When Dr. Leslie arose at the close and announced, instead of the regular doxology, the 24th psalm, Harry Lauder, the leader of the choir, looked down at Lawyer Ed and smiled, and Lawyer Ed smiled back at him. The young man's name was really Harry Lawson, but as he had a beautiful tenor voice, and could sing a funny Scottish song far better, every one in Algonquin said, than the great Scotch singer himself, he had been honored by the slight but significant change in his name. And when Harry Lauder smiled down at Lawyer Ed at the announcement of St. George's, Edinburgh, every one knew what it meant. When Lawyer Ed had given up the choir, under the pressure of other duties, and put Mr. Lawson in his place, he delivered this ultimatum to his successor: "Now look here, youngster. I am not used to being led by any one, either in singing or in anything else, but I promise that as far as I can, I'll follow you in the church service. But there's one tune in which I'll follow no living man, no, nor congregation of massed bands, and that's St. George's, Edinburgh. I just can't help it, Harry; when the first note of that tune comes rolling out, I am neither to hold nor to bind. Now I don't want to have it spoiled by see-sawing, that would be blasphemous. So you just tell the organist that I have a weakness comes over me when that tune is sung, and tell him to listen, and follow me. And you do the same."

So every one knew that when St. George's, Edinburgh, was sung, Lawyer Ed became the leader of the choir and congregation pro tem. No one needed to be told, however, for none could help following him. And he had never thrown himself into it with more abandon than on this sunny morning with the Eternal Call sounding again in the ears of all who had truly heard the sermon.

"Ye gates lift up your heads on high!"

He was glorious on the first stanza, he was magnificent on the second. He climbed grandly up the heights of its crescendo:—

"Ye doors that last for aye, Be lifted up that so the King of glory enter may,"

in ever growing power and volume; up to the wonder of the question—

"But who is He that is the King of glory?"

up to the rapture of the response:—

"The Lord of Hosts and none but He The King of Glory is."

And then out he came upon the heights of the refrain, with all the universe conquered and at his feet. When the first Hallelujah burst from the congregation, mounting splendidly at his side, the leader closed his book. He flung it upon the seat, tore off his glasses, clasped his hands behind him, and let himself go. And with a mighty roar he swept congregation, choir, organ, everybody, up into a thunder of praise.

"Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Amen, Amen."

It might not have been considered finished by a musical critic, it may have lacked restraint and nicety of shading; but no one who heard the Algonquin congregation that morning singing "Ye Gates lift up your heads," led by Lawyer Edward Brians, could doubt that it was surely some such fine fresh rapture that rang through the aisles of Heaven on that creation day when the morning stars sang together and all the Sons of God shouted for joy.

Helen Murray bowed her head for the benediction, the stinging tears rushing to her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow. For the moment she had forgotten there was such a thing as pain. She had lost it as she had been swept up to the glad peaks of song. For one trembling moment she had caught a glimpse of a new wonder, the whole world moving, through sorrow and pain and dull misunderstanding, surely and swiftly up to God. And for that instant her soul had leaped forward, too, to meet Him. She came down from the heights; no mortal could live there, seeing things that were not lawful to utter. But from that first Sunday in Algonquin church her outlook on her new life was changed. She had seen the end of her rainbow. It was back of mists and clouds and storms, but it was there! And she could never again be quite so sad.

The congregation slowly filed put of the pews and down the aisles, chatting in soft hushed voices, until the organist pulled out all the stops and played a lively air, and then the conversation rose to suit the accompaniment. Mr. McPherson had objected to the pipe-organ, to the hired organist from the city, and finally and most vigorously to the musical dispersion of the congregation. If the body must play for the church service, Jock conceded, well, he must; but why he must paw and trample and harry the noisy thing, when church was over and done with, was a mystery that no right thinking person could solve. The organist, when approached with the elder's objections, had answered with dignity that all the city churches did it, and Jock's case was hopelessly lost. For when Algonquin was told that in the city they did thus and so, then Algonquin would do that thing too if it had meant burning down the church. So the congregation went down the aisles, sailing merrily on a flood of gay music, and as they went, Miss Annabel introduced the new teacher to several of the young folk of the church, who asked her to join the Christian Endeavor and the Young Women's Society, and the Young People's Bible class and to come to the picnic to-morrow afternoon in the park and the moonlight sail on Friday evening, and assured her that she would like Algonquin, and wasn't it a very pretty place?

As they passed down the steps, a slim young man, dressed immaculately in the height of fashion, came tripping up to them and addressed Miss Annabel in the most abjectly polite manner.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilbur," said the lady coldly, "I am sure you must welcome Sunday. I suppose you are working so hard these days." It was very cruel of Miss Annabel, for poor Afternoon Tea Willie had not yet been able to get an introduction to the lady of his dreams, and he really did work very hard indeed, and his was the employment from which there was no respite even on Sundays. But she hurried Helen on without further notice of him. Roderick was watching the little play with some amusement as he stood waiting for his father, who had stopped to have a word with the minister. As he did so he was puzzled to see Fred Hamilton pass him without so much as a word. He was concluding that his old acquaintance had not seen him, when he heard a merry laugh at his elbow and there stood Miss Leslie Graham.

"Did you see poor Freddy?" she cried. "Oh, dear, dear, I told on him after all, and he's mad at everybody in the town, you included, evidently. Now here's Daddy. He's dying to meet you. Here, Dad, this is the man that did the deed."

Mr. Graham took Roderick's hand and held it while he thanked him, in a voice that trembled, for saving his daughter's life. Roderick was attempting to disclaim any heroism in the matter, when Mrs. Graham fell upon him with a rustle of silks, and fairly overwhelmed him with gratitude. Then two or three others came up and demanded to know what it was all about and Roderick was overcome with embarrassment and was thankful when his father appeared and he could make his escape.

Lawyer Ed came to the buggy to say good-bye to Angus and to enquire what was the collie-shankie at the kirk door, and when he heard, he slapped Roderick on the back. "Well, well, look here, my lad," he cried, "why, your fortune is as good as made. Sandy Graham has been mad at me for the space of twenty-five years or more about something or other—what was it now? Bless me if I haven't forgotten what. But he nearly left the church over it, and entirely left the law firm of Brians & Co." The bereaved head of the firm put back his head at the recollection, shut his eyes, and laughed long and heartily. "But you've got him back again all right, and I tell you this, my lad, if you get his business your fortune is just about made. Only don't go and lose your heart to the handsome young lady while you need a steady head!"

They drove away, and while the father talked on the drive home of the sermon, the son answered absently; his thoughts were all with the piece of good luck which had come his way by such a mere chance.



CHAPTER VIII

"FLOATED THE GLEAM"

Ever since Leslie Graham was old enough to know what she wanted she had always managed to get it. She was the only child of wealthy parents, as Algonquin counted wealth. Her father was absorbed in business, and felt he had done his duty by his daughter when he gave her money enough to be the best dressed girl in the town. Her mother's creed in regard to bringing up children was to give the dears a good time when they were young, they would grow old soon enough. So Leslie's time and energies were bent to the two main tasks of life, unconsciously set her by her parents, to spend as much money as possible on clothes, and to have a good time.

She had been named, as many another girl of the congregation, Margaret Leslie, after the minister's wife; she was a member of the church; she had been brought up to attend Sunday-school and mission band, and to be helpful in all social functions of the congregation; and withal she was frankly and happily, and entirely pagan.

The earliest lesson life had taught her was that, if she wanted anything, screams generally produced the desired object. The second lesson was that, when screams failed, one must scramble down from one's high chair and go after the prize and wrest it from table or sideboard or high eminence, no matter how much hard climbing or bumps were entailed.

So when Roderick McRae became desirable in her eyes, in her usual straightforward manner, she frankly sought him out and demanded his attention. His sudden appearance on the evening of her loss of self-confidence, the appeal his rescue had made to her girlish imagination, and the charm of the forbidden that hung over Old Angus McRae's son made him a real Prince Charming. She was quite certain that he needed only to know that she liked him, to be immediately her slave. He seemed very shy and hard to convince that she cared, but that was natural, considering the wide difference in their social positions.

On the Monday morning after her father's arrival home, when he was ready to go down to the bank, she suddenly appeared, dressed in her prettiest white gown and announced her intention of accompanying him.

"Well, well, I feel highly flattered," he declared, as they walked down the garden path together. Then, as he opened the gate for her, he asked, with a knowing twinkle in his eye, for he was an astute business man, and accustomed to divining people's motives, "Now, what do you want to wheedle out of me this morning? You've been for a trip already, and it can't be a new dress."

She laughed and, as was her way, went straight to the point. "No, it's a new young man, Daddy. I want you to do something nice for Roderick McRae. Haven't you a big chunk of business you need a lawyer for?"

Her father frowned. "Tut, tut, if I've got to give some work to every young man that does you a favour, my business will be gone to the dogs in a month."

"A favour! Why, Father Graham, he saved my life!" cried the girl solemnly.

"Yes, dear, I realise that, and I'd like to do something for him. But Ed Brians, I can't stand. He wants to run everything in the town. He pretty nearly does, but he's not going to run my business. You mind that!"

Though Lawyer Ed had completely forgotten the cause of the trouble between them, Alexander Graham had not. Upon a certain date, years earlier, the belligerent young elder had tramped into a managers' meeting, denounced a money-saving scheme of Manager Graham's, and called the assembled brethren all misers and skinflints. The managers had succumbed, in the most friendly manner, all except Sandy Graham. He had resigned instead, and had tended his grievance carefully until, from a small shoot, in ten years it had grown up into a flourishing tree with deep and tenacious roots.

There was another cause of dissension, too. Alexander Graham had a brother named William, a lawyer, who lived in New York and was reputed fabulously wealthy. And he was an old and staunch friend of Lawyer Ed, who could not and would not be moved from his loyalty, no matter how many grievances Sandy placed before him. Bill was forever putting business in the way of Edward Brians, and his brother's jealousy and ill-feeling grew stronger as the years passed.

Lawyer Ed paid not the slightest attention to Sandy Graham's enmity. He invariably treated the old friend with an overwhelming good-humour which only served to increase the irritation.

