"What! you know him?" cried the girl.

"Yes, very well. Ever since he was a baby."

"How nice it must be to know a real hero!" sighed the girl. "Please tell me about him."

And there in the little room Nellie told about Tony, his mother, brothers and sisters, to which Doris listened most eagerly.

"We must go now," said Mr. Westmore rising to his feet and looking out of the window. "The storm has cleared and the sun is shining brightly."

"But you will both come again, won't you?" Doris inquired as she held out her hand.

"Yes, if you want us to do so," Nellie replied. "But we don't wish to tire you."

"You won't tire me. I long for someone to talk to, and you know so much."

Parson John had now left the room, and Nellie was holding the girl's hand. She glanced at the door to make sure that her father could not hear, then she bent over the bed.

"Did your father tell you the name of that boy who saved Tony's life?"

"No. He said he didn't know."

"Did he say what he was doing there?"

"No, only he had a funny little letter for Tony. It was in his pocket, and when they opened it a small rose fell out."

"And he didn't say what the letter was about?"

"No."

"Thank you, dear, I must go now," and as Nellie stooped down and gave the girl a kiss, Doris suddenly clasped her arms about her neck.

"I love you! I love you!" she murmured. "You are so beautiful and good! Come soon, will you?"

"Yes, dear, to-morrow, perhaps," and as Nellie left the room her eyes were moist with the tears she found impossible to restrain.

As she walked along the wet road by her father's side her mind was busy thinking over what she had just heard. Who was that boy? He must be a stranger to that place, and what was the letter about? Could it be Dan? How often had she and her father talked about the boy. They believed that he would come back some day. Suddenly there flashed into her mind the persistent efforts Dan had made to write a letter, and how he had time and time again asked her the way to spell certain words. She had thought little about it then, but now she remembered that one of the words was "Tony." Her father looked up in surprise as Nellie paused, and clutched his arm more firmly.

"What's the matter, dear?" he asked. "Are you tired? Perhaps we are walking too fast."

"No, father," and Nellie gave a little laugh. "I was Only thinking, and my thoughts run away with me sometimes. But I am glad we are almost home, for the walking is heavy and our shoes are covered with mud. See that beautiful rainbow, father!"

They both stood still for a few minutes, and looked upon the grand arch spanning the heavens and resting upon earth.

"The bow of promise, Nellie," said Mr. Westmore. "It appears to-day, the same as of old, to remind us all that 'His mercies still endure, ever faithful, ever sure.'"

"Perhaps it's a sign to us, father, that our storm has past, and the sun will break forth again." "It may be true, child. God grant it so," and Mr. Westmore sighed as he turned in at the gate leading to his brother's house.



Chapter XXIX

Rifted Clouds

Again the next day they both visited the invalid girl. Nellie read to her, while Parson John sat and listened. They were becoming firm friends now, and Doris chatted unreservedly.

"I shall tell papa all about you," she said. "I have a letter almost finished, and shall mail it to-night. How I wish you could see him."

All through the day Dan had been much in Nellie's mind. The idea which had come to her the evening before was growing stronger. She believed it was Dan and no other who had rescued Tony. It was just like him, and she thought of the afternoon he had saved her and her cousin on the river. Should she tell her father? That was the question which she debated with herself hour after hour, and when they returned from their visit to Doris, she had not yet decided.

That evening she strolled out of the house, and down the road leading to a little brook. The air was balmy and fresh, and this was her favourite walk. Trees lined the way, stern old oaks, beeches and maples—the grove on her uncle's farm, the place where people came for miles to hold picnics.

As Nellie walked along her thoughts turned often to Glendow. She wondered what Stephen was doing, and if his logs were rafted. She missed him greatly. They had been so much together, had grown up as children, but not until this separation had she fully realized what he meant to her. She thought of the night he had come to tell about Nora and to say good-bye. Her face flushed, and a sweet peace came into her heart as she dwelt upon Stephen's manner that night—his confusion—his stammering words—and the burning kiss upon her hand. She stood on the little bridge now, in the quiet dusk of even, leaning against the railing and looking pensively down into the shallow water below. Suddenly she raised her hand and pressed it again and again to her lips—the same hand which Stephen had kissed.

