"You are kept busy as a rule, I suppose?"

"Yes, always mending something. I have been doing it for over thirty years now, and there is never any let-up."

"You must get very tired of it at times."

"No, I can't say I do. It gives me plenty of time to think as I sit here alone in my little shop. I often wish that I could mend everything in life as easily as I can a pair of shoes."

"Why, do you find things out of joint?" Douglas queried. "You haven't seen much of the world, I suppose?"

"I don't have to travel to see the world, sir," and Joe paused in his work and looked earnestly into his visitor's face. "I can see the world right in this parish; that is, as much as I want to see of it."

"And you think there are many things here which need to be mended?"

"I certainly do. My heart is heavy all the time over the sad condition of this parish. The church is closed; the bell is never rung; and the rectory is falling into decay. But they are merely outward signs of the real state of the community. The people do not worship any more, and the children never go to Sunday school. With this spiritual sloth has come a great moral decline, and there are all kinds of sins and evil things committed of which we, as a rule, were free years ago."

"What is the cause of all this?" Douglas enquired.

"There are various reasons. The most important, I suppose, is the lack of the right kind of a clergyman, who would understand the people, and be a real leader. If he could win the sympathy of the majority in this parish, the rest might be overcome."

"But didn't you have good men in the past?"

"Oh, yes, we've always had good men in a way. But of late years the ones we had, as I said, didn't understand the people, and as far as I could see didn't try. They knew nothing about the country ways, and considered themselves above their people. They were always looking for some better field, and made no bones of saying so. They used no tact at all."

"But didn't the people try to help and encourage them?" Douglas asked. He was beginning to feel that Joe was looking all on one side.

"Most of the people did at first, sir, and I think that things would have come around all right if they had been let alone." Joe paused and examined the stitches he had just put in the trace. "But," he continued, "there's an influence in this parish which has to be reckoned with. I'm not going to say what it is, but if you stay here long enough you'll soon find out for yourself."

"And that influence, whatever it is, would make it hard, then, for any clergyman to work here? Is that what I gather from your words?"

"That's just it."

Douglas longed to know what this influence really was, but he felt it would be better not to enquire further just then. No doubt the shoe-maker had some good reason for not telling what he knew. The only thing, therefore, was for him to find out for himself.

"You must miss the services of the Church very much," he at length remarked.

"I do, I certainly do," Joe emphatically replied. "Though I have service in my own house every Sunday morning, yet it doesn't seem just the same as in the House of God."

"Do any of the neighbours come?"

"Not one, though I've often invited them. My wife and I are the only two since Jean left us."

"Is she your daughter?"

"Yes, the youngest, and the last of the girls to go from home. We always had a hymn or two when she was here, for Jean had a fine voice." A far-away look came into the old man's eyes as he uttered these words. There was a gleam of pride, as well, showing how much he thought of this daughter.

"Where is she now?" Douglas asked.

"She's in the city. She's been in the hospital there nigh on to three years, training to be a nurse. We're looking for her home now any day. I hope you'll meet her, sir, for my Jean is a comely girl, and as good as she is beautiful. We have been very lonely without her. She always took such an interest in Church matters, and taught in the Sunday school. The children loved her, and she did so much good. I'm not much use in the place, as I have to stay here all the time just mending things. But, Jean! my, she was a power!"

"May I come to your service next Sunday?" Douglas asked as he rose to go.

Into Joe's eyes leaped a look of pleasure.

"Would you care to come?"

"Indeed I should."

"Can you sing?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then you're doubly welcome. It will be great for us to have a stranger join in our simple service."

As Douglas moved towards the door, his attention was arrested by a picture on the wall of the Good Shepherd rescuing a lamb from a dangerous place. He looked at it for a minute in silence.

"Fine picture, that," Joe remarked, as he rose from his bench and came over to the young man's side. "It means very much to me."

"Yes, I suppose so," Douglas absently replied.

"I was just like that lamb there, once," Joe continued in a voice that was low, yet filled with emotion. "I was the wandering sheep, if ever there was one." Here he paused and gazed intently at the picture. "I like to have it before me as I work. It tells me what I once was, and how much He has done for me. It makes me both thankful and careful, and it gives me a feeling of sympathy for any one who has gone astray."

