over."

It was the first visit to Shenac Dhu which, partly from shyness and partly from some other feeling, she did dread a little; but she need not have feared it so much. She did not have to put a constraint on herself to seem glad; for the very first glimpse she caught of Shenac's sweet, kind face put all her vexed thoughts to flight, and she was really and truly glad for Allister and for herself too.

She went to her uncle's one night, not at all expecting to see her cousin; but she had returned sooner than was expected, and when she went in she found her sitting with her father and Allister. Shenac did not see her brother, however. She hastily greeted her uncle, and going straight to her cousin put her arms round her neck and kissed her many times. Shenac Dhu looked up in surprise.

"I know it now, Cousin Shenac," said Allister's sister; and in a moment Allister's arms were round them both. It was Angus Dhu's turn to be surprised now. He had not been so startled since the day that Shenac Bhan told him her mind down by the creek. The girls escaped, and Allister explained how matters stood. The old man was pleased, but he grumbled a little, too, at the thought of losing his last daughter.

"You must make an exchange, Allister, my man. If you could give us your Shenac—"

Allister laughed. In his heart he thought his sister too good to be sent there, and he was very glad he had not the matter to decide.

"Shenac, my woman," said the old man as they were going away, "I wonder at you being so willing to give up the fine new house. I think it is very good in you."

"I would not—to anybody else," said she, laughing.

"But she's not going to give it up, father," said Shenac Dhu eagerly.

"Well, well, maybe not, if you can keep her."

Shenac still pondered over the question of what would be best for them all, and wearied herself with it many a time; but she gave none the less interest to the progress of the house and its belongings. She spun the wool for the carpet, and bleached the new linen to snowy whiteness, and made all other preparations just the same as if she were to have the guiding and governing of the household. She was glad with Allister and glad with Shenac, and, for herself and the rest, quite content to wait and see what time would bring to pass.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

But a day came when Shenac saw how needless all her anxious thoughts about her mother's future had been, when she acknowledged, with tears of mingled sorrow and joy, that she had tenderer care and safer keeping than son or daughter could give.

All through the long harvest-days the mother failed slowly—so slowly that even the watchful eyes of Shenac did not see how surely. Then, as the autumn wore away, and the increasing cold no longer permitted the daily sitting in the sunshine, the change became more rapid. Then there was a time of sharper suffering. The long days and nights lingered out into weeks, and then all suffering was over—the tired heart ceased to struggle with the burden of life, and the widow was laid to rest beside her husband and son.

That this was a time of great sorrow in the household need not be told. Neighbours came from far and near with offers of help and sympathy. All that kind hearts and experienced hands could do to aid these young people in the care of their suffering mother was done; but all was only a little. It was the strong arm of Allister which lifted and laid down, and moved unceasingly, the never-resting form of the mother. It was Shenac who smoothed her pillow and moistened her lips, and performed all the numberless offices so necessary to the sick, yet too often so useless to soothe pain. It was the voice of Hamish that sometimes had the power to soothe to quietness, if not to repose, the ever-moaning sufferer. Friends came with counsel and encouragement, but her children never left her through all. It was a terrible time to them. Their mother's failure had been so gradual that the thought of her death had not been forced upon them; and, quite unaccustomed to the sight of so great suffering, as the days and nights wore on, bringing no change, no respite, but ever the same moaning and agony, they looked into one another's faces appalled. It was terrible; but it came to an end at last. They could not sorrow for her when the close came. They rejoiced rather that she had found rest. But they were motherless and desolate.

It was a very hushed and sorrowful home that night, when all the friends who had returned with them from the grave were gone, and the children were alone together; and for many days after that. If this trouble had come upon them a year ago, there would have been some danger that the silence and sadness that rested upon them might have changed to gloom and despondency on Shenac's part; for she felt that her mother's death had "unsettled old foundations," and when she looked forward to what her life might be now, it was not always that she could do so hopefully. But she was quiet and not impatient—willing to wait and see what time might bring to them all.

By-and-by the affairs of the house and of the farm fell back into the old routine, and life flowed quietly on. The new house made progress. It was so nearly completed that they had intended to remove to it about the time their mother became worse. The work went on through all their time of trouble, and one after another the workmen went away; but nothing was said of any change to be made, till the year was drawing to a close. It was Hamish who spoke of it then, first to Shenac and then to Allister; and before Christmas they were quite settled in their new home.

Christmas passed, and the new year came in, and a month or two more went by, and then one night Shenac said to her brother,—

"Allister, when are you going to bring Shenac home?"

Allister had been the gravest and quietest of them all during the time that had passed since their mother's death. He was silent, though he started a little when his sister spoke. In a moment she came close to him, and standing behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and said softly,—

"It would be no disrespect to the memory of our mother, coming now. Hamish says so too. Shenac is not like a stranger; and it might be very quiet." Allister turned and touched with his lips the hand that lay on his shoulder, and then drew her down on the seat beside him. This was one of the things which made Allister so different from other people in Shenac's eyes. Even Hamish, loving and kind as he was, had not Allister's gentle, caressing ways. A touch, a smile, a fond word, came so naturally from him; and these were all the more sweet to Shenac because she was shy of giving such tokens herself, even where she loved best.

"If Shenac would come," said Allister.

Shenac smiled. "And will she not?"

"Should I ask it now, dear?"

"Yes, I think so," said his sister gravely. "The spring will soon be here, and the busy time. I think it should be soon. Have you spoken to Shenac since?"

"No; I have not. Though I may wish it, and Shenac might consent, there is more to be thought of. We will not have you troubled, after all you have gone through, till you are quite ready for it—you and Hamish."

"But surely Shenac cannot doubt I will speak to her myself; and I think it should be soon," said his sister.

They were sitting in the new, bright kitchen, and it was growing dark. There was a stove in it, one of the latest kind, for use; but there was a great wide fireplace too, for pleasure; and all the light that was in the room came from the great maple logs and glowing embers. Little Flora had gone to the mill with Dan, Hamish was at his uncle's, and the other lads were not come in; so they had the house to themselves. There was silence between them for a little while, and then his sister said again,—

"I'll speak to Shenac."

The chance to do so was nearer than she thought; for there was a touch at the door-latch, and a voice said softly,—

"Are you here, Cousin Shenac? I want to speak to you. Hamish told me you were quite alone."

"Yes, she's quite alone, except me." And Allister made one stride across the floor, and Shenac Dhu was held fast. She could not have struggled from that gentle and firm clasp, and she did not try.

"I thought you were at The Sixteenth, Allister," said she. "I was there, but I am here now. And our Shenac wants to speak to you."

He brought her to the fire-light, where our Shenac was waiting, a little shyly—that is, Shenac waited shyly. Allister brought the other Shenac forward, not at all shyly, quite triumphantly, indeed, and then our Shenac said softly,—

"When are you coming home, sister Shenac?"

With that the startled little creature gave one look into our Shenac's face, and breaking from Allister's gentle hold, she clasped her round the neck, and wept and sobbed in a way that astonished them more than a little. For indeed there was no cause for tears, said Shenac Bhan; and indeed she was very foolish to cry, said Allister—though there were tears in his own eyes; and as for Shenac Bhan, the tears did not stay in her eyes, but ran down over her face and fell on the soft black braids of the other Shenac's bowed head; for joy will make tears fall as well as sorrow sometimes, and joy and sorrow mingled is the source of these.

But indeed, indeed, I never thought of telling all this. When I began my story I never meant to put a word of love or marriage in it. I meant to end it at the happy day when Allister came home. But all Shenac's work at home was not done when her good and loving brother took the place she had filled so well. So my story has gone on, and will go on a little longer; though that night, when Shenac Dhu went away and Allister went with her, leaving Shenac Bhan to her own thoughts, she said to herself that very soon there would be nothing more for her to do. Allister and Shenac Dhu would care for the little ones better than she ever could have done; for the lads were wilful often, and sometimes her patience failed, and Allister would make men of them—wise, and strong, and gentle, like himself. And Shenac, sweet, kind, merry Shenac Dhu, would never be hard with the lads or little Flora, for she loved them dearly; and it would be better for the children just to have Allister and Shenac Dhu, and no elder sister to appeal to from them. It would be better that she should go away—at least for a little while, till other authority than hers should be established.