A step upon the bridge startled her, and her heart beat fast. Had anyone seen what she did? She thought she was alone, but somebody was coming. She turned away her flushed face, and gazed down into the water, leaning her arms upon the railing. The steps drew nearer. They were opposite her, and soon they would pass. Some neighbour, no doubt, going home. If he had seen her action he would tell others, and soon every person around would know. Presently the steps paused. The silence frightened her. It was dusk; no house in sight, and she was alone. Quickly she faced about, and there standing before her was Stephen. A cry of surprise escaped her, and the next instant she felt his strong arms about her and his lips fervently pressing her own.

"Stephen!" she cried, struggling to free Herself. "How dare you! When did you come?"

"Just from home, and was resting under that big tree," Stephen replied still holding her tenderly. "I dared much after I saw what you did a few minutes ago. Oh, Nellie, Nellie. I have been waiting long for this moment! Surely, surely you are mine at last!"

The flush had left Nellie's face now, leaving it very white, though in the deepening twilight this was not noticeable. Her heart was beating tumultuously, and a new feeling of peace and rest was stealing over her. How powerful seemed the man standing there. So long had she been called upon to be strong, always helping, ever taking such a responsible place in life, caring for her father, strengthening him in his work—and upon her he depended. But now to feel that she could give herself up to another, one who had passed through a stern fight in the strength of his sturdy young manhood, and had come forth as victor. Yet mingling with this new-found joy came the thought of the dark shadow hanging over her father's life. How could she be happy when he was in trouble? For his sake she had kept the brave spirit and presented only the bright sunny face, and cheery words of hope. The tension for weeks, nay months, had been a severe strain—and now this sudden joy! It unnerved her. Words would not come to Stephen's passionate pleading, but in their stead tears stole down her cheeks, while her form trembled with convulsive sobs.

Stephen started in surprise.

"Nellie! Nellie!" he cried. "What have I done! Forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you! I thought you would understand. If you only knew how I love you—if you only——"

"I know it, Stephen—I know it. I am very foolish. Please forgive me. I cannot explain these tears—they come unbidden."

"Then you're not unhappy, Nellie? You are not cross with me?"

"Cross, dear Stephen, no. I am so happy, very happy. But why should I he happy when my father is in trouble? How dare I! Is it right?"

"Then you love me, Nellie! Oh, speak the word—let me hear it from your own lips!"

"Yes, Stephen, I do love you, don't you know it? I am yours, your very own."

"Thank God! thank God!" he cried, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her again and again. She did not resist now, but allowed him to hold her there while he breathed into her ear his sweet words of love. They were no studied, well-rounded phrases, but such as leaped from a true, noble heart, and the woman listening knew their worth.

"Why didn't you write to me, Stephen?" Nellie whispered, "and tell me you were coming? I have been worried lately, and it would have been something to look forward to."

"I didn't know I was coming until this morning," came the reply.

"Didn't know?"

"No—I left in the night."

"This is more mysterious than ever."

"Yes, I left very early this morning, and should have been here by the middle of the afternoon, but Dexter threw a shoe about five miles back. I had to leave him at a farm, and walk the remainder of the way. I was resting by the bridge when you came along. I was quite put out to think I had to tramp that distance and be so late. But now I know it was for the best. Doesn't everything turn out right, Nellie?"

"Y-y—es, some things do," was the reluctant reply. "This has, anyway, and I try to believe that all things concerning my poor father will come out right, too. I think we had better go to him now and tell him of our happiness. It may brighten him up a bit."

Side by side they walked slowly along the road, and Stephen told the whole story of Tony's return, the hidden box, the political meeting, the discovery of the gold in the safe, and Farrington's ignominious punishment.

They had reached the house by the time he had finished, and stood for a moment on the doorstep before entering. In Nellie's heart was such a joy that words would not come to her lips. She felt she must be asleep, and would awake to find it only an unsubstantial dream. But Stephen's arm around her, and his strong presence near, assured her that it was a blessed reality.