Leslie Graham knew all this, but she cared not a pin's worth for her father's quarrels. She was not going to have her plans spoiled by a mere parent.

"Now, Daddy dear!" she cried, knowing exactly how to manage him, "I should think you'd have wit enough to see that Lawyer Ed would hate you to give your business to his young partner far worse than to give it to Willoughby. There's that new lumber scheme. You can give Roderick that and tell him Lawyer Ed's not to know anything about it, eh?"

The man hesitated. He was at that moment on his way to the law firm of Willoughby and Baldwin to put into their hands the work of negotiating with the British North American R. R. Company regarding some timber limits in New Ontario. It was a complicated piece of business, needing careful handling. He had not much faith in Willoughby—he was too old, and less in Baldwin, who was too young. This young McRae, being the son of Angus McRae, would be honest, there was no doubt of that, and evidently he had ability. And while he hesitated, and his daughter argued and cajoled, they came to the door of Lawyer Ed's office. Roderick was standing there alone, having just seen his partner off down the street. Miss Leslie Graham took matters into her own hands with her usual charming audacity.

"Good morning, Mr. Roderick McRae," she cried. "Here's my respected parent can't make up his mind about a piece of backwoods he owns away back of beyond somewhere, so I just steered him down here. He was just saying on the way down that he would rather have the firm of Brians and McRae do his business than any one he knew of. Weren't you, Papa? Now you go in there with Roderick, and I shall call for you when I come back from my shopping. Bye, bye."

She shoved him up the steps and right in at the door, and skipped away, laughing over her shoulder at the trick she had played. Her father stood a moment looking after her, not knowing whether to be angry or amused. She turned and winked at him when she reached the bottom of the steps, and his anger vanished. He laughed indulgently, threw up his hands with a helpless gesture and followed Roderick into the office. And before he stated his business he spent a half-hour telling how much his daughter was to him and how grateful he was to Roderick for what he had done.

Roderick's eyes shone when the new work was laid before him. It was a big thing, bigger than had ever come the way of that little office in all the years it had done business in Algonquin. It fired his ambition to make good. The shrewd business man saw the look in the young lawyer's eye, and he did not regret the step Leslie had forced him to take.

"If you see that those rascals don't get the better of us, Mr. McRae," he said in parting, "I need not tell you that you will profit by it as well as ourselves."

Roderick thanked him for his trust. "When Mr. Brians comes in—" he commenced, but his client interrupted.

"I want it to be distinctly understood that this is your work entirely, Mr. McRae," he said. "Mr. Brians will understand."

Lawyer Ed did understand, and laughed long and loud over what he called Sandy Graham's extreme Scotchness. But he was vastly pleased that Roderick was to have a chance of showing what he could do, and that the wide business interests of Graham and Company were to be once more in their hands.

And now Roderick plunged into work with all his might. When the news spread that Graham and Co. had given a big transaction into the hands of Lawyer Ed's young partner, others followed. Lawyer Ed himself was a shrewd advocate, but every one knew that his business tendencies ran on certain lines. His chief concern had always been to settle family troubles, rather than to make money out of them. Many a puzzled farmer he had saved from losing in an unjust bargain when the opposite course would have meant money for himself. Many a family on the verge of disintegration over a will had been brought together and made happy, because their lawyer was more bent on their welfare than his own. Roderick intended fully to keep up the fine old standards of the firm as far as possible. But he was determined to be much more than the legal adviser of all the folk living around Algonquin who couldn't do business themselves.

He took his mid-day meal at the Algonquin House, the leading hotel, and won the favour of Mr. Crofter, the proprietor. And there came to the office of Brians and McRae one day, much to the senior partner's amazement, Mr. Crofter himself, with some mining concerns he had in the north. Mr. Crofter had never quite seen eye to eye with Lawyer Ed, since the latter had declared flatly and loudly, at a tea-meeting given by the Sons of Temperance, that a man who sold liquor over a bar was a curse to the community. But Mr. Crofter knew when he wanted his business well done. He distrusted almost every one in Algonquin, but he knew old Angus McRae's son would be incapable of dishonesty.

The second surprise came a few months later when the success of Crofter's deal had made the young lawyer's name. Alexander Graham took all his business out of the hands of the Willoughby firm, and gave it to Brians & McRae.

That evening Roderick was asked to the Grahams for dinner, as a further honour. He went with some trepidation, as it was his first venture into society. Mr. Graham was exceedingly genial, and Leslie was charming, but the lady of the house was rather distant. She could not help seeing Leslie's partiality towards Roderick and resented it. As her husband's lawyer, the young man was quite acceptable, but as a possible aspirant to his daughter's favour he would be entirely out of place. Fred Hamilton was the only other one present outside the family. The young man sat in sulky silence most of the evening, a circumstance which seemed to put his pretty hostess into a high good humour.

The invitation to the Grahams was the signal for other doors to open. Roderick was invited everywhere. And wherever he went there was Miss Leslie Graham, the belle of every occasion, and always ready to bestow her greatest favours upon him. He always looked about him at these gay gatherings of young people half-expecting to see the young lady he had met on the Inverness; but he was always disappointed, and wondered why she did not appear.

Helen Murray, herself, often wondered why she was not bidden to the many festivities of which she heard the gay Miss Annabel talk.

"You will probably be invited out a great deal, Miss Murray," Miss Armstrong cautioned her, "and I hope you will select very carefully the places you visit. You see you are practically one of our family, and though we respect all grades of society, you must realise that we have a position to maintain. And I hope you won't think me interfering, my dear; but if you would consult Annabel and me, as to accepting an invitation, I think it would be wise. We should like so much to have you of our set."

Helen obeyed, a little puzzled, but afraid to act against the judgment of her august hostess. So she found herself soon bidden to afternoon teas and receptions and all the affairs where the older set attended. She met no one of her own age, however, except Miss Annabel who called them all old frumps, and declared married folk were deadly dull, and she would never go near their parties again so long as she lived. And she fell into a state of nervous apprehension, when the approach of the next afternoon tea was rumoured abroad, lest she should not be invited. Poor Miss Annabel was being slowly but surely pushed on into the older set by the younger generation. She hated her position, but it was the only one left, and it was better than the dread desolation of no position at all.

Helen kept away from the whirl, finding her duties at school sufficient excuse. She often longed for some young life, however, and wondered why she did not meet the daughters of the ladies who were so kind to her when she went out under Miss Armstrong's wing.

She did not know as yet that the reason was two-fold. First, the younger set were a little more exclusive than the one in which the Misses Armstrong moved. Young Algonquin had but recently awakened to the fact that society was not society unless you built a fence about it and kept somebody—it didn't matter much who—out. The other and more potent reason was Helen's unfortunate sex. There were already far too many young ladies in Algonquin. A young man with exactly her claims to recognition would have been received with acclaim. But, except in holiday time, there was always a sad dearth of young men in Algonquin, if not an actual famine. So no wonder the young ladies rather resented the appearance of another girl to join their already too swollen ranks, and especially a girl so undeniably attractive as the new school teacher.

Quite unconscious of all this, Helen spent many a lonely evening at her window looking down at the gay crowds passing along the street towards the lake, and listening drearily to their happy voices floating under the leafy tunnel of the trees.

She dared not join the groups that would have welcomed her, the young folk who earned their living and who made the church a centre of social intercourse for the lonely. Miss Armstrong had politely given her to understand that she would not be welcome in Rosemount, if she associated with the girls who stood behind the counter, or worked in a dress-maker's shop.

She often saw Miss Leslie Graham as she darted into the house and out again, on a flying visit to her grandmother, but she had no opportunity of meeting her.

So in spite of her brave attempts to forget her grief in her work, and in spite of Madame's unfailing kindness and help, the girl was often very lonely. The big echoing house of Rosemount was always deserted of an evening. Grandma went to bed, and either Helen or the little maid was left on guard, while the two ladies went to a dinner-party or an evening at cards.

One soft languorous September evening, the loneliness promised to be unbearable, and she determined to go alone for a walk. Madame was always too tired for a tramp after school, and she knew no one else who would accompany her.

She spoke of it at the tea-table in the faint hope that Miss Annabel might suggest coming too, but was disappointed.

"Why that'll be lovely, dearie," she cried, "go and have a run in the park. It will do you good. I'd dearly love to go with you, but there's Mrs. Captain Willoughby's musicale. There won't be a soul there that isn't old enough to be in her dotage, but I promised that nothing short of sudden death would make me miss it."

"Annabel, I am surprised at you," said her sister reprovingly. "I wouldn't go far in the evening alone, Miss Murray," she added in her stately way. "It does not seem just—well—exactly proper, don't you know."

"Nonsense, Elinor. How's the poor child to help going alone, when there's no one to go with her?"

Helen had learned to look for these slight altercations at the table. While the sisters were apparently of one mind on all the larger issues of life, they had a habit of arguing and cavilling over the little things that often left their young boarder in a state of wonder.

She slipped away as soon as the meal was over, for the evenings were growing short and she wanted to see the lake in its sunset glory. The night was warm and all the young people were on the lake. The streets were deserted. But on the pretty vine-clad verandas, the heads of families sat sewing or reading and smoking, with the little ones tumbling about the grass. On one veranda a gramophone, the first in the town, screeched out a strain from a Grand Opera to the wonder and admiration of all the neighbours. Helen moved along the street more lonely than ever in the midst of all this home happiness. She passed a little cottage where a young man and woman were tying up a rose vine, beaten down by recent rains. Madame had told her they had been married just the week before. They looked very happy, laughing and whispering like a couple of nest-building robins, as they worked together to make their little home more beautiful. She had to hurry away from the pretty scene. Some one had promised her once that there should be a rose vine over their porch in the new home he had been planning for her.