Yes; her work for the children was done. She said it over and over again, repeating that it was better so, and that she was glad and thankful that all would be so well. But she said it with many a tear and many a sigh and sob; for, having no experience of life beyond her long labour and care for them, it seemed to this foolish Shenac that really and truly her life's work was done. No, she did not say it in words, even to herself; but the future looked blank and bare to her. Any future that seemed possible to her looked rather dark than bright; and she feared—oh, so much!—to take her destiny in her hands and go away alone.

But not a word of all this had been spoken to Allister and Shenac Dhu. Not even Hamish had been told of her plans. No, not her plans—she had none—but the vague blending of wishes and fears that came with all her thoughts of the future. There would be time enough by-and-by to tell him; and, indeed, Shenac was a little afraid to let the light of her brother's sense and wisdom in on all her thoughts. For Hamish had a way of putting things in a light that made them look quite different. Sometimes this made her laugh, and sometimes it vexed her; but, whether or not, the chances were she would come round in time to see things as he saw them.

And, besides, there was something in this matter that she could not tell to Hamish—at least, it seemed to her that she could not, even if it would be right and kind to do so; and without this she feared that her wish to go away from home might not commend itself to him. Indeed, if it had not been for this thing which could not be told, she might not have wished to leave home. She would hardly have found courage to break away from them all and go to a new, untried life, of her own free will, even though her work at home were done.

This was the thing which Shenac thought she never could tell even to Hamish. One night, on her way home from his house, she had been waylaid by Angus Dhu, and startled out of measure by a request, nay, an entreaty, that "she would be kind to poor Evan." Then the old man had gone on to say how welcome she would be if she would come home and be the daughter of the house when his Shenac went to Allister. He told her how fondly she should be cherished by them all, and how everything within and without should be ordered according to her will; for he was sure that union with one of her firm yet gentle nature was just what was needed to make a good man of his wayward lad. She had listened, because she could not break away, wishing all the time that the earth would open and that she might creep away into the fissure and get out of sight. For, indeed, she had never thought of such a thing as that. Nor Evan either, she was sure—she thought—she did not know. Oh, well, perhaps he had thought of it, and had tried to make it known to her in his foolish way. But she never really would have found it out or thought about it if his father had not spoken; and now she would never be able to think about anything else in the presence of either.

It was too bad, and wrong, and miserable, and uncomfortable, and I don't know what else, she said to herself, for it could never be—never. And yet, why not? It would seem natural enough to people generally; her aunt would like it, her uncle's heart was set on it, and Allister and Shenac Dhu would be pleased. Even Hamish would not object. And Evan himself? Oh, no; it could never be. She would never care for him in that way. He was not like Allister, nor like any one she cared for—so different from—from—Shenac was sitting alone in the dark, but she suddenly dropped her face in her hands. For quite unbidden, with a shock of surprise and pain that made her heart stand still for a moment, and then set it beating wildly, a name had come to her lips—the name of one so wise and good in her esteem that to speak it at such a time, even in her thoughts, seemed desecration.

"I am growing foolish, I think, with all this vexation and nonsense; and I won't think about it any more. I have enough to keep me busy till Shenac Dhu comes home, and then I'll have it out with Hamish."

The wedding was a very quiet one. It was hardly a wedding at all, said the last-married sisters, who had gone away amid feasting and music. There was no groomsman nor bridesmaid, for Shenac Bhan could hardly stand in her black dress, and Shenac Dhu would have no one else; and there were no guests out of the two families. Old Mr Farquharson came up one morning, and it was "put over quietly," as Angus Dhu said; and after dinner, which might have served half the township both for quantity and quality, Allister and his bride went away for their wedding trip, which was only to the town of M—- to see Christie More and make a few purchases. They were to be away a week—certainly no longer—and then the new life was to begin.

Shenac Bhan stood watching till they were out of sight; and then she stood a little longer, wondering whether she might not go straight home without turning into the house. No; she could not. They were all expected to stay the rest of the day and have tea, and visit with her cousins, who lived at some distance, and had been little in their father's house since they went to their own.

"Mind you are not to stay away, Hamish, bhodach," whispered Shenac, as they turned towards the house; and Hamish, who had been thinking of it, considered himself in honour bound to return after he had gone to see that all was right at home.

It was not so very bad, after all. The two young wives were full of their own affairs, and compared notes about the butter and cheese-making which they had carried on during the summer, and talked about flannel and full-cloth and the making of blankets in a way that must have set their mother's heart at rest about their future as notable house-keepers. And Shenac Bhan listened and joined, seemingly much interested, but wondering all the time why she did not care a pin about it all. Flannel and full-cloth, made with much labour and pains, as the means of keeping Hamish and little Flora and the lads from the cold, had been matters of intense interest; and butter put down, and cheese disposed of, as the means of getting sugar and tea and other things necessary to the comfort of her mother and the rest, had been prized to their utmost value. But flannel and full-cloth, butter and cheese, were in themselves, or as a means of wealth, matters of indifference. Allister's good heart and strong arm were between them and a struggle for these things now; and that made the difference.

But, as she sat listening and wondering, Shenac did not understand all this, and felt vexed and mortified with herself at the change. Annie and Mary, her cousins, were content to look forward to a long routine of spinning and weaving, dairy-work and house-work, and all the rest. Why should she not do the same? She used to do so. No; she used to work without looking forward. She could do so still, if there were any need for it—any good in it—if it were to come to anything. But to work on for yards of flannel and pounds of butter that Flora and the rest, and all the world indeed, would be just as well without—the thought of that was not pleasant.

She grew impatient of her thoughts, as well as the talk, at last, and went to help her aunt to set out the table for tea. This was better. She could move about and chat with her concerning the cream-cheese made for the occasion, and of the cake made by Shenac Dhu from a recipe sent by Christie More, of which her mother had stood in doubt till it was cut, but no longer. Then there were the new dishes of the bride, which graced the table—pure white, with just a little spray of blue. They were quite beautiful, Shenac thought. Then her aunt let her into the secret of a second set of knives and forks—very handsome, which even the bride herself had not seen yet; and so on till Hamish came in with Angus Dhu. Then Shenac could have cried with vexation, she felt so awkward and uncomfortable under the old man's watchful, well-pleased eye; and when Evan and the two Dans came in it was worse. She laid hands on a long grey stocking, her aunt's work, and betook herself to the corner where Annie and Mary were still talking more earnestly than ever. She startled them by the eagerness with which she questioned first one and then the other as to the comparative merits of madder and—something else—for dyeing red. It was a question of vital importance to her, one might have supposed, and it was taken up accordingly. Mrs McLay thought the other thing was best—gave much the brighter colour; but Mrs McRea declared for the madder, because, instead of fading, it grew prettier the longer it was worn and the oftener it was washed. But each had enough to say about it; and this lasted till the lads and little Flora came in from their play, and Shenac busied herself with them till tea was ready. After tea they had worship, and sung a little while, and then they went home.

"Oh, what a long day this has been!" said Shenac, as they came in.

"Yes; I fancied you were a little weary of it all," said Hamish.

"It would be terrible to be condemned to do nothing but visit all one's life. It is the hardest work I ever undertook—this doing nothing," said Shenac.

Hamish laughed.

"Well, there is comfort in knowing that you have not had much of that kind of work to do in your lifetime, and are not likely to have."

There were several things to attend to after coming home, and by the time all these were out of the way the children had gone to bed, and Hamish and Shenac were alone.

"I may as well speak to Hamish to-night," said Shenac to herself. "Oh dear! I wish it were well over. If Hamish says it is right to go, I shall be sure I am right, and I shall not be afraid. But I must go—I think it will be right to go—whether Hamish thinks so or not. Hamish can do without me; but how shall I ever do without him?"

She sat looking into the fire, trying to think how she should begin, and started a little when Hamish said,—

"Well, Shenac, what is it? You have something to tell me."

"I am going to ask you something," said his sister gravely. "Do you think it is wrong for me to wish to go away from home—for a while, I mean?"

"From home? Why? When? Where? It all depends on these things," said Hamish, laughing a little.

