But January had set in bitterly cold and there had been a heavy snow fall during the morning. Helen feared that Eddie might not have been able to get the wood in, so as soon as Madame and her flock had departed, she turned down towards Willow Lane. She had been in Algonquin only a little over three months but already the self-forgetting tasks she had set herself, were beginning to work their cure. She had not regained her old joyousness, and often she was still very sad and lonely; but there had come a calm light into her deep eyes, and an expression of sweet courage and strength to her face, that had not been there in the old careless happy days. She was growing very fast, these busy days, though she was quite unconscious of it in her complete absorption in other people's troubles.

She had left the Perkins family in such comfortable circumstances, the day before, that she was startled and dismayed to find everything in confusion. The neighbours were running in and out of the open door, the fire was out, the baby was crying, and the little mother lay on the bed prostrated.

"What is it?" cried Helen, stopping in the open doorway in dismay. "Oh, what's the matter?"

Mrs. Hurd and Judy Cassidy were moving helplessly about the room. At the sight of their friend the latter cried out, "Now praise the saints, here's the dear young lady. Come in, Miss Murray! Och, wurra, wurra, it's a black day for this house, indade!"

Gladys was sitting on the old lounge beside the stove awkwardly holding the baby.

"Oh, Miss Murray," she cried shrilly. "Somethin' awful's happened! Billy Perkins's gone to jail. He got drunk and he's been steal—"

Her mother shook the broom at her. "Hold your tongue," she said sharply. For Mrs. Perkins, her face grey with suffering, had arisen on the bed. "Oh, Teacher, is that you!" she cried, bursting into fresh tears. Helen went and sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. "What is it?" she whispered. "Perhaps it's not so bad!" she faltered, making a vague attempt to comfort.

But when the pitiful story came out it was bad enough. Mrs. Perkins told it between sobs, aided by interpolations from her neighbours. Billy had been working steadily up till last Saturday, quite happy because he could not get at the drink. But on Saturday he went into the village to buy some fresh meat from a farmer for the camp. And there was a Jericho Road up north too, it seemed, where thieves lay in wait for the unwary. And Billy fell among them. He went into the tavern just for a few minutes, leaving the meat on the sleigh outside, and when he came out it was gone. Billy had gone on towards the camp despairingly, in dread of losing his job, and praying all the way for some intervention of Providence to avert the result of his mistake. For in spite of many a fall before temptation, poor Billy, in a blind groping way, clung to the belief that there was a God watching him and caring for him. So he went on, praying desperately, and about half-way to camp there came an answer. Right by the roadside, as if dropped there by a miracle, lay a quarter of beef, sticking out of the snow. It was evidently a small cache some one had placed near the trail for a short time, and had Billy been in his normal senses he would never have touched it. But the drink was still benumbing his brain, and quickly digging out the miraculous find he loaded it upon his sleigh and hurried to camp.

But retribution swiftly followed. The stolen meat had belonged to the Graham camp, and it seemed it was a terrible crime to steal from a rich corporation, much worse than from a half-drunken man like poor Billy. The first thief was not arrested, but Billy was, and he was sent to jail. He would not be home for ever and ever so long and what was to become of them all, and what was to become of poor Billy?

The little wife, accustomed though she was to hardships and griefs, was overcome by this crushing blow. With all his faults and weaknesses, Billy was her husband and the stay and support of the family, and besides, she had a dread of jail and its accompanying disgrace. By the time the sad tale was finished, she was worn out with sobs, and sat still, looking straight ahead of her into the fireless stove. But the baby's cries roused her, and she took him in her arms, making a pitiful attempt to chirrup to him. The idiot boy, feeling dimly that something was wrong, came and rubbed his head against her like a faithful dog, whining grievously. She stroked his hair lovingly. "Pore Eddie," she said, "it'd be better if you an' me an' the biby, was with Minnie;" and then with sudden compunction, "but wot would pore Bill do without us?"

Helen told the sad story at the supper table at Rosemount, that evening, and asked for help. Miss Armstrong promised to send a basket of food down the next day, though she did not approve of the Perkins family. She had found that to help that sort of shiftless people only made them worse. Why, last Christmas, there was one family on Willow Lane who received five turkeys from the Presbyterians alone, and the Dorcas society was always sending clothes to that poor unfortunate Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Captain Willoughby herself, who was the President, had seen the little Perkins girl wearing a dress just in tatters, that had been given to her in perfectly good condition only the week before. Wasn't the girl old enough to go out working?

"The little girl died last fall of tuberculosis," said Helen, in a low voice. "She was just ten."

Miss Annabel's big blue eyes suddenly filled. "Oh, the poor dear little thing. Minnie used to be in my Sunday-school class, and I wondered why she hadn't been there for so long. But we've been so dreadfully busy this fall, I simply hadn't time to hunt her up. Elinor, we must send a jar of jelly to the poor woman, and I think I shall give her that last winter coat of mine. We'll ask Leslie for some, she simply doesn't know what to do with all her old clothes."

"Oh, please don't," said Helen in distress. She could not explain that which she had so lately learned herself, that what a woman like Mrs. Perkins needed was not old clothes nor even food, but a friend, and some knowledge of how to get clothes and food. "I don't think she really needs anything to wear just now. If we could get her some light work where she might take the baby, it would be so very much better for her."

Both ladies promised to see what could be done, but the Misses Armstrong, members in good standing of the Presbyterian church, kind hearted and fairly well off, had not a minute of time nor a cent of money to spend on people like Mrs. Perkins. The poor ladies were gradually discovering that the younger set, led by their own niece, and the moneyed people now becoming prominent in Algonquin, were slowly assuming the leadership in society. They were in danger of losing their proud position, and every nerve had to be strained to maintain it. What we have we'll hold, had become the despairing motto of the Misses Armstrong, and its realisation required eternal vigilance.

It was Alfred Tennyson who once more came to the family's aid, and Helen was forced reluctantly to accept his help. He ran up hill and down dale and called upon every lady in the town, till at last he succeeded in getting work for Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Hepburn, Lawyer Ed's sister, said she might come to her and bring the baby, one day in the week. Mrs. T. P. Thornton and Mrs. Blair made like promises, and Dr. Leslie persuaded Mammy Viney to let her come to the manse to wash, while Viney Junior, in high glee, promised to take care of little William Henry.

Every day, when the little mother went off to her work, with her baby in her arms, Angus McRae drove up to Willow Lane and took Eddie down to the farm. And with endless patience and tenderness he managed to teach the lad a few simple tasks about the house and barn. Angus McRae's home was the refuge of the unfit, for young Peter did the chores in the winter when the Inverness was in the dock, and Old Peter came and stayed indefinitely when he was recovering from a drunken spree, and Aunt Kirsty declared that there was no place where a body could put her foot without stepping on one of Angus's wastrels.

Roderick came back the week after Billy's arrest. As he was the lawyer acting for Graham & Co. he could not be without some responsibility in Billy's sad affair, and Old Angus awaited his explanation anxiously. He knew there would be an explanation, for the old man was possessed of the perfect assurance that his son was quite as interested in the unfortunate folk that travelled the Jericho Roads of life as he was himself. But Roderick had some difficulty in showing that he was quite innocent.

He could not explain that this trip had been his probation time, and that if he had done his work with a slack hand there would be no hope of greater opportunities opening up before him. The big lumber firm of Graham & Co., operating in the north, was really under Alexander Graham's millionaire brother. And this man's lawyer from Montreal had been there. He was a great man in Roderick's eyes, the head of a firm of continental reputation. He had kept the young man at his side, and had made known to him the significant fact that, one day, if he transacted business with the keenness and faithfulness that seemed to characterise all his actions now, there might be a bigger place awaiting him. The man said very little that was definite, but the Lad's sleep had been disturbed by waking dreams of a great future. That his friend, Alexander Graham, was the mover in this he could not but believe, but he determined to let the people in authority see that he could depend on his own merits. So he had done his work with a rigid adherence to law and rule that commanded the older man's admiration. Roderick felt it was unfortunate that poor Billy should have come under his disciplining hand at this time, but such cases as his were of daily occurrence in the camp. There was no use trying to carry on a successful business and at the same time coddle a lot of drunks and unfits like Billy. He had been compelled to weed out a dozen such during his stay in the north. Billy was only one of many, but when he remembered that he must give a report of him to the two people whose opinion he valued far more than the approval of even the great firm of Elliot & Kent, or of William Graham of New York, he felt that here surely was the irony of fate.

"I did my best, Dad," he said, his warm heart smitten by the eager look in the old man's eyes. "But I had to protect my clients. There has been so much of that sort of stealing up there lately that stern measures had to be taken, and I was acting for the company." Old Angus was puzzled. Evidently law was a machine which, if you once started operating, you were no longer able to act as a responsible individual. He could not understand any circumstances that would make it impossible to help a man who had fallen by the way as Billy had, but then Roderick knew about law, and Roderick would certainly have done the best possible. His faith in the Lad was all unshaken.

But the young man was not so hopeful about Miss Murray's verdict. She had put Billy in his care, and it was but a sorry report he had to make of her trust. He was wondering if he dared call at Rosemount and explain his part in the case, when he met her in Willow Lane. It was a clear wintry evening, and the pines cast long blue shadows across the snowy road ahead. Roderick was hurrying home to take supper at the farm, and Helen was coming out of the rough little path that led from the Perkins' home. She was feeling tired and very sad. She had been reading a letter from the husband in prison, a sorrowful pencilled scrawl, pathetically misspelled, but breathing out true sympathy for his wife and children, and the deepest repentance and self-blame. And at the end of every misconstructed sentence like a wailing refrain were the words, "I done wrong and I deserve all I got, but it's hard on you old girl, and I thought that Old Angus's son might have got me off."

