As he went about saying farewell he realised that he had not known how many friends he had made. Alexander Graham was full of expressions of congratulation and good-will.

"You must make good, Rod, my boy," he said. "We'll be watching you, you know, and of course the blame will fall on me if you don't. But I have no fears." He laughed in a patronising way that made Roderick feel very small indeed.

"I'm so sorry you couldn't come up again. The wife and Leslie took a sudden notion that they must go to Toronto for a month—or Leslie took it rather, and made her mother and aunt go with her. I'm sorry they are not here—but they are in Toronto and you might—" he paused knowingly,—"I guess I don't need to tell you where they are staying. Miss Leslie probably left her address." He laughed in such an insinuating way that Roderick's face grew crimson.

"No, Miss Graham did not give me her address," he said, so stiffly that the man looked at him in wonder, then laughed again. This was some of Leslie's nonsense, as usual, just to tease him. She had forced a little lover's quarrel probably and gone without saying good-bye. But he knew Leslie could make it all right just when she chose.

He parted from Roderick in quite a fatherly manner, but the young man went away feeling more uncomfortable and downhearted than ever.

There was one person who seemed frankly glad to see him go. Mr. Fred Hamilton did not actually express his joy, but he looked it, and Roderick felt something of the same feeling when they said good-bye. Dr. Leslie and several other old friends came next. Archie Blair had gone to the city to a medical congress, and he missed him. But he had bidden almost every one else in Algonquin farewell when at last he sent his trunk to the station, and taking Lawyer Ed's horse and cutter, drove out to the farm for the severest ordeal of that hard day.

As he passed the school, the children came storming out to their afternoon recess, pelting each other with snowballs. Roderick hesitated a moment before the gate, but the wild onslaught of some fifty shrieking youngsters frightened the horse, and it dashed away down the road, so he decided to leave his farewell with her to the last.

The bleak wind was sweeping down from the lake and the old board fence and the frail houses on Willow Lane creaked before it. The water roared up on the beach as he passed along the Pine Road, and the snow drove into his eyes and half blinded him. The McDuff home was deserted. There was no track to the door through the snow, no smoke from the old broken chimney. Peter Fiddle was either out at the farm or down in the warm tavern on Willow Lane singing and playing.

The dull pain in Roderick's arm had increased to a steady ache that did not help to make the soreness of his heart any easier. The bare trees along the way; creaked and moaned, cold grey clouds gathered and spread across the sky.

Hitherto Roderick had felt nothing but impatience at the thought of staying in Algonquin all his life to watch Old Peter and Eddie Perkins and Mike Cassidy and their like, but now that the day had come for him to leave, it seemed as though everything was calling upon him to stay, every finger post pointing towards home. Doctor Leslie's farewell, a warning to again consider. Lawyer Ed's patient, cheery acceptance of the situation, J. P. Thornton's open disapproval, Helen Murray's smile the other evening at the door of Rosemount, his father's love and confidence in him, all pulled him back with strong hands. The rainbow gold shone but dimly that day, and he would fain have turned his back upon it for the sure chance of a life like his father's in Algonquin.

He found Old Angus watching for him at the window. His brave attempts at cheerfulness made Roderick's trial doubly hard. He bustled about, even trying to hum a tune, his old battle song, "My Love, be on thy guard."

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone, Auntie," said the Lad, when Aunt Kirsty appeared and burst into tears at the sight of him. He tried to laugh as he said it, but he made but a feeble attempt. They sat by the fire, the Lad trying to talk naturally of his trip, his father making pathetic attempts to help him, and Aunt Kirsty crying silently over her knitting. At last, as Roderick glanced at the clock. Old Angus took out the tattered Bible from the cup-board drawer. It had always been the farewell ceremony in all the Lad's coming and going, the reading of a few words of comfort and courage and a final prayer. Old Angus read, as he so often did when his son was leaving, the one hundred and thirty-ninth psalm, the great assurance that no matter how far one might go from home and loved ones, one might never go away from the presence of God.

"If I ascend up into Heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in hell behold thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall uphold me."

The prayer was simple and direct, as were all Old Angus's communions with his Father. He had come to-day to a place where the way was very puzzling, and Roderick, knowing him so well, understood why he prayed for himself, that he might not be troubled with the why of it all, but that he might know that God was guiding them all aright. But there was an anguished note in his voice new to the Lad, and one that made the pain in his heart grow almost unbearable. He had heard that sound in his father's voice once before; and was puzzled to remember when. And then there came vividly to his heart's ear, the cry that had rung out over the dark waters to him the night the little boy was lost. "Roderick, my son, where are you?" The father's heart was uttering that cry now, and the son's heart heard it. There were tears in the eyes of both men when they arose from their knees.

Aunt Kirsty came to him for her farewell with a big bundle in her arms. It was done up carefully in a newspaper and tied with yarn, and contained a huge lunch, composed of all the good things she had been able to cook in a day's baking. Roderick felt as if he could not eat anything between home and Montreal, but he took the bulky parcel gratefully and tenderly. She put her arms about him, the tears streaming down her face, then fled from the room as fast as her ample size would permit, and gave vent to her grief in loud sobs and wails. Old Angus followed his son out to the cutter in the shed. He stumbled a little. He seemed to have suddenly become aged and decrepit. It was not the physical parting that was weighing him down so heavily. Had Roderick been called to go as a missionary to some far-off land, as his father had so often dreamed in his younger days that he might, Old Angus would have sent him away with none of the foreboding which filled his heart to-day when he saw his boy leave to take a high position in the work of the world.

Roderick caught the blanket off the horse, and as he did so his arm gave a sudden, sharp twinge. His face twisted.

"Is it the old pain in your arm, Roderick, my son?" his father asked anxiously.

"It's nothing," said the Lad lightly. "It'll be all right to-morrow."

"You should see a doctor," admonished his father. "There will be great doctors in Montreal."

"Perhaps I shall," said the boy. "Now, Father, don't stand there in the cold!" He caught the old man's hand in both his. "Father!" he cried sharply. "I—oh—I feel I shouldn't leave you!"

"Hoots, toots, Lad!" The man clapped him upon the back comfortingly. "You must not be saying that whatever. Indeed it's a poor father I would be to want you always by me. No, no, you must go, but Roderick—"

"Yes, Father."

The old man's face was pale and intense. "You will not be leaving the Heavenly Father. Oh mind, mind and hold to Him!"

Roderick pressed his hand, and felt for the first time something of the utter bitterness of that road to success. "I'll try, Father," he faltered. "Oh, I will!"

He sprang into the cutter and took the lines, the old man put his hands for a moment on the Lad's bowed head praying for a blessing upon him, and then the horse dashed out of the gate and away down the lane. At the turn Roderick looked back. His father was standing on the snowy threshold where he had left him, waving his cap. A yellow gleam of wintry sunlight through ragged clouds lit up his face, the wind fluttered his old coat and his silver hair, and, standing there in his loneliness, he was making a desperate attempt at a smile that had more anguish in it than a rain of tears.

Roderick drove swiftly down the snowy road, his eyes blinded. For one moment he hated success and money and fame and would have thrown them all away to be able to go back to his father. Well he knew the parting was more, far more than a temporal leave-taking. It was a departure from the old paths where his father had taught him to walk.

As he sped along, his head down, he did not see a figure on the road ahead of him. He was almost upon it when he suddenly jerked his horse out of the way. It was Old Peter. Evidently he had drunk just enough to make him tremendously polite. He stepped to the side of the road and bowed profoundly.

Roderick made an attempt to pull up his horse and say good-bye. A sudden impulse to take Peter home to his father seized him. Old Angus would be so comforted to think that his boy's last act was giving a helping hand on the Jericho Road. But his horse was impatient, and Peter had already turned in at his own gate and was plunging through the snow to his house. A bottle was sticking out of his pocket. Evidently he intended to make a night of it. The sight of it made the young man change his mind. There was no use, as he had so often said, bothering with Peter Fiddle. He was determined to drink himself to death and he would.

Roderick let his horse go and went spinning down the road. Then he realised that he had given his arm a wrench, when he had pulled his horse out of Peter's way. The pain in it grew intense for a few moments. He resolved that as soon as he was settled at his new work he would have it attended to. It was the relic of his old rainbow expedition and though it had annoyed him only at intervals it had never ceased to remind him that there was trouble there for him some future day.

He had another hard parting to face, but one with hope in it for the future. When he tied his horse at the school gate and went in he was wondering how he would tell Helen how much the farewell meant to him. For he was determined that she must know. The school was quiet, for the hour for dismissing had not come. As he entered the hall, Madame came swaying out of Miss Murray's room with a group of cherubs peeping from behind her. "Now you, Johnnie Pickett," she was saying, "you just come and tell me if anybody's bad and I'll fix them." Then she saw Roderick, and greeted him with a rapturous smile.

"There's a dear boy," she cried, "to come and say good-bye to your old teacher. Now, you Johnnie Pickett, what are you following me out here for? Aren't you to watch the room for Miss Murray? Go on back. Well, and you are really going this afternoon?" she said, turning to her visitor again. "And how is your father standing it? What's the matter now?"

A small youngster with blazing eyes shot from the room and launched himself upon her.

"Please, teacher," he cried, his voice shrill with wrath, "them kids, they won't mind me at all. Dutchy Scott's makin' faces, and the girls is talkin', an' Pie-face Hurd he's calling names. He said I was a nigger!" His blue eyes and white hair belied the accusation, but his voice rose to a scream at the indignity. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby marched the deposed monitor hack to the room to restore order, explaining volubly that it was quite as wicked a crime to call a boy Pie-face as for that boy to call one a nigger.