They found Mr. Westmore sitting alone in his little room, reading by the shaded lamp. He glanced quickly up and was surprised to see Stephen standing by Nellie's side. He saw the look of rapture upon their faces, and read at once the meaning of it all, and into his own weary face came a light which Nellie had not seen in many a day. She tried to speak, but words failed, and moving quickly forward she threw her arms about her father's neck, and kissed him fervently.

"Oh, father, I am so happy!" she whispered. "Do you know? Can you understand?"

"Yes, darling," he replied. "I do understand. Come near, Stephen, my son," and as the young man approached, he joined their hands, and bade them to kneel before him. Then stretching out his hand over the bowed heads, and in a voice trembling with emotion, he gave them his benediction. "May the Lord bless you and keep you," he said. "May the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, and keep you true to Him and to each other unto your lives' end."

Sitting by Mr. Westmore's side that evening, Stephen told the story he had recently related to Nellie. Parson John sat straight upright in his chair, and his eyes never once left Stephen's face.

"And do you tell me!" he cried, when the latter ceased, "that Dan is injured—lying unconscious?"

"He was when Tony left."

"Poor dear boy! and he did it all for me!" murmured the parson. "What a sacrifice to make of his bright young life I I must go to him, Nellie, at once! In the morning! Poor Dan! Poor Dan!"

Thus the three sat for some time talking of the accident and planning for the journey. Not once did Mr. Westmore speak about the recovery of the gold, but that night in the quietness of his own room he poured out his soul, in a great, fervent prayer of thankfulness to the Father above, and also he sought His aid on behalf of a little wounded lad lying on a bed of pain in a farm-house miles away.



Chapter XXX

Beneath the Surface

Across the mouth of Big Creek stream a long double boom cradled the large "R & P" drive. The last log had shot safely down the crooked brook and rested calmly by the side of its companions. There were thousands of them there, scarred and battered by rock and flood; worthy veterans were they, this hardy army of the forest, reposing now after their fierce, mad charge.

The work of the drivers was done, and the last peevy had been tossed with a resounding thud among its companions. A score of men were they who for months had been confined to the lonely life of the woods, and who for days had often been face to face with death. Naturally their eyes turned towards the river some distance away. There on its bank nestled the little town, and there, too, stood the Flood Gate Tavern, the most notorious place in the whole countryside. How often during the winter evenings had they talked of the many wild scenes which had been enacted there, and of the wages of months squandered in a night. Though they talked about the place and cursed it, yet, like moths singed by the candle's flame, they had returned spring after spring to the Hood Gate Tavern to spend the wages needed at home. Their money, too, was awaiting them there in the Company's office. But now they hesitated. Never before had such a thing been known. Formerly there was a rush to the town when the last log had come in.

It was evening as the men stood there, and the sun was hanging low far in the west. The yearning for the tavern was strong—it called, it appealed to them. But another power was holding these rugged drivers in check. Their hearts had been much stirred these last few days, although not one acknowledged it. A little helpless, suffering child was unconsciously restraining the brute nature within them. He was holding them in leash, binding them by strange, invisible cords. In silence they ate their supper in the rafting house near by.

"Boys," said Jake Purdy as the men sat outside smoking. "I'm goin' down town to see if there's any mail. Any of ye comin'?"

It was all that was needed, and at once every man responded. Down the road they marched, their great boots making a heavy thud as they moved along. Into the post office they tramped, and stood around while the few letters were doled out. For Jake, there was one, written by a child's trembling hand. Eagerly he opened it, and, as he read, his face underwent a remarkable change. The rugged lines softened, and when he turned to the men waiting for him, there was no gruffness in his voice.

"'Spose we git our money, lads, an' hike back," he remarked.

"Ay, ay," was the response, but in several hearts there was a keen longing to remain.

Right in front of the Company's office stood the Flood Gate Tavern. The proprietor had been expecting the drivers and was well stocked up. He saw them coming into town and watched them enter the office for their money.