"Hamish, what should I do?" asked his sister earnestly. "I cannot do much good by staying here, can I? Ought I to stay? Don't tell me that I ought not to go away—that you have never thought of such a thing."

"No, I cannot tell you that, Shenac; for I have thought a great deal about it; and I believe you ought to go—though what we are to do without you is more than I can tell."

So there were to be no objections from Hamish. She said to herself that was good, and she was glad; but her heart sank a little too, and she was silent.

"You have been thinking about us and caring for us all so long, it is time we were thinking what is good for you," said Hamish.

"You are laughing at me, Hamish."

"No, I am not. I think it would be very nice for us if you would be content to stay at home and do for us all as you have been doing; but it would not be best for you."

"It would be best for me if it were needful," said Shenac eagerly; "but, Hamish, it is not much that I could do here now. I mean Allister and Shenac Dhu will care for you all; and just what I could do with my hands is not much. Anybody could do it."

"And you think you could do higher work somewhere else?"

"Not higher work, Hamish. But I think there must be work somewhere that I could do better—more successfully—than I can do on the farm. Even when I was doing most, before Allister came, Dan could go before me when he cared to do it. And he did it so easily, forgetting it all the moment it was out of his hand; while I vexed myself and grew weary often, with planning and thinking of what was done and what was still to do. I often feel now it was a wild thing in us to think of carrying on the farm by ourselves. If I had known all, I would hardly have been so bold with Angus Dhu that day."

"But it all ended well. You did not undertake more than you carried through," said Hamish.

"No; it kept us all together. But, Hamish, I often think that Allister came home just in time. If it had gone on much longer, I must either have given out or become an earth-worm at last, with no thought but how to slave and save and turn everything to account."

"I don't think that would ever have happened, Shenac," said her brother. "But I think it was well for us all, and especially for you, that Allister came home just when he did."

"I don't mean that field-labour may not in some cases be woman's work. For a girl living at home, of course, it must be right to help in whatever way help is needed; but I don't think it is the work a woman should choose, except just to help with the rest. Surely I can learn to do something else. If I were to go to Christie More, she could find a place of some kind for me. Don't you mind, Hamish, what she once said about our going with her to M—-, you and me? Oh, if we could only go together!"

But Hamish shook his head.

"No, Shenac. It would be useless for me. I must be far stronger than I am now to undertake anything of that kind. And you must not be in a hurry to get away. You must not let Shenac think you are running away from her. Wait a while. A month or two will make no difference, and by that time the way will open before us. I don't like the thought of your taking any place that Christie More could get for you. You will be far better at home for a while."

"But, Hamish, you really think it will be better for me to go?"

"Yes—some time. Why should you be in haste? Is there any reason that you have not told me why you should wish to go?"

Shenac did not answer for a moment.

"Is it about Evan, Shenac?" asked her brother. "That could never be, I suppose."

"Who told you, Hamish? No; I think it could never be. Allister would like it, and Shenac Dhu; and I suppose to folk generally it would seem a good thing for me. But I don't like Evan in that way. No, I don't think it could ever be."

"Evan will be a rich man some day, Shenac; and you could have it all your own way there."

"Yes; Allister said that to me once. They all seem to think I would like to rule and to be rich. But I did not think you would advise me because of that, Hamish, or because Evan will be a rich man."

"I am not advising you, Shenac," said Hamish eagerly. "If you cared for Evan it would be different; but I am very glad you do not."

"I might come to care for him in time," said Shenac, a little wearily. "But I never thought about him in that way till—till Angus Dhu spoke to me."

"Angus Dhu!" exclaimed Hamish.

"Yes—and frightened me out of my wits," said Shenac, laughing a little. "I never answered a word, and maybe he thinks that I am willing. Allister spoke about it too. Would it please you, Hamish? I might come to like him well enough, in time."

"No, Shenac. It would by no means please me. I am very glad you do not care for Evan—in that way. I would not like to see you Evan's wife."

There was not much said after that, though they sat a long time together in the firelight.

"Did I tell you that I had a letter from Mr Stewart to-day, Shenac?" Hamish asked at last.

"No," said Shenac; "was he well?"

"He has a call to be minister of the church in H—-, and he is to go there soon; and he says if he can possibly do it he will come this way. It will be in six weeks or two months, if he comes at all."

Shenac said nothing to this; but when Hamish had added a few more particulars, she said,—

"Perhaps it may seem foolish, Hamish, but I want to go soon."

"Because of Evan?" asked her brother.

"Partly; or rather, because of Angus Dhu," she said, laughing. "And Allister and Shenac would like it."

"But they would never urge it against your will."

"No; I suppose not. But it is uncomfortable; and, Hamish, it is not impossible that I might let myself be persuaded."

Hamish looked grave.

"I don't know but it is the best thing that could happen to me," Shenac continued. "I am not fit for any other life, I am afraid. But I must go away for a while at any rate."

Hamish said nothing, though he looked as if he had something to say.

"If you are willing, Hamish, it will go far to satisfy Allister. And I can come back again if I should find nothing to do."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

But Shenac's work at home was not all done yet. Sitting that night by the fireside with her brother, could she have got a glimpse of the next few months and all they were to bring about, her courage might have failed her; for sorrowful as some of the past days had been, more sorrowful days were awaiting her—sorrowful days, yet sweet, and very precious in remembrance.

A very quiet and happy week passed, and then Allister and his wife came home. There was some pleasure-seeking then, in a quiet way; for the newly-married pair were entertained by their friends, and there were a few modest gatherings in the new house, and the hands of the two Shenacs were full with the preparations, and with the arrangement of new furniture, and making all things as they ought to be in the new house.

But in the midst of the pleasant bustle Hamish fell ill. It was not much, they all thought—a cold only, which proved rather obstinate and withstood all the mild attempts made with herb-drinks and applications to remove it. But they were not alarmed about it. Even when the doctor was sent for, even when he came again of his own accord, and yet again, they were not much troubled. For Hamish had been so much better all the winter. He had had no return of his old rheumatic pains. He would soon be well again, they all said,—except himself; and he said nothing. They were inclined to make light of his present illness, rejoicing that he was no longer racked with the terrible pains that in former winters had made his nights sleepless and his days a weariness. He suffered now, especially at first, but not as he had suffered then.

All through March he kept his bed, and through April he kept his room; but he was comfortable, comparatively—only weak, very weak. He could read, and listen to reading, and enjoy the family conversation; and his room became the place where, in the gloaming, all dropped in to have a quiet time. This room had been called during the building of the house "the mother's room," but when Hamish became ill it was fitted up for him. It was a pleasant room, having a window which looked towards the south over the finest fields of the farm, and one which looked west, where the sun went down in glory, over miles and miles of unbroken forest.

Even now, though years have passed since then, Shenac, shutting her eyes, can see again the fair picture which that western window framed. There is the mingling of gorgeous colours—gold, and crimson, and purple, fading into paler tints above. There is the glory of the illuminated forest, and on this side the long shadows of the trees upon the hills. Within, there is the beautiful pale face, radiant with a light which is not all reflected from the glory without—her brother's dying face.

Now, when troubles come, when fightings without and fears within assail her, when household cares make her weary, and the thought of guiding wayward hearts and wandering feet makes her afraid, the remembrance of this room comes back to her as the remembrance of Bethel or Peniel must have come to Jacob in his after-wanderings, and her strength is renewed. For there she met God face to face. There she was smitten, and there the same hand healed her. There she tasted the sweetness of the cup of bitterness which God puts to the lips of those of his children who humbly and willingly, through grace which he gives, drink it to the dregs. The memory of that room and the western window is like the memory of the stone which the prophet set up—"The stone of help."

"I will trust, and not be afraid."

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

The words seem to come again from the dear dying lips; and as they were surely his to trust to, to lean on when nought else could avail, so in all times of trouble Shenac knows that they are most surely hers.

But much sorrow came before the joy. March passed, and April, and May-day came, warm and bright this year again; and for the first time for many weeks Hamish went out-of-doors. He did not go far; just down to the creek, now flowing full again, to sit a little in the sunshine, with a plaid about his shoulders and another under his feet. It was pleasant to feel the wind in his face. All the sights and sounds of spring were pleasant to him—the gurgle of the water, the purple tinge on the woods, the fields growing fair with a tender green.