Whether right or wrong, Helen felt a sting of resentment, as she looked up and saw Roderick swinging down the road towards her. He seemed so big and comfortable in his long winter overcoat, so strong and capable, and yet he had used his strength and skill against Billy. Her woman's heart refused to see any justice in the case. She did not return the radiant smile with which he greeted her. In spite of his fears, he could not but be glad at the sight of her, with the rosy glow of the sunset lighting up her sweet face and reflected in the gold of her hair.

"I was so sorry to have such news of Billy I was afraid to call," he said as humbly as though it was he who had stolen and been committed to prison.

"Oh, it's so sad I just can't bear it," she burst forth, the tears filling her eyes. "Oh, couldn't you have done something, Mr. McRae?"

Roderick was overcome with dismay. "I—I—did all I could," he stammered. "It was impossible to save him. He stole and he had to bear the penalty."

"But you were on the other side," she cried vaguely but indignantly. "I don't see how you could do it."

"But, Miss Murray!" cried Roderick, amazed at her unexpected vehemence. "I was acting for the company I represent. It's unreasonable, if you will pardon me for speaking so strongly, to expect I could sacrifice their interests and allow the law to be broken." He was really pleading his own case. There was a dread of her condemnation in his eyes which she could not mistake. But her heart was too sore for the Perkins family to feel any compunction for him.

"I don't understand law I know," she said sadly. "But I can't understand how your father's son could see that poor irresponsible creature sent to jail for the sake of a big rich company. His wife's heart is broken, that's all." She was losing her self-control once more, and she hastily bade him good-evening, and before Roderick could speak again she was gone.

The young man walked swiftly homeward; the blackness of the darkening pine forest was nothing to the gloom of his soul. He spent long hours of the night and many of the next day striving to state the case in a way that would justify himself in the girl's eyes. In his extremity he went to Lawyer Ed for comfort.

"What could I do?" he asked. "What would you have done in that case?"

Lawyer Ed scratched his head. "I really don't know what a fellow's to do now, Rod, that's the truth, when he's doing business for a skinflint like Sandy Graham. You just have to do as he wants or jump the job, that's a fact."

But Roderick did not need to be told that his chief would have jumped any job no matter how big, rather than hurt a poor weakling like Billy Perkins.

So those were dark days for Roderick in spite of all the brilliant prospects opening ahead of him. He could not tell which was harder to bear, his father's perfect faith in him, despite all evidence to the contrary, or the girl's look of reproach, despite all his attempts to set himself right in her eyes. He was learning, too, that not till he had lost her good opinion did he realise that he wanted it more than anything else in the world.

But there were compensations. When he finished his business he received a letter of congratulation from Mr. Kent, and a commission to do some important work for him. He found some solace, too, in the bright approving eyes of Leslie Graham. Her perfect confidence in him furnished a little balm to his wounded feelings. Certainly she was not so exacting, for she cared not at all about the Perkinses and all the other troublesome folk on the Jericho Road.



CHAPTER XI

"THE LANDSKIP DARKEN'D"

Roderick's work allowed him little chance for brooding over his worries, for Lawyer Ed left more and more to him as the days went on. Not that he did any less, but the temperance campaign was on again, all racial and religious prejudices forgotten, in the glory of the fight. Lawyer Ed was quite content that his young partner should let him do all the public speaking, and so neither side was offended at the young man's careful steering in a middle course. Roderick himself hated it, but there seemed no other way, on the road he was determined to follow.

He was not too busy to watch Helen Murray, and serve her in every way possible. He tried to atone for his past neglect of the Perkins family by getting Billy a good position on his return, and was rewarded by being allowed to walk up to Rosemount with Helen the night Billy came home. He was so quietly persistent in his devotion to the girl, making no demands, but always standing ready to serve her, that she could not but see how matters were with him. But the revelation brought her no joy. Her heart was still full of bitter memories, and with all gentleness and kindness, she set about the task of showing Roderick that his attentions were unwelcome. It was not an easy task, for she was often very lonely and sometimes she forgot that she must not allow him to waylay her in Willow Lane and walk up to Rosemount with her. Again she punished herself for her laxity by being very severe with him and at such times Roderick allowed himself to seek comfort for his wounded feelings in Leslie Graham's company, for Leslie was always kind and charming.

One evening, Roderick and Fred Hamilton had been dining at the Grahams and had walked home with the Misses Baldwin. They were returning down the hill together, and Fred, who had been very sulky all evening, grew absolutely silent. Roderick tried several topics in vain and finally gave up the attempt at conversation and swung along whistling, his hands in his pockets.

At last the young man spoke.

"I'm going West this spring."

"Oh, are you?" said Roderick, glad to hear him say something. "You're lucky. That's where I'd like to be going."

"Yes, likely," sneered the other. "I guess any fellow can see what direction you're going all right."

"What do you mean?" asked Roderick, nettled at the tone.

"Oh, yes, as if you didn't know," growled his aggrieved rival. "You don't need to think I'm blind and deaf too, and a fool into the bargain."

Roderick stopped short in the middle of the snowy side-walk. "Look here," he said quietly, "if you don't speak up like a man, and tell me what you're hinting at I—well, I'll have to make you, that's all."

Fred had run foul of Roderick McRae at school and knew from painful experience that it was not safe to make him very angry.

"Well, you needn't get so hot about it," he said half apologetically. "I merely hinted that you—well, you can't help seeing it yourself—"

"Seeing what, you blockhead?"

"Seeing that she—that Leslie doesn't care two pins about anybody but you. She'd be glad if I went West to-morrow." The hot blood rushed into Roderick's face. He turned upon the young man, but they were passing under an electric light and the look of misery in Fred's face disarmed him. He burst into derisive laughter.

"Well, of all the idiots!" he exclaimed. "You ought to be horsewhipped for insulting a young lady so. Can't you see, you young madman, that she's just trying to show a little bit of polite gratitude? I know I don't deserve it, but she seems to be as grateful to me for helping you that night on the lake, and you must be a fool if you think anything else."

The young man walked on for a little in silence. Then he said, in quite a changed tone, "Are you sure, Rod?"

"Yes, of course," shouted Roderick, "you ought to be shut up in a mad house for thinking anything else."

"Well, she told everybody in the town last fall that I upset her, just to give you the glory," he said resentfully.

"Pshaw," cried Roderick disgustedly. "She did it for pure fun, and you ought to have taken it that way. You don't deserve her for a friend."

Fred seemed to be pondering this for a while, and finally he said, "Well, maybe you're right. Only I—well, you know how I feel about Leslie. She—we've been chums ever since we were kids, and you may be sure I don't like the idea of any other fellow cutting in ahead of me now."

"Well, wait till some fellow does before you jump on him again," said Roderick, so hotly that the other grew apologetic.

"I didn't mean to be such a jay, Rod. It's all right if you say so. I guess I was crazy. If you just give me your word that you haven't intentions towards her, why, it'll be all right."

Roderick gave the assurance with all his heart, and Fred insisted upon shaking hands over it, and they parted on the best of terms.

But Roderick felt covered with shame when he found himself alone on the Pine Road. He could not deny to his heart that Fred's suspicions had some little reason in them, and the knowledge filled him with dismay. He was humiliated by the thought that he had accepted many favours from Leslie's father and been a welcome guest many, many times at her home, and he wondered miserably if Helen Murray held the same opinion as Fred.

He came back to his office the next morning determined to avoid Leslie Graham, no matter what the consequence.

She called him on the telephone, wrote dainty notes, and strolled past the office at the time when he was likely to be leaving, all to no avail. Roderick was buried in work, and slowly but surely the knowledge began to dawn upon the girl that she, with all her attractions, was being gently but firmly put aside.

And so the winter sped away on the swift wheels of busy days, and when spring came the local option petition began to circulate. And once more Roderick escaped the necessity of declaring himself.

The firm of Elliot and Kent, with whom he had worked in the North, wished to consult him, and he was summoned to Montreal for a week.

Lawyer Ed saw him off at the station fairly puffed up with pride over his boy's importance.

When Roderick returned, the petition was signed, and sent away, and Lawyer Ed was jubilating over the fact that they could have got far more names if they had wanted them. And Roderick comforted himself with the thought that his was not needed after all.

The excitement subsided for a time after this, the real hard preparation for voting day would not commence until the autumn, so J. P. Thornton was seized with the grand idea that the coming summer was surely the heaven-decreed occasion upon which to go off on that long-deferred holiday. The inspiration came to him one day when he had telephoned Lawyer Ed twice and called at his office three times to find him out each time.

"Is this the office of Brians and McRae or only McRae?" he asked when Roderick informed him for the third time that his chief was absent.

"Well, it isn't often like this," said the junior partner apologetically. "We'll get back to our old routine when my chief gets over his local option excitement."

"If you can run this business alone during a Local Option to-do, I see no reason why you couldn't while we take three months holidays, do you?"

"No, I do not," said Roderick heartily. "Can't you make Lawyer Ed go to the Holy Land this spring? I'll do anything to help him go. He needs a rest."