"They'll be here soon, Joe," he said to his assistant, "an' mind ye don't let an opportunity slip. Them bottles must go tonight. I know there'll be lively times about here. Them d—n temperance workers are dead set agin us, an' it looks as if they'd make trouble. But we'll win out tonight, and they can go to ——. Say, here they come. Now for the time—an' money. Oh, they're jist achin' to give me their wages. They won't forgit old Ned, that's sure. Ha, ha!" and the saloon-keeper rubbed his hands with glee.

The drivers were outside the office now, and were casting furtive glances across the way. Big Jake saw the looks and knew the longing which dwelt in their hearts. He drew forth his pipe, stuck his little finger deliberately into the bowl to see how much tobacco it contained.

"Boys," he began, "have yez anything on fer the night?"

"No," came the somewhat surly response, "unless we go over there."

"Don't go," said Jake. "We've spent too much there in past years. Let's save our money fer them wot needs it at home. Let me tell ye somethin'. Comin' down the road from the boom to-night I felt like seven devils. I was jist longin' to git into that saloon an' have a big drink. But as luck 'ud have it I went into the post office first, an' found this here letter. An' who is it from, d'ye think? From me own little sick lassie at home. Look at the writin', boys. Ain't it fine? An' what a letter it is. She says she's waitin' fer me, an' counts the days until I come. Listen to these words: 'Don't go near the saloon, papa. Come straight home, an' bring the money to pay fer the farm. I pray fer you every day, papa, an' I pray fer all the men on the drive, and fer that poor little boy who got hurt.' Ain't them great words, boys?"

"Ay, ay," came the reply, and into several hearts throbbed a desire to be stronger men, and a few brushed their sleeves across their eyes.

"But that ain't all," Jake continued. "She says that little boy wot got hurt belongs to an old man—a parson—an' his beautiful daughter, who have been good to her. They didn't know where the little boy was, but when they found out they was all upsot, an' left in a hurry, but stopped in to say good-bye to my little Doris. That was two days ago, and they must be up there at Big Sam's now. Boys, let me tell ye this: Anyone who is good to my little sick lass is good to me, an' Jake Purdy isn't a man to fergit; yez know that. Now I have a suggestion to make. Instead of spendin' our hard-earned money with that old wretch, Ned, let's go up in a body to the house an' inquire fer the sick lad. We can't do nuthin', I know, but mebbe it'll please the old man an' his daughter to know that we ain't fergotten the brave little boy. An' come to think further it's no mor'n our duty. That lad saved one of us from death, an' the one that was saved, saved me. Boys, ye can do as yez like, but I'm goin' anyway."

There was no hesitation now among these men. With one accord they turned their backs upon the village, and struck along the road leading out into the country. Old Ned, the saloon-keeper, watched them in amazement. Never before had they done such a thing. What would become of all the whisky in those bottles standing on the shelves?

"The idiots!" he yelled. "What's the matter with 'em?"

Bareheaded he rushed out into the street and lifted up his voice.

"Hi! hi!" he shouted.

The drivers paused and looked around.

"Wait!" panted Ned running up to where they were standing.

"What's wrong, old man?" questioned one.

"Wrong! What's wrong with you? Why are ye leavin' without droppin' in to see me? Surely ye ain't goin' to go away without a friendly call?"

"Look here, Ned," replied Jake, acting as spokesman for the others, "we've made too many friendly calls at your place fer our own good. This year we're goin' to cut it out. So go home an' don't interfere."

Had the saloon-keeper been less excited he would have noticed the warning note in Jake's voice, and the sombre looks of the rest. They were in no mood for interruption at the present time. But Ned was blind to all this.

"Ye fools!" he roared, stamping on the ground in his rage. "Will ye let all that good stuff spile down yonder? Surely ye ain't gone an' jined the temperance gang, an' took the pledge?"

Fiercely Jake turned upon him.

"Ned," and his voice was laden with meaning, "will ye go home an' leave us alone?"

"No, h——if I will, unless ye all come back with me."

Jake's eyes turned suddenly to the right. They rested upon a pond of dirty water several feet deep lying there. Like a flash he reached out and caught the saloon-keeper in both hands, lifted him clear of the ground, carried him wriggling and cursing to the edge, and tossed him in like a ball. With a splash and a yell Ned went under, came up puffing and blowing, and dashing the water from his eyes and ears. A shout of derision went up from the drivers.