She turned a corner and was alarmed by a great churning and puffing noise ahead, as though the Inverness had left her native element and come sailing up Main Street. But it was only Captain Willoughby in his new automobile. It was the first, and as yet the only machine in Algonquin, and its unhappy owner would have sold it to the lowest bidder could he have found any one foolish enough to bid at all. For so far, the captain had had no opportunity to learn to run it. His first excursions abroad had been attended with such disaster, such mad careering of horses, and plunging into ditches, such dismaying paralysis of the engine right in the middle of a neighbour's gateway, such inexplicable excursions onto the sidewalk and through plate glass windows, such harrowing overturning of baby-carriages, that Mrs. Captain Willoughby took an attack of nerves every time he went abroad, and the town fathers finally requested that the captain take out his Juggernaut car only at such hours as the streets were clear. So on quiet evenings such as this one, when there were not likely to be any horses abroad, Mrs. Willoughby telephoned all her friends and told them to take in the children for the captain was coming. And so, heralded, like the Lady Godiva, the trembling motorist went forth, while the streets immediately became as empty as those of Coventry, with rows of peeping Toms, safe inside their fences, jeering at the unhappy man's uneven progress. He whizzed past Helen at a terrible speed, grazing the side-walk and giving her almost as great a fright as he got himself, and went whirring up the hill.

She did not want to join the crowds in the park so she followed the familiar street past the school, and out along the Pine Road toward the lake shore. But when she found her way was leading her through Willow Lane, where all the dirty and poor people of Algonquin lived, she turned off into a path that crossed a field and led to the water. Helen had some little pupils from Willow Lane, and their appearance did not invite a closer acquaintance with their homes.

She did not know that she was passing near the back of Old Peter McDuff's farm, but she noticed that the fences were conveniently broken down, and left a path clear down to the water's edge.

Lake Algonquin lay before her in its evening glory, a glory veiled and softened by the amethyst veil the autumn was weaving. The water was as still and as clear as a mirror. To her left the town nestled in a soft purple mist, the gay voices from the park were softened and sweetened by the distance. Straight ahead of her lay Wawa island, an airy thing floating lightly on the water, and reflected perfectly in its depths.

At one end of its dark greenery autumn had hung out a banner to herald her coming—a scarlet sumach. A yellowing maple leaf fell at Helen's feet as she passed. Along the water's edge where the birches grew thick arose a great twittering and chattering. The long southern flight was already being discussed. Away out beyond the island a canoe drifted along on the golden water. Some one seated in it was picking a mandolin and singing, "Good-bye, Summer."

Helen slipped down the path where the birches and elms, entwined with the bitter-sweet, hung over the water. A little point jutted out with a big rock on the end of it. She took off her hat, seated herself upon the rock, and drank in the silence and peace of the calm evening.

A little launch went rap-rap-rap across the clear glass of the water, leaving a long trail of light behind it like a comet, and the sweet evening odours were mingled with the unsavoury scent of gasoline. Helen had often sped joyfully over the bay at home in just such a noisy little craft, quite unconscious of being obnoxious to any one else. It was not the first time she had found her view-point was changing. She seemed to have been drifted ashore in a wreck, and to be sitting looking on at the life she had lived with wonder and sometimes with disapproval. The launch passed, the evening shadows deepened, but she still sat wrapped in the deeper shadows of her own sad thoughts.

She had no idea how long she had sat there when she was roused by the sudden appearance of a canoe right at her side. It had stolen up silently, propelled by the noiseless stroke of a practised paddler, and went past her like a ghost. The young man kneeling in the stern had something of the perfectly balanced play of muscle, and poise of lithe figure that belonged to the Indian. For in spite of his Anglo-Saxon blood, Roderick McRae was as much a product of this land of lake and forest as the Red Skin. He had almost passed her, when he looked up and saw her for the first time. He gave a start; it seemed too good to be true. But she bowed so distantly that his hesitating paddle dipped again. He went on slowly, too shy to intrude. He had taken but a few strokes when from away behind her on the darkening land, came a loud sound of singing. Peter Fiddle was drunk again. Feeling very grateful to Peter for the excuse, Roderick turned about, with an adroit twist of his paddle, and glided back till he was opposite her.

"Excuse me, Miss Murray," he stammered, feeling his old shyness return, "but—are you alone here?"

"Yes," said the girl a slight wonder in her voice at the question. "I came down for a walk and—" she turned and glanced behind her and gave an exclamation at the darkness of the woods. She had forgotten the magic power the water has of gathering and holding the sunset light long after darkness has wrapped the earth. "Oh, I had no idea it was so late!" she cried in dismay.

Roderick joyfully ran his canoe up close to the rock. The fear in her voice made him forget his embarrassment. "I don't wish to trouble you," he said, "but it isn't wise to go home that path through the woods alone." He hesitated. He did not like to tell her that Old Peter might come down there raging drunk, and that at the head of Willow Lane she might meet with another drunken row between Mike Cassidy and his wife. "Oh dear!" she cried, "how could I be so foolish? I never dreamed of its being so dark and I forgot—"

"If you will let me I'll take you home," said Roderick eagerly, "in my canoe."

He was immeasurably relieved at her answer.

"Let you?" she cried gratefully. "Why, I'll be ever so much obliged to you. I am sorry to be such a trouble. I don't see how I was so careless," she added in frank apology.

Roderick knew he ought to say it was no trouble, but a pleasure. But he was too shy and too happy. He succeeded only in mumbling, "Oh, not at all," or something equally vague.

He brought the canoe close to the rock and held out his hand. She stepped in very carefully, and with something the air of one venturing out on a very thin piece of ice.

"It's the first time I ever stepped into a canoe," she said a little tremulously. He steadied her with his hand, smiling a little at her graceful awkwardness. Then he showed her how to place herself in the little seat in the centre, with a cushion at her back. He did it clumsily enough for he was embarrassed and nervous in her presence. In all his years of paddling about the lake it was but the second time he had taken a young lady into his canoe, and the first one he had rescued out of the water, and this one off a lonely point of land. So he was not versed in the proper things to say to a lady when taking her for a paddle.

The canoe slipped silently out from the rock and slid along the darkening shore. Only the faintest suggestion of the sunset glow lay on the softly glimmering surface of the water. But they had gone only a few yards, when there came a new miracle to remake the scene. From behind the black bulk of the pine clad island peeped a great round harvest moon, and suddenly the whole world of land and water was painted anew in softer golden tints veiled in silver. The girl sat silent and awe-struck. Was there never to be an end to the wonders of this place? "Oh," she said in a whisper, "isn't it beautiful?"

Roderick looked, and was silent too.

Yes, it was very wonderful he thought, more wonderful to him than she dreamed. He felt as if he could paddle on forever over the shining lake with the magic colours of moon-rise and sunset meeting in the golden hair of the girl opposite him. They went on for a long time in silence. They passed into the shadow of the island with silver lances through the trees barring their path. The dewy scent of pine and cedar stole out from the dark shore. The silver light grew brighter, the whole lake was lit up with a soft white radiance.

"Have you always lived here?" she asked at last in a whisper, an unspoken fear in her voice lest a sound disturb the fair surroundings and they vanish, leaving them in a common, every day world of material things.

"Always," said Roderick in the same hushed tone, though for a different reason. "I was born on the old farm back here."

"Then I wonder if you know how lovely it all is?"

"Perhaps not. But it is home to me, you know, and that gives an added charm."

"Yes," she said and checked a sigh. "And you've always paddled about here I suppose."

"I never remember when I learned. But I remember my first excursion alone. I was just six. Old Peter McDuff who lives on the next farm used to tell me fairy tales. And he told me there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, waiting for the man bold enough to go after it. I felt that I was the man, and I paddled off one evening when there was a rainbow in the sky. I got lost in the fog, and my father and a search-party found me drifting away out on the lake. And I didn't bring home the pot of gold."

"Nobody ever does," she said drearily. "And every one is hunting it." They were silent for a moment, the girl thinking of how she too had gone after a vanishing rainbow. Then the memory of that vision of the first Sunday morning in Algonquin church came to her. There was a rainbow somewhere, with the treasure at the foot; one that did not vanish either if one persisted in its pursuit.

She tried to say something of this to Roderick, fearing her sombre words had set him to recalling her secret.

"I suppose it is perfect happiness," he said. "If so, I never met any one who had found it, except—yes, I believe I know one."

"Who?" she asked eagerly.

"My father," answered Roderick gently.

"I have heard of him," she said, smiling at the glow of pride in the son's eyes. "And where did he discover it?"

Roderick laughed. "I suppose it's in the heart, after all; but my father is never so happy as when he is in the midst of misery. His pot of gold seems to lie down on Willow Lane."

"On Willow Lane? Why that's where all those dreadfully poor, dirty people live, isn't it?"

"Yes. They are an unsavoury bunch down there. That's where Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy throw the household furniture at each other, and Billy Perkins starves his family for drink, and where the celebrated Peter McDuff plays the fiddle every night at the tavern. He might have serenaded you, if you had gone back home by the road."

She smiled gratefully and her smile was very beautiful. But her thoughts were in Willow Lane. There were worse things there that Roderick did not mention, but she had heard of them. It was a strange and wonderful thing that the saintly-faced old man with the white hair, whom she had seen with Roderick at church, should find his happiness among such people.

Roderick had paddled as slowly as it was possible to move, but he could not prolong the little voyage any further. They were at the landing.

"I have made you come away back here," she said, "and now you will be so late getting home. I must let you go back at once. Good night, and thank you."

Roderick had been hoping that he might walk up to Rosemount with her, but felt he was dismissed. He wanted, too, to ask her if she would not come out on the lake again, but his shyness kept him silent.

As he helped her out, the yellow light of the wharf lamp fell upon her light dress and shone on the gold of her hair, and at the same moment a canoe slid silently out of the dimness beyond and glided across the track of the moon. In the stern knelt one of Algonquin's young men wielding a lazy paddle, and in the low seat opposite, with a filmy scarf about her dark hair, reclined Miss Leslie Graham. She sat up straight very suddenly, and stared at the girl who was stepping from the canoe. But she did not speak, and Roderick was too absorbed to notice who had passed. And the young man with the lazy paddle wondered all the way home what had happened to make the lively young lady so silent and absent-minded.

Helen Murray thought many times of what Roderick had told her about his father's interest in Willow Lane. She could not help wondering if others could find there the peace that shone in the old man's eyes. She was wondering if she should go down and visit the place, when, one day, Willow Lane came to her. It was a warm languorous October day, a day when all nature seemed at a standstill. Her work was done, she was resting under her soft coverlet of blue gossamer, preparing for her long sleep. Helen had had a hard day, for she had not yet learned her new strange task. The room was noisy, fifty little heads were bent over fifty different schemes for mischief, and fifty sibilant whispers delivered forbidden messages. The teacher was writing on the board, and turned suddenly at the sound of a heavy footstep in the hall. The door was open, letting in the breeze from the lake, and in it stood a big hairy man with a bushy black head and wild blue eyes. Helen stood and stared at him half-frightened.