J. P. Thornton looked at the young man smiling reminiscently. He was recalling the night when two young men gave up that very trip and Lawyer Ed had laughingly declared he would go some day even if he had to wait till little Roderick grew up. "And little the boy knows," said Mr. Thornton to himself, "just how much Ed gave up that time."

"Well," he said aloud, "this is surely poetic justice."

"What is?" asked Roderick puzzled. But J. P. would not explain. "We'll just make him go," he declared. "You stand behind me, Rod, and don't let him get back to work, and I'll get him off."

It was not entirely the old boyish desire to go on the long-looked-for trip with his friend that was at the bottom of Mr. Thornton's anxiety to get away. He could not help seeing that Ed needed a rest and needed it very badly. Archie Blair aroused his fears further. For one evening Lawyer Ed did an altogether unprecedented thing and went home to bed early. Mrs. Hepburn, his sister, was so amazed over such a piece of conduct on her brother's part, that she called at the doctor's office the next day to ask if he thought there was anything wrong with Ed's heart.

Doctor Blair laughed long and loud over the question, putting the lady's fears at rest.

"No, I don't think any one in Algonquin would admit there was anything astray with Ed's heart, Mary," he said. "But his head might be vastly improved by putting a little common sense into it regarding eating and sleeping. He's been going too hard for about twenty-five years and he's tired, that's all. But J. P.'s going to get him off this time, all right, and the change is just what he needs."

He spoke to J. P. about it, and the two determined that they would make all preparations to start for the Holy Land in July and if Ed had to be bound and gagged until the steamer sailed, they would certainly see that he went.

Lawyer Ed consented with the greatest enthusiasm. Of course he would go. He really believed he had enough money saved up, and Roderick was doing everything, anyway, and he could just start off for a forty years wandering in the wilderness if J. P. would go with him.

The whole town became quite excited when Mrs. Hepburn announced at a tea given by Mrs. Captain Willoughby that her brother and J. P. Thornton were really and truly, even should Algonquin go up in flames the day before, going to sail from Montreal sometime in July for foreign parts. There was a great deal of running to and from the Thornton and Brians homes, and a tremendous amount of talking and advising. And the only topic of conversation for weeks, in the town, was the Holy Land, and the question which greeted a new-comer invariably was, "Did you hear that Lawyer Ed and J. P. have really decided to go?"

All this bustle of preparation and expectation did not deceive J. P. into a false position of security. He was by no means confident, and he kept a strict eye on Lawyer Ed to see that he did not launch some new scheme that would demand his personal attention till Christmas. For well he knew that until his friend was on board the steamer and beyond swimming distance from the land, he was not safe. Any day something might arise to make it seem quite impossible to go.

So he was thrown into quite a state of nervousness when, early in June, Algonquin began to prepare for a unique celebration. The first of July had been chosen as "Old Boys' Day," and all Algonquin's exiled sons had been invited to come back to the old home on that day and be made happy.

"Old Boys' Day" was an entirely new institution in Algonquin. Indeed she did not have many sons beyond middle age, but other Ontario towns were having these reunions, and Algonquin was never known to be behind her contemporaries, in the matter of having anything new, even though the newest thing was Old Boys.

So no wonder J. P. Thornton was anxious. For such a celebration was just the sort of thing in which Lawyer Ed gloried. Fortunately it was set a month before they were to sail, but J. P. knew that Ed would need all that time to recover from the perfect riot of friendship into which he would be sure to plunge on Old Boys' Day.

As the first of July approached, the whole town gave itself up to extravagant preparations and, as J. P. expected, Lawyer Ed, turned over his office to Roderick, put away railway time-tables and guide books and headed every committee. There was a committee of ladies from all the churches to serve dinner to the Old Boys on their arrival. There was a decorating committee with instructions to cover the town with flags and bunting and banners, no matter what the cost. There was a committee for sports, on both land and water and, most important of all, a reception committee, half to go down to Barbay with Captain Jimmie and the town band to bring the Old Boys home by water, the only proper way to approach Algonquin, and the other half to meet them at the dock.

Of course all this upheaval and bustle did not take place without some slight discord. The first storm arose through a dispute as to where the big dinner should be held upon the arrival of the boat. The first suggestion was that it be held in the opera house. But unfortunately, many of the best people of Algonquin objected to holding anything there as a matter of principle.

It was the common case of a very good place having a bad name. Had the opera house been called the town hall, which it really was, no one would have found fault with it. But its name suggested actors and the theatre, and many of the good folk, Mr. McPherson at their head, just wouldn't countenance it at all.

Of course there was the other class who said Algonquin would be too dull to live in were it not for the winter attractions of the opera house which gave it such a bad name. In fact every one who had any pretensions towards knowing what was the correct thing in city life, went regularly to the plays, and declared they were just as high class as you would see in Toronto.

Indeed a new play was always announced as "The Greatest Attraction in Toronto Last Week," and companies had several times come all the way from New York just to appear in Algonquin. Then every winter there were the Topp Brothers who came and stayed a whole week in Crofter's Hotel, and gave a different play every night. There were all the best known dramas, "Lady Audley's Secret," and "East Lynne" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and once they even gave "Faust,"—without music, it is true, but a splendid reproduction nevertheless, with the biggest and tallest Topp brother as Mephisto, all in red satin and, every one said, just perfectly terrible.

So every one who knew anything at all about what was demanded of people moving in the best circles, pronounced the opera house the finest institution in the town and demanded that the Old Boys be taken to it upon their arrival and welcomed and fed. And all the other people said it was a sinful and worldly place, and declared they would have no Old Boys' banquet at all if it were to be served in that theatrical abomination.

The Presbyterian Sunday-school room was the next place in size, and, to smooth matters over, Lawyer Ed offered it for the dinner.

Then the Anglican and the Catholic and the Methodist ladies met and said it was just like the Presbyterians to want to have the banquet in their church, to make it appear to the Old Boys that they were doing it all. And Mrs. Captain Willoughby, the smartest woman in Algonquin and the Convener of the dinner committee, said that if those gossipy old cranks wanted to have the banquet in the lock-up, why they might have it there for all she cared, but she wanted every one to know that it would be served in the Presbyterian School room or she would have nothing to do with it. That almost settled it for every one knew it was utterly impossible to get up such a huge affair without Mrs. Captain Willoughby at the head. But the very next night Jock McPherson brought up the matter in a session meeting and objected to having the dinner in the schoolroom, as it was not a religious gathering.

But Lawyer Ed met and overcame every difficulty. He laughed and cajoled the opera house party into giving way. He forced the programme committee to put Mr. McPherson down for one of the chief addresses of welcome at the banquet, and the objections ceased. He called up his friend Father Tracy on the telephone and bade him see that his flock did their duty in the matter, and he took the Methodist minister's wife and the Anglican clergyman's daughter and Mrs. Captain Willoughby all down town together for ice cream, and there was no more trouble.

"Women are ticklish things to handle, Rod," he said, wiping his perspiring forehead when all was harmony again. "The only wise way for a man to act is to get married and hand over all such manoeuvres to his wife. See that you get one as soon as possible."

"I've heard something somewhere regarding the advantage of example over precept," said Roderick gravely.

"Hold your tongue," said his chief severely. "If I wish to serve you as a terrible warning, to be avoided, instead of an example to be followed, you ought to be grateful in any case."

He strode away swinging his cane and whistling and Roderick watched him with affectionate eyes. He was wondering, as all the town wondered, except a couple of his nearest friends who knew, why Lawyer Ed had never married. And he was thinking of a pair of soft blue eyes that had not grown any kinder to him as the months had passed. He went back to his work, the solace for all his troubles. He was taking no part in the preparations for the Old Boys' celebration, and was looking forward to the date with small pleasure. For that was the day she would likely be leaving for her summer vacation. And who knew whether she would come back or not? So he watched Lawyer Ed's joyous preparations for the Old Boys' visit, without much interest, little thinking it was to be of more moment to him than to any one else in Algonquin.

Early in the morning of the first of July the rain came pouring down, but the clouds cleared away before ten o'clock, leaving the little town fresh and green and glowing after its bath. Everything was dressed in its best for the visitors. The gardens were in their brightest summer decorations. The June roses and peonies were not yet gone, and the syringa bushes and jessamine trees were all a-bloom. Main Street was lined with banners and overhung with gay bunting. Lake Algonquin smiled and twinkled and sparkled out her welcome. The fairy islands, the surrounding woods, everything, was at its freshest and greenest.

Early in the morning the Inverness with half of the entertainment committee, the town band, and such youngsters as Captain Jimmie could not eject from his decks, sailed away down to Barbay to bring the heroes home and, as the Chronicle said in a splendid editorial, the next morning, Algonquin's heart throbbed with pride as the goodly ship sailed into port with her precious cargo. The Barbay Clarion, Algonquin's and the Chronicle's bitter and hasty enemy, wearily remarked the next week that Algonquin always found something to be proud of anyway. But there could be no doubt Algonquin had reason on this first of July, for the Inverness carried homeward men whose names had brought honour to the little town.

There was J. P.'s son who edited the paper read by every Canadian from Halifax to Vancouver, except those who, wilfully blinded by political prejudice, read the organ of the opposite party. There was Tom Willoughby, the captain's brother, member for the Dominion House, who tore himself away from Ottawa, every one felt, at great risk to his country's weal, leaving the question of war in South Africa and reciprocity with Australia in abeyance, while he rushed across the country to do honour to the old home town. As the Chronicle said, the next morning, being a supporter of Tom's party, not even King Edward himself could have found fault with a loyalty that would take such risks for home and native land.