"I've got Miss Murray's room in charge," she said, returning to Roderick smiling and breathless. "Go on back there, now! I see you looking out there, you, Jimmie Hurd. Just wait till I catch you!"

"She isn't sick, is she?" asked Roderick dismayed.

"No. Oh, no! She went with a crowd of young folks to a tea-meeting at Arrow Head. They started early, and I made her run home an hour before the time to bundle up. Now, Johnnie Pickett, leave that chalk alone! You don't need to think I don't see you—"

Roderick went on his journey miserably disappointed. She had gone on a sleigh ride and she must have known, indeed she did know, he intended to call and say good-bye to her. Each farewell had been harder than the last and now this absence of farewell was the hardest of all. There was one more—Lawyer Ed's. Like Old Angus, he was making an attempt at cheerfulness that was heartbreaking. He tramped about, singing loudly, scolding every one who came near him, and proclaiming his joy over the Lad's going in a manner that drove poor Roderick's sore heart to desperation. He drove with him to the station, carried his bag on board, loaded him with books and magazines and bade him a joyful farewell, with not a word of regret. But he gave way as the train moved out and Roderick saw him hastily wipe his eyes and as he looked back for one last glimpse of his beloved figure, the Lad saw Lawyer Ed move slowly away, showing for the first time in his life the signs of approaching age.

That night Old Angus sat late over his kitchen fire. He was mentally following the Lad. He was in Toronto now; later, on the way to Montreal, lying asleep in his berth probably. Old Angus's faith forbade his doubting that God's hand was in his boy's departure. But the remembrance of all his joyous plans on the day the Lad started in Algonquin persisted in coming up to haunt him. He sat far into the night trying to reason himself back into his former cheerfulness. The storm had risen anew, and gusts of wind came tearing up from the lake, lashing the trees and shaking the old house. The snow beat with a soft, quick pad-pad upon the window-pane. Occasionally the jingle of bells came to him muffled in the snow. Finally, he heard a new sound, some one singing. It was probably a sleigh-load of young folk returning from a country tea-meeting, he reflected. Then he suddenly sat up straight. Something familiar in the fitful sounds made him slip out to the door and listen. The wind was lulled for a moment, and he could dimly discern a figure going along the road. And he could hear a voice raised loud and discordant in the 103rd psalm! Old Angus came back into the house swiftly. He caught up his coat and cap. Peter had fallen among thieves once more! And he would probably be left by the road-side to freeze were he not rescued. He hastily lit a lantern and carefully closed up the stove. Then, softly opening the door, he hurried out into the storm.

He found the lane and the road beyond badly drifted, but he plunged along, his swaying lantern making a faint yellow star in the swirling white mists of the storm. He reached the road. Peter's voice came to him fitfully on the wind. He had probably started out to come to him and had lost his bearings. There was nothing to do but follow and bring him back. He plunged into the road and staggered forward in the direction of the voice.

The snow had stopped falling but the wind that was driving it into drifts was growing bitterly cold. Old Angus needed all his strength to battle with it, as he forced his way forward, sinking sometimes almost to his waist. He struggled on. Peter was somewhere there ahead, perhaps fallen to freeze by the roadside, and the Good Samaritan must not give in till he found him. But his own strength was going fast. In his thought for Peter he had forgotten that he was not able to battle with such a wind. He fell again and again, and each time he rose it was with an added sense of weakness. He kept calling to Peter, but the roar of the lake on the one hand and the answering roar of the pines on the other drowned his voice. He was almost exhausted when he stumbled over a dark object half buried in snow in the middle of the road. He staggered to his feet and turned his lantern upon it. It was Peter, lain down in a drunken stupor to die of cold.

"Peter! Peter!" Angus McRae tried to speak his name, but his benumbed lips refused to make an articulate sound. He dropped the lantern beside him and tried to raise the prostrate figure. As he did so he felt the light of the lantern grow dim. It faded away, and the Good Samaritan and the man who had fallen among thieves lay side by side in the snow.



CHAPTER XIII

"THE MASTER WHISPERED"

When Roderick stepped on board the night train for Montreal he was surprised and pleased to find Doctor Archie Blair bustling into the opposite compartment. That delightful person, with a suit-case, a pile of medical journals, a copy of Burns, and a new book of poems, had left Algonquin the day before, and was now setting out on a tremendous journey all the way to Halifax, to attend a great medical congress. He welcomed his young fellow-townsman hilariously, pulled him into his seat, jammed him into a corner, and scowling fiercely, with his fists brandished in the young man's face and his eyes flashing, he spent an hour demonstrating to Roderick that he had just discovered a young Canadian singer of the spirit if not the power of his great Scottish bard. The other occupants of the sleeping-car watched the violent big man with the terrible eye, nervously expecting him every moment to spring upon his young victim and throttle him. But to those who were within earshot, the sternest thing he said was,

"Then gently scan thy brother man, Still gentler sister woman, Though they may gang a keenin' wrang, To step aside is human."

The charm of the doctor's conversation, drove away much of Roderick's homesickness and despondency, but it could not make him forget the pain in his arm, which was hourly growing more insistent.

"And so you're leaving Algonquin for good," said Archie Blair at last, when the black porter sent them to the smoker while he made up their berths. "Well, there's a great future ahead of you in that firm. Not many young fellows have such a chance as that. I wish Ed could have gone away before you left, though, to Jericho, or Sodom and Gomorrah, or wherever it is he and J. P. Thornton are heading for."

Archie Blair, as every one in Algonquin knew, lived as near to the rules of life set forth in the Bible as any man in the town. But he delighted in being known as a wicked and irreligious person, and always made a fine pretence at being at sea when speaking of anything Scriptural.

"Yes, sir, it's rather hard on old Ed; and there's J. P. too. He's been waiting for Ed ever since the Holy Land was discovered, as faithfully as Ruth waited for Jacob or whoever it was. I can't remember when those two chaps weren't planning to take that trip, and it looks as if they'd get to the New Jerusalem first. Cracky, now, I believe you were the one that stopped their first trip and here you're interrupting another one!" He laughed delightedly.

"I?" inquired Roderick. "How was that?"

"Oh, Ed wouldn't say so. He'd be sure it was the hand of Providence. It was the time you went off hunting the rainbow and got lost, don't you remember? and your father got sick on the head of it. Ed stayed home that time."

"But it was Jock McPherson who came to poor father's rescue that time," said Roderick. "Lawyer Ed told me himself."

Doctor Blair made a grimace.

"Roderick McRae," he said, after a moment, "I have a fatal weakness. I suppose it's the poet in me. I like to think it is. I'm forever pouring out the thoughts of my inmost heart which I really ought to keep to myself. That was the way with Bobby ye mind:

'Is there a whim-inspired fool Owre fast for thought, owe hot for rule.'

And here I've been telling tales I should keep tae ma'sel!"

"Well, you've got to finish, now that you've started," cried Roderick. "Do you mean to tell me that Lawyer Ed—"

"No, I don't mean to tell you anything, but I've done it, and I might as well make a full confession. Of course it was Lawyer Ed did it. He always does things like that, he's got them scattered all over the country."

"But—why didn't I know?" cried Roderick sharply. "And what did he do?"

"Because he didn't want it. I'm the only person in Algonquin that knows, except J. P., of course. J. P. knows the innermost thoughts that pass through Ed's mind. There's another secret between us three." He smiled half-sadly. "I suppose, though, your father knows this one—that Ed was to have married J. P.'s only sister. She was tall and willowy and just like a flower, and she died a week before the wedding day. They buried her in her white satin wedding dress with her veil and orange blossoms." Archie Blair's voice had sunk to a tender whisper. "I saw her in her coffin, with a white lily in her hand."

He was silent so long that Roderick brought him back to the starting point. "But you haven't told me yet how he helped Father."

So Archie Blair began at the beginning and told him all, happily unconscious of how he was harrowing Roderick's feelings in the telling. It was the old story of his father's mortgage, his own hunt for the rainbow, which, the doctor declared, argued that he should have been a poet, his father's illness, and Lawyer Ed's postponement of his trip, and greatest of all, his setting aside of the chance to leave Algonquin as partner with his old chum, William Graham, now millionaire.

"Your father sort of brought Ed up, you know, Rod, made him walk the straight and narrow way as he has done with many a man. I want to take my hat off every time I see that father of yours." He saw the distress in Roderick's face and was rather disconcerted. "Your father paid him every cent with interest, of course, Lad, you know that," he added hurriedly. "But there are some things can't be paid in money. Well, well—where did I start? Oh, at Jerusalem, and I've wandered from Dan to Beersheba and haven't got anywhere yet. Well, that was how Ed got started on the habit of staying home from the Holy Land, and he doesn't seem to be able to get out of it. You know it's a good thing. I'm always sorry Wordsworth ever went to Yarrow. It's a hundred times better to keep your dream-country a dream.

'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it.'

And if he ever goes, it'll never be what he thinks. His dreams of Galilee and the Rose of Sharon and Mount Carmel will vanish when he sees the poor reality. You see, in his Palestine, the Lord is always there." He dropped his voice—

"'And in those little lanes of Nazareth Each morn His holy feet would come and go.'"

Roderick was not listening. He sat with downcast eyes and burning cheek. Lawyer Ed had done all this for his father, for him,—and this was his reward! The man had given up his chance in life for his father and then the son had come and done this abominable thing. Surely the gleam of the rainbow-gold was beginning to mock him already. And yet, as he sat there, overcome with humiliation, his mind was busy arranging swift compromises, as it had always done. He would pay Lawyer Ed, oh, five fold, and send him away for a year's travel. And yet when all his generous schemes had been exhausted, he knew they were not what Lawyer Ed wanted. It was the love and devotion of his friend's son he preferred above all worldly gain.