Douglas walked slowly down the road, wrapped in thought. His conversation with the old shoe-maker had done him a world of good. But Joe's little glimpse of his past life was what affected him most of all. How many other wandering sheep there were in the world, nay, in this very parish, he mused. They were straying, as sheep without a shepherd. Some one must bring them back, and who would that some one be?



CHAPTER VIII

HOME FOR REPAIRS

It was Sunday morning, and for the first time since coming to Rixton Douglas felt discontented. It was a most beautiful day, with not a ripple ruffling the surface of the river. A great peace and quietness reigned everywhere, and yet there was something lacking. He could not remember when he had awakened to the Day of Rest and found himself unable to attend the service of his Church. It did not seem right, so he mused, as he stood in front of the house looking down upon the neglected church, that he should not minister to the people. And yet he realised that it would upset all his plans if he attempted such a thing now.

He strolled over to the rectory, and walked through the fields. How he longed to repair the building and cultivate the land. He pictured to himself the vegetables he might raise, and how the whole place could be made a most delightful spot. With a suitable housekeeper, he could have a happy home, visiting his people, caring for his garden, and with some spare time for reading and study.

Hitherto, Douglas had not thought much about any one other than a paid house-keeper. But now a feeling stole into his heart that he would like to have some one else to grace the rectory—a wife, who would make it a real home. Of all the women he had met, he could not think of one he would care to marry, or who in turn would wish to be his wife. He smiled at this idea, thinking that he was becoming sentimental. To shake off the notion, he walked rapidly across the fields toward the church. He had not visited it before, but viewed it only at a distance. Everything around the building spoke of neglect. The graveyard was thick with bushes, long grass and weeds. He observed several new-made graves, and wondered what clergyman had conducted the funeral services. The church needed painting, and the roof reshingling. He tried the big front door, but found it fastened. Through one of the side windows he was enabled to obtain a partial view of the interior. The ceiling and walls were stained, and in places the plaster had fallen off and was lying on the floor. The sight saddened him, so sitting down under the shade of a big maple tree he gazed thoughtfully at the church. What labour and high ideals had gone into the erection of that building, he mused, and how the whole parish must have rejoiced when it was completed. He pictured the animated scene on the day of its consecration, and what a crowd must have been present. He thought, too, of the part it had taken in the life of the community during the long years it had been standing there; of the baptisms, weddings, and burials, and how many had been helped by the services in this, their spiritual home. But now it was deserted, the bell rusting overhead, and the door securely locked.

For some time Douglas sat there thinking of such things. Then he rose and moved away. He needed a brisk walk to shake off the feeling of depression that had taken possession of him. Going home to the house, he found Jake stretched out comfortably under the shade of an apple tree. Douglas sat down by his side.

"Been down to the church?" Jake enquired.

"Yes. It's pretty well deserted, isn't it? You must have had several funerals lately. Who attended the services?"

"Oh, a parson from Mapledale fer two of 'em, an' Joe Benton read the service over little Bennie Clark."

"You must feel lost without any service in the church," Douglas remarked.

"Naw, not a bit, though I must say I did like to hear the bell ring. I hain't been to church fer over three years."

"Why?"

"I didn't like the last parson we had, nor the style of them who set themselves up as great Christians."

"What about Joe Benton?"

"Oh, he's all right as fer as he's concerned, an' so is his wife. But what has religion done fer their family, I'd like to know? Their boys are all wild, an' I've heard stories about the girls since they left home."

Jake paused and bit thoughtfully at a blade of grass he was holding in his hand.

"But it ain't the Bentons I'm thinkin' so much about," he continued. "There are others. Look at Mike Gibband, fer instance, an' him a churchwarden, too. Why, he swears like a trooper, an' would do a man a mean trick whenever he could. I could tell ye what he did to poor widder Stanley."

"What was wrong with the last clergyman you had?" Douglas questioned.

"Well, he was mighty stuck up, an' thought it beneath himself to soil his nice white hands at anything. You should have seen the way he kept his barn over there. Why, it was a fright. An' as fer his knowledge of farmin', he didn't know a thing, and as fer as I could see he didn't want to. Bless my soul, he couldn't tell a bean from a pea, nor a carrot from a turnip."

"But a man might not know anything about such things and yet be a good clergyman," Douglas reasoned.