There was Sandy Graham's brother from New York, who had made, some said, a million in real estate deals in the West, and Lawyer Ed's own brother, who was a professor of note in a University "down East." There were business, and professional men, young workmen from near by cities and towns, statesmen and scholars. But of them all, none was such a hero, and none so eagerly awaited, as Harry Armstrong. For only the summer before, Harry had taken a Canadian lacrosse team around the world and had vanquished everything in Europe, Asia and Africa that dared to hold up a stick against them.

When the first far away note of the Inverness' whistle floated across the water from the Gates, the ladies at the Presbyterian church began putting the finishing touches to the tables and the dressing on the salads, and half of the reception committee that had remained at home drove down to the dock. They arranged themselves there in proper order, with Captain Willoughby, the Mayor, at the head, or rather almost at the head, for of course Lawyer Ed was a few steps in advance of him.

The dock was a new and important landing place. There was a big distinction between the dock and the wharf. The latter was the decrepit old wooden structure, torn and jarred by ice and storms, that stood at the foot of Main Street, where every one of the Old Boys had fished and fallen in and nearly drowned himself many a time. But the dock, as every one knew, was the fine new landing place, built of stone and cement, and stretching from the town park, away out, it almost seemed, as far as the Gates. The Inverness had had instruction to put in at the dock, not only to impress the Old Boys with the strides Algonquin had made, but as a delicate compliment to Tom Willoughby, through whose political influence it had been built.

All the cabs in town had been hired and all the buggies loaned, and they lined up along the park road waiting to take the guests up to the church. Lawyer Ed had suggested at first that the Mayor ride down in his automobile, but as all the horses in town had to be out at the same time, the experiment was voted too dangerous and the Mayor drove in a commonplace but safe cab.

Every one was at his proper station waiting when, with a blaze of colour and a burst of music, the Inverness curved around Wanda Island and swept into view. She was a brave sight surely! From every side floated banners and pennons, her deck rail and her flag-staff were covered with green boughs, Old Boys fairly swarmed the decks from stem to stern. And up in the bow, their instruments flashing in the sunlight, stood the band, playing loudly and gaily, "Home, Sweet Home."

No one ever quite knew who was to blame that things went amiss from that splendid moment. Captain Jimmie said it was the fault of Major Dobie, the leader of the band, and Major Dobie was equally certain it was the captain's fault. The Old Boys themselves were willing to take all the blame, and perhaps they were right, for they danced on the deck, and crowded about the wheel so that Captain Jimmie had no idea whither he was steering. However it was, instead of turning to starboard, as he had been instructed, and running in to the dock where the committee waited, Captain Jimmie swept to larboard around the buoy that marked his turning point, and made straight for his old hitching post at the wharf.

The Mayor and the Committee shouted and waved. Lawyer Ed stood up on the seat of a cab and roared out a command across the water that might have been heard at the Gates, but the band and the cheers of the Old Boys drowned his voice. Captain Jimmie pursued his mistaken course, never once stopping in the stream of Gaelic with which he was entertaining his Highland guests, and even the half of the Committee on board forgot where they were to land, in their joyous excitement.

Then Lawyer Ed fairly pitched Afternoon Tea Willie into a row-boat and sent him spinning across the water to head-off the Inverness and make her turn to the park. But the poor boy had been working like a slave since early morning at the Presbyterian church, and could not row fast enough. He was only half-way across when the whistle sounded to shut off steam. But just as the Inverness stopped with a bump, some one of the committee came to his senses, and rushed to the captain, pointing out the frantically waving hosts on the dock.

"Cosh! Bless my soul!" cried Captain Jimmie in dismay. He gave a wrench to the wheel, shouting orders to the Ancient Mariner to gee her around and go back, but he was too late. Before the gang-plank had been thrown out, or rope hitched, the Old Boys had leaped ashore. Captain Jimmie yelled at them to come back, but they paid no more heed than they would have done twenty-five years earlier and went swarming joyfully up Main Street.

But meanwhile a dozen of the reception committee had come tearing down the railroad track from the park and were shouting upon them to stop. Then the Mayor, Archie Blair, J. P. Thornton and Lawyer Ed having leaped into a cab, and driven furiously across the town, were now thundering down Main Street. They headed off the truant Old Boys, and drove them back to the wharf to be received decorously and listen to the welcoming address. As they had dashed past the Presbyterian church at a mad gallop, every one became alarmed and the news spread that a dreadful disaster had happened to the Inverness. But Afternoon Tea Willie came running up out of breath and wet with perspiration to tell them the real state of affairs. He was scolded soundly by Mrs. Captain Willoughby, and went about pouring out apologies all day after.

So the reception took place at the wharf after all, with every one in imminent danger of going through the rotten planks into the lake. It was a rather informal affair. J. P. Thornton and Archie Blair tried to preserve some dignity, but Lawyer Ed was in a towering rage and cared not for decorum. He shook his fist at the Old Boys and told them they were howling idiots and had lost what little manners they had learned in Algonquin. Then he stood up on the carriage seat, his face red, his eyes blazing, and called Captain Jimmie an old blind mole and an ostrich and everything else in the world foolish and unthinking. Captain Jimmie shouted back with a right good Highland spirit, from his vantage point on the deck and all the Old Boys cheered joyously, declaring this was the one thing needful to make them feel absolutely at home.

Finally the proper welcome was stammered out by the Mayor, who was even less at home making a speech than running his automobile, and they all got away and the procession started up towards the church.

On every side were shouts of welcome: "Hello, Bob!" "Hi, there, Jack, you home too?" "Well, well, if there isn't old Bill! No place like Algonquin, eh Bill?" etc., etc. Harry Armstrong was easily the favourite, and was the recipient of many welcoming shouts.

Roderick stood at the door watching the procession go past to the church. He was amazed to see Lawyer Ed and his brother seated in the same carriage as Alexander Graham. There was a ponderous man with a double chin seated beside him, and going into a spasm of laughter every time Lawyer Ed spoke. Roderick looked at him with keen interest. This was William Graham, the man whose word was law with the firm of Elliot and Kent. He had come all the way from New York for this celebration entirely, he declared in his speech at the banquet, because Ed had wired him to come and he could not resist Ed. They had been great friends in boyhood days, and the big brother cared not a whit that Sandy had a grudge at Ed. If that were so, he declared, then all the more shame to Sandy. So he was seated between the Brians brothers, fairly radiating joy from his big fat person, when the procession passed Lawyer Ed's office. His chief waved his hat at Roderick and roared:

"Come awa ben the kirk, ma braw John Hielanman!" and then he turned to the portly gentleman at his side and said:

"That's Angus McRae's boy, Bill. He's my partner now."

"Angus McRae's son? You mean Roderick McRae?" The millionaire turned and stared at the young man keenly. He nodded to his brother.

"Looks like a likely lad all right," he said. "I want to see you about him, Ed, when all the fuss is over."

Roderick had such a pile of work on the desk before him, that he did not get up to the church until the luncheon was over and the last speaker but one on his feet. This was Jock McPherson, and when Roderick slipped into the crowds standing at the ends of the long glittering tables, the little man was explaining very slowly and solemnly that as the afternoon with its long programme was approaching he would not be keeping them. All his oratorical rivals had had their turn at the Old Boys and Mr. McPherson was just a bit nettled at being crowded into the last few minutes. J. P. Thornton and Archie Blair and Lawyer Ed had got themselves put on ahead of him and had taken all the time and said all the complimenting things to be said. Captain Willoughby was the chairman and, though it was agony for him to make a speech, he had tried in his halting way to make amends to Mr. McPherson. It was a pity that such an able speaker had been left so late, he had explained, but there were so many on the programme that some one had to come last, etc., etc. Jock arose after this very doubtful introduction, and spoke so deliberately that Lawyer Ed and J. P. exchanged significant glances, there was something coming. "It iss true Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen," he said slowly, "that there have been many fine speeches delivered this afternoon. And now what shall I say? For I feel that ufferything has already been said." He paused and gave the peculiar sniffing sound that told he had scented a joke from afar and was going to hunt it to earth. "Yes, Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen, there is no doubt that there is vurry little left to be said on any subject whatuffer. I feel vurry much like the meenister who went into the pulpit with his sermon. He had not looked at it since he had put it away the night before, and the mice had got at it and had eaten all the firstly, the secondly and the thirdly, and there was vurry little left—vurry little left, Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen. But the meenister would jist be explaining his dilemma to the people. 'My dearly beloved brethren,' he said, said he, 'I am vurry sorry to inform you that the mice have got at my sermon, and have eaten firstly, secondly and thirdly, but as it cannot be helped, my dearly beloved brethren, we will jist be commencing where the mice left off!'"

Even the mice had to join in the laugh on themselves, and when Jock had given the few words of his fourthly which were left, every one, himself included, was in fine humour.

The last speaker was Alexander Graham's wealthy brother. William Graham had been the most successful, from one point of view, of all Algonquin's returning sons. He had got together enough wealth, folk said, to buy out Algonquin twice over. Beside, he had become quite famous in political life in his adopted country, and rumour had it that he might have been President of the United States had he not been born in Canada. William himself denied this, but he could not deny the honours his adopted country had showered upon him. His name was a power in Washington circles, and he had more than once, gone abroad on international matters of grave import.