He came to a knowledge of his surroundings, called back by a sudden exclamation from the doctor.

"I believe you're sick, Rod! You look like an advanced and violent case of sea-sickness."

Roderick became conscious that his arm was paining him severely and said so. He could have said quite truthfully that the pain in his heart was quite as bad.

"That old arm," cried Archie Blair in distress. "I tell you, Lad, you've got to have that thing looked after. Here, get to bed and I'll have a look at it when you're undressed."

He came into Roderick's berth later and with rough kindness handled the swollen, aching limb. "I always told you something would come of this," he grumbled. "And like everybody, you won't listen till it's too late. There's some serious trouble there, Rod, or I'm very badly mistaken. Now, look here, you promise me on your word and honour you'll go straight to a doctor when you get to Montreal—to Doctor Nicholls. Here, I'll give you his address. Now, will you promise to go to-morrow morning, or must I stop off and miss my train to Halifax to see you do it?"

Roderick promised and lay down in his berth, but not to sleep. The pain in his arm was severe enough to keep him awake, but it was no worse than his heartache. It was a tender heart, not yet calloused by constant pursuit of selfish aims. That state would certainly be arrived at, on the road he was travelling, but he was still young and his very soul was longing to go back to his father and Lawyer Ed. Again and again he tried to comfort himself with the promise that he would make up to them for all they had done, oh, many times over, and in the end, they would both realise that the course he had pursued was for the best.

As he made this firm resolution, for the tenth time, the train drew up at a little station in the woods. Roderick looked out at the steam hissing from beneath his window and the dim light in the little station. He recognised it as the junction, where a branch line ran from the main road, across the country, through forest and by lake shore, straight to Algonquin. The home train was approaching now. He could hear its rumbling wheels and its clanging bell far down the curving track, and the next moment, with a flare of light upon the snow, it came tearing up out of the forest and roared into the little station. Its brilliant windows flashed past his dazzled eyes. It stopped with a great exhaled breath of relief and stood panting and puffing after its long run. Roderick knew that if he chose he could slip out, leap on that train and go speeding away up through the forest and be in Algonquin before morning. He felt for a moment an almost irresistible impulse to do it, to fling away everything and go back. But he would look like a fool, and the people would laugh at him, and quite rightly. He could not go back now.

There was a gentle movement, and slowly and smoothly he began to glide past those home-going lights. In a moment more he was speeding eastward into the white night.

When he reached Montreal he went immediately to the hotel. He was to meet Mr. Graham and the head of the firm there that evening, when everything regarding his immediate duties was to be settled. He registered, and found a room awaiting him, a luxurious room, finer than any he could afford. It was the beginning of his new life. He went down to breakfast, but could eat nothing, for the pain in his arm. He was not at all averse to obeying Dr. Blair's injunction, and as soon as he went back to his room, he telephoned the doctor whose address he had been given. He felt a strange dizziness and, fearing to go out, he asked if the doctor would call. When Roderick gave the name of the firm he represented, there was an immediate rise in the temperature at the other end of the telephone. Evidently the young lady in charge of Doctor Nicholls's office knew her business. All uncertainty as to the physician's movements immediately vanished.

Doctor Nicholls would call in the course of half an hour if convenient to Mr. McRae, he was just about to visit the Bellevue House in any case.

Roderick felt again the advantages of his new position. The sensation of power was very pleasant, but it could not keep his arm from aching. The pain grew steadily worse, until at last he lay on the bed waiting impatiently.

In a short time there came a tap on the door. Thinking it was the doctor, Roderick sprang up relieved. But it was only the boy in buttons with a telegram. He signed the paper indifferently. Even the most urgent business of Elliot & Kent could not arouse his interest, he was feeling so sick and miserable and down-hearted. He opened the yellow paper slowly, and then sprang up with a cry that made the boy stop in the hall and listen. Roderick stood in the middle of the room reading the terse message again and again:

"Father ill. Come at once." E. L. Brians.

He leaped to the telephone, then dropped the receiver at the sight of a railway guide he had left upon the table. The first train he could take for home left at fifteen minutes past three in the afternoon. And it was not yet ten o'clock! He sat down on the bed, a dread fear possessing his soul. Wild surmises rushed through his mind. What could have happened? It was not twenty-four hours since he had seen his father standing in the doorway waving him farewell, the sunlight on his face and that gallant, anguished attempt at a smile! Roderick groaned aloud as he remembered. He took up the telegram again, striving to extract from its cruelly brief words some inkling of what had preceded it, some hope for the future.

A second tap at the door sent him to open it with a bound. Before him stood a professional looking man, well-dressed and well-groomed, with a small leather bag.

"Are you my patient?" he asked briskly.

"Patient?" Roderick stared at him stupidly.

"Yes; Mr. McRae, I believe? I am Doctor Nicholls."

"Oh," said Roderick. "I had forgotten all about it. Yes, come in." He stepped back and the physician eyed him curiously. He looked desperately ill, sure enough.

Roderick answered briefly and absently all the doctor's questions. Beside this awful thing which threatened him, his arm seemed so trivial, that he was impatient at the attention he was compelled to give it. Evidently the physician was of another opinion as to its importance. His face was imperturbable, but after a careful examination he said very gravely:

"You'll have to have this attended to immediately, Mr. McRae. Immediately. It's a case, if my judgment is correct, that has been delayed much too long already. Could you come to the hospital—this morning?"'

"I have to leave here on the three-fifteen this afternoon," said Roderick. "I have just received a telegram that my father is very ill—I can't have anything done to-day."

"Ah, quite sad indeed. Not serious I hope?"

"I don't know," said Roderick dully.

"I must urge you especially to come to-day. We have Dr. Berger here, from New York. He is going to the congress at Halifax. You have heard of him, of course. He is coming to see some patients of mine this morning, and I should like him to see you too. Indeed, I feel I must urge you, Mr. McRae. You are trifling with your health, perhaps your life," he went on, puzzled by Roderick's indifference. "It is imperative that something be done at once. How about coming with me now? It leaves plenty of time for your train."

Roderick considered a moment. He could not meet Mr. Graham now in any case. He must leave a message for him that he had been called back to Algonquin and telegraph home for more specific news. That was all he could do until train time, so he decided he might as well obey the doctor.

When he had despatched a telegram and written a message for Mr. Graham he followed the doctor to his car. The professional man seemed eagerly delighted, as though Roderick were merely a wonderful new specimen he had found and upon which he intended to experiment. He chattered away happily on the way to the hospital.

"Yes, Berger will be very much interested. Yours is really a rare case, from a medical standpoint, Mr. McRae. Quite unique. You said you believed it was injured when you were only six years old?"

He seemed almost pleased, but Roderick did not care. The pain in his arm and that fiercer pain raging in his heart made him indifferent. "My father! My father!" he was repeating to himself in anguished inquiry. What had happened to his father? Perhaps he was dying, while his son lingered far away from him. And what an age he had to wait for that train, and what another age to wait till it crawled back to Algonquin! He remembered with wonder the strange wild impulse he had had the night before to leap across into the home-bound train and go back. He speculated upon what might have happened, until his brain reeled. And when would he get another telegram? And why had not Lawyer Ed told him more? He asked himself these futile questions over and over in wild impatience. The fever of the night before had returned, his head was hot, and ached as if it would burst.

He obeyed the doctor's orders mechanically. His mind was focussed on the time for the train to leave and in the interval he did not care what they did with him. So he let himself be put into a bare little white room, heavy with the smell of disinfectants, while a nurse in a blue uniform and a young house surgeon in white and a silent footed orderly moved about him.

The nurse's blue dress reminded him of another blue gown, one for which he used to watch at the office window on summer mornings. He followed it with his eyes, as the great surgeon took him in hand and examined and questioned him. He answered mechanically, his parched lips uttering things with which his fevered brain seemed to have no interest.

He listened in a detached way, as though the doctor were speaking of some one else as, with many technical terms, he diagnosed the case. Doctor Nicholls was there, and two young house surgeons, all eagerly listening, but the patient's mind was away in the old farm house on the shore of Lake Algonquin desperately seeking relief from its suspense.

He scarcely noticed when they left the room, but he came to himself completely when they returned, and Dr. Nicholls announced to him briskly and almost joyfully that Dr. Berger's ultimatum was an immediate operation.

"No, you won't," said the patient with sudden vigour. "I have to leave this afternoon for home on the three-fifteen."

The great man looked down at him. "Young man," he said quietly, and there was a still strength in his manner that carried conviction, "you will do as you please of course, but if you don't take my advice and have that limb attended to immediately, you'll go to your long home, and not much later than 3.15 either. Yours is a most critical case. If you refuse you are committing suicide. Now, Doctor Nicholls, I have just half-an-hour to see your other patients."

He walked out of the room. And Roderick sat up in the bed and stared after them stupefied. A young house-surgeon, who had been regarding the patient with eyes holding more than professional interest, came to his side. He tried to speak cheerfully.

"It's a most unusual thing to operate in such a hurry, but it's better for a patient, I think. It's all over quickly you know, and no long weary waiting."

"But my father!" cried Roderick. "My father is critically ill. I've got to go home! I've got to, I tell you! I can have this done—later—at home."

The fever flush deepened to a hot crimson. He got to his feet, then staggered back, dizzy with pain. The young physician laid him on the bed. "Look here, now, you mustn't get worked up like that, Roderick," he said.