"That's very true," and Jake ran his fingers through his hair. "We would have overlooked sich things if he had been all right as a parson. But he wasn't, fer he used no tact, an' got Si Stubbles down on him, an' so that finished him as fer as this parish is concerned."

"Did all the people follow Mr. Stubbles in disliking the clergyman?"

"Nearly all of them."

"Why was that?"

Jake looked quizzically at his companion before replying. Douglas thought of Joe Benton's action when Stubbles had been mentioned, and his interest was now much aroused.

"I guess ye'll need to understand this parish quite a bit better before ye can git that question answered," Jake explained. "Ye'll have to know more about Si Stubbles, too."

"He rules things here, then?"

"Should say he does."

"So any clergyman who wishes to get along in this parish must keep on the good side of Mr. Stubbles?"

"That's jist it. He must knuckle down to him or git out."

"But why do the people allow that?"

"Allow what?"

"Mr. Stubbles to rule things in such a way?"

"H'm, they can't help it. Why, Si Stubbles owns most of the people in this place, body an' soul. The men work fer him in the woods in the winter time, an' in his mill the rest of the year. They git nearly everything at his store, an' are generally in debt to him, so that's where he has 'em. What Si says goes in this parish, an' any one who bucks him has to git out. Several tried it in the past, but they didn't stay here long. Things got too hot fer 'em. It pays a man to keep on the good side of Si, if he expects to hold on here."

"You must be independent of him, though. You have your farm, and do not look to him for anything."

"Not a bit of it. I'm in his clutches jist as much as the rest of the folks. He buys all of my stuff, an' I haul logs fer him in the winter. It means quite a bit to me. An' besides, if Si should git down on me, why all the rest would do so, too. He's got us all in the same box."

"So, it's chiefly through him, then, that the church is closed in this parish?"

"That's about it."

"But why doesn't some other man come, say a Methodist or Baptist minister? Surely all of the people here do not belong to the Church of England?"

"Most of 'em do, but there's a sprinklin' of Baptists and Methodies, with here an' there a Presbyterian. Their men did come, an' started meetin's. But they didn't stay long when Si once got after 'em. He boasts that he is a loyal member of the Church of England, an' a church warden, so he can't stand any other form of 'ligion."

"Oh, I see," Douglas mused. "It's a case of the dog in the manger."

"Put it any way ye like," Jake replied, as he once more stretched himself out on the grass. "Si Stubbles rules this place, an' I guess will rule it as long as he stays here."

Douglas looked at his watch and rose suddenly to his feet. It was later than he had imagined.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, "and will not be back for dinner."

"Where will ye git anything to eat?" Jake asked.

"Oh, I'll pick up a bite somewhere. But if I don't, I won't starve, as I had such a good breakfast."

Douglas walked rapidly up the road, for he wanted to be in time for the service at the shoe-maker's, and he had only a quarter of an hour to get there. He saw, in passing, what he supposed was the Stubbles' home. It was a large house with the grounds well kept, and surrounded by fine trees. He observed several people upon the spacious verandah, who watched him as he went by. He longed to see Stubbles, that he might judge for himself what kind of a man he was. Perhaps he was not such a terrible person, after all, and one with a little common sense and tact might handle him all right.

When Douglas reached Joe's place, he was surprised to find the door of his little shop partly open. Peering in, he saw the old man in his accustomed place, with his head buried in his hands. Thinking that he might be sick, Douglas entered and asked him what was the matter. Somewhat startled, Joe lifted his head and Douglas was shocked at the haggard expression, upon his face, and the look of wretched misery in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder. "Are you ill?"

"Jean's coming home," was the low reply.

"So you told me. Isn't that good news?"

"Ah, but she's coming not as I expected. She's coming home for repairs."

"For repairs! I do not understand."

"Read that, then," and Joe handed him a letter, all soiled with tears. "It's from Jean herself."

It took Douglas but a few minutes to read the scrawl, and grasp the meaning. It told of failure in the city, and that she was coming home to the care of her parents. It was easy for Douglas to read between the lines, and he knew that more was contained there than appeared on the surface.

"She's coming to-morrow," the old man moaned. "My Jean coming home for repairs!" His body shook from the vehemence of his emotion, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Perhaps she is only sick, and needs home care," Douglas soothed, though in his heart he well knew it was worse than that.