The fifty small heads suddenly whirled about and a hundred eyes stared at the visitor, but there was no fear in them. A giggling whisper ran like fire over the room. "It's Peter Fiddle!" The man shook his fist at them, and the teacher went with some apprehension towards the door.

"Can I do anything for you, sir?" she enquired, outwardly calm, but inwardly quaking. He took off his big straw hat and made her a profound bow.

"I'll be Peter McDuff," he said with a stately air, "an' I'll loss a pig."

"I—I don't think it's here," faltered Helen, dismayed at a visit from the notorious McDuff. "You might ask some other place," she suggested hopefully.

"I'll be wantin' the bairns to be lookin' for it," he said, making another bow. He turned to the children, now sitting, for the first time since their teacher had set eyes on them, absolutely still and attentive.

"If you see a pig wis a curly tail," he announced, "that's me!"

The whole school burst into a shout of laughter, and the man's face flamed with anger. He shook his fist at them again, moving a step into the room. "Ye impident young upstarts!" he shouted. "I'll be Peter McDuff!" he cried proudly. "And I'll be having you know they will not be laughing at the McDuff whatefer!"

"I—I'm sure they didn't mean to be rude, Mr. McDuff," ventured the frightened teacher.

"My name'll be Peter McDuff," he insisted, coming further into the room while she stepped back in terror. "I'll be sixty years of old, and I'll neffer be casting a tory vote! An' if you'll be gifing me a man my own beeg and my own heavy—" he brandished his fists fiercely.

"Peter!"

The McDuff turned. Behind him stood Angus McRae, his gentle face distressed. He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder with an air of quiet power. "Come away home with me, Peter man," he said soothingly. "We'll be finding the pig on the road."

Peter stumbled out grumbling, and Angus McRae, pausing a moment to deliver an apology to Helen, followed. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby came along the hall rocking with laughter.

"You poor child!" she cried. "I heard him, and was coming to the rescue when I saw old Angus. I knew you'd be scared. But Peter wouldn't hurt a hair of a woman's head."

"That Mr. McRae seemed to have some strange power over him," whispered Helen, watching, with some apprehension, the two climb into an old wagon.

"So he has. And he's the only one that has. He keeps Peter in order when he's drunk and keeps him sober, when he can. Ah, dear me! dear me! There's a clever man all gone wrong. Angus McRae's been working with him for years. He lives out there past what they call Willow Lane. Ever been down there?"

"No, but I've heard of it often."

"It's that bit of street that runs from the end of the town where that old hotel is. I'm going down there after school to see about Minnie Perkins. Come along for a walk. Now, you children, go right back there, do you hear me?" For the primary grade had overflowed and was flooding the halls. And Madame swept them back and slammed her door.

When school was dismissed and the last noisy youngster had gone storming forth Helen went down the hall to her friend's room. Madame came swaying out carrying a bunch of gay spiked gladiolus, her draperies floating about her with cherubs peeping from their folds, like a saint in an old picture.

She dismissed her satellites firmly at the first corner, except those who lived beyond or on Willow Lane, a ceremony that necessitated a great deal of shooing and scolding.

The first eye-sore on Willow Lane was the old hotel, still standing there, forlorn and ugly, as though ashamed of all the evil it had wrought.

As the years passed there was always a new generation of loungers to sit and smoke and spit on its sagging veranda. From it ran the old high board fence plastered with ugly advertisements of soap or circus or patent medicine. It disfigured the whole street and shut off a possible glimpse of the lake. Away on the other side of it was a meadow where in spring-time the larks soared and sang, and beyond it the lake and the woods where the mocking bird and the bee made music. But here in Willow Lane was neither sound nor sight that was pleasant.

The street consisted of a single sorry-looking row of houses with narrow box-like yards shoved up close to the road, as though there were not acres and acres of open free meadow land behind them. The hills upon which Algonquin was situated ceased abruptly here, and the land spread away in a flat plain along the lake shore. The ground was low and damp, and every house in Willow Lane that had the misfortune to possess a cellar was the abode of disease. A deep ditch ran parallel to the rickety board side-walk. There had just been a week of unceasing rain and it was full of green water.

"Oh dear!" said Helen, in distress. "I had no idea there was such a place as this in Algonquin."

"People have lived here for years and still seem to have no idea," said Madame. She paused and looked back. "Do you see that house 'way up on the hill yonder? The one with the tower sticking up between the trees? That's Alexander Graham's mansion. And he makes a good deal of his money out of the rents of these houses, and nobody seems to care very much. The people of the churches send down turkeys and plum puddings, and everything good at Christmas time, and seem to think that will do for another year. But the only man who tries to do anything all the time is Angus McRae. I suppose you know that Lawyer Ed calls him the Good Samaritan, and this the Jericho Road."

The first house in the dreary row was the turbulent home of Mr. Cassidy, the gentleman who commanded so much of Lawyer Ed's attention. Mrs. Cassidy was on the front veranda washing. It was a pastime she seldom indulged in, for there was never much water in the old leaky rain barrel at the corner of the house. For while Willow Lane had water, water everywhere, the inhabitants had not any drop in which to wash themselves. But the overflowing rain-barrels had tempted Judy to-day, and so her little figure was bobbing up and down over the washboard like a play Judy in a show. She was scrubbing her own clothes, but not her husband's, for Mr. Cassidy and his wife lived each an entirely independent life. They occupied different sections of the house even, and the lady saw to it that her husband's apartments were the coldest in winter and the hottest in summer. This arrangement had been held to, ever since the day that Mike thrashed Judy. It had not been without some provocation, it is true; for though very small, Mrs. Cassidy had a valiant spirit, and had many and varied ways of exasperating her husband's inflammable temper. But Lawyer Ed had appealed to Father Tracy, and that muscular shepherd of his flock had come down upon Willow Lane and thrashed Mike thoroughly and soundly. Since then there had been a sort of armed neutrality in the home of the Cassidys.

"Good day, Mrs. Cassidy," called Madame over the little fence. "It's a beautiful day after the rain."

"Aw, well now and is that you, Mrs. Adam?" enquired Judy, her little face peering out of the clouds of steam. "Sure it's yerself would be bringin' beautiful weather, aven if it was poorin'."

Her voice was soft, her manner ingratiating, there was no sign of the warrior spirit beneath.

"I hope the rain'll keep off till you get your clothes dry," said Madame pleasantly, but passing resolutely on, for Mrs. Cassidy showed sighs of a desire to come to the gate and have a friendly chat. "We must get out of her way. If she starts to talk we'll never escape," she whispered. "Just look at that will you!"

The second place was one where some pitiful attempts at beautifying had been made. The yard was swept clean and a little drain had been dug at the side to let the water run off. A few drowned flowers leaned over on their hard clay beds, and there was a neat curtain and a mosquito netting on each window. But right against the window that overlooked the Cassidys' yard, Mrs. Cassidy had piled all the old boards, boxes and rubbish she could find, to obstruct the view to the town, of her too ambitious neighbour. "Now, what do you think of that?" cried Madame. "Isn't she the malicious little soul?"

"Good day, Mrs. Kent, and how are you to-day?"

"Good day, Mrs. Adam," from a sharp-faced neat woman, sitting at the doorway of the barricaded house, knitting rapidly.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Madame ingratiatingly.

"Lovely," responded the woman. "It's a great thing we had so much rain, we need a lot down here, we're that dry."

Madame chose to take the sarcasm as a joke, and laughed blithely.

But the woman did not smile. "She's had to work too hard, poor soul," whispered the visitor when they had passed. "She's clean and thrifty but she has to wash to support a crippled boy and a consumptive girl. No wonder she's sour."

They passed two or three more sorry-looking houses and finally paused before the gate of the home of Madame's little pupil. The bare grassless yard was filled with old boxes and rubbish. A big lumbering lad of about fourteen sprawled over the doorstep playing with a string. He looked up with vacant eyes, and clutched at the visitors' skirts, muttering and jabbering in idiot glee.

Madame put her hand tenderly on his small, ill-shaped head.

"Poor Eddie," she whispered, "poor boy."

She fumbled in her big black satchel and brought out a gay candy stick. He grabbed it with strange cries of joy. The sounds brought a ragged little ghost of a woman to the door, carrying a tiny bundle on her arm.

"Well, well, is that you, Madame?" she cried, smiling a broad toothless smile. "I thought it was you, an' Minnie she says, I believe that's my teacher, Ma."

Madame climbed the steep steps, Helen following. The room was dirty and untidy. A rusty stove and table, three chairs and an ill-smelling cupboard in the corner, with some gaudy glass dishes upon it, were the only furniture.

"And how are you, Mrs. Perkins? This is the new teacher, Miss Murray. When Minnie passes out of my room, she'll he under this lady's care. And how is my little girl this afternoon?"

Madame passed to the door of the tiny bedroom. The bed filled the whole space with just room enough to stand left between it and the wall. A little girl was lying on it, her hollow cheeks pink, her eyes bright. The sun poured in at the bare window and the room was hot and breathless. The swarming flies covered her face and arms. She brushed them away fretfully, and stretched out her hot hands for the flowers. "Oh, teacher," she cried, trying to strangle her cough, "I watched and I watched for you all day and I was scared you wasn't comin'."

Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby sat down on the edge of the dirty bed and put her cool hand on the little girl's burning forehead.

Helen placed herself rather gingerly on a proffered chair, and looked at the wee bundle in the woman's arms.

"Why, it's a baby," she whispered in awe. The mother's faded face lit up with pride. She held the little scrap of humanity towards the visitor. "'E's a grite little rascal, 'e is," she exclaimed fondly. "As smart as a weasel, an' 'im only a fo'tnight old last Sunday."

Helen was positively afraid to touch the little bundle, but the look of utter exhaustion on the woman's face overcame her repugnance. She held out her arms and the mother dropped the baby into them and sank upon a chair with a sigh of relief.