Roderick looked up at him. The young man had come into the room with Dr. Berger, but not till this moment had he noticed him. He stared, and a light, brighter even than the fever had brought, leaped into his eyes.

"Wells!" he cried. "Is it Dick Wells?"

"Dick Wells, it is," said the other, smiling, pleased that he had created such a complete diversion. He took the patient's left hand and shook it with a cordiality that was not returned.

"I haven't seen you since old 'Varsity days, Rod. And 'pon my word I didn't know you for a minute. We'll see you through this all right; don't worry."

Roderick was staring at him in a disconcerting way.

"Where have you been since you graduated?" he asked.

That harsh unsmiling manner was not at all like the Roderick McRae he had known in college, but the young man laid the change to his fevered condition.

"Here, in Montreal. Next year I hope to go to Europe." He made a sign to the nurse who entered, and quietly began preparing the arm for its operation. Roderick did not pay any attention to even her blue uniform this time, his eyes were fixed with a fierce intentness upon the young doctor's face. Wells had always been known as a very handsome fellow, but his appearance had not improved; he had grown stouter and coarser. He was still good-looking, however, and his manner had the old easy kindness Roderick remembered. He was just going to ask him another abrupt question, when the young doctor slipped his finger over the patient's pulse, and began talking quietly and soothingly.

"And you went back to your old home town, didn't you? Let me see—" his casual air did not deceive his alert listener—"Algonquin's your home, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You've been practising law there, haven't you?" He took out his watch and looked at it.

"Yes,—in Algonquin."

A smile passed over the young physician's face, as of pleasant reminiscence. "Algonquin," he repeated—"pretty name. You don't happen to know—er—a Miss Murray there, do you? A teacher."

"Yes," said Roderick, "I've met her," and held his breath for the next words.

"I've met her too—several times." He laughed, glancing at Roderick in a shamefaced manner. "I think when you go home, if you'll take me, I'll go along as travelling physician. I'd like most awfully well to see that town of yours."

Roderick involuntarily jerked his wrist from the other's grasp. Had he not done so, the doctor would have been amazed at the leap of the already bounding pulse.

"I thought—rumour had it at college—that your affections were in process of transition when you graduated." Roderick looked straight at him. It was impossible to keep from his voice something of the bitterness rising in his heart. He was risking his own secret. But he felt he must know.

Dick Wells' eyes dropped to his watch again. He was silent for a moment. The nurse left the room and he immediately spoke in a low tone.

"It a fellow plays the fool once in life," he said, "that's no reason why he should take it up as a steady profession. I've dropped it for good and all. And if you behave yourself and have this operation right away I'll come and take Christmas dinner—no, that's holiday time—I'll come and prescribe for you shortly after New Year's!" He laughed joyfully. "I hope you'll welcome me," he said, half-shyly. "For I've reason to believe I'm going to be welcomed in other quarters."

"Dr. Wells, you are wanted in the corridor," said the nurse, returning.

He left the room, and Roderick lay back and stared at the ceiling. He caught the word amputation, and he knew they were talking about his arm. They were going to cut it off, then. The knowledge did not seem to add anything to the overwhelming weight which had fallen upon him, and was crushing him. The whole structure of his life was tumbling about him, and he lay caught helpless in its fall. His new position was gone, for well he knew the company could not wait—indeed, would not wait—for so insignificant a servant as he. His father—perhaps his father was gone. And now the rosy hope that had steadily and surely arisen in his heart, since the day he had seen Helen Murray on board the Inverness, until it had lighted up his whole life, had suddenly vanished in darkness. His fighting spirit rose against these odds. He shoved the deft hands of the nurse aside and sat up.

"I'm going home," he said hoarsely. Then the nurse, and the little white table by the bedside with the bottles on it, and the white uniformed man standing outside the doorway, swung up to the ceiling and became an indistinct blur. He recovered almost immediately. The nurse slipped a little thermometer under his tongue, and put a cool finger on his pulse.

"I must go home," mumbled Roderick. "Where's Dr. Wells?"

"Dr. Wells is wanted in the operating room," she said soothingly. "You will be glad to know he is going to assist. I understand you are old friends." She looked at him anxiously. He was in the worst possible condition mentally for an operation.

"If you'd just brace up, you know," she said encouragingly. "If you would get hold of yourself." She had prepared many a patient for the operating table, and had seen few so exercised as this one. "You must be courageous," she said. "The operation may not be serious. And it will be over soon."

Roderick looked at her uncomprehendingly. He cared not at all for the operation itself, but it was the trap that had caught him, and he was writhing to be free.

Her next words put a new face on it.

"If you have any message to send to your friends," she said gently, "I should be glad to have it attended to. Have you any—property or anything that should be settled. We hope this operation will be simple; but if not—you should be prepared, Mr. McRae."

"There's nothing," said Roderick. "Nothing."

Everything in the world was slipping from him. The props of life had given way one by one, and now perhaps life itself was going. He lay there on the small cot-bed, watching the nurse and orderly hurry to and fro, and looked squarely at the situation. It was desperate. Always he had taken hold of difficulties and wrenched them out of his path and gone proudly on his way. But here he was helpless. For the first time in his strong, successful youth he realised that which his father had striven all his years to teach him, man's utter impotence before God. He was bound hand and foot, helpless, just as the door of success had flung open at his touch. He had paddled out bravely into the open sea of life after the rainbow gold, only to find it vanish and leave him lost in a world of mists and shadows. He remembered Dr. Leslie's words: "If His love cannot draw us into the way, it meets us on the Damascus road and blinds us with its light."

He lay there for what seemed an interminable time. He was clinging to one faint hope. Lawyer Ed would surely answer his telegram. But the nurse returned with the word that there had been no message, and that the doctors were preparing. He was to go down to the operating room in ten minutes.

It seemed as if with that word the last feeble support gave way, and then Roderick McRae's soul went down to the black brink of despair. He was utterly alone, without help or friend. Everything, his success, his health, his father, his love, had been snatched from him in one moment.

There was even no God for him. He had been so long dependent entirely upon himself, that God had become a meaningless word. And now, if God were real, His cruel Hand was behind that fearful black mist that was closing about him shutting him off from hope. He lay like a log, staring at the white ceiling of the little hospital room. The nurse and the orderly were bidding him brace up and were shaking their heads over him. He paid no more attention to them than to the strong odour of drugs or the soft click-click of heels on the hardwood floor of the corridor. Some subtle trick of memory had taken him back to the one other time of despair in his experience. He was back again in that night, years ago, when he was lost on the lake, drifting away in the darkness to unknown terrors; and just as he had cried out that night, his whole soul rose in one desperate demand upon his Father for help.

"Oh, God!" he groaned, starting up, "oh, God, help me!"

And then it happened; the great wonder. The light from his Father's boat! The sound of his Father's voice! Just as, long ago, lost in mists and darkness, a prey to every terror, his father's voice, calling down the shaft of light, had caught him up from despair to the heights of joy, so it was now. Suddenly, without reason, there fell upon the young man's writhing soul a great calm. He lay back on his pillow, perfectly still, his whole being held in awe of what had happened. For there, in the common light of day, within the bare walls of the hospital room, not visible to the human eye, but plain to the eye of the soul, staring beyond the things that are seen for a gleam of hope, a Presence was quietly standing. Serene, omnipotent, all-calming, the gracious One stood, close to his side, and fear and pain fled before Him.

Roderick was conscious of no feeling of surprise or wonder. He felt only a great serenity, and an absolute safety. He asked no questions, felt no desire to ask any. There had been another young man once, who had met this same One in a like headlong career, planned by his own strong right hand, and he had cried out in fear, "Who art thou, Lord?" But Roderick knew just as well as he had known his father's voice that night coming out of the mists and darkness. His Eternal Father was at his side. That was all he knew now. It was all he cared to know. He lay there in perfect peace and, close to his side, silent and strong, stood the Presence.

The orderly pushed up the little wheeled conveyance to the bedside, the nurse took his wrist in her hand again. She beamed happily. "Good for you," she said, as she placed her hand upon his forehead. "Why, you're splendid. You've got your nerve all right," and she stared in amazement when Roderick smiled at her. He did not answer, though, he was listening to something. All the old promises he had learned at his father's knee and that had meant nothing to him for so long, were flooding over his peaceful soul, coming serenely and softly from the Presence standing by his pillow.

"When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness."

"Now, sir," said the orderly, "we'll just move you onto this truck." But Roderick rose up strongly. "Why can't I walk down?" he asked. The nurse stared and again felt the patient's pulse for some explanation of this transformation. The quiet steady beat in the wrist was the strangest part of it all.

"Well," she cried admiringly, "I never saw anything like you. You're perfectly able to walk; but you'd better save your strength. Just lie down on this. You'll be all over your operation in no time!" Roderick obeyed, and the orderly wheeled him away to the elevator; and along the bare hospital corridor moved with him that strong Presence. And he went with a perfect faith and as little fear as if he had been going along the Pine Road to his home. What did it matter as to the result, or what did it matter that his father back in Algonquin did not know? He and his father were safe, upheld by the everlasting arms. It was well, no matter what the outcome. When he reached the operating room the Presence was there, just as real as the muffled doctors standing ready to do their work, and when he was stretched upon the table taking the anaesthetic, he felt as peaceful as on that night when he sank asleep in his father's arms and was borne safely homeward.

It seemed that the next moment he awoke in the room he had so recently left. Dr. Nicholls was at his side. "A normal pulse," he said, smiling into Rod's enquiring face. "You're a wonder. What do you think of that, nurse?"