"Go home now, Ned," they cried. "You've soaked us fer years with yer stuff, an' you've got soaked now. Good-bye."

With that they continued on their way, leaving the victim to scramble out of the pond and make his way home, beaten and crestfallen.

Along the road the drivers marched, then up the hill leading to Big Sam's abode. It was dim twilight as they stood before the house. The evening was balmy, and the front door stood partly open. For a minute they hesitated, and a whispered conversation ensued.

"You go in, Jake. You've got a tongue fer sich things," suggested his companions.

But before a reply could be made there floated out upon the air a sweet voice singing an old familiar hymn. Instinctively every driver pulled off his rough hat, and bowed his shaggy head. It was a woman's voice they heard, low and tender. There was a pleading note in the singer's voice— the cry of a soul for help in trouble.

Little did Nellie realize as she sat by Dan's side this evening, and sang, that she had such attentive listeners. The past two days had been a time of much anxiety. When first she and her father had arrived, Dan did not know them. He was lying upon the bed, his little curly head resting upon the pillow as white as his own white face. Would he ever come out of that stupor? they asked each other time and time again as they sat and watched him. Often he talked, calling aloud for help, and pleading for someone to hurry. Now it was of Tony and again Nellie and Parson John. Occasionally he mentioned his father, and asked why he was so long in coming. The doctor stood by the bedside with an anxious face.

"Do you think he will recover?" Nellie asked.

"I can't say," was the reply. "He has been badly injured. But we should know soon one way or the other. This condition can't go on much longer."

It was hard for Nellie to persuade her father to take any rest. He would insist upon sitting by the bed, and holding Dan's hand.

"Poor, dear boy," he murmured. "Why did you do it? Why did you run such a risk for my sake?"

Once coming quietly into the room Nellie saw her father kneeling by the bedside. His lips were moving in silent prayer. In his heart a deep love had been formed for this little wounded lad. For months past the two had been much together, and the bond of affection had been strongly formed. At length Nellie had persuaded her father to take some rest. He had cast one long, searching look upon the boy's face, and then silently left the room. For some time Nellie sat by Dan's side watching his fitful breathing. One little hand lay outside the quilt. Would it ever work for her again? she wondered. It was a brown hand—the same hand which had reached over and drawn Tony from death. As she sat there the door was quietly pushed open, and Marion stood before her. Her eyes looked towards the bed with a questioning appeal. In her right hand she clutched a little rose. It was the first time she had been in the sick room, and on this evening while her mother was busy she had softly stolen away.

"Give dis to ittle sick boy," she said. "He like pitty woses."

"Come here, dear," Nellie replied, and as the child approached she took the flower, and placed the stem in Dan's doubled-up hand. She did it merely to please Marion, but it thrilled her own heart to behold the little maiden's sweet offering lying in that poor, nerveless fist. "God bless you, darling," she said, drawing Marion to her. "You love the sick boy, don't you?"

"Me love him," came the response, "an' me lore oo. Will Dod make him better?"

"God will do what is best, dearie. You will pray for him, won't you?"

"Me pray for him every night. Will oo sing to Dod to make him better?"

"Why do you wish me to sing?"

"When I'm sick my mamma sings to Dod. I fink He hears better dat way, an' I det better. Will oo sing?"

"If you wish me to, I will."

"Let me det in oor lap den," and Marion, climbing up, made herself perfectly at home.

Nellie was not in a singing mood this evening, but the child's words had touched her. She thought they were alone—just two, to hear. Verse after verses she sang, and as she reached the chorus of the last verse she gave a start of surprise, suddenly ceased, and looked towards the door. A number of men's voices had taken up the chorus, and they were singing, not loud, but as softly as possible:

"Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast, There by His love o'ershadowed Sweetly my soul shall rest."

Nellie had put Marion down now, had risen to her feet, and crossed the room to the door. Almost unconsciously the drivers had joined in that chorus. They had forgotten how it would startle the sweet singer, and when they saw Nellie standing in the doorway they were much abashed. They felt like a group of schoolboys caught in some act of mischief, and they longed to get away.