Allister left the plough in the furrow, and came striding down the long field, just to say it was good to see him there. Dan shouted, "Well done, Hamish, lad!" in the distance; and little Flora risked being too late for the school, in her eagerness to gather a bunch of spring flowers for him. As for Shenac, she was altogether triumphant. There was no cloud of care darkening the brightness of her loving eyes, no fear from the past or for the future resting on her face. Looking at her, and at his fair little sister tying up her treasures for him, Hamish for a moment longed—oh, so earnestly!—to live, for their sakes.

Hidden away among Flora's most precious treasures is a faded bunch of spring-flowers, tied with a thread broken from the fringe of the plaid on which her brother sat that day; and looking at them now, she knows that when Hamish took them from her hand, and kissed and blessed her with loving looks, it was with the thought in his heart of the long parting drawing near. But she did not dream of it then, nor did Shenac. He watched with wistful eyes the little figure dancing over the field and down the road, saying softly as she disappeared,—

"I would like to live a little while, for their sakes."

Shenac did not catch the true sense of his words, and mistaking him, she said eagerly,—

"Ah, yes, if we could manage it—you and Flora and I. Allister might have the lads; he will make men of them. I am not wise enough nor patient enough. But you and Flora and I—it would be so nice for us to live together till we grow old." And Shenac cast longing looks towards the little log-house where they had lived so long and so happily.

But Hamish shook his head. "I doubt it can never be, my Shenac."

"No, I suppose not," said Shenac, with a sigh; "for Allister is to take down the old house—the dear old shelter—to make the garden larger. He is an ambitious lad, our Allister," she added laughing, "and means to have a place worthy of the chief of the clan. But, somewhere and some time, we'll have a wee house together, Hamish—you and I and Flora. Don't shake your wise head, lad. There is nothing that may not happen— some time.

"Do you remember, Hamish," she continued (and her voice grew low and awed as she said it)—"do you remember the night you were so ill? I did not say it to you, but I feared that night that you were going to die, and I said to myself, if God would spare you to my prayers, I would never doubt nor despond again; I would trust God always. And I will."

"But, Shenac, what else could you do but trust God if I were to die?" asked her brother gravely. "My living or dying would make no difference as to that."

"But, Hamish, that is not what I mean. It may seem a bold thing to say, but I think God heard my prayer that night, and spared you to us; and it would seem so wrong, so ungrateful, to doubt now. All will be for the best now, I am sure, now that he has raised you up again."

"For a little while," said Hamish softly. "But, Shenac, all will be for the best, whether I live or die. You do not need me to tell you that, I am sure."

"But you are better," said Shenac eagerly, a vague trouble stirring at her heart.

"Surely I am better. But that is not the question. I want you to say to me that you will trust and not be afraid even if I were to die, Shenac, my darling. Think where your peace and strength come from, think of Him in whom you trust; and what difference can the staying or going of one like me make, if He is with you?"

For just a moment it was clear to Shenac how true this was—how safe they are whom God keeps, how much better than a brother's love is the love divine, which does not shield from all suffering, but which most surely saves from all real evil.

"Yes, Hamish," she said humbly, "I see it. But, oh, I am glad you are better again!"

But was he really better? Shenac asked herself the question many a time in the days that followed. For the May that had come in so brightly was, after all, a dreary month. There were some cold days and some rainy days, and never a day, till June came, that was mild enough for Hamish to venture out again. And when he did, it was not on the hillock by the creek where Shenac spread the plaid, but close to the end of the old log-house, where the mother used to sit in the sunshine. For the creek seemed a long way off to Hamish now. When Allister came down the hill to speak to his brother, it came into Shenac's mind that his face was graver, and his greeting not so cheery, as it had been that May-day. As for Dan, he did not hail him as he had done then, but only looked a moment with wistful eyes, and then went away.

"Truly, the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun," said Hamish softly, as he leaned back against the wall. "I thought, the last time I was out, that nothing could be lovelier than the sky and the fields were then; but they are lovelier to-day. It helps one to realise 'the living green' that the hymn speaks about, Shenac:—

"'There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers,'"

he murmured.

But Shenac had no answer ready. Day by day she was coming to the knowledge of what must be, but she could not speak about it yet. Nay, she had never really put it to herself in words that her brother was going to die. She had all these days been putting the fear from her, as though by that means she might also put away the cause. Now in the sunshine it looked her in the face, and would not be put aside. But, except that she sat very still and was very pale, she gave no token of her thoughts to Hamish; and if he noticed her, he said nothing.

"Shenac," said he in a little while, "when Allister takes away the poor old house to make the garden larger, he should make a summer-seat here, just where the end of the house comes, to mind you all of my mother and me. Will you tell him, Shenac?"

"He may never change the garden as he thought to do," answered Shenac. "He will have little heart for the plans we have all been making."

"Yes, just at first, I know; but afterwards, Shenac. Think of the years to come, when Allister's children will be growing up about him. He will not forget me; but he will be quite happy without me, as the time goes on; and you too, Shenac. It is well that it should be so."

Shenac neither assented nor denied. Soon Hamish continued:—

"I thought it would be my work to lay out the new garden. I would like to have had the thought of poor lame Hamish joined with the change; but it does not really matter. You will not forget me; but, Shenac, afterwards you must tell Allister about the summer-seat."

"Afterwards!" Ah, well, there would be time enough for many a thing afterwards—for the tears and bitter cries which Shenac could only just keep back, for the sickness of the heart that would not be driven away. Now she could only promise quietly that afterwards Allister should be told; and then gather closer about him the plaid, which her brother's hand had scarcely strength to hold.

"You are growing weary, Hamish," she said.

"Yes," said Hamish; and they rose to go. But first they would go into the old house for a moment, for the sake of old times.

"For, with all your cares, and all my painful days and nights, we were very happy here, Shenac," said Hamish, as the wide, low door swung back and they stepped down into the room. Oh, how unspeakably dreary it looked to Shenac—dreary, though so familiar! There was a bedstead in the room yet, and some old chairs; and the heavy bunk, which was hardly fit for the new house. There was the mother's wheel, too; and on the walls hung bunches of dried herbs and bags of seeds, and an old familiar garment or two. There was dust on the floor, and ashes and blackened brands were lying in the wide fireplace, and the sunshine streaming in on all through the open door. Shenac shivered as she entered, but Hamish looked round with a smile, and with eyes that were taking farewell of them all. Even in her bitter pain she thought of him first. She made him sit down on the bunk, and gathered the plaid about him again, for the air was chill.

It all came back: the many, many times she had seen him sitting there, in health and in sickness, in sorrow and in joy; all their old life, all the days that could never, never come again. Kneeling down beside him, she laid her head upon his breast, and just this once—the first time and the last in his presence—gave way to her grief.

"O Hamish! Hamish, bhodach! Must it be? Must it be?" He did not speak. She did not move till she felt tears that were not her own falling on her face. Then she rose, and putting her arms round him, she made him lean on her, all the while softly soothing him with hand and voice.

"I am grieved for you, my Shenac," said he. "We two have been nearer to each other than the rest. You have not loved me less because I am little and lame, but rather more for the trouble I have been to you; and I know something will be gone from your life when I am not here."

"Oh, what will be left?" said Shenac.

"Shenac, my darling, I know something that you do not know, and I see such a beautiful life before you. You are strong. There is much for you to do of the very highest work—God's work; and then at the end we shall meet all the happier because of the heart-break now."

But beyond the shadow that was drawing nearer, Shenac's eyes saw nothing, and she thought indeed that her heart was breaking—dying with the sharpness of the pain.

"It won't be long, at the very longest; and after just the first, there are many happy days waiting you."

Shenac withdrew herself from her brother, she trembled so, and slipping down beside him, she laid her face on his bosom again. Then followed words which I shall not write down—words of prayer, which touched the sore place in Shenac's heart as they fell, but which came back afterwards many a time with a comforting and healing power.

All through the long summer afternoon Hamish slumbered and woke and slumbered again, while his sister sat beside him, heart-sick with the dread, which was indeed no longer dread, but sorrowful certainty.