"I expected that," she said, smiling.

"You've behaved so well," continued the doctor, "that I believe you're able to receive two pieces of good news."

"My father," whispered Roderick. The doctor nodded happily. "A telegram came half-an-hour ago. It reads, 'Out of danger, no need to come, will write. E. Brians.'" Roderick felt the tears slipping over his cheek. The nurse wiped them away. He was remembering it all now. The Presence had been with his father too.

"You haven't asked about my other news," said the doctor.

Roderick looked at him enquiringly. He was thinking of Helen, and had forgotten all about the operation.

"Berger saved your arm. And it will be as fit as ever in a few months. It was the most delicate kind of operation, and one of the finest he ever did. I shall tell you more about it later, you must be quiet now. But I must give you Dr. Berger's message. He had to leave for Halifax, but he said he wished he could congratulate you on your nerve. I don't know what you did to get hold of yourself in such a hurry, but you saved your own life. Now, I've told you enough. You must neither speak nor be spoken to until I see you again."

He smiled again, radiant with the true scientist's joy over such a triumph of skill as Roderick's arm presented, and left the room.

And Roderick, who knew so much more about it all than mere science could ever teach, closed his eyes and lay still, his whole soul raising to its new-found God one inarticulate note of thanksgiving.



CHAPTER XIV

"FOLLOW THE GLEAM"

It was the first trip of the season and the Inverness was crowded from stem to stern. The picnic was given by the Sons of Scotland, so every Presbyterian in the town was there. But there were many more, for Lawyer Ed had gone out into the highways and byways of other denominations and nationalities and had compelled Methodists and Anglicans and Baptists and folk of every creed to come over to the Island and hear the bagpipes and see Archie Blair toss the caber.

"Your father's got to come, Rod," he said, the evening before the picnic. "So don't you dare show your nose here without him to-morrow."

But Old Angus laughingly refused his son's pleading. "Tuts, tuts," he said reprovingly, "it's the foolish boy that Edward is. He is younger than you, Lad. Indeed I'll not be going, and I think you should jist stay at home yourself, my son. The night air will be damp and you will not be jist too strong yet."

Roderick laughed. "Father, you will soon be as bad as Aunt Kirsty. I do believe she is bitterly disappointed that I didn't remain an invalid for a year, so that she might coddle me. I wouldn't miss this picnic for all Algonquin. It will be my first festivity since I was sick, and I want you to be in it."

The old man looked up into his son's face, his eyes shining. This new Roderick who had come back to him, maimed and weakened, right from the very gates of death was even more to him than the old Roderick. Not that his love had grown, nor his faith, that was impossible. But while he had always had high hopes that the Lad would one day fulfil all his fondest dreams, now he saw those dreams being fulfilled right before his eyes. There was a strong sentinel on the Jericho Road now, and the Good Samaritan could scarcely bear to part with him even for a day.

But he shook his head happily. No, no; Peter was coming over in the morning to look at the north field, and they would just row out as far as Wanda Island and hear the pipes, when the Inverness went past, and they would come back and stay at home with Aunt Kirsty like a pair of sensible old bodies.

Roderick managed to catch Lawyer Ed in the office for a few moments in the morning and reported his failure. His chief called him many hard names, as he rushed out to catch a passer-by and make him come to the picnic, and Roderick locked the office door and went down to the wharf. There lay the Inverness, her gunwale sinking to the water's edge under her joyous freight, banners flying from every place a banner could be flown, and the band, and Harry Lauder's piper brother making the town and the lake and the woods beyond ring with music.

Immediately after Roderick's disappointing message had been delivered, Lawyer Ed rushed down Main Street and spied Afternoon Tea Willie driving the Baldwin girls down town to buy some almond cream to take to the picnic, in case of sunburn. And in his usual high-handed way, he had hailed them, sent the girls home on foot, and the young man spinning out to the McRae farm with stern commands not to dare return without Old Angus.

So when Roderick was standing on the wharf talking to Dr. Archie Blair, all resplendent in his kilt he was amazed to see coming down Main Street, the smartest buggy in the town, and in it Alf. Wilbur, driving his father, and more amazing still, by his side sat old Peter, with his fiddle in a case across his knee. They drew up at the edge of the wharf with a splendid flourish, and Afternoon Tea Willie with his innate good manners, sprang out to help the two old men alight with as great deference as if they had been a couple of charming young ladies just come to town.

Roderick sprang forward and caught his father's hand as he stepped out, laughing in sheer delight. His eyes were misty with deep feeling. In the first quick glance he had turned upon the faces of the two old men, smiling in a half-ashamed, half-pleased way, like a couple of boys caught running away from school; Roderick had been struck with their strange resemblance. His father's refined face and his white hair had once made an absolute contrast to poor Old Peter's bloated countenance, but with the last half-year, Old Peter's face and form had been undergoing a change. Not since that terrible winter night when he had almost caused the death of his best friend had he fallen. It had been a hard fight sometimes, but the great victory won by the temperance folk on New Year's Day had been a victory for Peter. On the first of May the bar-rooms of Algonquin had closed. And now Peter walked the streets unafraid. And with his new courage and hope, his manhood had returned and he was slowly and surely growing like the man whose life-long devotion had brought him salvation.

Doctor Blair saw them and came swinging up to make the old men welcome. Then Doctor Leslie sighted them and came forward in delighted amazement, and Captain Jimmie spied them from the wheel house and called out joyfully, "Hoots, toots, Angus! And is that you, Peter Lad?" And the Ancient Mariner left off smoking, and, pouring out a stream of Gaelic above the roar of the pipes, came right out on the wharf to make sure his eyes had not deceived him.

Roderick guided the two to seats up on the deck near to the captain's pilot house, finding the way thither a veritable triumphal procession.

The crowds were still coming down Main Street; nervous mothers with babies bouncing wildly in their little buggies, embarrassed fathers with great sagging baskets and hysterical children with their newly starched attire already wildly rumpled.

Roderick scanned each new group eagerly, wondering if Helen Murray would come. He had seen little of her since his return. A long illness following the critical operation had kept him at home, and when at last he was able to go out again and take up his work he found that gossip had it that Miss Murray, the pretty girl who taught in the East Ward school had had a young man to visit her. Miss Annabel had been quite excited over him, for he was very handsome and was a successful surgeon, and Miss Armstrong had pronounced him a splendid match for any girl. Roderick had been spared a visit from Dick Wells, and had wondered that the young man had not kept his promise. He had longed and yet dreaded to see him. He had been able to learn nothing about the visit except what gossip said, and to-day he was full of hope and fear, as he watched. His fears were stronger, but he was young and he could not keep from hoping.

The Inverness, as every one in Algonquin knew, gave ample warning of her leave-taking. At exactly half-an-hour before the hour set for sailing, she always blew one long blast from her whistle. At fifteen minutes to the hour she blew two shorter toots, and just on the eve of departure three blasts loud and sharp. This final warning, which Doctor Blair had profanely named the last trump, had been sounded, and Roderick began to look anxious for she had not yet appeared nor Mrs. Adams either. But he had gone sailing on picnics via the Inverness too many times to be seriously alarmed. The door of the little wheel-house where the captain had now taken his stand, commanded a view of Main Street rising up from the water, and no native of Algonquin could do him the injustice to suppose that he would sail away while any one was waving to him from the hill.

A half dozen women were signalling him now, and the captain blew a reassuring blast. And then round the corner from Elm Street, moving leisurely, came a stout swaying figure, with floating draperies. Children clung to her hands, children hung by her skirts, children ran after her and children danced before her. And long before she reached the water's edge could be heard her admonitions, "Now, you, Johnnie Pickett, don't you dare to walk down there in the dirt. Maddie Willis, just you tie that hat on your head again, you'll get a sunstroke, you know you will. Jimmie Hurd, you leave that poor little dog alone—"

Roderick looked eagerly beyond the lady, and there she was, at the rear of the procession, bringing up the stragglers. She was wearing a dress of that dull blue he liked to see her wear, the blue that was just a shade paler than her eyes, and she wore a big white shady hat. As she came nearer he could see she was laughing at Johnnie Pickett's wicked antics. Her face had lost all its old sadness. Roderick's heart was filled with a great foreboding. Had Dick Wells' visit brought that new colour to her cheek and the sparkle to her eyes? He wanted to go down and help her and her flock on board, for Gladys Hurd and Mrs. Perkins and Eddie and the baby were with her, and a half-dozen little folk were asking each a half-dozen questions of her at one moment. But he stood back shyly watching her from a distance, as Dr. Blair and Harry Lauder and the rest of the Highland Club helped them on board, the Piper meanwhile circling around Madame much to her disgust.

When they were all on board and the Inverness had again given the three short shrieks which announced she was really and truly starting, Roderick suddenly realised that Lawyer Ed was not on board. Now a Scotchman's picnic without Lawyer Ed was an absurd and unthinkable thing, beside which Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark would have seemed perfectly reasonable and natural. He ran to the captain, but there were several ahead of him with the dire news. For the Inverness had no sooner begun to move from the wharf than the awful truth had dawned upon a dozen folk at once. They had rushed from three directions and attacked the captain and Young Peter and the Ancient Mariner and demanded of them what they meant by such outrageous conduct. Very much abashed by her mistake the Inverness came surging back, the captain taking refuge in the Gaelic to express his dismay. They were just in time, for there he was tearing down the street in his buggy, Miss Annabel Armstrong and Mrs. Captain Willoughby squeezed in beside him and the horse going at such a breakneck pace that the dust and stones flew up on every side and there was danger that they would drive right into the lake. They stopped just on the brink. Lawyer Ed leaped out, flung the lines to a lounger on the dock bidding him take the horse back to the stable, helped the ladies alight, and had rushed them on board before the gang-plank could be put in place. The crowd cheered, and he waved his hat and shouted with laughter, over the narrow escape; but the ladies looked a little ruffled. They had not intended to come to the picnic; the day of private launches and motor-cars was dawning over Algonquin, and these public picnics were not in favour among the best people, therefore Mrs. Captain Willoughby had felt that she did not care to go, and the Misses Armstrong had felt they did not dare to go. But Lawyer Ed did not approve of social distinctions of any sort whatever, and he was determined that the best people should come out and have a good time like the worst. So he had gone right into the enemy's camp and carried off two of the leaders captive, and here they were half-laughing and half-annoyed and explaining carefully to their friends how they had not had the slightest intention of coming in such a mixed crowd but that dreadful man just made them.