As Nellie looked upon them, a bright smile illumined her face. She surmised the purpose of their visit, and it pleased her.

"Thank you for that chorus," she said, hardly knowing what else to say. "I didn't know you were here."

"Pardon us, miss," Jake replied, stepping forward. "It wasn't fair of us to be standin' here listenin'. But we couldn't help it. An' when ye sang that old hymn it jist melted us down. We come to inquire about the boy. Mebbe ye'd tell us how he's gettin' along."

"There's no change as yet, that we can see," Nellie replied. "But the doctor says it must come soon one way or the other. Would you like to see him? If you come in one at a time, I don't think it will do any harm."

Without a word Jake followed her into the room, and stood with his hat in his hand looking down upon the bed.

"Poor little chap," he whispered. "Ain't it a pity?"

Hardly had he ceased speaking when Dan suddenly opened his eyes and looked about him in a dazed manner.

"Where—where's my rose?" he cried.

Nellie was by his side in an instant.

"Here, Dan," and she lifted up the flower so he could see it. "Hush now, don't speak."

Dan gave a sigh of relief. He looked wearily around, then his eyes slowly closed, and he passed into a gentle sleep. A step was heard in the room, and the doctor stood by the bed.

"When did the change take place?" he asked.

"Just now," Nellie replied in a low voice.

"It is well. The crisis is past. He must have perfect quietness. We'll pull him through now, for sure."

Jake waited to hear no more. He stole from the house, and motioned to his companions. Silently they moved away and strode back to the camp. They were rough men outwardly, this score of river drivers, but a glimpse had been seen beneath the surface. Their hearts had been stirred as never before, and they were not ashamed.



Chapter XXXI

Light at Eventide

It was a bright buoyant day, with scarcely a cloud to be seen. Not a breath of wind stirred the air, and every nimble leaf was still. The river flowed on its way, its glassy surface mirroring the numerous trees along its banks. Across the fields, fresh with the young green grass, came the sweet incense wafted up from countless early flowers.

Several people stood before the Rectory, beneath the shade of a large horse-chestnut tree. Their eyes were turned up the road with an eager, watchful expression. Across the gateway a rude arch had been formed, and upon it the words "Welcome Home" in large white letters had been painted, while evergreens and leaves lavishly decorated the whole. It was Glendow's preparation for the return of their absent Rector and his daughter.

Numerous changes had taken place since the night on which the gold had been found in the safe. The store was now closed and the Farringtons had departed. There had been many threats made by the defeated storekeeper, but they amounted to nothing. Glendow had been aroused, and the one desire which filled all hearts was to have their old Rector back again. They realized as never before the sterling character of the man they had suspected, and what a true friend they had lost. Dan's accident soon reached their ears, and all breathed a prayer of thankfulness when news arrived of his recovery. Nothing short of a reception must take place, and so now more than threescore people, old and young, stood anxiously awaiting the arrival.

"There they come," shouted one, and far up the road a cloud of dust could he seen, and soon a carriage was observed bowling along, containing Parson John, Nellie and Dan.

Their eyes opened wide with amazement as they drew near, saw the cheering crowd, and drove beneath the overhanging arch. Silently they alighted and grasped the numerous outstretched hands. The past was forgotten in the joy of the present, and the shepherd and his flock were once again united.

"It all seems like a wonderful dream," said Parson John to Nellie as they sat that evening together after the others had departed. "We went out as culprits, with only a few to bid us good-bye, and now we come home to the love of our people. Surely the Lord has been good to us, and has led us by ways that we knew not. Truly His ways are not our ways, and He does all things well."

Dan speedily recovered his former strength and his old-time spirit. He was like a new lad. The weight which had pressed upon him so long had been removed. He felt he was no longer a sponger, a useless being. His longing to read and write increased, and as the days passed he made rapid progress. Mr. Westmore loved to have the boy by his side and would often read to him, and Dan would always listen with deep wonder. New fields of knowledge were being gradually opened of which he knew nothing.

"When I grow to be a big man will I know all about those things?" he one day asked, when Mr. Westmore had been reading to him from an interesting book of History.