"Only a little over two weeks," gasped Helen, looking at the wee wrinkled face peeping from the bundle.

The mother's face beamed with joy and pride. She thought that the visitor's astonishment was for the wonderful baby, all unconscious of herself.

"Yes'm, just but a fo'tnight, and a little over. Oh 'e's a grite little tyke, 'e is. Ain't 'e, now?"

"Has Doctor Blair been to see Minnie?" asked Madame softly.

"Yes'm. Old Angus 'e was 'ere on Monday, and 'e sent 'im. 'E says it's 'er lungs." She looked at her visitors with child-like simplicity. "Is it very bad for Minnie to 'ave anything wrong with 'er lungs do you think, Mrs. Adam?"

Madame's gentle face was eloquent with pity. "Doctor Blair is a good, kind doctor," she said evasively. "He'll do his best for her. You do everything for her that he asks."

"Yes'm. Old Angus 'e was trying to tell me wot to do, but I ain't much of a 'and at sickness. Minnie she gets up and gets wot she wants but I tell 'er she ought to lie abed."

The little girl had fallen into a doze, under the soothing touch of her teacher's hand. Madame took off the veil from her hat and spread it over the child's face as a protection from the flies. She came back into the kitchen. The idiot boy came in and rolled about the floor muttering and whining.

"And how's Mr. Perkins?" asked Madame. "Is he keeping well?" It was her gentle way of asking if he was keeping sober. The woman's tired face lit up.

"Yes, ma'am. 'E is that. 'E's been keepin' fine since three weeks come Sunday. That was the night Old Angus took 'im to the Harmy an' got 'im saved. An' 'e's ben keepin' nicely saved ever since. We've been 'avin' butter," she added proudly. "Ever since 'e got 'imself converted. But we 'ad to 'ave the doctor for pore Minnie." Her thin little face quivered. "If Minnie'd only get better now, we'd be gettin' a good start, an' we'd all be 'appy."

"Mr. Perkins has work now, hasn't he?" said Madame comfortingly.

"Yes'm. It's not steady, but Old Angus 'e's goin' to get 'im another job. It's ben rather 'ard on my man," she added apologetically, "just a comin' out from the hold country. It's 'ard gettin' work at first. An' I wan't much use with 'im a comin'," she added, touching the bundle reverently.

"So this is the only Canadian baby you have," said Madame.

"Yes'm." The mother forgot her troubles and smiled and fawned on the bundle in delight.

"He's Johny Canuck, isn't he?" asked Madame, with a feeble attempt at gaiety.

"Oh, no, ma'am," cried the mother hastily. "'E's William 'Enery, after 'is paw. We ain't got 'im christened yet. But jist as soon's I can get 'im a dress the pawson,—'e's a foine man,—'e says 'e'll come an' do 'im, an' if my man jist keeps nicely saved, we'll be gettin' a dress. But it's been 'ard on my man. Eddie there 'e's not much 'elp, poor lad. But 'e goes out on the railroad track an' picks me up a bit o' coal. An' Old Angus 'e's been that good. Oh, we'd never a' got on without Old Angus. But if my Minnie 'adn't took sick—"

She wiped a tear on the baby's dirty dress. It was the quiet, dispassionate tear of a woman long accustomed to hardship. "I'll be all right when I get a bit stronger an' can work," she added hopefully.

The visitors rose to go. Madame held the woman's hand a long time, trying to explain, as though to a little child, how the sick girl must be treated. The case seemed so pitiful she was at a loss what to say. "I'm afraid I can't get back for a few days, Mrs. Perkins," she said.

"I'll come and see Minnie to-morrow," said Helen Murray suddenly. The morrow was her precious Saturday that brought a rest from the week's hard work, but the words seemed forced from her. The look of childish fear in the woman's face made some sort of promise necessary for her own peace of mind.

The woman looked up at her gratefully as she took the baby.

"It's awful good o' you, Miss," she cried, "and indeed I'll be thet grateful, if you'd just come and tell me the best thing to do for Minnie. I'm not much of a 'and in sickness." She looked at the two visitors wistfully. "It does a body good jist to 'ave a word with somebody that's sorry for you," she added.

Helen went away, her heart sore and sick with the woman's pain.

The idiot boy followed them to the gate, grinning and muttering. His mother called him from the doorway, and he shambled towards her. Glancing back, Helen saw his long, ungainly body folded in her little thin arms, while she patted him tenderly on the back.

As they stepped out on the rickety side-walk, a tall girl of about sixteen came and stood staring at them from the doorway of the next house. She had a bold, handsome face and her hair and untidy dress were arranged in an extravagant imitation of the latest fashion.

"Good day, Gladys," said Madame kindly, but the girl answered with only a curt nod. When the visitors had passed, she called shrilly to some one in the house behind her.

"Maw! Hurry out an' see the parade! Willow Lane's gettin' awful high-toned!" There was a loud cackle of laughter and Madame's shoulders shook with suppressed merriment. "That's Gladys Hurd," she said, shaking her head. "Poor Gladys, I'm afraid she's not a very good girl. She's not got a very good mother."

As they were turning off Willow Lane, the rattle of a buggy behind them made Madame turn.

"There he is again," she cried. "I suppose he's taken Peter home and found his pig for him. I don't believe I could bear the thought of all the misery on Willow Lane if I didn't know that Old Angus McRae was doing so much to lighten it."

Helen turned. Angus had pulled up in front of the Perkins' house and the idiot lad with queer cries of delight came stumbling out to meet him. The girl named Gladys ran out too, and the old man handed her a sheaf of glowing crimson dahlias. She buried her face in them and hugged them to her in a passion of admiration for their beauty.

"Look, look at Mrs. Cassidy will you?" cried Madame in delight.

Mrs. Cassidy had come to the door at the first sound of the wheels, and when she saw who was near, she darted out and swiftly and stealthily removed the obstruction from her neighbour's window. Then she went to the gate to greet Old Angus, suave and gentle of speech, and as innocent looking as the meek heap of boards now lying in a corner of her yard.

"Well, well, well," laughed Madame as they walked on. "Even if Old Angus would merely drive up and down Willow Lane I believe he would make the people better."

When Helen reached Rosemount she slipped in at the side door and up the back stair. It was the day the Misses Armstrong entertained the whist club, and a clatter of teacups and a hum of voices told her the guests were not yet gone. She removed her hat, and smoothed her hair absently; her thoughts were down on Willow Lane busy with the complex problem of the Perkins family. The windows were opened, and the sound of swishing skirts and laughing voices came up to her from the garden walk. A couple of well-dressed women were going out at the gate.

"Poor old things," cried one in a light merry voice. "They do get up the most comical concoctions at their teas. And Miss Annabel in a ten-year-old dress! Will she ever grow up?"

"The poor dears can't afford anything better. They are just struggling along," answered her companion. "They had that house left them, and the old lady gets her allowance, but the daughters hadn't a cent left them, and they would both fall dead if they weren't invited to everything. But I don't know where they get money to dress at all."

"I suppose that is why they took that girl to board."

"Of course, poor old Elinor is so scared—" The voice died away and a sharp rap on her door took Helen from the window. She opened the door and there, to her surprise, stood Miss Leslie Graham, looking very handsome in the splendour of her rose silk gown. She smiled radiantly. "Good day, Miss Murray. I think you know who I am and I think it's time we met. I ran up here to get away from that jam of people. Those women take such an lasting age to get away. May I sit with you for a minute?"

Helen offered her a chair gladly. She had often seen Miss Graham, and her unfailing gay spirits had made her wish she could know her. The visitor flung her silver purse upon the bed, her gloves upon the table, her white parasol upon the bureau, and sank into the chair.

"Oh I'm dead," she groaned. "I've passed ten thousand cups of tea, and twenty thousand sandwiches. Don't you pity and despise people that don't know any better than to come to a thing indoors on a hot day?"

Helen smiled. "But you came," she said.

"But I had to. When any of my relations give a tea I am always tethered to a tray and a plate of biscuits." She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen keenly, with a stare that puzzled the girl. Then she jumped up and seated herself upon the bed, rumpling the counterpane. In the few minutes since she had entered the room she had made the place look as if a whirlwind had swept through it, and Helen felt a nervous fear of Miss Armstrong's walking in and witnessing her untidy condition.

"Do you like it here?" she enquired directly.

"Yes, I—think I do. Algonquin is so beautiful, but—"

"But you can't stand my poky aunts, and Grandma's jokes, eh?"

"Oh, no," cried Helen aghast. "Both the Misses Armstrong have been very kind and Mrs. Armstrong is delightful—but, of course, I get homesick." She stopped suddenly for that was a subject upon which she dared not dwell.

The other girl stared. "My goodness. I would love to know what homesickness is like, just for once. I've never been away from home except for a visit somewhere in the holidays, and then I was always having such a ripping time, that the thought of going home made me sick."

She sat for a little while, again looking steadily at Helen. "You certainly are pretty," she exclaimed. "There's no doubt about that."

"I beg your pardon!" said Helen amazed, and doubting if she had heard aright.

"Oh, nothing, never mind!" cried the other with a laugh. She tore off her costly hat and flung it on top of the table. Then she threw herself backwards on the bed staring at the ceiling. She made such a complete wreck of the starched pillow covers and the prim white bedspread that were the pride of Miss Armstrong's heart, that Helen shuddered.

"Well, I don't wonder at you getting homesick here. These ceilings are such a vast distance away they make you feel as if you were a hundred miles from everywhere. I remember sleeping in this room once, when there was an epidemic of scarlet fever or something among the Armstrong kids. All the well ones were dumped on our aunts, after the custom of the family, and I was sent off with a dozen others and we were marooned upstairs, like a gang of prisoners, the girls in this room and the boys in Grandma's. Six in a bed—more or less. I remember we used to lie awake in the early morning before Aunt Elinor would let us get up, and study the outburst of robins and grapes on the ceiling. And one day we got the boys in with their toy guns and tried to shoot the tails off the birds. Cousin Harry Armstrong hit one. Do you see the ghastly remains of that bird without the tail? That was the one. I never hit anything, but I tried hard enough. I am responsible for the bangs on the ceiling. Each one tells when I missed my aim."