Once more the Inverness gave her last agonised shriek, the captain shouted to the Ancient Mariner to get away there, for what was he doing whatever, and with a great deal of fussing and steaming and whistling the voyage was again commenced. The band gave place to the Piper, and he marched out to the tune of "The Cock o' the North," looking exactly like a great giant humming-bird, his plumage flashing in the sunlight, as he went buzzing around the deck. Harry Lauder and the doctor and two or three others of the frivolous young folk in the kilts went away off to where the minister could not see them and danced a Highland reel. The people who did not quite approve of public picnics gathered in a group by themselves, Miss Annabel Armstrong and Mrs. Captain Willoughby in the centre, and told each other all the latest news about Toronto, and yawned and wished they could have a game of whist, but Dr. Leslie would be sure to see them. The tired mothers who seldom went beyond their garden gate, handed over their children to Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, and settled themselves contentedly in a circle to have a good old-fashioned visit. Up in the bow, a group of the older men surrounded Dr. Leslie. Old Angus McRae was so seldom seen at any festivity that his presence had made the picnic an event to his old friends. Again and again Dr. Leslie placed his hand on the old man's knee and said, "Well, well, Angus, it's a treat to see you here." And Peter Fiddle, the outcast and drunkard, sat in the group and listened eagerly to their talk like a man who had been long away and was eager to hear again the speech of his native land. And indeed poor Peter had been for many years in a far country, and his return had opened up a new life to him. Roderick sat behind his father's chair and listened as they talked and wondered to hear Peter take his part with a fine intelligence. He looked at his father and thought of all the weary years he had toiled for Peter, and he was filled with a great gratitude that this was the sort of splendid work to which he had been called. He would take his father's place on the Jericho Road. It might be a highway here in Algonquin, the future was all unquestioned, but wherever it was the Vision would stand by him as He had stood in that hour of despair. And how glorious to think he might pick up a Peter from the dirt and help to restore him to his manhood.

J. P. Thornton had led the conversation to theological subjects. J. P. read along many lines, and it was whispered that he had queer ideas about the Bible.

Lawyer Ed had been balancing himself on the railing of the deck listening for some time but it was impossible that he could stay in the one place long when the whole boat was crowded with his intimate friends. So when J. P. intimated that modern criticism pointed to two Isaiahs and Jock McPherson strongly objected to the second one, Lawyer Ed yawned, and telling them he would be back in an instant, he wandered away.

"Come awa, ma braw John Hielanman," he whispered to Roderick. "This is a heavy subject for a pair of young fellows like you and me on a picnic day, come along and see what Archie Blair's up to. I'll bet my new bonnet and plume he's dancing the Highland fling in some obscure corner."

Roderick went most willingly. He knew Lawyer Ed would go straight to Madame, and where Madame was, there would she be also.

Afternoon Tea Willie who had finally come on board with a dozen young ladies, was running here and there at their beck and call in desperate haste. Lawyer Ed paused to chat with the girls, for he could never pass even one, and Roderick turned to Alfred and thanked him for the service to his father.

"Oh, that's nothing at all!" cried the young man. "You did me a favour lots of times, Rod. When I had no one else to talk to and tell my trouble!" He smiled at the remembrance of them. His cheek was flushed and his eyes were glowing. He looked as though he possessed some great secret. He came close and began to speak hesitatingly and Roderick knew he was going to be the recipient of more confidences. "Say, Rod, do you see that young lady over there beside Anna Baldwin?" Roderick looked and saw the latest arrival in Algonquin, a very handsome and well-dressed young lady who was visiting the Misses Baldwin. "Yes," said Roderick in a very callous manner, "I see her." He drew Roderick away a little distance from the group and whispered:

"Well—I—this is in strict confidence, you know, Roderick; I would not confide in any one but you, you know. But—well—that is she!"

"She? who?" asked Roderick.

Alfred looked pained. "Why the only she in all the world for me. Her name is Eveline Allan. Did you ever hear anything more musical? She came here just last week to visit the Baldwin girls, and they asked me to go to the station to meet her with them, and the moment I set eyes on her I just knew she was the only one in the world for me. I have sometimes imagined myself to be in love, but it was all imagination. I never really knew before."

Roderick found it impossible to conceal a smile.

"Oh, I know what you are thinking about, you are wondering if I have forgotten Miss Murray. But I have lived that down long ago. It was madness for me to think of one who was in love with another man."

Roderick looked at him so eloquently that he went on.

"I never really cared for her, in that way, anyway. I realise that now, and now that the man she was engaged to has come back—"

"What?" asked Roderick sharply.

"The man she was engaged to. Don't you remember my telling you about him? Why, they have made up again. He was here to see her last winter and he was in Toronto to see her in the Easter holidays when she was down there. I was very glad that it has all turned out so, for I found out my mistake as soon as I set eyes on Eveline. I know I ought not to call her that yet, and I don't to her of course. Don't you think she has wonderful eyes? I always felt that dark eyes are much more expressive than blue or even hazel ones, don't you? Oh, there is Anna calling me. Excuse me, I must run."

He flew back to the group, and Roderick was left to digest what he had told him. Unfortunately Alfred had a reputation for finding out things and he had no reason to doubt his assertion. He slowly followed Lawyer Ed about. They made their way down the length of the deck, his chief shaking hands with every one, and at last away in the stern under a shady awning he saw her. She was seated with Madame on one side, little Mrs. Perkins on the other, Gladys Hurd and Eddie at her feet, the Perkins' baby on her knee and a crowd of children about her. There was no hope of having a word with her even had he the courage to go forward and speak to her.

The children were sitting open mouthed, staring up into the face of Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, while in low thrilling tones she was telling how the dreadful big giant came slowly up the stairs, every step creaking under him, and the lovely Princess behind the door just squeezed herself into a teenty weenty crack and held her breath till he got past.

Lawyer Ed burst into the story with a roar, and every one leaped and shrieked as if the giant himself had sprung into their midst. He caught two of the youngsters and bumped their heads together, he chased a shrieking half dozen to a refuge behind a pile of life-preservers, he tossed a couple up in the air and pretended he was going to fling them overboard, and finally he took out a great package from his pocket and sent a shower of pink "gum-drops" raining down over the deck, and the whole boat was turned into a mad and joyful riot!

Roderick lingered about for a few minutes until Miss Murray nodded and smiled to him across a surging sea of little heads, then he wandered down below to where the Ancient Mariner was seated spinning yarns to a crowd of young people.

"Indeed and I could tell you many as good a one as that," he was saying in response to the sighs of amazement. "I haff a great head for the tales. If I would jist be hafing the grammar I would challenge anybody to beat me at them. Take Scott now. He had the grammar. That's what makes folk think his stories are so great. But if I had just had his chance! You get an eddication, you young people. There's nothing like the grammar indeed!"

Roderick leaned over the little pit of the engine room and talked with Young Peter. The dull eyes were shining. This was a great day for Peter.

"Did you see him?" he whispered to Roderick. "Did you see my father? driving down with your father? Jist like any gentleman! Eh, but it was mighty."

"Yes, it's splendid to see them together at last, Pete," said Roderick sympathetically. And then he had to listen again to the tale Young Peter never tired telling, how Rod's father had saved his father that stormy night on the Jericho Road. How Lawyer Ed could not sleep because Roderick had left him, and how he had driven out to the farm in the night to comfort Angus and had found the two on the road nearly frozen! Young Peter had an attentive listener, for Roderick could not tire of hearing the wonderful story.

They had passed through the Gates, and the news went around that the Island was near. It was a beautiful big stretch of green with a sloping shingly beach at one end, and a high range of white cliffs at the other, which J. P. Thornton said made him homesick, for they always reminded him of England.

There were many islands in Lake Algonquin; nevertheless when you said The Island every one knew you meant that big, lovely, grassy place away out beyond the Gates, swept by the cool breezes of Lake Simcoe where Algonquin always went for her picnics.

When the cry went forth that the Island was at hand every one ran to the railing and leaned over to watch the Inverness slip in between the big stone breakwater and the dock which stretched out to meet them. Captain Jimmie from his wheel-house called to them, threateningly and beseechingly, commanding every one to go back or she'd be going over whatever. As usual no one heeded him and so the accident happened. Perhaps it was the lure of the Piper, now skirling madly from the bow, with flying ribbons, that distracted the captain, as well as the disobedience of the passengers; whatever was the reason, the Inverness, generally so stately and staid, suddenly gave a lurch, and went crash into the wharf as though she intended to ride right over the Island. Of course in a tourney with the Inverness, there could be only one result. The wharf heaved up and went over like an unhorsed knight accompanied by a terrible creaking and ripping and groaning as of armour being rent asunder. Disaster always stripped Captain Jimmie of his nautical cloak and left him the true landsman. He dashed out of his little house and leaning over the railing shouted to the Ancient Mariner: "Sandy, ye gomeril! Back her up, back up, man, she's goin' over!"