Nevertheless, Algonquin received him with some embarrassment mingled with her joy and pride. Bill Graham, the Algonquin boy, was a welcome sight to every one, for he had always been popular. But, W. H. Graham, the great American, was quite another matter, and many of his warmest friends had an uncomfortable feeling that they were committing an act of disloyalty to Britain in thus making him publicly welcome. It was all right to make money out of the Yankees, and Bill was commended for his millions, but to join the enemy and help it work out its problems was a dangerous precedent to set before the youth of the town.

He made a very wise speech, saying very little about the States, and a great deal about his joy at getting home again, but when he sat down, the applause was not quite as enthusiastic as had been given the other home-comers and Lawyer Ed's warm heart was grieved. As they stood up to sing the National Anthem before dispersing, like true sons of Algonquin, J. P. whispered:

"Too bad about old Bill, can't we do something better for him?"

Lawyer Ed was just swinging the crowd into the thunder of "God Save our gracious King," but he heard, and a sudden inspiration thrilled him. He nodded reassuringly to J. P. and waved his arms to beat time, for Major Dobie and the band were getting far behind.

Just as the last words of the national anthem were uttered, with a flourish of his hand to the band to continue, and another towards Bill to show that the graceful tribute was intended for him, Lawyer Ed burst forth into "My country 'tis of thee—." The band caught up the strain again, another wave of the leader's hand, and the Old Boys joined and every one burst generously into the second line "Sweet land of liberty," with smiling eyes turned towards the American millionaire.

Graham smiled radiantly back. Down in his heart he cared not a Canadian copper cent for the American national anthem, but he did care a great deal for the love of his old friends, and he was touched and pleased.

But alas for the generous tribute to the American. No one knew a word of the song beyond the second line. Lawyer Ed started off with a splendid shout, "Land where the—" but got no further. The band and the drum thundered gallantly over the lapse, but the singing dwindled away. The leader cast one agonised glance towards the American but Bill sent back a hopeless negative, and cleared his throat and twitched his New York tie. The Old Boys began to grin, and Lawyer Ed began to grow hot at the fear of making a fiasco of what he had intended for a grand finale. But he kept doggedly on, for Lawyer Ed never in his life gave up anything he started out to do, and even if he had had no tune as well as no words he would have sung that song through to the bitter end. So far above the band and the drum his voice rang out splendidly, defying fate:

"Land where the lee la lay, Land where the doo da day—"

Then, hearing the laughter rising like a tide about him, he flung the American tribute to the winds, and roared out strong and distinct, the whole congress of Old Boys following in a burst of relief,

"Long to reign over us, God save our King."

The banquet broke up in a storm of laughter, the American millionaire's loudest of all.

"Oh, Ed," he cried, wiping his eyes, "stick to the old version. You're more loyal than you knew!"

Roderick was leaving the room with the crowd, when Leslie Graham, in a bewitching white cap and tiny apron, caught his arm.

"Don't run away!" she cried, "I was told to fetch you to Uncle Will, he wants to meet you. If he's going to make a Yankee out of you, see that you resist him strenuously."

"One American in your family is enough, isn't it, Les?" said Anna Baldwin, her big black eyes staring very innocently at Roderick.

Roderick blushed like a girl, but Leslie Graham laughed delightedly.

"Isn't Anna shocking?" she asked, glancing coyly at Roderick, as they moved back through the crowd. But he did not hear her, and she was surprised at a sudden light that sprang to his eyes. She looked in their direction, and saw Helen Murray in a blue gown and a white cap and apron. She was standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

Madame was talking to her and the girl's usually grave face was animated and lighted with a lovely smile. Leslie Graham looked at her then back swiftly to Roderick. There was a look in his eyes she had never seen there before. The old suspicion roused the night she had seen him help Miss Murray out of his canoe returned. Her gay chatter suddenly ceased. She presented Roderick to her uncle and quickly turned away and was lost in the crowd.

Roderick scarcely noticed that she had gone, he was wondering if the summer holidays were to be spent in Algonquin after all, and then he noticed that the man he had been anxious to meet was shaking his hand. "I'm glad to see Angus McRae's son!" the big man was saying. "Yes, yes, I'd know you by your father. And how is he? I must see him before I leave. Sandy's been telling me about your work here. And Ed too. Do you intend to settle in Algonquin?"

"I hope not, sir, not permanently at least."

"That's right. Algonquin's a fine place to have in the background of one's life, but it's rather small for any expansion. Did you know I've had an eye on you since you were up north last winter?"

"On me?" cried Roderick amazed.

"Yes, just on you." The portly figure shook with a good humoured amusement at the young man's modest amazement. "I heard about you from my brother and then from Kent. Let me see, I suppose there will be high doings all day to-day. What about to-morrow? Could I see you for a little talk to-morrow morning?"

Roderick set the hour for the appointment, silently wondering. His heart was throbbing with expectation, vague, wonderful. Some great event was surely pending. He went home that night, full of high expectations. When he made a great success of his life and came back to Algonquin, rich and with a name, he would go to her and show her he had been right, and she had been wrong.



CHAPTER XII

"THE MELODY DEADEN'D"

"And you don't mean to tell me you were such a fool as to say he might go?" J. P. Thornton, walking up the hill for the fourth time on the way home from a session meeting with Lawyer Ed, asked the question again in an extremity of indignation.

And Lawyer Ed answered as he had done each time before:

"I couldn't stand in the boy's way, Jack; I just couldn't."

They had argued the question for an hour, up and down the hills between their two homes, and had come to no agreement. That Roderick had had an offer to tempt any young man there was no doubt. A partnership in the firm of Elliot and Kent, solicitors for the British North American Transcontinental Railroad, was such a chance as came the way of few at his age.

And yet Mr. Thornton declared that he should have refused it unconditionally. Not so Lawyer Ed; his generous heart condoned the boy.

"It's the chance of a life-time, Jack," he declared. "It would be shameful to keep him out of it, and, mind you, he wouldn't say he would go until I urged it."

"Oh, blow him!" J. P. was a very dignified gentleman and did not revert to his boyhood's slang except under extreme provocation. "He shouldn't have allowed you to urge him. And what about the brilliant prospect you gave up once just because his father was in need?"

"Well, never mind that," said Lawyer Ed, hurriedly. "He doesn't know anything about that and he's not going to either."

"And it was Bill Graham who wanted you, and you wouldn't go. And now Bill's taking him away from you. He ought to be ashamed!"

"Bill thought he was doing me a kindness. He knew Rod's success is mine."

J. P. was silent from sheer exhaustion of all sane argument. He was grieved and bitterly disappointed for his friend's sake. Ed was in imperative need of a rest and just when life was looking a little easier to him, and the long-deferred holiday was within reach, Roderick was deserting.

If they could only have visited the Holy Land before he left, it would not have seemed so bad. But though Roderick had consented to remain until his chief returned, Lawyer Ed had felt he could not go, for he must busy himself gathering up the threads of his work which he had been dropping with such relief.

Roderick had not come to his final decision without much argument with himself. His head said Go, but he could not quite convince his heart that he was right in leaving Lawyer Ed so soon. He had argued the question with himself during many sleepless nights, but the lure of success had proved the stronger. And he was going late in the autumn to take up his new work.

To Old Angus the news was like the shutting out of the light of day. Roderick was going away. At first that was all he could comprehend. But he did not for one moment lose his sublime faith either in his boy or in his God. The Lord's hand was in it all, he told himself. He was leading the Lad out into larger service and his father must not stand in the way. He said not one word of his own loss, but was deeply concerned over Lawyer Ed's. He was worried lest the Lad's going might mean business difficulties for his friend.

"If the Father will be wanting the Lad, Edward," he said one golden autumn afternoon, when Lawyer Ed stopped at the farm gate in passing, "then we must not be putting our little wills in His way. I would not be minding for myself, oh, no, not at all—" the old man's smile was more pathetic than tears. "The dear Lord will be giving me so many children on the Jericho Road, that He feels I can spare Roderick."

Eddie Perkins was stumbling about the lane trying to rake up the dead leaves into neat piles as Angus had instructed him. He came whimpering up with a bruised finger which he held up to the old man. Angus comforted him tenderly, telling him Eddie must be a man and not mind a little scratch. He looked down at this most helpless of his children and gently stroked the boy's misshapen head.

"Yes, He would be very kind, giving me so many of His little ones to care for, and He feels I can spare Roderick. The Lad is strong—" his voice faltered a moment, but he went on bravely.

"But it was you I was thinking of, Edward. I could not but be fearing that you were making a great sacrifice. There is your visit to the Holy Land—and the business. It will be hard for you, Edward?"

Lawyer Ed, seated in his mud-splashed buggy at the gate, turned quickly away, the anxiety in Old Angus's voice was almost too much for his tender heart. There was a wistful plea in it that he should vindicate Roderick from a shadow of suspicion. He jerked his horse's head violently and demanded angrily what in thunder it meant by trying to eat all the grass off the roadside like a fool of an old cow, and then he rose valiantly to the Lad's defence.

"Hut, tut, Angus!" he cried blusteringly. "Such nonsense! You know as well as I do that the Lad didn't want to leave. I fairly drove him away. Pshaw! never mind the Holy Land. We're all journeying to it together, anyway. And as for my business—somebody else'll turn up. I always felt Algonquin would be too small for Rod. You'll see he'll make a name for himself that'll make us all proud."