"It is coming nearer," she said to herself, over and over again—"it is coming nearer." But she strove to quiet herself, that her face might be calm for his waking eyes to rest upon.

Allister and his wife came in as usual to sit a little while with him, when the day's work was done; and then Shenac slipped away, to be alone a little while with her grief. An hour passed, and then another, and a third was drawing to a close, and she did not return.

"She must have fallen asleep. She is weary with the long day," said Hamish. "And you are weary too, Allister and Shenac. Go to bed. I shall not need anything till my Shenac comes."

Shenac Dhu went out and opened the door of her sister's room. Little Flora was sleeping sweetly, but there was no Shenac. Very softly she went here and there, looking and listening in vain. The late moon, just rising, cast long shadows on the dewy grass as she opened the door and looked out. The pleasant sounds of a summer night fell on her ear, but no human voice mingled with the music. All at once there came into her mind the remembrance of the brother and sister as they sat in the afternoon at the old house-end, and, hardly knowing why, she went through the yard and down the garden-path. All was still without, but from within the house there surely came a sound.

Yes; it was the sound of weeping—not loud and bitter, but as when a "weaned child" has quieted itself, and sobs and sighs through its slumbers.

"Alone with God and her sorrow!"

Shenac Dhu dared not enter; nor shall we. When a stricken soul lies in the dust before God, no eye should gaze, no lip tell the story. Who would dare to speak of the mystery of suffering and blessing through which a soul passes when God first smites, then heals? What written words could reveal his secret of peace spoken to such a one?

That night all the grief of Shenac's sore heart was spread out before the Lord. All the rebellion of the will that clung still to an earthly idol rose up against him; and in his loving-kindness and in the multitude of his tender mercies he had compassion upon her. That night she "did eat angels' food," on the strength of which she went for many a day.

Shenac Dhu still listened and waited, meaning to steal away unseen; but when the door opened, and the moonlight fell on her sister's tear-stained face, so pale and calm, now that the struggle was over, she forgot all else, and clung to her, weeping. Shenac did not weep; but, weary and spent with the long struggle, she trembled like a leaf, and, guiding each other through the dim light, they went home.

Shenac Dhu was herself again when she crossed the threshold, and when her cousin would have turned towards the door of her brother's room, she gently but firmly drew her past it.

"No; it is Allister's turn and mine to-night," she said; and Shenac had no strength to resist, but suffered herself to be laid down by little Flora's side without a word.

She rose next morning refreshed; and after this all was changed. She gave Hamish up after that night; or, rather, she had given up her own will, and waited that God's will might be done in him and in her. It was not that she suffered, and had strength to hide her suffering from her brother's eye. She did not suffer as she had done before. She did not love her brother less, but she no longer grudged him to his Lord and hers. It was not that for him the change would be most blessed, nor that for her the waiting would not be long. It was because God willed that her brother should go hence; and therefore she willed it too.

And what blessed days those were that followed! Surely never traveller went down the dark valley cheered by warmer love or tenderer care. There was no cloud, no shadow of a cloud, between the brother and sister after that night. Though Shenac never said it, Hamish knew that after that night she gave him up and was at peace. It was a peaceful time to all the household, and to the friends who came now and then to see them; but there was more than peace in the hallowed hours to the brother and sister. It was a foretaste of "the rest that remaineth." To one, that rest was near. Between it and the other lay life—it might be long—a life of care and labour and trial; but to her the rest "remaineth" all the same.

He did not suffer much—just enough to make her loving care constant and very sweet to him—just enough to make her not grudge too much, for his sake, the passing of the days. Oh, how peacefully they glided on! The valley was steep, but it never was dark. Not a shadow, to the very last, came to dim the brightness of those days; and in remembrance the brightness lingers still.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

But I must go back again to the June days when Shenac's peace was new. The light came in through the western window, not from the sun, but from the glory he had left behind; and with his face upturned towards the golden clouds, Hamish sat gazing, as if he saw heaven beyond.

"Ready and waiting!" thought Shenac—"ready and waiting!"

For a moment she thought she must have spoken the words aloud, as her brother turned and said,—

"I have just one thing left to wish for, Shenac. If I could only see Mr Stewart once again."

"He said he would come, dear, in August or September," said Shenac, after a moment's pause.

"I shall not see him, then," said Hamish softly.

"He might come sooner, perhaps, if he knew," said Shenac. "Allister might write to him."

"I so long to see him!" continued Hamish. "I do love him so, Shenac dear—next to you, I think. Indeed, I know not which I love best. Oh, I could never tell you all the cause I have to love him."

"He would be sure to come," said his sister.

"I want to see him because I love him, and because he loves me, and because—" He paused.

"Have you anything to say to him that I could tell him afterwards? But he will be sure to come."

"You could write and ask him, Shenac."

"Yes; oh yes. Only Allister could do it better," said Shenac; "but I could let him know that you are longing to see him again."

But it was Hamish himself who wrote—two broken lines, very unlike the letters he used to take so much pains to make perfect. But the irregular, almost illegible, characters were eloquent to his friend; and in a few days there came an answer, saying that in a day or two business would bring him within fifty miles of their home, and it would go hard with him if he could not get a day for his friend. And almost as soon as his letter he himself came. He had travelled all night to accomplish it, and must travel all night again; but in the meantime there was a long summer day before them.

A long, happy day it was, and long to be remembered. They had it mostly to themselves. All the morning Mr Stewart sat beside the low couch of Hamish, and spoke or was silent as he had strength to listen or reply. On the other side sat Shenac, never speaking, never moving, except when her brother needed her care.

Once, when Hamish slumbered, Mr Stewart, touching her bowed head with his hand, whispered,—

"Is it well?" And Shenac answered, "It is well. I would not have it otherwise."

"And afterwards?" said her friend.

"I cannot look beyond," she murmured.

He stooped to whisper,—

"I will not fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea."

"I am not afraid," said Shenac. "I do not think when the time comes I shall be afraid."

After that Mr Stewart carried Hamish out to the end of the house, and there they were alone. When they came in again, one and another of his friends came to see Mr Stewart, and Hamish rested. As it grew dark, they all gathered in to worship, and then it was time for Mr Stewart to go. When all was ready, and he came to say farewell, Hamish slumbered. Shenac stooped down and spoke his name. Mr Stewart bent over him and kissed him on the brow and lips. As he raised himself, the closed eyes opened, and the smiling lips murmured, as Shenac stooped again to catch the words,—

"He will come again, to care for you always. I could hardly have borne to leave my Shenac, but for that."

Shenac lifted her startled eyes to Mr Stewart's face.

"Is he wandering?" she asked.

"No. Will you let me care for you always, Shenac, good and dear child?"

Shenac did not catch the true meaning of his words, but she saw that his lip quivered, and the hand he held out trembled; so she placed hers in it for a farewell. Then he kissed her as he had kissed her brother, and then he went away.

There was no break in the long summer days after this. Sabbaths and weekdays were all the same in the quiet room. Once or twice Hamish was carried in Allister's strong arms to the door, or to the seat at the end of the house, and through almost all July he sat for an hour or two each day in the great chair by the western window. But after August came in, the only change he had was between his bed and the low couch beside it. He did not suffer much pain, but languor and restlessness overpowered him often; and then the strong, kind arms of his elder brother never were wearied, even when the harvest-days were longest, but bore him from bed to couch, and from couch to bed again, till he could rest at last. Sometimes, when he could rest nowhere else, he would slumber a little while with his head on his sister's shoulder, and her arms clasped about him.

When a friend came in to sit with him for a while, or when he was easy or slumbered through the day, Shenac made herself busy with household matters; for, what with the milk and the wool and the harvest-people, Shenac Dhu had more than she could well do, even with the help of her handmaid Maggie, and her sister strove to lighten the labour. But the care of her brother was the work that fell to her now, and at night she never left him. She slept by snatches in the great chair when he slept, and whiled away the wakeful hours when his restless turns came on.

She was not doing too much for her strength; she was quite fit for it all. The neighbours were more than kind, and many of them would gladly have shared the watching at night with her; but Hamish was not used to have any one else about him, and it could hardly be called watching, for she slept all she needed. And, besides, it was harvest-time, and all were busy in the fields, and those who worked all day could not watch at night. She was quite well—a little thin and pale—"bleached," her aunt said, by being in the house and not out in the harvest-field; but she was always alert and cheerful.