There were shouts and shrieks from the passengers even above the din of the Piper who played gallantly on. The crowd rushed to the side to see what had happened, and there might have been a real catastrophe had not Lawyer Ed taken command. While the captain and the Ancient Mariner were fiercely arguing the question of whose fault it was, he dashed into the crowd and bade every one in a voice of thunder to go back to his or her seats and be quiet. Lawyer Ed was a terrifying sight when he was angry, and he was promptly obeyed. The excited crowd scattered, the children were collected, the alarm subsided and they all waited laughingly to see what was to be done.

Meantime Dr. Blair and Harry Lauder had launched a canoe that was on board and were paddling round the wharf to investigate.

"I'm afraid it's hopeless, Jimmie!" shouted the doctor. For the floor of the landing place had almost assumed the perpendicular. "Nobody could land here that wasn't a chipmunk!"

This was disconcerting news and a wail arose from Madame's flock.

"Haud yer whist!" roared Lawyer Ed. "We'll get to land somehow, if I have to swim to shore with you all on my back. Hi!" he gave a shout that made the beech woods on the Island ring.

"Hi! Archie, mon! You and Harry paddle over and bring that scow! We'll load her and go ashore like Robinson Crusoes!"

A big scow or float, used as a rest for row boats and canoes lay near the end of the dock moored to the shore. A couple of agile young men leaped upon the upturned wharf, and making their way on all fours along it, they reached the scow in time to assist the doctor and Harry Lauder to bring it to the side of the boat. Meanwhile Lawyer Ed stood up on the deck and roared out superfluous orders in a broad Scottish dialect that was rather overdone.

The rescuing vessel was received with cheers and the gang-plank was put in place.

"Women and children first!" cried Ed heroically, but Madame, in the centre of her flock called out an indignant refusal.

"No, indeed, the children are not going first. You, Johnnie Pickett and Jimmie Hurd, you come right back off that thing, do you hear me? You go along yourself some of you Scotchmen, and see if it will hold, and then I'll bring my babies. You're in your bathing suits anyway," she added cruelly, for Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby was not a Scotchwoman, and did not know how to appreciate the kilts.

So the Piper marched out upon the scow, playing magnificently; some dozen young men followed him and with poles pushed themselves ashore. Then, amid cheers a couple of volunteers came back for another load from the wrecked vessel. When several trips had been made successfully and Madame and the children had been safely landed, Alfred Wilbur came forward and offered to pole a crowd over. Of course the crowd consisted of young ladies with the Baldwin girls and their pretty guest as the centre piece.

Alfred placed himself upon the scow, pole in hand and with many gallant remarks from Lawyer Ed the young ladies were handed on board. One by one they tripped out over the gang-plank, laughing gaily, their muslins and ribbons, their sashes and bracelets, their pink cheeks and bright eyes transforming the old scow into a floating garden. No wonder Alfred became excited over captaining such a fair cargo. In his nervous zeal he encouraged more than his sailing capacity would admit, and when the scow was almost crowded he saw to his dismay that the Baldwin girls and their guest had not yet come on board. He had pictured himself, pole in hand, shoving off before all the picnickers with Miss Allan clinging to his arm, and he began to grow anxious lest she be carried off in one of the row boats now come to the rescue.

"Move over further, won't you, girls, please," he called to his laughing, chattering crew. "I mean move a little aft won't you, please. I beg your pardon for troubling you, Belle! Alice! If you and Flossie—Come, Anna. Come, Louise! Anna, bring Miss Allan; there's acres of room yet."

Thus encouraged, another group tripped over the gang-plank and at the same moment, those already on board, anxious to oblige Alf, who was always obliging them, crowded over to the farther side. But so much weight suddenly placed on one end of the scow brought dire disaster. Without a moment's warning, down went the heavy end three feet into the water, half submerging its shrieking passengers, and up came the light end with the unfortunate pilot perched upon it like Hiawatha's Adjidaumo, on the end of his Cheemaun!

Fortunately the water was not deep, and in a moment a dozen young men had plunged in and righted the capsized craft. But there were shrieks from all sides and threats of fainting, and dreadful anathemas heaped upon the innocent cause of the disaster, as the bedraggled young ladies, lately so trim, crawled back to the Inverness.

The catastrophe could not possibly have happened to any one whom it would distress more than Alf. He stood in speechless dismay watching the dripping procession pass. And when the pretty guest of the Baldwin girls splashed past him with a look which would have been withering had she not been so drenched, his despair was complete. He looked for a few moments as if he were about to throw himself into the lake, then he flung down his pole, and crept away aft to hide his diminished head behind a pile of life-preservers. Roderick captured a row-boat, and placed his father and Old Peter and a couple of their friends in it, and with the huge basket Aunt Kirsty had packed for them he rowed to shore.

When they landed, the old men seated themselves on a grassy mound under a big elm, and the basket was snatched from Roderick's hand and whirled away to the commissariat department in a big pavilion near at hand.

In a short time the long white tables were set beneath the trees with a musical tinkling of cups; there was a table for the Sons themselves and their friends, a table for the commoner folk and, farther up the shore, here and there, little groups of friends gathered by themselves. There was Madame seated on the ground away off at the edge of the beech grove, like the queen of the fairies holding court. The fairies were all there, too, seated in a wide circle, too busy to talk, as the sandwiches and cake and pie disappeared. Roderick had not once lost sight of Helen. She was there too, with Mrs. Perkins and Gladys. But he had to turn his back on the pretty group and join his father at the table spread for the Sons of Scotland. Dr. Leslie stood up at the head of it, his white hair ruffled by the lake breeze, and asked a blessing on the feast. And when the Scotchmen had put on their bonnets again and were seated the Piper tuned up once more and swept around the tables playing a fine strathspey. Lawyer Ed had a seat near the head of the table but he was too happy to sit still and kept it only at intervals. He ran up and down the tables, darted away to this group and that, taking a bite here and a drink there, until Dr. Blair declared that Ed had eaten seven different and separate meals by the time the tables were cleared away.

He stopped at a little group seated around a white table cloth laid upon the grass, to inquire if they would like some more hot water.

"No," said Mrs. Captain Willoughby, whose party it was. "We've plenty. We've been in hot water, in fact, ever since we started. Annabel and I are having a dispute we want settled. Come here, Edward, I'm sure you can decide."

"It's perfect nonsense," broke in Miss Annabel. "Leslie is no more likely to marry him than you are, Margaret!"

"Marry whom?" asked Lawyer Ed eagerly, "Me?"

Miss Annabel screamed and said he was perfectly dreadful, but Mrs. Willoughby broke in.

"No, not you, you conceited thing, but your partner. I thought Leslie claimed him as her property. She practically told the Baldwin girls she intended to marry Roderick McRae. And now she's left him and gone off to be a nurse."

Miss Annabel's fair face flushed hotly. "How utterly preposterous. Why, if you lived at Rosemount you'd know whom Mr. McRae would be likely to marry. As for Leslie, she never cared any more for him than you did. You know how she loves fun. She was just enjoying herself. I admit that she might have found a better way of putting in the time, but it was only a girl's nonsense. I was just dreadful that way myself when I was Leslie's age, a few years ago."

"Indeed you were, Annabel," cried Lawyer Ed, scenting danger and wisely steering to a safer subject, "You were a dreadful flirt. Many a heart you broke and I am afraid you haven't reformed either."

This put the lady into a good humour at once. She laughed gaily, confessing that she was really awfully giddy she knew, but she could not help it. And Mrs. Captain Willoughby, who never encouraged Miss Annabel in her youthfulness, said very dryly that she supposed they had all been silly when they were girls but she believed there was a time for everything.

Lawyer Ed saw conversational rocks ahead once more and piloted around them. "What is this I hear about Leslie?" he asked. "Is she going to be a nurse?"

"Oh, dear," groaned Miss Annabel. "That girl will break her mother's heart, and all our hearts. Just think of Leslie who never did a thing harder than put up her own hair going to be a nurse. It is perfectly absurd, but she has gone and Elizabeth will just have to let her go on until experience teaches her better."

"I think it's the most sensible thing she ever did," declared Mrs. Willoughby, "and you shouldn't discourage her. She'll make a fine wife for that boy of yours, Edward."

Lawyer Ed shook his head. He had had his own shrewd suspicions regarding Roderick for some time and Miss Annabel's hint had set him thinking.

"I've been such a conspicuous failure in any attempt to get a wife of my own," he said in the deepest melancholy, "that I wouldn't presume to prescribe for any other man." And he hastened back to his own table.

It was a great day. The Scotchmen ran races, and tossed the caber and walked the greasy pole across from the capsized dock to the Inverness. The Piper played, and the band played, and everybody ate all the ice cream and popcorn and drank all the lemonade possible.

At exactly seven o'clock the Inverness gave a terrible roar. This was to warn every one that going home time had arrived. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby began collecting the fairies for the difficult task of getting them on the scow and thence to the Inverness. All day Lawyer Ed had been keeping an eye on Roderick and had no difficulty in confirming his suspicion that the Lad was unhappy, and he immediately conceived of a plan to help him. He called a half-dozen young men together and just as Madame was ready to walk across the Island to the scow, Lawyer Ed came rowing round the bend with a fleet of boats to carry them all down to the Inverness. Then such a joyful scrambling and climbing as there was, while Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby got her water-babies afloat. Lawyer Ed had seen to it that Roderick was in charge of the one canoe, and as a row-boat in the eyes of Algonquin youths, was a thing to be despised, all the older water-babies screamed with joy at the sight of him, and as soon as he had run it up on the sand they swarmed into it filling it to overflowing.