He did it splendidly, and Angus was comforted. He blamed himself for what he termed his lack of faith in the boy and in his Father. And many a night, as he sat late by his fire, trying to reason himself into cheerful resignation, he recalled Edward's words hopefully. Yes, he surely ought to be proud and glad that the Lad was going out into a wider service. He was leaving him alone, on his Jericho Road, here, but that was only because the Father needed him for a busier highway, where thieves were crueller and more numerous.

As the autumn passed and the time for leaving approached, the Lad ran out very often to the farm. His visits were a constantly increasing source of discomfort—both to heart and conscience. His father's gallant attempts at cheerfulness, and his sublime assurance that his son was going away to do a greater work for the Master stung Roderick to the quick. That Master, whom he had long ago left out of his life's plan, had said, "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon." And from even the little Roderick had seen of the affairs of Elliot and Kent, he knew only too well that to serve that firm and humanity at the same time would be impossible.

There were others who did not possess his father's faith in his purpose, and they spoke to him plainly on the matter. J. P. Thornton, remembering indignantly all that Lawyer Ed had once given up for Old Angus's sake, and further maddened by being forbidden to disclose it, expressed his disapproval of Roderick's leaving so soon, in strong incisive terms.

His remarks succeeded only in angering the young man, and making him more determined in his course. Doctor Leslie was the next to speak plainly on the matter, and his kindly, deep-searching words were harder to set aside. Roderick was passing the Manse one day when Mammy Viney hailed him.

"Honey, de minesta' want you," she called, in her soft rich tones. "An' you'se gwine away, an' leavin' you ole Auntie Kirsty," she said reproachfully, as he came up the steps and shook hands with her.

"But you wouldn't want me to stay and bother Aunt Kirsty in the kitchen all my life, now, would you, Mammy Viney? I thought men were a nuisance there."

"Men's jus' a trouble eberywhar," she said sternly. "Dat Mahogany Bill he was jus' like all de res', an' here you doin' de same, goin' off an' leabin' folks in de lurch, with all de hard work to do. I'se shame of you—dat I is!"

Roderick laughed good-naturedly, as he followed her into the house, but Mammy Viney tossed her head. "Eberybody say dat it pretty mean o' you, anyhow," she said with the air of one who could tell a great deal if she wished. "'Deed dey's sayin' dat you no business make Lawya Ed stay home!"

Roderick did not wait to hear any more of what Algonquin was saying about him. Mammy Viney rather enjoyed recounting such remarks, and never took one jot or one tittle from that which she passed along.

Doctor Leslie met him at the study door, with outstretched hands. "Now tell me all about this going away scheme," he said; and Roderick told him eagerly, about the brilliant prospects ahead of him, and when he finished there was the implied question in the boy's eyes. Would he not be blind to his and every one's best interests to remain in Algonquin in the face of such inducements?

Doctor Leslie sat and looked out at the orchard trees, with their wealth of red and gold apples falling with soft thuds upon the grass. How often had that question come to him in his youth, and when he had examined his own heart and his reasons for obeying the call to go away, he had been compelled to remain.

He saw Roderick's position, and sympathised with the youthful longing to be away and to do great deeds; but he was afraid the way had not yet truly opened up into which Angus McRae's son could step. He had learned, in the year Roderick had spent in Algonquin, that the young man was not vitally interested in the things that are eternal. His outlook on life was not his father's. The minister felt impelled to speak plainly.

"I feel sure," he said slowly, turning his eyes from the garden, and letting them rest kindly upon the boy's frank face, "I feel sure, Roderick, that no young man who lacks ambition will be of much use to the world. But ambition is a dangerous guide alone. If you are anxious to make the best of your life, my boy, the Lord will open the way to great opportunities. But the time and the way will be plainly shown. If this is a door of greater opportunity, then enter it, and God give you great and large blessing. But if you are leaving with any doubts as to its being the right course, if you fear that there are other obligations you must yet fulfil, then I charge you to examine your heart carefully, lest you fight against God. It is no use trying to do that. One day or other His love will hedge us about. If it cannot draw us into the way it meets us on the Damascus Road and blinds us with its light. But some of us miss the best of life before that happens. Don't lose the way, Lad; your father instructed you well in it."

For days the warning followed Roderick, tormenting him. He dared not examine his motives carefully, lest he find them false. He was out on life's waters, paddling hard for the gleam of gold, and he had no time to stop and consider whither it was leading him. It might vanish while he lingered.

There was another person whose opinion he was anxious to get on this vexed question. He wondered every waking hour what she would think of his going. Perhaps she didn't think about it at all, he speculated miserably. He still continued to waylay her in Willow Lane, as he went to and from home, and one evening he ran upon his poor rival, Afternoon Tea Willie, doing the same sentinel duty.

Roderick had been home for supper and was returning to the office early to do some left over work, when he overtook him slowly walking towards Algonquin.

"Good evening, Mr. Roderick," he said in a melancholy tone. "May I walk into town with you?"

Roderick slackened his stride to suit the young man. He was rather impatient at having to endure his company, but he soon changed his mind, for Alfred was in a confidential mood.

"I might as well go home," he said gloomily. "She's gone."

"Who's gone?" asked Roderick perversely.

"Why, Miss Murray. She slipped away somehow, and I don't know how she did it. But I've waited down here for her for the last time." He choked for a moment, then continued firmly. "She's showed me plainly she doesn't want me, and I'm too proud to force my company upon her."

Roderick did not know what to say; he wanted to laugh, but it was impossible to keep just a little of the fellow-feeling that makes us wondrous kind from creeping into his heart.

"Well, it's too bad," he said at last. "But if she doesn't want you, of course there is only one thing for you to do."

"I have been faithful to her for a year," said the rejected lover. "I never before was attentive to any lady, no matter how charming, for that length of time, and she needn't have treated me that way."

The subject was the most interesting one in the world to Roderick, and he could not resist encouraging the young man to go on.

And poor Afternoon Tea Willie, unaccustomed to a sympathetic hearing, poured out all his long heartache.

"I am telling you this in strict confidence you know, Roderick," he said. "It is such a relief to tell some one and it seems right I should tell you the end of this sad romance, for you helped me and were kind to me at its very beginning." He paused for a moment, to reflect sadly on his disappointed hopes.

"You may be sure your confidence will never be betrayed," said Roderick, and murmuring his gratitude the young man went on.

"It was Miss Annabel Armstrong who put her against me from the first, I feel sure, though I must never bear a grudge against a lady. But you know, Roderick (I know you will never betray a confidence), Miss Annabel hates me. I proposed to her once, shortly after I came to Algonquin. It was just a mad infatuation on my part, not love at all. I did not know then what real love was. But Miss Annabel—well, she is a lady—but I, I really couldn't tell you what she said to me when I offered her all a man could, my heart and my hand and all my property. It was awful! I really sometimes wake up in the night yet and think about it. And she never forgave me. And I don't know why." He paused and drew a deep breath at the remembrance.

"And I know she poisoned Miss Murray's mind against me—but I shan't hold a grudge against a lady. Now, Miss Murray herself was so gentle and kind when she refused me—what? I—I didn't mean any harm." For his sympathetic listener had turned upon him.

"How dared you do such a thing?" Roderick cried indignantly.

"I just couldn't help it," wailed Alfred. "You couldn't yourself now, Roderick;" and Roderick was forced to confess inwardly that likely he couldn't.

"Well, never mind, go on," he said, all unabashed that he was taking advantage of the poor young man merely to be able to hear something about her.

"I just couldn't help it. But I only asked her twice and the first time she refused so nicely, I thought perhaps she'd change her mind. I never heard any one refuse a—person—so—so sweetly and kindly. But this last time was unmistakable, and I feel as if it were all over. I am not going to be trampled upon any more."

"That's right," said Roderick. "Just brace up and never mind; you'll soon get over it."

The young man shook his head. "I shall never be the same," he said. "But I have pride. I am not going to let her see that she has made a wreck of my life. But I thought she might have had more sympathy when she had had a sorrow like that herself."

Roderick felt his resentment rising. He did not mind listening to poor Alfred's love stories, but he did not want to hear hers discussed. But before he could interrupt, Alfred was saying something that held his attention and made him long for more.

"But she is all over that now. She told me herself."

"All over what?" Roderick could not hold the question back.

"Caring about the young man she was engaged to. There was a young man named Richard Wells in Toronto, you know, and they were engaged. When she was away for her holidays last summer, I was so lonesome I just couldn't stand it, so I wrote to my cousin Flossy Wilbur and asked her to find out how she was or her address or something. And Flossy wrote such a comforting letter and said she was staying with her married brother, Norman Murray—he lives on Harrington Street, and Floss lives just a couple of blocks away on a beautiful avenue—"

"What were you saying about Wells?" Roderick interrupted.

"Flossy knows him and told me all about it. I had a letter just last week. He met another girl he liked better—no, that couldn't be true, nobody who once saw her could care for any one else, I am sure. But this other girl was rich, and so he broke the engagement. If I ever meet that man!" Afternoon Tea Willie stood on the side-walk, the electric light shining through the autumn leaves making a golden radiance about his white face. "If I ever meet that man I—I shall certainly treat him with the coldest contempt, Roderick. I wouldn't speak to him!"