The coming sorrow was more hers than any of the others. They all thought with dismay of the time when Shenac should be alone, with half her heart in the grave of Hamish. But she did not look beyond the end to that time, and sought no sympathy because of this.

It is a happy, thing that they who bear the burdens of others by this means lighten their own; and Shenac, careful for her young brothers and little Flora, anxious that the few hushed moments in their brother's room—his prayers, his loving words, his gentle patience, his immortal hope—should henceforth be blended with all their inward life, never to be forgotten, never to be set aside, thought more of them than of herself through all those days and nights of waiting.

When a sudden shower or a rainy day gave the harvesters a little leisure, she used to make herself busy in the house that Dan might feel himself of use to Hamish, and might hear, with no one else to listen, a sweet, persuasive word or two from his dying brother's lips.

For Shenac's heart yearned over her brother Dan. He did so need some high aim, some powerful motive of action, some strengthening, guiding principle of life. All need this; but Dan more than others, she thought. If he did not go straight to the mark, he would go very far astray. He would soon be his own master, free to guide himself, and he would either do very well or very ill in life; and there had been times, even since the coming home of Allister, when Shenac feared that "very ill" it was to be.

And yet at one time he had seemed not very far from the kingdom. During all the long season of religious interest, no one had seemed more interested, in one way, than he. Without professing to be personally earnest in the matter, he had attended all the meetings, and watched— with curiosity, perhaps, but with awe and interest too—the coming out from the world of many of his companions, their changed life, their higher purpose. But all this had passed away without any real change to himself, and, as a reaction from that time, Dan had grown a little more than careless—very willing to be called careless, and more, by some who grieved, and by others who laughed.

So Shenac watched and prayed, and forgot herself in longings that, amid the influences of a time so solemn and so sweet, Dan might find that which should make him wise and strong, and place him far beyond all her doubts and fears for ever.

It was a day in the beginning of harvest—a rainy day, coming after so long a time of drought and dust and heat that all rejoiced in it, even though it fell on golden sheaves and on long swaths of new-cut grain. It was not a misty, drizzling rain; it came down with a will in sudden showers, leaving little pools in the chip-yard and garden-paths. Every now and then the clouds broke away, as if they were making preparation for the speedy return of the sunshine; but the sun did not show his face till he had only time to tinge the clouds with golden glory before he sank behind the forest.

"Carry me to the window, Dan," said Hamish. "Thank you: that is nice. You carry me as strongly and firmly as Allister himself. You are as strong, and nearly as tall, I think," continued he, when he had been placed in the great chair and had rested a little. At any other time Dan would have straightened himself up to declare how he was an eighth of an inch taller than Allister, or he would have attempted some extraordinary feat—such as lifting the stove or the chest of drawers— to prove his right to be called a strong man. But, looking down on his brother's fragile form and beautiful colourless face, other thoughts moved him. Love and compassion, for which no words could be found, filled his heart and looked out from his wistful eyes. It came to him as it had never come before—what a sorrowful, suffering life his brother's had been; and now he was dying! Hamish seemed not to need words in order that he might understand his thoughts.

"I used to fret about it, Dan; but that is all past. It does not matter, as I am lying now. I would not change my weakness for your strength to-day, dear lad."

A last bright ray of sunlight lighted up the fair, smiling face, and flecked with golden gleams the curls that lay about it. There came into Dan's mind thoughts of the time when Hamish was a little lad, strong and merry as any of them all; and his heart was moved with vague wonder and regret at the mystery that had changed his happy life to one of suffering and comparative helplessness. And yet, what did it matter, now that the end had come? Perhaps all that trouble and pain had helped to make the brightness of to-day, for there was no shadow in the dying eyes, no regret for the past, no fear for the future. He let his own eyes wander from his brother's face away to the clouds and the sinking sun and the illuminated forest, with a vague notion that, if his feelings were not suppressed, he should do dishonour to his manliness soon. Hamish touched his hand, as he said,—

"It looks dark to you, Dan, with the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer; but it is only a shadow, lad, only a shadow, and I am not afraid."

Dan felt that he must break down if he met that smile a moment longer, and, with a sudden wrench, he turned himself away; but he could not have spoken a word, if his reputation for strength had depended on it. Hamish spoke first.

"Sit down, lad, if you are not needed, and read a while to me, till Shenac comes back again."

"All right," said Dan. He could endure it with something to do, he thought. "What book, Hamish?"

"There is only one book now, Dan, lad," said Hamish as he lifted the little, worn Bible from the window-seat.

Dan could do several things better than he could read, but he took the book from his brother's hand. Even reading would be better than silence—more easily borne.

"Anywhere, I suppose?" said he.

The book opened naturally at a certain place, where it had often been opened before, and he read:—

"Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ."

The sigh of satisfaction with which Hamish laid himself back, as the words came slowly, said more to Dan than a sermon could have done. He read on, thinking, as verse by verse passed his lips, "That is for Hamish," till he came to this:—

"For if when we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life."

"Was this for Hamish only?" Dan's voice was not quite smooth through this verse; it quite broke down when he tried the next; and then his face was hidden, and the sobs that had been gathering all this time burst forth.

"Why, Dan, lad! what is it, Dan?" said Hamish; and the thin, transparent fingers struggled for a moment to withdraw the great, brown, screening hands from his eyes. Then his arm was laid across his brother's neck. "They are all for you, Dan, as well as for me," he murmured. "O Dan, do not sob like that. Look up, dear brother, I have something to say to you."

If I were to report the broken words that followed, they might not seem to have much meaning or weight; but, falling from those dear dying lips, they came with power to the heart of Dan. And this was but the beginning. The veil being once lifted from Dan's heart, he did not shrink again from his brother's gentle and faithful ministrations. There were few days after that in which the brothers were not left alone together for a little while. Though the days were not many, in Dan's life they counted more than all the years that had gone before.

The harvest was drawing to a close before the last day came. The dawn was breaking after a long and weary night More than once, during the slowly-passing hours, Shenac had turned to the door to call her brothers; but thoughts of the long laborious day restrained her, and now a little respite had come. Hamish slumbered peacefully. It was not very long, however, before his eyes opened on his sister's face with a smile.

"It is drawing nearer, my Shenac," he murmured.

Her answering smile was tearful, but very bright.

"Yes, it is drawing nearer."

"And you do not grudge me to my rest, dear?"

"No; even at my worst time I did not do that. For myself, the way looked weary; but at the very worst time I was glad for you."

The brightness of her tearful smile never changed till his weary eyes closed again. The day passed slowly. They thought him dying in the afternoon, and they all gathered in his room; but he revived, and when night came he was left alone with Shenac. There were others up in the house all night, and now and then a face looked in at the open door; but they slept, or seemed to sleep—Shenac in the great chair, with her head laid on her brother's pillow and her bright hair mingling with his. On her cheek, pale with watching and with awe of the presence that overshadowed them, one thin, white hand was laid. The compressed lips and dimmed eyes of Hamish never failed to smile as in answer to his touch she murmured some tender word—not her own, but His whose words alone can avail when it comes to a time like this.

As the day dawned they gathered again—first Dan, then Allister and Shenac Dhu, then Flora and the little lads; for the change which cannot be mistaken had come to the dying face, and they waited in silence for the King's messenger. He slumbered peacefully with a smile upon his lips, but his eyes opened at last and fastened on his sister's face. She had never moved through the coming in of them all; she did not move now, but spoke his name.

"Hamish, bhodach!"

Did he see her?

"How bright it is in the west! It will be a fair day for the harvest to-morrow."

It must have been a glimpse of the "glory to be revealed" breaking through the dimness of death; for he did not see the dear face so close to his, and if he heard her voice, he was past all answering now. Just once again his lips moved, murmuring a name—the dearest of all—"Jesus;" and then he "saw him as he is."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

And having closed the once beaming eyes and straightened the worn limbs for the grave, Shenac's work at home was done. Through the days of waiting that followed, she sat in the great chair with folded hands. Many came and went, and lingered night and day in the house of death, as is the custom of this part of the country, now happily passing away; and through all the coming and going Shenac sat still. Sometimes she roused herself to answer the friends who came with well-meant sympathy; but oftener she sat silent, scarcely seeming to hear their words. She was "resting," she said to Dan, who watched her through those days with wistful and anxious eyes.