Helen laughed all unawares. She was surprised at herself. It was so long since she had laughed she thought she had forgotten how.

"That robin proved to be the Albatross for us," continued Leslie Graham, sitting up again, "for Aunt Elinor found out about it, and we had no more good luck from that day till we went home." She sprang up.

"Dear me! here I am jabbering away, and Mother must be gone." She caught up her hat, dislodging a couple of books that went over on the floor. "Oh, dear, I've knocked something over." She did not make any motion to pick them up, however. "Mother says I always leave a trail behind me."

She stood before the glass arranging her hat, a radiant figure. Helen looked at her wistfully. There was nothing this girl wanted, surely, that she could not have; and yet she seemed so restless and dissatisfied.

"Do you go out much?" she asked.

"Not very much," said Helen. "My school keeps me busy." She did not say that she knew so very few young people she had no one to go with.

Miss Graham turned to the mirror again. She seemed embarrassed. "The lake's lovely here for paddling. Only the season is nearly over. Have you been out on the water much?" She did not look at the girl as she asked the question.

"No," said Helen, and the other faced round and stared at her. "I don't know how to paddle and I am rather afraid of a canoe."

"Do you mean to say you've never been on the lake since you came here?" asked Leslie Graham, standing and staring with a hat-pin in her mouth.

"Oh, yes, I was—once," said Helen innocently. She did not think it necessary to tell all about Roderick's rescue of her from the point; for already she had heard the Misses Armstrong coupling his name with their niece's in tones of high disapproval. "I was once—but only once."

Leslie Graham's face grew radiant.

"Is that all?" she cried in a tone expressing decided relief.

She amazed Helen by suddenly darting towards her and putting her arm around her. "Why you poor little lonesome thing," she cried, "you must learn to paddle; I will teach you myself. Now, good-bye, I think we are going to be real good friends." She kissed Helen warmly and tripped out, singing a gay song, and leaving her late hostess standing amazed in the middle of her dishevelled room.



CHAPTER IX

"DEAF TO THE MELODY"

Autumn painted Algonquin in new and splendid tints. She coloured the maples that lined the streets a dazzling gold, with here and there at the corners, a scarlet tree for variety or one of rose pink or even deep purple. And when the leaves began to fall the whole world was a bewildering flutter of rainbows. The November rains came and washed the gorgeous picture away, and the artist went all over it again in soberer tints, soft greys and tender blues with a hint of coming frost in the deep tones of the sky.

October was almost over before the busy, bustling Lawyer Ed had a chance to think of the promise he had made in the summer to Old Angus, and he called J. P. Thornton and Archie Blair and Roderick together into his office one bright morning to enquire what could be done about getting a local option by-law for Algonquin submitted on the next municipal election day.

The general consensus of opinion was that they were too late for the coming election on New Year's; but that they must start an educational campaign immediately to stir up public opinion on the subject of temperance. And they would get their petition ready for the spring and march to victory a year from the coming January.

J. P. Thornton, who was the most energetic man on the town council, was busy getting a drain dug through Willow Lane to carry off the disease breeding stagnant waters that lay about the little houses. And he declared in a fine oratorical outburst, that if they started this temperance campaign early, and dug deep enough, by a year from the next election day, they would have such a trench projected through Algonquin as would carry away in a flood all the foul, death-breeding liquid that inundated their beautiful town, and pour it into the swamps of oblivion.

Lawyer Ed gave a cheer when he was through, and Archie Blair quoted Burns:

"Now, Robinson, harrangue na mair, But steek your gab forever, Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever."

For though, as a citizen, the doctor was convinced that a prohibitory liquor law would be a good thing for Algonquin, personally he was not inclined to look upon the beverage as foul death-breeding liquid.

Roderick McRae sat silently listening to the older man. He was wondering what Alexander Graham would say, when he found his lawyer arrayed on the side of the temperance forces. For he knew that his wealthy client had heavy investments in breweries, and also owned secretly, the bigger share of Algonquin's leading hotel and bar-room.

He was not long left in doubt. The ladies of the Presbyterian church gave a turkey and pumpkin pie supper on Thanksgiving eve, with a concert in the Sunday-school room after, all for the sum of twenty-five cents, the proceeds to go to a new red carpet and cushions for the choir gallery. Lawyer Ed was chairman at the concert, of course, and J. P. Thornton was the chief speaker. And though his address was on Imperialism, a subject through which he had grown quite famous, he branched off into temperance and publicly announced that the local option by-law would be submitted before long in Algonquin, and they had better get ready.

Lawyer Ed, who always made a short speech between each item on the programme, burst forth, almost before J. P. had sat down, with the further announcement, accompanied by a great deal of oratory, that the temperance forces would carry their banner to victory and mount over every difficulty even as his Highland ancestors had stormed the heights of Alma. For when Lawyer Ed got upon the platform, a strange transformation always came over him. His Hibernianism fell from him like a garment, and he was over the heather and away like any true born Scot.

The next day, Miss Leslie Graham, in a new autumn suit of ruby velvet and a big plumed hat, dropped in at the office of Brians and McRae and, after chattering merrily for half-an-hour with Roderick, said that her father wanted him to come up the following evening for dinner.

Roderick went, with, as usual, the faint hope that he might see Helen Murray there. He had not succeeded in meeting her, except casually on the street, since that magic night when he had paddled her home in the moonlight. But he was, as usual, disappointed. There was only the Graham family present. Miss Leslie was as gay and charming as ever, and her mother was slightly less stiff with him. But Mr. Graham was exceptionally kind and hospitable. Before returning to the drawing-room after dinner, he carried Roderick off to the library for a little private chat. There were a few matters of business to be discussed, and when they were finished, Mr. Graham said casually:

"I suppose you run the affairs of Brians and McRae yourself these days. I hear Ed's off after another will-o'-the-wisp as usual. Let me see, I believe it's a temperance bee he's got in his bonnet this time."

Roderick was silent. The contemptuous tone nettled him. He would not discuss Lawyer Ed with Alexander Graham, no matter what the consequence.

"Well, well," said the host, giving the fire a poke, and laughing good-naturedly. "Those fellows must do something to take up their time. But it's a pity to see them wasting it. For that thing won't go here in Algonquin, Rod. Take my word for it. And if it did, it would be a great pity, for such a law wouldn't be kept. Of course, if Ed Brians and Archie Blair and J. P. Thornton, and a few other fanatics like that, are bound to meddle with other people's consciences, I suppose we'll just have to let them do it. 'If it plazes her, it don't be hurtin' me,' as Mike Cassidy said when Judy hammered him with the broomstick. I hope they'll enjoy themselves."

Roderick looked up quickly. "It is not a mere pastime with my father. It is a thing of great moment to him," he said.

"Oh, well, of course," said Mr. Graham suavely. "I can understand that. Your father is a man who has devoted his life to drunks and outcasts, and he looks on temperance legislation as a refuge for them. I have no doubt he is quite sincere in the matter."

"I should just say he is," said Roderick rather explosively.

"That's quite true, Rod," said his patron, a little annoyed. "But your father, with many another good man, is making a great mistake when he believes people will be benefited by temperance legislation. Some folks seem to think that if you get local option in a town the millennium has come." He lit a cigar, and leaned back with an air of finality. "I tell you they're awfully mistaken. People want liquor and they'll get it as long as they want it, law or no law. And they're going to want it till the end of time. And if those folks insist upon forcing this by-law upon Algonquin, they will only succeed in giving the town a bad name. It's simply ruinous to a place from a business standpoint."

Roderick had no answer to make. He was inclined to believe that Graham was right. He wanted to believe it, for the burden of this thing was annoying him. He knew that Lawyer Ed would have met the statements with fiery contradictions, and J. P. Thornton would have answered with clear, convincing facts. But he had given very little thought to the subject, and could not remember any of the arguments. And he had certainly heard, many, many times that the temperance measure had been a failure in other towns.

He sat silent, his elbows on his knees, his hands locked together, looking into the glowing grate and wishing he didn't have to be bothered with it all. What had local option to do with his work, anyway?

And then he realised that his host was talking again. In the midst of his quiet insinuating remarks, there was a sharp tap on the door, and Leslie swept into the room, very handsome in her soft, trailing white dress.

"I'm just not going to let you two poke here any longer," she declared, giving her father's ear a pull. "You're spoiling all Rod's evening, Daddy, by talking business. His office is for that. Come right along into the drawing-room this minute, the Baldwin girls have come, and we're going to have some music."

The subject of local option was not referred to again that evening, but Roderick realised that, in some subtle way, how, he scarcely knew, his client had conveyed to him the unmistakable intelligence that should he identify himself with the temperance forces in any prominent way, the business of Graham and Company would have to be placed in other hands.

Roderick scarcely understood what had been said until he was walking home in the clear frosty air with time to think it over.

He was miserably uncomfortable the next day when he found his chief buried head and ears in temperance affairs.

"We'll have to wade into this with high-water boots, ma braw John Hielanman!" he cried radiantly. "Be jabers! but I do love a fight, and a fine old Donnybrook fair we're goin' to have!" And he relapsed into a rich Irish brogue.

"Mr. Graham told me last night he'd like me to go north in a few weeks," said Roderick in a strained voice. "I may have to be gone for a month."

"On that Beaver Landing deal? Well now, that's a big thing, Rod!" Lawyer Ed was scribbling madly at his desk while he talked, and calling up some one on the telephone every three minutes. "You've got Sandy Graham all right. Hello, Central, are you asleep? I said I wanted J. P. Thornton and I still say it!"—"No you didn't, I tell you! Sandy'll kick over the traces when we get going on this campaign, though. Not in? Where in thunder is he? Tell him to call me the minute he gets back. Yes, that's a fact, Rod!" And he slammed the receiver down and took to scribbling furiously again. "Sandy'll put on his plug hat and his swallow-tail coat and hike like the limited express for Willoughby's office the minute he sees our names heading that petition!" He shut his eyes, and, leaning back, laughed in delighted anticipation of losing their most valuable client.

Roderick felt impatient. To him the affair was no laughing matter. To lose Graham's business was unthinkable, to keep out of this troublesome temperance campaign seemed impossible. One moment he felt he must come out right boldly for the cause, the next he called himself a fool, for letting such a doubtful thing stand in the way of his best interests.