Joe made no reply, but sat very still looking straight before him. His eyes were fixed upon the picture of the Good Shepherd saving the wandering lamb. A struggle was evidently going on in his mind, and it seemed that he needed that scene to help him. At length he rose slowly from the bench, and turned toward a door on the right.

"We will have service now," he quietly remarked. "We would consider it an honour to have you join us."

Douglas followed him through the kitchen into a little room beyond, where Mrs. Benton was sitting rocking herself in a splint-bottom chair. She arose as they entered, and held out her hand to the visitor. She was a small woman, dressed in plain clothes. But Douglas had eyes only for her face which, though wrinkled and care-worn, bore an expression of great sweetness, and her eyes shone with loving sympathy. She had been weeping, but she hastily brushed away her tears with the corner of her apron, as she bade the stranger welcome and offered him a chair.

On a little table rested two well-worn volumes, a Bible and a Prayer Book. Here the shoe-maker took his stand and reverently began to read the service. His voice was low, though distinct, and he seemed to feel deeply every word he uttered. Never had Douglas been so impressed by any service. He knew how the hearts of these two people were bleeding, and yet here they were taking their sorrow to the Master and laying it at His feet.

"Would you mind reading the lesson?" Joe asked, handing Douglas the opened Bible. "That is the chapter," and he placed his finger upon the page. "My eyes seem a bit dim of late."

A feeling of compunction smote Douglas' heart as he took the Book and began to read. What a deceiver he was, and what would these two sincere people think if they knew who he really was? Was he right in coming to Rixton in such a guise? he asked himself. Would it not have been better and more manly to have come in his official capacity instead of as a spy? But the thought of the failure of his predecessors somewhat soothed his troubled conscience. If the majority of the people were like the Bentons, it would be different. There was a disease of some kind in the parish, and as a physician of souls he felt that it was necessary for him to understand what it was before he could expect to effect a cure.

When the service was over, Douglas rose to go.

"Won't you stay and have a bite with us?" Joe asked.

"Please do stay," Mrs. Benton pleaded. "We are lonely to-day, and it is so nice to have you with us."

Knowing that they were sincere in their request, Douglas remained, and joined them in their humble repast. They sat and talked for a long time when the meal was finished, and Douglas learned much about the history of the Benton family, especially Jean. Being the youngest, and the last to leave home, she was very dear to them. No further reference was made to the letter they had received, nor of her home-coming. They dwelt upon her life as a child, and the part she had taken in the Sunday school, and other Church work in the parish. But it was quite easy for Douglas to see that their hearts were almost broken, and the pathetic look in their eyes told more than many words of the thoughts the lips could not express.



CHAPTER IX

EVENING GLOW

It was the middle of the afternoon when Douglas bade the Bentons good-by and walked slowly down the road. He had many things to consider, and he wished to be off somewhere by himself. His visit to the shoe-maker's had been like a benediction, and the wonderful faith he had witnessed there, combined with the words of brave courage to which he had listened, rebuked his doubts and fears. He had been strongly tempted to give up and run away from what he knew to be his duty. He had planned to live only for himself, and wander wherever his spirit might lead. But now a longing came upon him to stay and help those two old lonely people, and comfort them in their time of need. It was the first link which was to bind him to this parish, the golden link of divine sympathy. Little did he realise that afternoon what the next link would be in his life's mystic chain.

It was a hot day and the river looked alluring and refreshing. He thought of the big tree down by the shore, and of its cooling shade. He decided to spend the rest of the afternoon there, alone with his thoughts and his violin. There was something in his soul which he could express only upon his beloved instrument. He had played very little since coming to Rixton. Twice he had amazed the Jukes' children with lively airs, and one evening he had played for their parents. He smiled to himself as he thought of its soothing effect upon Jake who had fallen asleep in his chair.

There was no sign of life in the house as he entered. Mrs. Jukes and the children had gone to visit a neighbour, and Jake was sound asleep upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Going at once to his little room, Douglas took his violin out of its case, and, carrying it under his arm, he slipped quietly out of the house and made his way swiftly down over the fields toward the river.