Yes, she was resting from the days and nights of watching, and from the labours and cares and anxieties of the years that had gone before. All her weariness seemed to fall upon her at once. Even when death enters the door, the cares and duties of such a household cannot be altogether laid aside. There was much to do with so many comers and goers; but there were helpful hands enough, and she took no part in the necessary work, but rested.

She took little heed of the preparations going on about her—different in detail, but in all the sad essentials the same, in hut and hall, at home and abroad—the preparations for burying our dead out of our sight. During the first day, Allister and his wife said, thankfully, to each other, "How calm she is!" The next day they said it a little anxiously. Then they watched for the reaction, feeling sure it must come, and longing that it should be over.

"It will be now," said Shenac Dhu as they brought in the coffin; and she waited at her sister's door to hear her cry out, that she might weep with her. But it was not then; nor afterwards, when the long, long procession moved away from the house so slowly and solemnly; nor when they stood around the open grave in the kirkyard. When the first clod fell on the coffin—oh, heart-breaking sound!—Dan made one blind step towards Shenac, and would have fallen but for Angus Dhu. Little Flora cried out wildly, and her sister held her fast. She did not shriek, nor swoon, nor break into weeping, as did Shenac Dhu; but "her face would never be whiter," said they who saw it, and many a kindly and anxious eye followed her as the long line of mourners slowly turned on their homeward way again.

After the first day or two, Shenac tried faithfully to fall back into her old household ways—or, rather, she tried to settle into some helpful place in her brother's household. The wheel was put to use again, and, indeed, there was need, for all things had lagged a little during the summer; and Shenac did her day's work, and more, as she used to do. She strove to be interested in the discussions of ways and means which Allister's wife was so fond of holding, but she did not always strive successfully. It was a weariness to her; everything was a weariness at times. It was very wrong, she said, and very strange, for she really did wish to be useful and happy in her brother's household. She thought little of going away now; she had not the heart for it. The thought of beginning some new, untried work made her weary, and the thought of going away among strangers made her afraid.

When it was suggested that she and little Flora should pay a long-promised visit to their uncle, at whose house Hamish had passed so many weeks, and that they should go soon, that they might have the advantage of the fine autumn weather, she shrank from the proposal in dismay.

"Not yet, Allister," she pleaded; "I shall like it by-and-by, but not yet."

So nothing of the kind was urged again. They made a mistake, however. A change of some kind was greatly needed by her at this time. Her brother's long illness and death had been a greater strain on her health and spirits than any one dreamed. She was not ill, but she was in that state when if she had been left to herself, or had had nothing to do, she might have become ill, or have grown to fancy herself so, which is a worse matter often, and worse to cure. As it was, with her good constitution and naturally cheerful spirit, she would have recovered herself in time, even if something had not happened to rouse and interest her.

But something did happen. Shenac went one fair October afternoon over the fields to the beech woods to gather nuts with Flora and the young lads, and before they returned a visitor had arrived. They fell in with Dan on their way home, and as they came in sight of the house, chatting together eagerly, there was something like the old light in Shenac's eye and the old colour in her cheek. If she had known whose eyes were watching her from the parlour window, she would hardly have lingered in the garden while the children spread their nuts on the old house-floor to dry. She did not know till she went into the house—into the room. She did not know till he was holding her hands in his, that Mr Stewart had come.

"Shenac, good, dear child, is it well with you?"

She had heard the words before. All the scene came back—the remembrance of the summer days, her dying brother and his friend—all that had happened since then. She strove to answer him—to say it was well, that she was glad to see him, and why had he not come before? But she could not for her tears. She struggled hard; but, long restrained, they came in a flood now. When she felt that to struggle was vain, she would have fled; but she was held fast, and the tears were suffered to have way for a while. When she could find voice, she said,—

"I am not grieving too much; you must not think that. Ask Allister. I did not mean to cry, but when I saw you it all came back."

Again her face was hidden, for her tears would not be stayed; but only one hand was given to the work. Mr Stewart held the other firmly, while he spoke just such words as she needed to hear of her brother and herself—of all they had been to each other, of all that his memory would be to her in the life that might lie before her. Then he spoke of the endless life which was before them, which they should pass together when this life—short at the very longest—should be over. She listened, and became quiet; and by-and-by, in answer to his questions, she found herself telling him of her brother's last days and words, and then, with a little burst of joyful tears, of Dan, and all that she hoped those days had brought to him.

Never since the old times, when she used "to empty her heart out" to Hamish, had she found such comfort in being listened to. When she came to the tea-table, after brushing away her tears, she seemed just as usual, Shenac Dhu thought; and yet not just the same, she found, when she looked again. She gave a little nod at her husband, who smiled back at her, and then she said softly to Mr Stewart,—

"You have done her good already."

Of course Mr Stewart, being a minister, whose office it is to do good to people, was very glad to have done good to Shenac. Perhaps he thought it best to let well alone, for he did not speak to her again during tea-time, nor while she was gathering up the tea-things—"just as she used to do in the old house long ago," he said to himself. She washed them, too, there before them all; for it was Shenac Dhu's new china—Christie More's beautiful wedding present—that had been spread in honour of the occasion, and it was not to be thought of that they should be carried into the kitchen to be washed like common dishes. She was quiet, as usual, all the evening and at the time of worship, when Angus Dhu and his wife and Evan and some other neighbours, having heard of the minister's arrival, came in. She was just as usual, they all said, only she did not sing. If she had raised her voice in her brother's favourite psalm,—

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,"

she must have cried again; and she was afraid of the tears which it seemed impossible to stop when once they found a way.

Mr Stewart fully intended for that night to "let well alone." Shenac had welcomed him warmly as the dearest friend of her dead brother, and he would be content for the present with that. He had something to say to her, and a question or two to ask; but he must wait a while, he thought. She must not be disturbed yet.

But when the neighbours were gone, and he found himself alone with her for a moment, he felt sorely tempted to change his mind. As he watched her sitting there with folded hands, so quiet and grave and sweet, so unconscious of his presence, as it seemed to him, a fear came over him— a fear as to the answer his question might receive. It was not at all a pleasant state of mind. He endured it only while he walked up and down the room two or three times; then pausing beside her, he said softly,—

"Is this my Shenac?"

She looked up with only wonder in her eyes, he saw, with a little shock of pain; but he went on,—

"Hamish gave his sister to me, to keep and cherish always. Did he never tell you?"

"I do not understand you, Mr Stewart," said Shenac; but the sudden drooping of the eye and the rush of colour over her face seemed to say something else.

"To be my wife," he said, sitting down beside her and drawing her gently towards him. She did not resist, but she said hastily,—

"Oh, no; I am not fit for that."

"But if I am content, and can make you content?"

"But that is not enough. I am not fit. No; it is not humility. I know myself, and I am not fit."

It is just possible that Mr Stewart wished that he had for that night "let well alone."

"But I must have it out with her, now that I have begun," he said to himself as he rose and went to the door, at which a footstep had paused. Whoever it was, no one came in; and, shutting the door, he came and sat down again.

In the meantime, Shenac had been calling up a vision of the new minister's wife, the one who had succeeded old Mr Farquharson, and, in view of the prettily-dressed, gentle-mannered, accomplished little lady that presented herself to her mind, she had repeated to herself, more emphatically,—

"No, I am not fit."

So when Mr Stewart came back she was sitting with closely-folded hands, looking straight before her, very grave indeed. They were both silent for a moment; then Mr Stewart said,—

"Now, Shenac, tell me why."

Shenac started. "You must know quite well."

"But indeed I do not. Tell me, Shenac."

It was not easy to do so. In the unspeakable embarrassment that came over her, she actually thought of flight.

"I am not educated," she murmured. "I have never been anywhere but at home. I can only do common work. I am not fit."

"Hamish thought you fit," said Mr Stewart softly.

"Ah, yes; Hamish, bhodach!"

Her voice fell with such a loving cadence. All the pain and embarrassment passed out of her face, giving place to a soft and tender light, as she turned towards him.