"But you said she didn't care," suggested Roderick impatiently.

"Not now. But Flossy said her poor little heart must have been broken at first, though she did not show it. She came up to Algonquin right away. I saw her on board the Inverness the day she came and I knew then—"

"How do you know she doesn't care about Wells?"

"Oh, when Flossy wrote me that last week, I went to see her at the school—I don't dare go to Rosemount—and I asked her to forgive me for proposing to her. I told her, or at least I hinted at the tragedy in her life, and I said I wanted to beg her pardon on my knees for troubling her as I had done,—and that I couldn't forgive myself. Oh, she just acted like an angel—there is no other word to describe her. She asked me at first how I found out and then she said so sweetly and gently, that she thanked me for my consideration. And then, just because she was so good—I did it again! I really didn't mean it, but before I knew what I was doing, I was asking her again if there was any hope for me. And, oh dear! oh dear! she said 'no' again. Gave me not the least hope. I was so overcome—you don't know how a man feels about such things, Roderick. I was so overcome I burst out and said I felt just as if I would have given all I possessed to meet that Wells man. I said I could just treat him with the coldest contempt if I ever met him on the street. And she answered so sweetly that I must not worry on her account. She said she had cared once, but that was all over, and that she was glad now that it had been so. And she added—and I don't see hew any one with such eyes could be so cruel—she said I must never, never speak of such a subject to her again, and that if I ever did she would not let me even come near her. So it's all over with me. I am not going to follow her about any more. I have still been coming down to Willow Lane, but I am coming no more after to-night. This is the end!"

They had reached the office door and paused. Roderick's sympathy seemed to have suddenly vanished. In the very face of the other young man's despair, he turned upon him ruthlessly.

"That's a wise resolution, Alf," he said distinctly. "And I'm going to advise you strongly to stick to it. You keep the width of the town between you and Miss Murray from now on, do you understand?"

"What—whatever do you mean?" stammered the boy, aghast at the cruelty of one who had seemed a friend.

"Just what I say. On your own showing, you've been tormenting her; and—I—well, I won't have it—that's all. I feel sure you have the good sense to stick to your resolution," his tone was a trifle kindlier, "and for your own sake I hope you do. If not, look out!" He made a significant gesture, that made the other jump out of his way in terror. "And look here, Alf," he added. "If you tell any soul in Algonquin that Miss Murray was engaged to any one I'll—I'll murder you. Do you hear?"

He ran up the steps and into the office. And the cruellest part of it all to poor Afternoon Tea Willie, as the door slammed in his face leaving him alone in the darkness, was that he could hear his false friend whistling merrily.

Roderick felt like whistling in the days that followed. He had found out something he had been longing to know for over a year. He did not have to stay away from her now. And the very next evening he marched straight up to Rosemount and asked to see Miss Murray. She was out, much to his disappointment, but the next Sunday he met her as they were leaving the church. And she expressed her regret so kindly that he was once more filled with hope. He had stood watching for her while his father paused for a word with Dr. Leslie, but as usual he had been joined by Alexander Graham and his daughter. There was a subtle air of triumph about the man, ever since Roderick had decided to go to Montreal, an air almost of proprietorship especially noticeable when Lawyer Ed was about.

"Good morning, Rod," he said genially. "All packed yet?"

"Not quite," said Roderick shortly. He winced, for the thought of the actual parting with his father was a subject upon which he did not care to speak.

"I don't believe you are a bit sorry you are going," said Leslie, shaking the heavy plumes of her velvet hat at him, and pouting, for never a regret had he expressed to her.

"I actually believe you're glad. And I don't blame you. I'd be just jumping for joy if I were going. It's a dreadfully dull little place here, in the winter especially."

He looked at her in surprise. It was so unlike her to express discontent. She had always seemed so happy. "Why, I thought you couldn't be ever induced to live any other place," he cried in surprise.

"The idea! I wish somebody'd try me!" she flashed out the answer, with just the faintest emphasis on a significant word.

Roderick looked down at her again in wonder, to see her eyes droop, her colour deepen. They passed down the church steps, side by side; her father dropped behind with Dr. Blair, and they were left alone together. Roderick, always shy in a young woman's presence, was overcome with a vague feeling of dismay, which he did not at all understand and which rendered him speechless.

He was relieved when Miss Annabel Armstrong, with a girlish skip, came suddenly to her niece's side. "Good morning, Mr. Roderick McRae. Good morning, niecy dear! Come here a moment and walk with me, Leslie darling. I want to ask you something." She slipped her arm into the girl's and drew her back. "Here, Mr. McRae, you walk by Miss Murray, just for a moment, please."

She shoved Helen forward into Leslie's place, and pulling her niece close, whispered fiercely.

"You are a young idiot, Leslie Graham! I heard Mrs. Captain Willoughby and the Baldwin girls laughing and talking about you just this minute as they came out of church. I am just deadly ashamed. How can we ever keep our position in society if you act so? Anna Baldwin said you were simply throwing yourself at that young McRae's head—and his father a common farmer! And his Aunt!"

The girl jerked her arm from Miss Annabel's grasp, her eyes and cheeks blazing. "Anna Baldwin is crazy about him herself!" she cried violently. "And she's made a fool of herself more times than I can tell! And his father is far better than your father ever was, or mine either!" She stopped as some one looked at her in passing. "I shall just do exactly as I please, Aunt Annabel Armstrong," she added determinedly. "It's just like an old maid to be always interfering in other people's affairs!"

Miss Annabel turned white with anger. She was proud of her niece, and yet she almost disliked her. Leslie, young and gay and successful, the inheritor of everything for which her aunt had scrimped and striven and hungered all her life and never attained, was a constant source of irritation and discontent to Miss Annabel. Her heart and hopes were as young as Leslie's, and she was forced to find herself pushed aside into the place of age, while this radiant girl walked all unheeding into everything that her girlhood should have been. And this intimation concerning her age and estate was unbearable. She grew intensely quiet.

"Leslie," she said, "you may heed me or not as you wish. But if you had eyes in your head, you would see for yourself that that young man doesn't care the snap of his finger for you and all your money. He's madly in love with Helen Murray. He's always hanging about Rosemount!" she added, growing reckless. "He was there only last night. Just look at him now!"

The startled eyes of the girl obeyed. Roderick was walking beside Helen Murray, and looking down at her with the joy of her presence shining in his face. He was not schooled in hiding his feelings, and his eyes told his secret so plainly that Leslie Graham could not but read.

She said not another word. They had reached a corner and she suddenly left her aunt and walked swiftly homeward alone. She had had a revelation. For a long time she had suspected and feared. Now she knew. In all her gay thoughtless life she had never wanted anything very badly that she had not been able to get. Now, the one thing she wanted most, the thing which had all unconsciously become the supreme desire of her life, she had learned in one flash was already another's. She was as certain of it as though Roderick had proclaimed his feelings from the church pulpit. Her thoughts ran swiftly back over the months of their acquaintance and picked up here and there little items of remembrance that should have shown her earlier the true state of things. She was forced to confess that not once had he shown her any slightest preference, except as her father's daughter. And yet she had refused to look and listen. And then, upon knowledge, came shame and humiliation and rage at finding she had boldly proffered herself and was found undesirable. It was the birth of her woman's heart. The happy, careless girl's heart was dying, and the new life did not come without much anguish of soul.

As soon as she could escape from the dinner table she fled to her room to face this dread thing which had come upon her. All undisciplined and unused to pain, through her mother's careless indulgence, entirely pagan, too, for her religious experience had been but one of form, the girl met this crisis in her life alone.

At first the smarting sense of her humiliation predominated and her heart cried for recompense. She would show him what would happen If he dared set her aside. Well she knew she could injure Roderick's chances for success if she set her mind to the task; for was it not her influence that had helped to give him those chances?

The force of her anger drove her to action. She threw on her plumed hat and her velvet coat, and slipping out unseen, walked swiftly out of the town and up the lake shore. Every little breeze from the waters sent a shower of golden leaves dropping about her. But the air was still in the woods. It was a perfect autumn day, a true Sabbath day in Nature's world, with everything in a beautiful state of rest after labour. The bronze oaks, the yellow elms and the crimson maples along the shore, now and then dropped a jewel too heavy to be held into the coloured waters beneath. The tower of the little Indian church across the lake pointed a silver finger up out of a soft blue haze. The whole world seemed at peace, in contrast to the tumult within the girl's untrained heart.

She seated herself on a fallen log beside the water, the warm, hazy sunshine falling through the golden branches upon her. And sitting there, she felt the spirit of the serene day steal over hers. Wiser and nobler thoughts came to her sorely tried young heart. Some strong unknown Spirit rose up within her and demanded that she do what was right. It was her only guide, she could not reason with it, but she blindly obeyed. There would be long days of pain and hard struggle ahead of her, she well knew, but the Spirit heeded them not at all. She must do what was right. She must act the strong, the womanly part, let the future bring what it would.

And she went back from the soft rustling peace of the woods, not a careless, selfishly happy girl any more, but a strong, steady-purposed woman.

Roderick was so busy and happy during the ensuing week that he had almost forgotten the existence of Miss Leslie Graham, when she was brought to his dismayed senses by the sound of her voice over the telephone.

"Tra-la-la-la, Mr. Roderick McRae," she sang out in her merriest voice. "Why don't you come round and say good-bye to your friends? Are you going to fold your tent like the Arabs and silently steal away?"