He was very hot and it was refreshing to sit under the shade of the tree with his back against the big ice-scarred trunk. In fact, he was so comfortable that he had no inclination to play upon his violin which was lying by his side. It was good to sit there and think. Again the old lure of the freedom of a wandering life swept upon him, and the impression the Bentons had made gradually diminished. His eyes followed several swallows as they darted here and there. What a happy free-from-care life they must lead, he mused. They come and go at will, and in a few weeks they will be speeding away to the sunny southland. Why should the birds have privileges greater than human beings?

And as he sat there a drowsiness stole over him which he made no effort to resist. In a few minutes the world of sight and sound was blotted out, and he slept. He awakened with a start and looked around. Then he glanced at his watch and found that it was four o'clock, and that he must have been asleep for about half an hour. What was it that aroused him? he wondered. No one was in sight, and he could hear nothing. A sense of loneliness suddenly took possession of him. Almost mechanically, he picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings. At first, he played several old familiar hymns, but ere long he drifted off into dreamland to the varying fancies of heart and mind. On and on he played, unheeding time and place. The music varied, now soft and low, and again rising to grand triumphant strains.

At length he paused, and looked quickly around. A feeling possessed him that he was being watched. Neither was he mistaken, for a girl at once stepped forth from behind a clump of bushes and advanced toward him. He felt sure he had seen her before, but just where he could not at the moment remember. She was very beautiful, and her face glowed with animation, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

"Oh, I heard you," she laughingly began. "You thought you were alone, did you?"

"I certainly did," Douglas replied. "But I am delighted to see you, as I was getting tired of my own company. Do you like music?"

"I like yours, oh, so much! I can never forget the first time I heard you play."

"Heard me play!" Douglas repeated in surprise. "When was that?"

"Why, don't you remember?" and the girl's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "It was that awful night in the city when my father was playing, and you came and took the violin from him, and——"

"You don't mean to tell me that you are that girl?" Douglas interrupted, as he leaped to his feet. "Why, yes, you are the very same though not so pale and frightened. I knew I had seen you somewhere before, but could not remember just where."

"Isn't it funny!" and the girl's silvery laugh rang out. "How in the world did you happen to come here?"

"Oh, I'm working for Jake Jukes, that's all."

"I know that. You're the man who put him on his back. My, you must be a great wrestler!"

"Why, who told you about that?" Douglas smilingly questioned.

"Empty, of course. He knows everything that goes on in this place."

"And tells it, too?"

"Why, yes. He's as good as a newspaper. Nell says we wouldn't know what is going on but for Empty."

"Who is Nell?"

"She's my sister, and she's reading to daddy now, in front of the house. You must come with me at once and see her, for I've told her about you a thousand times."

"About me!"

"Yes. How you played on the street, and were so good to us. And daddy will be so glad to meet you, too, for he has been feeling so badly ever since that night that he didn't thank you for your kindness."

The girl's face was flushed with excitement, and she was anxious to rush off to tell of the great discovery she had made. But she wished to take her prize with her, and Douglas was nothing loath to go, as he longed to meet the old man he had seen in the city. He believed that he was Andy Strong, of whom Jake had spoken, and who had "a great deal to say about churches, 'ligion an' parsons," and who was "down on 'em all." He felt that he must be prepared for another wrestling match far different from his bout with Jake. He might find in this blind musician an able opponent, and it would be well for him to be on his guard.

The girl was delighted when Douglas, tucking his violin under his arm, walked along by her side. She was an excellent companion and chatted incessantly.

"This is where we skate in the winter," she told him, pointing to the river. "Oh, it is such fun when the ice is good. The boys come at night and build great fires and we skate around them."

"Do you go to school?" Douglas asked when the girl paused an instant.

"Not now. You see, I have to help Nell, and that takes much of my time. But daddy teaches me. He is a great scholar, and knows most everything. He was a college professor before he became blind."

"Was he?" Douglas asked in surprise. "At what college?"

"Passdale; and it was such a lovely place. My dear mother died when we were there. I was only a little girl when we left, but I remember it well. Nell was at college when father became blind, and she felt so badly about coming away before she could graduate."

"And have you lived here ever since?"

"Oh, yes. There is no other place for us to go."

"Do you like it?"

"Sure. I am happy wherever daddy and Nell are. We have such great times together. But here we are right at the house. It wasn't far, was it?"