This was likely to ruin all Lawyer Ed's fine plan and he charged down upon them with a terrible roar and chased them all to the shelter of Madame's skirts.

"Get away back there, you young rascals!" he shouted. "You ought to know better than to try a load like that, Rod, you simpleton. Two passengers at the most are all you want with that arm of yours!" He glanced about him. Helen Murray was standing near with the Perkins baby in her arms, while the little mother, free from all care for the first time in many hard years, was wandering happily about with her hands full of wild roses.

"Here, Miss Murray," he cried, "you jump in. You are just the right weight for this maimed pilot. 'Ere, William 'Enry, you come to me!" But William Henry, now a sturdy little fellow of a-year-and-a-half, tightened his arms around his friend's neck and yelled his disapproval right valiantly.

"Well, now, will yer look at that!" cried the little mother proudly. "Wot'll Daddy say w'en I tell 'im? The little rascal's so took with the young loidy. 'Ush up there now, bless 'is 'eart. See, 'e'll go with mammy." She dropped her roses into Gladys's hands, and held out her arms, and the fickle young gentleman, let go his grip on his friend, and leaped upon his mother, crowing and squealing with delight. Helen waved him farewell as she stepped into the canoe, and the baby waved her a fat square paw in return. Gladys and Eddie were about to follow her, when the Lawyer Ed again interposed.

"No, you mustn't take a load, Rod, this is your first paddle, so get away with you. Now you kids, hop into this boat and you'll be there just as soon as Miss Murray!" he roared. Roderick pushed off afraid to look at his chief lest the overwhelming gratitude he felt might be seen in his face.

Lawyer Ed turned and watched them for a moment. They made a fine picture as they glided up the curving shore under the drooping birches and alders. Roderick kneeling in the stern, straight and strong, with no sign now of the illness he had been through, and the girl in the bow, her blue gown and her uncovered golden head making a bit of colouring perfectly harmonious with the sparkling waves and the sunlit sands.

But Lawyer Ed's gaze was fixed on Roderick. The joy in the Lad's eyes, answered in his own. Lawyer Ed's joys were all of the vicarious sort. He was always happy because he made other people so, but to be able to make Rod happy; that was his crowning joy.

Roderick was more afraid than happy. It seemed too good to be true, that she was here with him alone. At first he could do nothing but look at her in silence. She was so much more beautiful than he had thought, with that new radiance in her eyes. And then his own brief happiness waned, as he wondered miserably if it had been brought there by Dick Wells.

She was the first to speak. "Are you getting quite strong again?" she asked kindly.

"Oh yes, I am quite myself. I feel ready for any kind of work now."

"Then I suppose you will be going back to Montreal?"

"No." Roderick had made that decision long ago. "No, I could not go with the firm that engaged me—now." He was thinking how impossible those mining deals would be in the eyes of one who had been granted a glimpse into the unseen. Henceforth he knew there was no such work for him. "For mine eyes hath seen the King," he often repeated to himself.

She misunderstood him. "Oh," she said, "I thought—I was told that Mr. Graham's lawyers wanted you, that the position had been kept for you."

"Yes, they were very kind, but I could not. Something happened that made it impossible for me to take up their work again. So for the present I am a fixture in Algonquin, until Lawyer Ed grows tired of me."

She laughed at that, for Lawyer Ed's love for Roderick was a proverb in Algonquin. He had never heard her laugh before. The sound was very musical.

"You will stay a long time then," she said. "Algonquin is a good place to live in."

"You like it?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, ever so much. I shall be sorry to leave at the mid-summer vacation."

Roderick's heart stood still. "I—I didn't know," he faltered. "I thought you were staying for the whole year."

She looked up at him, and then her eyes fell. The mingled adoration and hunger and dismay written plainly in the Lad's frank eyes were impossible to misunderstand. She had seen that look there before many times in the past winter. She had been afraid of it then, and she had run away from his good-bye that snowy day when he had left Algonquin. For then she had not wanted to see that look in the eyes of any man. She had seen it once before and had yielded to its spell, and the love-light had died out and left her life desolate. But since she had last talked with Roderick McRae, she had seen those eyes again, lit with the old love, and to her amazement she had found no answer in her heart. She had far outgrown Dick Wells in her self-forgetful life she had taken up in Algonquin. She had taken up the burdens of others just to ease her own pain, promising herself that when this or that task was finished she could turn to her own grief and nurse it. But the self-indulgence had been so long postponed that when the opportunity came and she had gone back to her old sorrow, behold it was gone. And in its place sat the memory of Roderick McRae's unspoken devotion, his chivalrous silent waiting for his opportunity.

So when poor Roderick all unschooled in hiding his feelings let her see in one swift glance all that her going meant to him she was speechless before the joy of it. She stooped and trailed her fingers in the green water, to hide her happy confusion. Then remembering she was leaving him under a misunderstanding she glanced up at him swiftly.

"I don't," she said breathlessly, "I didn't mean I was going away to stay. I meant only for the summer holidays."

The transformation of his countenance was a further revelation, had she needed any.

"Oh," he said, and then paused. "Oh, I'm so glad!" Very simple words but they contained volumes. He was silent for a moment unable to say any more, and she filled in the awkward pause nervously, scarcely knowing what she said.

"You were sorry too, were you not, when you went away?"

"It was the hardest task I ever met in my life," said Roderick. "And you didn't let me say good-bye to you." He was growing quite reckless now to speak thus to a young lady who might be going to announce her engagement.

She had not gained anything by her headlong plunge into conversation so she tried again.

"Not even your operation?" she asked. "That was worse, wasn't it?"

"My operation wasn't hard," said Roderick dreamily, his mind going back to the sacred wonder of that hour. "No, I had—help." He said it hesitatingly. It was hard to mention that event, even to her. He had spoken of it to no living person but his father.

"Indeed, I heard about how brave you were," she said. "I was told that there was never any one with such self-control."

Roderick looked at her in alarm. "Who told you?" he asked abruptly. She looked straight across at him and her eyes were very steady, though her colour rose. "Doctor Wells told me. He assisted, didn't he?"

Roderick's eyes fell. He tried to answer but he sat before her dumb and dismayed. She saw his confusion, and rightly guessed the cause. Her nature was too simple and direct to pretend, she wanted to tell him the truth and she did not know how.

"Doctor Wells was here last winter," she faltered, as a beginning, then could get no further. Roderick made a desperate effort to regain control of himself, and spoke with an attempt at nonchalance.

"Yes, he told me he was coming. He promised to come and see me too, but he didn't."

"No," she caught a twig of cedar from a branch that brushed her fragrantly as she passed. Her fingers trembled as she held it to her lips. "He—he told you he was coming?" she asked.

"Yes," said poor Roderick briefly.

"Then—then, perhaps he told you why?" She was examining the cedar sprig carefully, and Roderick was thankful. He would not have cared for her to see his face just then. She was going to tell him of her renewed engagement he knew.

"Yes, he told me," he said. She was silent for a little, looking away over the ripples of Lake Simcoe to the green arms of the channel that showed the way to Algonquin.

"Would it—would you think it right to tell me what he said?"

"He said," repeated Roderick, wishing miserably that Wells' words did him less credit, "he said that even if a fellow played the fool once in his life that was no reason why he should take it up as a life's profession." He paused and then came out in the boldness of desperation with the rest. "And he said that he was pretty sure he would get a welcome when he came." She flushed at that, and there came a proud sparkle into her eyes.

She sat erect and looked Roderick straight in the eyes. "And now, since you have told me,—and I thank you for it,—I must give you his message. He left one for you."

"Yes?" Roderick braced himself as for a blow.

"Yes, he left a message for you. I did not intend to deliver it but since he confided in you I feel I am doing no harm. He said to tell you the reason he couldn't wait to see you was that he had played the fool once more, and that was when he thought a woman couldn't forget."

She dropped her eyes when she had finished. Her fine courage was gone. She dipped one trembling hand into the water again and laid it against her hot cheek.

Roderick sat and looked at her for a moment uncomprehending. It took some time to grasp all that her confession meant. When finally its meaning dawned upon him, he drew in a great breath.

"Oh!" he said in a wondering whisper. "I never was so happy in my life!" It was not a very eloquent speech, it did not seem at all relevant, but she seemed to understand. She glanced up for an instant with a shy smile, and then Lawyer Ed with Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby and such a load of water-babies, that they looked as if they might sink into their native caves, came shouting round the point, and bore down upon them.

The sun was sinking into the island maze of Lake Algonquin and the moon was coming up out of Lake Simcoe when the Inverness sailed homeward through the Gates. The little breeze that had danced all day out on the larger lake had gone to sleep here in the shelter of the islands, and Algonquin lay as still as a golden mirror. A faint shimmer of colour was spread over it like a shining veil. It was scarcely discernible where the crystal water lay motionless, but as the Inverness sailed across the delicate web it broke into waves of amber and lilac and rose. The little islands did not seem to touch the water but floated in the air like dream-islands, deep purple and bronze in the shadows. From their depths arose vesper songs. Bob White's silver whistle, clear and sweet, the White throat's long call of "Canada, Canada, Canada," as though the little patriot could never tell all his love and joy in his beautiful home, the loon's eery laugh far away down the golden channel, and the whippoorwill and the cat-bird and the veery in the tree-tops. It was a wonderful night.

THE END