"That all rests with yourself, Dan," was the reply. "If you want to know, you can. But it will mean hard work. There is no royal road to learning."

"Then I'm going to learn," Dan emphatically responded, and from that day Mr. Westmore began to plan for the boy's future as he had never done before.

One evening about sundown, several weeks later, Nellie and her father were sitting on the veranda. It was a sultry night, and far in the distance faint rumblings of thunder could be heard.

"A storm is coming," Nellie remarked. "I hope Mr. Larkins will get back from the office before it reaches us."

Hardly had she spoken ere a step sounded upon the gravel walk and Mr. Larkins appeared.

"We were just speaking about you," Nellie exclaimed, and now you are here."

"You know the old saying," he laughingly replied.

"Have a seat, do," and Mr. Westmore pushed forward a rustic chair.

"No, thank you, I have some chores to do before the storm breaks. Here is your mail. Several papers and only one letter."

"It's from my boy out west," Mr. Westmore remarked after Mr. Larkins had gone. "We've had little news from him lately. I hope nothing's wrong."

His hand trembled slightly as he opened the letter and unfolded several sheets of paper within. Nellie picked up one of the papers, a daily from the city, and was soon engrossed in its pages. An exclamation from her father caused her to look quickly up. The expression on his face was one of joy. It was that of a man from whom a heavy burden of care has been unexpectedly lifted.

"Nellie, Nellie!" he cried. "Good news from Philip! He's won his case! The mine is ours beyond dispute, and it is far richer than was at first believed. Read it for yourself," and he eagerly thrust the letter into her hand.

Trembling with excitement Nellie did as she was commanded. The first part of the letter told about the long, stern fight which had been made, and of the victory which had been won.

"You little know, father dear," Philip wrote in conclusion, "what this will mean to us all. Upon my suggestion you invested your all in this mine, and at one time it looked as if we would lose everything. But now all that is changed. I am a rich man to-day and you will no longer want for anything. Your investment will be increased a hundredfold, and you will make more in one year than you have made in your whole life. As soon as I get matters in a settled condition I hope to come home for a short visit, and then. I shall be able to tell you everything in detail."

For some time Nellie held the letter silently in her hand. Her father was sitting near with a far-away look in his eyes. Gone were time and place. He was thinking of the day he had bidden Philip good-bye. He saw the mother clasping her only son to her heart, and it was the last good-bye. What hopes and fears had been theirs concerning their absent boy. What struggles had been his out in the great busy world, and how often had his home letters been weighted with despair. Many and many a night had they knelt together and lifted up their voices in prayer on Philip's behalf. Now she was gone. Oh, to have her there by his side to share his joy! A mistiness rose before his eyes, and several tears stole down his furrowed cheeks. Hastily he drew forth his handkerchief and brushed them away. Nellie noticed his embarrassed manner, and surmised the cause. Going over to where he was sitting she put her arms about his neck and gave him a loving kiss.

"You have me, father dear," she said, "and nothing but death can separate us."

"I know it, darling. I know it," was the reply. "I am somewhat unsettled to-night. This news is so sudden. To think that Philip has conquered! Now you shall have many comforts which have been denied you so long."

"Don't say that, father dear. What comforts have been denied me? My whole life has been surrounded by love. We have our little home here, with books and music in the winter, and the sweet flowers and birds in the summer. Does not happiness, father, consist in enjoying the good things around us? Not for my sake am I glad that this good fortune has come, but for yours. If Philip is correct, and we are to have more money than ever before, you will be able to rest and enjoy life to the full."

"Nellie, Nellie! What do you mean? Do I understand you aright? Do you wish me to give up my work?"

"But you need rest, father. You have laboured so long, surely you can afford to let someone else do it now."

"No, no. The Lord needs me yet. There is much work for me to do. Life to me is in ministering to others. During those long days at Morristown, when that cloud overshadowed us, how wretched was my life. Nothing to do—only to sit with folded hands while others waited upon me. I shudder when I think of that time. No, let me be up and doing, and God grant I may die in harness, and not rust out in miserable disuse."

"But you should have an assistant, father," Nellie suggested, "and he can give you great help."