But before the necessity for declaring himself came upon him, the temperance campaign suffered a severe check. The trouble arose in an unexpected quarter, not from the enemy, but in the ranks of the advancing army itself. The temperance ship ran against the rock that threatened to split it altogether, on the last Sunday in November. This day was celebrated as St. Andrew's Sunday, the day when the society of the Sons of Scotland, with bonnets on their heads, plaidies on their shoulders and heather in their button-holes, paraded to church in a body and had a sermon preached to them by a minister brought up from the city for the purpose of glorifying Scotland and edifying her sons. As nearly all the Presbyterian congregation of Algonquin was Scotch, every one else was as much edified as the Sons themselves; but there was one prominent exception and that was J. P. Thornton.

Mr. Thornton was an Englishman, born within the sound of Bow Bells, and, like a true Briton, intensely proud of the fact, and though he was as liberal in his general views as he was in politics, and had delivered many a fine speech on Imperialism, yet some stubborn latent prejudice arose in his heart and threatened to overflow every St. Andrew's Sunday.

It was not that he objected so much to the tartan-and-heather bedecked rows occupying the front pews of the church, on St. Andrew's Sunday. He was inclined to look upon them with some lofty amusement, saying that if they liked that sort of child's play it was no affair of his and they might have it. But it was the sermon that always put him into a fighting humour. For never a preacher stood up there on St. Andrew's Sunday but made some unfortunate reference to Bannockburn and Scots Wha Hae, and a great many other things calculated to rouse any Englishman's ire.

Mr. Thornton had never openly rebelled, however, and the St. Andrew's sermon came each year with only a few mild explosions following. But this year the celebration caused a serious disturbance, and as so often happened, it started with Lawyer Ed.

That lively Irish gentleman had already joined almost every organisation in the town, and there suddenly came to him a great desire to join the Sons of Scotland also. His mother was a Scottish lady of Highland birth, and he himself had a deep-rooted affection for anything or anybody connected with the land o' cakes. So on the eve of this St. Andrew's celebration he joined the order and became a true Son of Scotland himself.

Mr. Thornton had gone away for a couple of weeks on a business trip and knew nothing of this new departure of his friend. He came home late on Saturday night before St. Andrew's Sunday, and went to church the next morning, all unsuspecting that at that moment Ed was falling into line down at the lodge room, his plaidie the brightest, his bonnet the trimmest and his heather sprig the biggest of all the procession.

The Scotchmen had turned out nearly a hundred strong this morning, for the minister from the city was a great man with a continental reputation. It was a beautifully clear, brilliant day, too, one of those days that only the much maligned November can bring, with dazzling cloudless skies and an exhilarating tang of frost-nipped leaves in the air. So the Scotchmen were all there, even old Angus McRae and his son, the young Highlander looking very handsome in his regalia.

Jock McPherson and the Captain of the Inverness were there too. Captain Jimmie was in his glory, but Mr. McPherson looked as if he were preparing to object to everything about him. Each recurring St. Andrew's Sunday found the Elder more and more inclined to think that this Sabbath parade was scarcely in keeping with the day. But he was a true Scot at heart, and no amount of orthodoxy could keep him out of it. He felt this morning, however, that matters had gone a bit too far, for the warm day had tempted Archie Blair, and he had come out in the kilt, his shameless bare-kneed example followed by Harry Lauder and three other foolish youths of the Highland club.

A few minutes before the hour for the service, when the bells had begun to roll out their invitations from the three church towers, the procession started. And the Methodists and Baptists and Anglicans kept themselves late for church by lingering on the side-walk to see it pass. It was worth watching; as very stately and solemn and slow it moved along the street and up to the church door.

Mr. McPherson moved rather stiffly, for Archie Blair was walking beside Lawyer Ed directly in front of him, and the very tilt of his bonnet and the swing of his kilt was a profanation of the day. Somehow, the doctor did not at all fit in with the Sabbath. He was a big straight man, long of limb, broad of shoulder and inclined to a generous rotundity, and he swaggered so splendidly when he walked, and held up his bonneted head with such a dashing air, that he gave the distinct impression that the bagpipes were skirling out a gay march as he swung past.

The sight of him on this Sabbath morning struck dismay to Jock's orthodox soul, clinging tenaciously to its ancient traditions. Lawyer Ed, too, seemed to have donned the spirit of irreverence with the bonnet, and was conducting himself as no elder of the kirk should have behaved even at a St. Andrew's banquet.

"Eh, losh Ed, mon," cried the doctor, loud enough for Jock to hear. "Ah wush we could hae a bit strathspey frae the pipes to march wi' to the kirk, foreby."

Lawyer Ed's face became forbidding.

"Eh, eh, and that to an elder? Div ye hear yon, Jock? It's the Heilan's comin' oot o' him!"

Jock could not resist a sudden temptation. That strange twist came over his face, which heralded a far-off joke. He spoke very slowly.

"It's what you micht be expecting from the likes o' him. It's written down in his history:

"The Blairs they are a wicked race, They set theirsels in sad disgrace, They made the pipes and drums to play, Through Algonquin on the Sawbbath day."

He had paraphrased a bit to suit the occasion, and the doctor laughed so appreciatively that the elder began to feel brighter.

But Jock should have known better than to have set an example of rhyming before Archie Blair. He turned and looked down at the elder, and the sight of him marching peaceably beside Captain Jimmie reminded him of an old doggerel ballad: "But man, there's worse than that written in your own history," he cried:

"O-o-och, Fairshon swore a feud, Against ta clan McTavish, And marched into their land, To murder and to ravish, For he did resolve, To extirpate ta vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-twenty pipers!"

"Tut, tut, Doctor," cried Captain Jimmie, trying to hide a smile beneath his bonnet. "Be quate man, it's the Sabbath day."

"Well, here's a verse that's got a quotation from Scripture or at least an allusion to one. That's to be expected in the history of the McPhersons."

"Fairshon had a son That married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta flood By drinking all ta water, Which he would have done I really do believe it Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlevit!"

Lawyer Ed was shaking with unseemly laughter.

"Ye'll hae to sing it a' when we eat the haggis the morn's night," he suggested.

"I don't understand how a reference to anything so unholy as the Glenlevit got into the annals of ta Fairshons, Jock," said Doctor Blair.

Now Jock McPherson was not averse to a drop of Glenlevit himself,—for his stomach's sake, of course, for the elder could not be unscriptural even in his eating and drinking. Archie Blair was not averse to it either, though he frankly admitted that it was very bad for his stomach, indeed, and for everybody else's stomach.

But in the opening temperance campaign the latter had come out avowedly on the side of local option, and was looked upon as one of the party's strongest speakers, while Jock had not yet declared himself. It was a delicate subject with Mr. McPherson, and he could not endure to be twitted about it.

He paused at the church steps and laid his hand on the doctor's velvet sleeve. He cleared his throat, always a dangerous sign.

"Yes," he said very slowly, "it will be a ferry fine song indeed, and if Edward would jist be putting big Aye-men on the tail of it to-morrow night, it will sound more feenished." The whole procession was waiting to enter the church, but Jock did not hurry. "As for the Glenlevit, the McPhersons were no more noted for liking their drop than many another clan I might mention. But they were honest about it." He paused again and then said even more deliberately: "And if you would like to be referring to the Scriptures again, you might be taking a look at your Bible when you get home, you will be finding some ferry good advice in Romans the 2nd chapter and 21st verse."

He turned away and marched solemnly into the church. The procession followed and it was then that J. P. Thornton, standing at his post, and wondering why Ed had not long ago appeared to receive the Scotchmen, beheld the amazing spectacle of his Irish friend and very brother, marching in their front rank, bonnet and plaid and all!

J. P. was too dignified to make a demonstration of his outraged feelings in church, but Miss Annabel Armstrong reported afterwards that when she passed him she heard him say something about Edward, that sounded like "You're too brutish"—or "too bruty" or something like that, and Miss Armstrong said it was exceedingly improper language for an elder to use in church.

J. P. was always in a state of mild irritation when he settled himself to hear the annual St. Andrew's sermon, but this morning he was decidedly indignant. By the time the Scotchmen had gone through two long psalms, with Lawyer Ed leading, he was hot and disgusted, and when the sermon came it was like acid poured upon an open wound.

The famous minister from the city made all the mistakes of his St. Andrew's predecessors and a great many more of his own. He lingered long at Bannockburn, he recited "Scots Wha Hae" in full, he quoted portions of the death of Wallace and altogether behaved in a way to leave the usually genial English listener with his temper red and raw and anxious for a fight.

Monday evening Lawyer Ed was to have driven out to McClintock's Corners with his friend, to speak at a tea meeting, and convince the farmers that Algonquin would be a much more desirable place as a market town with a prohibitory liquor law than it was at present.

But Lawyer Ed went to the St. Andrew's supper instead and ate haggis and listened to the pipes play "The Cock O' the North," and Archie Blair recite Burns and Jock McPherson make a speech on Scottish history.

That was more than J. P. could stand. He telephoned to Roderick early the next morning telling him to inform his chief that he, J. P., would go to no more temperance meetings with him. If Lawyer Ed wanted help in his campaign let him look for it among his brother Scotchmen. And the receiver slammed before Roderick could enquire what he meant.

There were storms bursting in other quarters too. Doctor Blair had spent a good part of the time in church on Sunday morning in a laudable search for the Epistle to the Romans, and had surprised all his brethren by studying the 2nd chapter carefully. The result, however, was not what a searching of the Scriptures is supposed to produce. For he telephoned to Roderick the next morning that he could tell Ed, when he came in, that he, Archie Blair, would be hanged if he would waste any more time on local option if that was what people were saying about him. And Captain Jimmie dropped in immediately after to say that if something wasn't done to conciliate Jock McPherson he was afraid he would vote against local option altogether.

So the cause of temperance suffered a check. It proved to be not a very serious one, but it served Roderick. For it postponed the necessity of his declaring himself on either side, and he hoped that before the day arrived when he must join the issue, his affairs would be less complicated.