Roderick began to stammer out an explanation, but she cut him off gaily.

"Don't apologise, you are going to be punished for your sins," she called laughingly. "For you can't come now. I am off to-day to Toronto with Aunt Annabel. We took a sudden notion we wanted to go to the city. We're going to spend a whole month in a riotous purchasing of autumn hats. So, as I am a good meek and forgiving person and as you'll be gone before we get back I just thought I'd say 'Bon Voyage' to you before I leave."

She talked so fast that Roderick had scarcely any chance to reply. He tried to stammer out his thanks to her for her kindness, but she laughingly interrupted him. It was quite too bad they couldn't say good-bye, Daddy would do that for her. But Mamma was coming to Toronto with them. They were both dreadfully sorry and Mamma sent her best regards. They all hoped he'd have a lovely time, and come home very rich; and before he could answer, she had called a gay "Good-bye and good-luck," and had rung off.

Roderick was conscious of a slight feeling of surprise, and a decided feeling of relief.

"She's a great girl," he said to himself admiringly. "She's just a splendid good friend and a brick, and I'll write and tell her so!"

And he had no idea of how very much she merited his praise.

As the time for leaving approached, Roderick grew busier every day. It was hard to get Lawyer Ed in the office long enough to settle things. He was striving to take up the burden of his old work again cheerfully, but the new civic and social and church duties he had assumed in the year were hard to drop. Then the Local Option campaign was at its height and demanded his attention.

To Roderick, and to most of the town people, he seemed to be shouldering all his old burdens with his usual energy and light-heartedness, but J. P. missed a familiar note of joyousness in his tone, and Archie Blair noticed that Ed did not go up the steps of his office in one leap now as he had always done, but walked up like other people. But to the casual observer, Lawyer Ed was the same. He was here, there and everywhere, making sure that this one and that was going to vote the right way. And Roderick, watching him, remembered how anxious he had been over the effect the campaign would have upon his business. And now that he was not required to enter it, he often longed to plunge in and help his friend to victory.

On the whole, the campaign helped Lawyer Ed materially, in the hard days preceding the parting with his boy. After all, there was nothing so dear to his Irish heart as a fight, and the rounding up of his troops before the battle kept him busy and happy. And everything was pointing to victory. Father Tracy had promised to see to it that his flock voted the right way, and Jock McPherson had declared himself on the side of the temperance cause. Whatever Lawyer Ed may have had to do with influencing his fellow Irishmen, he could take no credit for Jock's conversion. He had set out to interview the McPherson one night after a session meeting, but fortunately J. P. Thornton prevented his impetuous friend making the mistake of approaching the elder on that difficult subject. Jock was still feeling a little dour over the temperance question and the wise Englishman knew that whichever side of the cause was presented first that was the side to which the McPherson was most likely to object.

"Leave him to the other fellows, Ed," advised his friend. "They are almost certain to work their own destruction."

He was right; for not a week later Lawyer Ed came up the steps of the Thornton home, staggering with laughter, to report that Jock was as staunch on the temperance question as Dr. Leslie himself, and to explain how it came about.

As J. P. had prophesied, Jock had come over to their side because a particularly offensive person interested in the liquor business, had claimed him as a friend. It had happened on the Saturday afternoon before. Jock was down town, standing on the sidewalk in front of Crofter's hotel discussing the bad state of the roads with a farmer friend, when Mr. Crofter came forth, and after introducing the subject of Local Option in a friendly fashion, said:

"Well, sir, I'm glad to see one good Presbyterian who hasn't gone off his head over this tom-foolery." Here he made the fatal mistake of slapping Mr. McPherson on the shoulder. "It does me good to see a man who isn't a fanatic, but can take a glass and leave it alone, and give every other fellow the same privilege."

"Yus." Jock drew in his breath with a peculiar snuffing sound that would have warned any one who knew him well that there was danger in the air. "Yus," he repeated the word very slowly, "and take another glass, and leave it alone."

"What did you say?" enquired Mr. Crofter, a little puzzled. "I don't think I quite caught you, Mr. McPherson."

"I would be thinking," said Jock with dreadful deliberation, "that it must be a grand sight, but I nuffer saw one."

"Never saw what?"

"A man that could take a glass and leave it alone. He always took it."

Mr. Crofter went back into the hotel with something of the feeling of a baseball player who has made a mighty swing with his bat and missed.

And Jock informed Dr. Leslie the next day that he had intended all along to vote for Local Option, but had omitted to say so earlier. The case of Father Tracy had brought even greater joy. One day Mike Cassidy came raging into Lawyer Ed's office with the tale of another fight with his enemies the Duffys, and the information that he was going to court with it this time if he died for it. Roderick was out, and on the pretence that he must consult his young partner, Lawyer Ed managed to get Mike to consider the matter for an hour, and in the interval he went to see Father Tracy.

The Catholic priest and the Presbyterian elder were good friends, for his reverence was a jolly Irishman, very proud of his title of the "Protestant Priest." It was whispered that he was not in favour in ecclesiastical circles, but little cared he, for he was in the highest favour with everybody in Algonquin, especially those in need, and the hero of every boy who could wave a lacrosse stick.

"Good mornin', Father O'Flynn," cried Lawyer Ed, as, swinging his cane, he was ushered into the priest's sanctum. "Sure and I suppose it's yer owld job ye're at—

"Checkin' the crazy ones, urgin' the aisy ones, Helpin' the lazy ones on wid a stick."

"It is that, then," said Father Tracy, his blue eyes dancing. "And here's wan o' the crazy ones. Sit ye down, man, till I finish this note, and I'll be checkin' ye all right. I'll not be a minute."

Lawyer Ed of course could not sit down, but wandered about the room examining the pictures on the wall, a few photographs of popes and cardinals.

"Sure this is a terrible place for a heretic like me to be in, Father," he exclaimed. "Oi'm getting clane narvous. If it wasn't called a Presbytry, I'd niver dare venture. It's got a good name. By the way, I don't see John Knox here," he added, anxiously examining the cardinals again.

Father Tracy's pen signed his name with a flourish. "You'll see John Knox soon enough if ye don't mend your ways, Edward Brians," he said. "Now, what do ye want of me this morning?" But the two Irishmen could not let such a good joke pass unnoticed; when they had laughed over it duly, the business was stated.

"He'll go to no law," said the shepherd of this wayward sheep. "I'll see him to-night, and it's grateful I am to you, Edward, for your interest. I hear the boys are getting together to see about a junior league. Algonquin ought to get the championship this year—"

But Lawyer Ed knew better than to let Father Tracy get off onto the subject of lacrosse. "I wish Algonquin would take the championship vote for Local Option next January, Father," he said tentatively. He waited, but Father Tracy said nothing. He was not so much noted for his leanings towards teetotalism as towards lacrosse.

"It would keep Mike Cassidy straight," ventured the visitor again.

"I can keep Mike Cassidy straight without the aid of any such heretic props," said Father Tracy, looking decidedly grim.

Lawyer Ed burst out laughing. "'Pon me word you're right," he exclaimed. "Man, I wish sometimes that our Protestant priests had the power that you have. But I'm not here to urge you, mind that. I'm not such a fool as to go down to the Rainy Rapids and try to turn them back with a pebble. But I just thought I might as well ask you what your opinion was, when I was here. A great many people of your flock tell me they will vote just as the Father tells them." He glanced back at his host as he moved to the door.

"Yes, and they'd better," said the Father. "So you'd like to know what to say to them, eh?"

"I certainly would." He waited anxiously.

Father Tracy stood watching him go down the steps, his portly figure filling up the doorway, his good-natured face beaming. "And if it's news ye're after I suppose ye'll rest neither day nor night till ye get it."

"Not likely."

"Well—" Father Tracy was enjoying the other's anxiety and was as deliberate as Jock McPherson—"well, if you meet any of my stray sheep that look as if they were goin' to vote for the whiskey, ye can tell them for me that I'd say mass for a dead dog before I'd meddle wid their lost souls."

Lawyer Ed went down the street, half a block at a stride, in the direction of J. P.'s office.

Archie Blair's horse and buggy were standing in front of a house next to the Catholic church. The temptation, combined with his desperate hurry, was too much. He leaped in and, without so much as "By your leave," he tore down the street and never drew rein until he fairly fell out of the vehicle in front of J. P.'s office. He burst in with the glorious news: "I've got four hundred new votes promised me for local option. Hurrah! That's better than going to the Holy Land any day in the year!"

But when the day came at last that was to take Roderick from him, even Lawyer Ed's love of battle failed him. It was a dreary day, with Nature in accord with his gloom. A chill wind had blown all night from the north, lashing Lake Algonquin into foam and making the pines along the Jericho Road moan sadly. Early in the day the snow began to drive down from the north and by afternoon the roads were drifted.

Roderick was to leave on the afternoon train for Toronto, and there take the night express for Montreal and he came into Algonquin in the morning, to bid his friends good-bye. The sudden change in the weather had, as usual, been accompanied by the return of the old pain in his arm. It had been more frequent this autumn, but he had paid little heed to it. But to-day it added just the last burden required to make him thoroughly miserable. Lawyer Ed was stamping about, complaining loudly of the cold, blowing his nose, and talking about everything and anything but Roderick's pending departure. The Lad's drooping spirits went lower at the sight of him.