"I have been thinking of that, dear. It seems now as if one great wish of my life is to be granted. I have always longed to give several years to God's service, without being chargeable to any one. Oh, to go among my people, to comfort them, not as a servant, a hireling paid to do such things, but as a shepherd who loves his flock, and whose reward is in doing the Master's work, for the good of others. The people may pay the assistant, but not me. I wish to be free, free for God's service."

Footsteps were now heard approaching, and in a minute more Stephen stood before them. The flush of joy that suffused Nellie's face told of the happiness in her heart.

"Welcome, Stephen, my son," said Parson John, reaching out his hand. "Your visit is timely when our cup of joy is full to the brim and running over. We have not seen you for two whole days. Where have you kept yourself?"

"Why, Stephen has been to the city," was Nellie's laughing response. "Didn't I tell you how he had gone with his logs?"

"Dear me, so you did. How stupid of me to forget."

"Yes," said Stephen, "my winter's work is all settled and I have come now to make the first payment on the farm. There it is. Please count it," and the young man placed a bulky envelope into his Rector's hand. "That is a token of my new life, and with God's help it shall continue."

For several minutes Mr. Westmore held the package in his hand without once looking upon it.

"Sit down, Stephen," he at length commanded. "I have something to say—to you—and I feel I can say it now with a clear conscience. Since the day I paid the four thousand dollars for your homestead, people have been wondering where I obtained the money, and they certainly had good reason to wonder. They knew I had invested all I could gather together in that mine in British Columbia, and that I could pay down such an amount was very puzzling. It is only right that you and Nellie should hear the truth from my own lips. You well know," he continued after a pause, "that your father was a very dear friend of mine. We had grown up as boys together. We knew each other's affairs intimately, and we often discussed the future. Your father made considerable money, and had a fairly large bank account. One day he came to me—only several months before his death—and we had a most serious talk together. He seemed to have some premonition that he would not be much longer upon earth, and was most anxious that I should consent to a plan which he had in his mind. He was fearful lest after his death something should go wrong. He knew what a headstrong lad you were, Stephen, and what a temptation it would be to spend recklessly his hard-earned money. He therefore wished me to act as trustee, with another firm friend who is living in the city, and to place in the bank in our names the sum of six thousand dollars. This was to be left there, unknown to others, until you proved yourself to be a man in every sense of the word. In case of disaster or trouble we were to use the money at our discretion for the welfare of the family and not to allow your mother or sister to come to want. That, in brief, is the substance of the plan. At first I did not feel like undertaking such a responsibility. But your father was so insistent I at last consented. I need hardly tell you the rest, for you know it already. I could not, in justice to your father's express wish, divulge the secret until I was sure that you had taken a firm grip of life. You needed to be tested, to pass through the fire. Now I know you can he depended upon, and so I give you back this money, Keep it; it is yours, and may God bless you. Part of the balance which remained in the bank we used on Nora with such splendid results. The rest shall be handed over to your mother, and I shall thus be relieved of all responsibility. Will that be satisfactory to you?"

Mr. Westmore ceased, and held forth the envelope. Stephen had risen now and was standing erect. His hands remained clasped before him.

"Take it," said the parson.

"No," was the reply, "I cannot."

"You cannot? It is yours!"

"Yes, I know that. But remember, I have undertaken to pay back that four thousand dollars. Through my recklessness I made it necessary to use my dear father's hard-earned money. Not a cent will I touch until the full amount is restored, and if I have my health it shall be done. Do not urge me any more. Put that money where it belongs. It may take me some time to pay all, but not until it is accomplished shall I feel satisfied."

"Stephen, Stephen!" cried the parson, "give me your hand. Now I know that you are in earnest. I shall do as you desire. My heart is full of joy to-night. May God be glorified for all His blessings. I shall away to rest now, for the many wonders of the day have tired me much."

The storm which had been threatening rolled to westward. Far off the moon rose slowly above the horizon. The night was still. Everything betokened peace. On the little veranda sat the two young lovers hand in hand. Heart responded to heart, and time was no more. The present and the future were blended. The rapture of living was theirs, for where love reigns there is life in all its fulness.

THE END