Douglas did not reply for he was held spell-bound by the beautiful and interesting scene before him. In a comfortable arm-chair sat the blind musician listening intently to what his daughter was reading. She was seated upon the ground by his side, with a book lying in her lap. It was only for an instant, however, that Douglas was privileged to watch her unobserved, but it was sufficient for him to note the rare charm of her face and form.

"Oh, daddy! Nell!" the girl cried as she rushed forward. "You can't guess who is here?"

At these words the fair reader lifted her head and her eyes rested upon the stranger.

"It's the man who played for us in the city," the girl explained. "Isn't it wonderful that I have found him!"

An expression of pleasure swept over the young woman's face, as she at once rose to her feet and held out her hand.

"Any one who has befriended my father and sister is welcome here," she quietly remarked. "Father," and she turned partly around, "this is the man you have told us so much about. Nan has brought him to see you."

"I am delighted to meet you, sir," the old man replied, as he took Douglas' hand. "I have wanted to thank you ever since that night you helped us in the city. Get Mr.——"

"Handyman," Douglas assisted.

"Handyman, that's a good name. Nan, get him a chair and make him comfortable."

"I am sorry that I have interrupted the reading, sir," Douglas apologised. "It was your daughter who brought me here. I do not need a chair, as I prefer to sit upon the ground."

"I am so pleased that you have come," the old man replied. "You must have supper with us. We have it out here on the grass when the afternoon is fine and warm. Come, Nell, get it ready."

"Please do not go to any trouble on my account," Douglas protested.

"It is no trouble," Nell assured him. "It is father's supper time, anyway. He always like to have it early, especially on Sunday. You two can have a nice chat together. Come, Nan, I want you."

As Douglas looked around he was surprised to find what a beautiful spot it really was. The house nestled in the midst of fine elm and maple trees. Surrounding the house was a garden, consisting of vegetables and berries of several kinds. Part of the land was in grass, not yet cut. About the place was a strong page wire fence which extended almost to the river.

"You have a beautiful place here, sir," Douglas remarked.

"Indeed it is. A happy home and a perfect day; what more could one desire? 'The Lord hath done great things for us already, whereof we rejoice'."

Douglas gave a slight start of surprise as the old man slowly uttered these words. Surely, if he were an unbeliever he would not quote Scripture in such a reverent manner.

"It is good that you can view it that way, sir. Few people ever think of being thankful for what they receive."

"That is where they make a sad mistake. I have learned through long years that Ezra of old was right when he told the people to turn from weeping and to 'drink the sweet.' Before this blindness came upon me I was something like Saul of Tarsus, always kicking against the pricks, or in other words, the dictates of conscience! 'Before I was afflicted, I went astray,' as the psalmist sang. But I have viewed things in a different light since then, and though the Father's hand has been heavy upon me, it was for my good, and for which I am most thankful. The great Master's warning to Simon is most applicable to me. 'When thou wast young,' He said, 'thou girdest thyself, and walkest whither thou wouldest; but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.'"

"You are well versed in Scripture, I see," Douglas remarked as the old man paused.

"And why not? It is the one Book from which I have drawn the greatest inspiration. It, and the works of the immortal bard of Avon are the books I recommended above all others to the students of my class. Not only for the great uplifting influence, but for the wonderful language, I advised them to drink deeply of those profound wells of purest English."

"What did you teach at college?" Douglas enquired.

"English Literature, as you can easily guess from my remarks. I was at Passdale for over fifteen years."

"You must miss such work now."

"Not at all. I have other interests to occupy my time, and my present leisure affords me the opportunity of carrying out a work which has long been in my mind."

"And what is that?"

"It is the re-writing and revising of my notes on the plays of Shakespeare. It is well advanced now, and a noted publisher, a special friend of mine, will publish it as soon as it is completed."

"You must have found your blindness a great handicap, sir."

"You and others might think so," and the old man smiled. "But there is an ancient proverb which tells us that when God closes a door he always opens a window. It was so with sightless Milton, and though I do not class myself with him, nevertheless, it has been true in my case. It was Emerson who gave us that wonderful essay on Compensation, and he knew whereof he wrote."

"But how have you managed to prepare this work of yours?" Douglas questioned. "You surely must have had some assistance."