Diplomacy was one of Lawyer Ed's strong features, and he had almost completed a reconciliation between all the aggrieved parties when Roderick left for a business trip to the north. It was an important commission involving much money, and certain vague statements regarding its outcome made by Mr. Graham had fired the Lad's imagination.

"Now, I needn't warn you to do your best, Roderick," said the man when he bade him good-bye. "You'll do that, anyway. But there's more than money in this. There's an eye on you—"

He would say no more, but Leslie gave him another hint. He had found her strolling past the office as he ran out to post some letters, the day before his departure. He was absolutely without conceit, but he could not help noticing that somehow Miss Leslie Graham nearly always happened, by the strangest coincidence, to be on the street just as he was leaving the office.

He walked with her to the post-office and back, and then she declared her fingers were frozen and she would come into the office for ten minutes to warm them.

"So you're going to fix up things with the British North American Railroad for Daddy, are you?" she said, holding out her gloved fingers over the glowing coal-stove. "That means that you'll be getting your fingers into Uncle Will's business, too. His lawyer is up at Beaver Landing now."

"Whose lawyer?" asked Roderick, giving her a chair by the fire and standing before her feeling extremely uncomfortable.

"Uncle Will's. You know Uncle Will Graham? He's an American now, but he has all sorts of interests in Canada and he's—well, he's not exactly President of the B. N. A., but he's the whole thing in it. Uncle Will's coming home next summer, and I'm going to make him take me back to New York with him."

Roderick's ambitious heart gave a leap. Of course he knew about William Graham, the Algonquin man who had gone to the States and made a million or more.

His head was filled with rosy dreams as he walked out to the farm that evening to say good-bye. He was leaving for only a short time, but the old people were loath to see him go. Aunt Kirsty drew him up to the hot stove, bewailing the misfortune that was taking him away.

"Dear, dear, dear, and you will be going away up north into the bush," she said, clapping him on the back, "and you will jist be frozen with the cold indeed, and your poor arm will be bad again."

"Yes, and the wolves will probably eat me, and a tree will fall on me and I'll break through the ice and be drowned," wailed Roderick. And she shoved him away from her for a foolish gomeril, trying not to smile at him, and declaring it was little he cared that he was leaving her, indeed.

"I have not heard you say anything about the arm for a long time, Lad," said his father, who was watching him, with shining eyes, from his old rocking-chair.

"Oh, it's all right, Dad," he said lightly. "I haven't time to notice it."

He always put off the question thus when Aunt Kirsty was within hearing, but his father's loving eye noticed that the boy's hand sometimes sought the arm and held it, as though in pain.

"And you will not be here to help start the great fight," his father said wistfully, when he had heard all the latest news concerning the temperance campaign, even to the pending disaster. "But you will be finding a Jericho Road up in the bush, I'll have no doubt."

Roderick looked at the saintly old face and his heart smote him. He felt for a moment that to please his father would surely be worth more than all the success a man could attain in a lifetime.

"And did you get a job for poor Billy, Lad?" his father enquired.

"Billy? Oh, the Perkins fellow?" Roderick whistled in dismay. Poor Billy Perkins had not "kept nicely saved," as his brave little wife had hoped, but had fallen among thieves in the hotel at the corner once more. Old Angus had rescued him, put him upon his feet again, and had commissioned his son to look for work for Billy, and his son had forgotten about it entirely in the pressure of his work.

"Oh, Dad, that's a shame," he cried contritely, "I had so much on my mind getting ready to go, I forgot. I'll tell Lawyer Ed about him, and perhaps he can look up something. I have to start early in the morning or I would yet."

"Well, well," said his father cheerfully. "There now, there is no need to worry, for they have got him a job, but it is away from home and I thought he'd do better here. The bit wife is lonely since the wee girl died. But Billy will jist have to go, and it will only be for the winter, anyway."

"What's he going to do?"

"It will be in the shanties. He is not strong enough for the bush, but he will be helping the cook, and the wages will be good. I'm hoping he will not be able to get near the drink. Indeed it was the little lassie herself that got him the job," he added, his eyes shining. "She's the great little lady, indeed."

"Who is, Father?" Roderick spoke absently, his eyes on the fire, his mind on Mr. William Graham and the B. N. A. Railroad.

"The young teacher lady. She will be down to see poor Mrs. Perkins every day or so since the wee one died. And the poor bit Gladys! Eh, she's jist making a woman out of her indeed."

Roderick's eyes came away from the fire. He was all interest. "Oh, is she? Does she visit the folks in Willow Lane? What is she doing for them?"

"Eh, indeed, what is she not doing?" cried his father. "It's jist an angel we've got in Willow Lane now, Lad. I don't know how she did it, and indeed Father Tracy says he doesn't know either, but she's got Judy to cook a hot dinner for Mike every day, and she's teaching Gladys at nights, and she's jist saved the poor Perkins bodies from starving. She showed the wee woman how to make bread, and oh, indeed, I couldn't be telling you all the good she does!"

Roderick listened absorbedly. So that was where she kept herself in the evenings. And that was why he could never meet her any place, no matter how many nights he frittered away at parties in the hope of seeing her.

"And how did she get this job for Billy?" he asked, just for the sake of hearing his father talk about her.

Old Angus smiled knowingly.

"Och, she has a way with her, and she can get anything she wants. It would be through Alfred Wilbur—the poor lad the boys will be calling such a foolish name."

"Yes, Afternoon Tea Willie. What's he after now?"

"Indeed I think he will be after Miss Murray," said the old man, his eyes twinkling. "He seems to be always following her about. And he managed to get young Fred Hamilton to take Billy up to the camp. Fred is going up to his father's shanties with a gang of men in about a week."

Roderick's heart sank. Here was a lost opportunity indeed. He had failed to help his father, and had missed such a splendid chance to help her.

"If you've got anybody else who needs a job, Dad, I'll try to do better next time," he said humbly.

"Oh, indeed, there will always be some one needing help," his father said radiantly. "Eh, eh, it will be a fine thing for me to know you are helping to care for the poor folk on the Jericho Road. Jist being neighbour to them. It's a great business, the law, for helping a man to be neighbour." The old man sat and gazed happily into the fire.

Roderick fidgeted. He was thinking that some of the work of a lawyer did not consist so much in rescuing the man who had fallen among thieves as falling upon him and stripping him of his raiment.

"Law is a complicated business, Dad," he said, with a sigh.

There were prayers after that, and a tender farewell and benediction from the old people, and Roderick went away, his heart strangely heavy. He was to be absent only a short time, perhaps not over two weeks, but he had a feeling that he was bidding his father a lifelong farewell—that he was taking a road that led away from that path in which the man had so carefully guided his young feet.

It was not entirely by accident that Roderick should be walking into Algonquin just as Helen Murray was coming out of the Hurd home. He had been very wily, for such an innocent young man. A shadow on the blind, showing the outline of a trim little hat and fluffy hair, had sent him back into the shadows of the Pine Road to stand and shiver until the shadow left the window and the substance came out through the lighted doorway. Gladys came to the gate, her arm about her teacher's waist. They were talking softly. Gladys's voice was not so loud nor her look so bold as it once was. She ran back calling good-night, and the little figure of the teacher went on swiftly up the shaky frosty sidewalk. A few strides and Roderick was at her side. She was right under the electric light at the corner when he reached her and she turned swiftly with such a look of annoyance that he stopped aghast.

"Oh, I beg your pardon—" he stammered, but was immensely relieved when she interrupted smiling.

"Oh, is it you, Mr. McRae? I—didn't know—I thought it was—some one else," she stammered.

Roderick looked puzzled, but the next moment he understood. Just within the rays of the electric light, across the street, was Afternoon Tea Willie, waiting faithfully with chattering teeth and benumbed toes. He stood and stared at Roderick as they passed, and then slowly followed at a distance, the picture of abject desolation. Roderick found it almost impossible to keep from laughing, until he began to consider his own case. He had plunged headlong into her presence, and now he felt he ought to apologise. He tried to, but she stopped him charmingly.

"Oh, indeed, I wanted to see you, before you go away," she said, and Roderick felt immensely flattered that she knew so much about his affairs as to be aware that he was going away.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked shyly.

"I wanted to ask about poor Billy Perkins. Mr. Wilbur got work for him, you know."

"Indeed, my father tells me it was you did the good deed," declared Roderick warmly.

"No, no, I only helped. But I am anxious about Billy." She spoke as though Roderick were as interested in the Perkins family as his father. "Is there any one up at Mr. Hamilton's camp, I wonder, who would keep an eye on him. He is all right if he's only watched, so that he can't get whiskey. There's young Mr. Hamilton, he's going, isn't he?"

"Yes." Roderick felt that if the young man mentioned watched Fred Hamilton and kept him from drink it was all that could be expected of him. However, he might try. "I'll speak to him," he said cordially, "and see if he can do anything for Billy. I see you've taken some of my father's family under your care," he added admiringly.

"Oh no. I'm just helping a little. I'm afraid I'm not prompted by such unselfish motives as your father is. I visit down here just for something to do and to keep from being lonely."

It was the first time she had made any reference to herself. Roderick seized the opportunity.

"You don't go out among the young people enough," he suggested. She did not answer for a moment. She could not tell him that she was very seldom invited in the circles where he moved. She had been doomed to disappointment in Miss Graham's friendship, for after her first generous outburst the young lady seemed to have forgotten all about her.

"I like to come here," she said at last. "I think it's more worth while. But don't talk any more about my affairs. Tell me something about yours. Are you going to be long in the woods?"

It was a delightful walk all the way up to Rosemount, for Roderick managed to get up courage to ask if he might go all the way, and even kept her at the gate a few minutes before he said good-bye, and he promised, quite of his own accord, to visit Camp Hamilton if it was not far from Beaver Landing, his headquarters, and when he returned he would report to her Billy's progress.



CHAPTER X

"THE LIGHT RETREATED"

About two weeks after Billy Perkins had gone north, Helen Murray went down to Willow Lane from school to see his family. She had been there only the evening before, and had found them doing well. The faded little mother had never been quite so courageous since Minnie's death, but Bill's new start had put them beyond the immediate possibility of want and given fresh hope. There had been two very cheery letters from him which Helen had read aloud, so the little wife was trying to be happy in her loneliness, and was looking forward hopefully to Billy's return in the spring.