"I was perfect in his eyes; but—you know better, Mr Stewart."

"The eyes of the dying are very clear to see things as they are," said Mr Stewart. "And as we sat at the end of the house that day, I think Hamish was more glad for me than for you. He was willing to give you to me, even for your sake; but he knew what a treasure he was giving to his friend, if I could win you for my own."

Her tears were falling softly. She did not try to speak.

"Will you tell me in what respect you think you are not fit?"

She did not know how to answer. She was deficient in so many ways—in every way, indeed, it seemed to her. She did not know where to begin; but she must speak, and quickly too, that she might get away before she quite broke down. Putting great force upon herself, she turned to him, and said,—

"I can do so few things; I know so little. I could keep your house, and—and care for you in that way; but I have seen so little. I am only an ignorant country girl—"

"Yes; I thought that myself once," said Mr Stewart.

"You must have thought it many times," said Shenac with a pang. It was not pleasant to hear it from his lips, let it be ever so true. But it took the quiver from her voice, and gave her courage to go on, "And all you care for is so different from anything I have ever seen or known, I should be quite left out of your real life. You do not need me for that, I know; but I don't think I could bear it—to be so near you and so little to you."

She rose to go. She was trembling very much, and could hardly utter the words.

"You are very kind, and I thank you; but—you know I am not fit. An ignorant country girl—you have said so yourself."

"Shall I tell you when I thought so, Shenac? Do you mind the night that I brought little Flora home, crying with the cold? It was the first time I saw your face. Do you mind how you comforted Flora, and put the little lads to shame for having left her? And then you thanked me, and asked me to sit down. And do you mind how you made pancakes for supper, and never let one of them burn, though you were listening all the time to Hamish and me? I remember everything that happened that night, Shenac—how you put away the things, and made a new band for the mother's wheel, and took up the lost loops in little Flora's stocking. Then you helped the little lads with their tables, and kept Dan in order, listening all the time to your brother and me; and, best of all, you bade me be sure and come again. Have you forgotten, Shenac?"

"It was for the sake of Hamish," said Shenac, dropping her head; but she raised it again quickly. "That does not make any difference."

"Listen. That night, as I went over the fields to Angus Dhu's, I said to myself that if ever I grew strong and well again, if ever I should live to have a kirk and a manse of my own—was I too bold, Shenac?—I said to myself you should help me to do my work in them as I ought."

Shenac shook her head.

"It was not a wise thought. You little know how unfit I was then, how unfit I am now."

"Say that you do not care for me, Shenac," said Mr Stewart gravely.

"No, I cannot say that; it would not be true. I mean, that has nothing to do with my being fit."

Mr Stewart thought it had a great deal to do with it, but he did not say so.

"You said you would be left out of my real life. What do you mean, Shenac? Do you know what my life's work is to be? It is, with God's help, to be of use to souls. Don't you care for that, Shenac? Do you think a year or two of life in the world—common life—could be to you what these months by your brother's death-bed have been, as a preparation for real life-work—yours and mine? Do you think that any school could do for you what all these years of forgetting yourself and caring for others have done—all your loving patience with your afflicted mother, all your care of your sister and the little lads, all your forbearance with Dan, all your late joy in him? If you cared for me, Shenac, you would not say you are not fit."

It was very pleasant to listen to all this. There was some truth in it, too, Shenac could not but acknowledge. He was very much in earnest, at any rate, and sincere in every word, except perhaps the last He wanted to hear her say again that she eared for him; but she did not fall into the trap, whether she saw it or not.

"I know I care for your work," she said, "and you are right—in one way. I think all our cares and troubles have done me good, have made me see things differently. But I could not help you much, I'm afraid."

"Don't say that, Shenac; you could give me what I need most—sympathy; you could help my weakness with your strength and courage of spirit. Think what you were to Hamish. You would be tenfold more to me. Oh, I need you so much, Shenac!"

"Hamish was different. You would have a right to expect more than Hamish."

But she grew brave again, and, looking into his face, said,—

"I do sympathise in your work, Mr Stewart, and I would like it to be mine in a humble way; but there are so many things that I cannot speak about. Think of your own sisters. How different I must be from them! Allister and Shenac saw your sister Jessie when they were in M—-, and they said she was so accomplished—such a perfect little lady—and yet so good and sweet and gentle. No, Mr Stewart, I could never bear to have people say your wife was not worthy of you, even though I might know it to be true."

"I was thinking how our bonnie little Jessie might sit at your feet to learn everything—almost everything—that it is worth a woman's while to know."

"You are laughing at me now," said she, troubled.

"No, I am not; and, Shenac, you must not go. I have a question to ask. I should have begun with it. Will you answer me simply and truly, as Hamish would have wished his sister to answer his friend?"

"I will try," said she, looking up with a peculiar expression that always came at the name of Hamish. He bent down and whispered it.

"I have always thought you wise and good, more than any one, and—"

There was another pause.

"It is a pleasant thing to hear that you have always thought me wise and good; but you have not answered my question, Shenac."

"Yes, I do care for you, Mr Stewart. It would make me happy to share your work; but I am not fit for it—at least, not yet."

In his joy and simplicity he thought all the rest would be easy; and, to tell the truth, so did Allister and his wife, who ought to have known our Shenac better. When Shenac Dhu kissed her, and whispered something about Christmas, and how they could ever bear to lose her so soon, Shenac spoke. She was going away before Christmas, and they could spare her very well; but she was not going with Mr Stewart for two years at the very least Allister had told her there was something laid up for her against the time she should need it, and it would be far better that she should use it to furnish her mind than to furnish her house; and she was going to school.

"To school!" repeated Mrs Allister in dismay. "Does Mr Stewart know?"

"No; you must tell him, Shenac—you and Allister. I am not fit to be his wife. You will not have people saying—saying things. You must see it, Shenac. I know so little; and it makes me quite wretched to think of going among strangers, I am so shy and awkward. I am not fit to be a minister's wife," she added with a little laugh that was half a sob. Shenac Dhu laughed too, and clapped her hands.

"A minister's wife, no less! Our Shenac!" And then she added gravely, "I think you are right, Shenac. I know you are good enough and dear enough to be Mr Stewart's wife, though he were the prince of that name, if there be such a person. But there are little things that folk can only learn by seeing them in others, and I think you are quite right; but you will not get Mr Stewart to think so."

"If it is right he will come to think so; and you must be on my side, Shenac—you and Allister, too."

Shenac Dhu promised, but in her heart she thought that her sister would not be suffered to have her own way in this matter. She was mistaken, however. Shenac was firm without the use of many words. She cared for him, but she was not fit to be his wife yet. This was the burden of her argument, gone over and over in all possible ways; and the first part was so sweet to Mr Stewart that he was fain to take patience and let her have her own way in the rest.

In Shenac's country, happily, it is not considered a strange thing that a young girl should wish to pursue her education even after she is twenty, so she had no discomfort to encounter on the score of being out of her 'teens. She lived first with her cousin, Christie More, who no longer occupied rooms behind her husband's shop, but a handsome house at a reasonable distance towards the west end of the town. Afterwards she lived in the school-building, because it gave her more time and a better chance for study. She spent all the money that Allister had put aside for her; but she was moderately successful in her studies, and considered it well spent.

And when the time for the furnishing of the western manse came, there was money forthcoming for that too; for Angus Dhu had put aside the interest of the sum sent to him by Allister for her use from the very first, meaning it always to furnish her house. It is possible that it was another house he had been thinking of then; but he gave it to her now in a way that greatly increased its value in her eyes, kissing her and blessing her before them all.

All these years Shenac's work has been constant and varied; her duties have been of the humblest and of the highest, from the cutting and contriving, the making and mending of little garments, to the guiding of wandering feet and the comforting of sorrowful souls. In the manse there have been the usual Saturday anxieties and Monday despondencies, needing cheerful sympathy and sometimes patient forbearance. In the parish there have been times of trouble and times of rejoicing; times when the heavens have seemed brass above, and the earth beneath, iron; and times when the church has been "like a well-watered garden," having its trees "filled with the fruits of righteousness." And in the manse and in the parish Shenac has never, in her husband's estimation, failed to fill well her allotted place.

THE END