"Nell has been my guardian angel ever since my blindness. She does all my writing, reads the plays and my notes to refresh my memory. She was reading King Lear this afternoon, and I was much stirred by the sad trials of the poor old king. I mentally compared my lot with his and found that the advantage is mine. He had no home, two ungrateful daughters, and, as far as I can learn, no 'shadow of a rock in a weary land.' I have a comfortable dwelling, small though it is, two good and loving daughters, a work which gives me great pleasure, and the hope of a sure abiding place not made with hands. What more could a man desire?"

"You are indeed to be congratulated," Douglas replied. "And much pleasure lies ahead of you when your book is published. You will have the satisfaction of knowing that it will be of great interest and assistance to many. I, for one, shall look forward to reading it."

"Will you really?" and the old man's face beamed with pleasure. "But perhaps you would like to see it in manuscript? I have not shown it to any one outside my own household. You are the first I have talked to in this way about my work. Nell! Nan!" he called.

"What is it, father?" Nell asked, as she at that instant appeared carrying a large tray in her hands.

"Bring the work, Nell. I want to show it to Mr. Handyman."

"Suppose you wait until after supper, father," his daughter suggested. "Everything is all ready, and when we are through, you can show it to Mr. Handyman."

"But I need it now."

"Very well, then," and Nell gave the order to Nan.

It took but a few minutes to spread the white cloth upon the grass and arrange the dishes.

"I am afraid this is a very humble supper," Nell apologised, as she sat down upon the ground and began to pour the tea.

"Surely you do not call this humble!" Douglas replied. "It has been a long time since I have seen such bread and cake. And what delicious strawberries!"

"They are Nell's," the professor proudly explained. "She is the gardener here."

"What about Nan, father? You must give her some credit."

"Oh, I don't count, especially when it comes to farming," and Nan gave her pretty head a slight toss. "I'm willing to let Nell take all the credit."

Douglas felt perfectly at home now. It was such a bright and happy time, and he was sorry when the meal was finished. He could not understand the mystery surrounding the visit of the professor and his daughter to the city, begging on the streets for money. Why had they done it? he asked himself, when they seemed to have everything that they needed.

"Now, Nan, bring me my box of cigars," her father ordered when supper was over.

"Cigars!" the girl exclaimed in surprise. "Why, daddy, you have been keeping them as if they were precious jewels."

"I know it, dear. But jewels must be used sometime, and so must cigars. I have kept them for rare days, and this is one of them. Since my old friend Dr. Royden visited me, I have had no one to take a keen interest in my work until to-day. When he sent me those cigars the following Christmas, he wrote that they were extra good ones, and were to be kept for special occasions. My old pipe will serve when I am alone, but to-day we must have cigars."

Douglas noticed that Nell was much pleased to see her father in such excellent spirits. She touched the match to his cigar, and watched him as he blew the smoke into the air with considerable relish. What a picture she would make sitting there, he thought. She seemed to be wholly unaware of her charm and grace of manner, reminding him of some beautiful flower radiating an unconscious influence of sweetness, purity and joy.

"This is one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever spent," Douglas remarked. "What a beautiful place you have here, with the river right near, and the spire of the church showing above the tree tops. I wish I were an artist. By the way, I was around the church this morning, and everything shows signs of neglect. It struck me as rather sad and strange."

As there was no reply, he glanced toward Nell and was surprised to see an anxious expression upon her face. She gave her head a slight shake and held up a warning finger. He looked quickly at her father, and saw that his face had undergone a remarkable change. He was sitting motionless, clutching his cigar between the fingers of his right hand. Presently, his lips moved and he spoke in short, jerky sentences.

"Strange, you ask?" he demanded. "Why strange? What else could be expected? Half-fledged parsons strutting around as if they owned the universe. Little wonder the church is closed. And what of the people? Look at the leaders in this parish."

"Hush, hush, father, dear," Nell interposed. "Don't get excited."

"I'm not excited; I'm just stating plain facts. You know about Si Stubbles as well as I do."

"But Mr. Handyman is a stranger, remember, father, and we must not trouble him with such things on this his first visit."

"Excuse me, sir," and the old man leaned forward, as if he would look into his visitor's face. "Nell is quite right; she is always right, and I shall say no more about this painful subject to-day."

Nell at once began to gather up the neglected supper dishes, and Douglas felt that it was about time that he was going. He noticed that she seemed somewhat nervous and excited. At first he thought it was due to her father's words, but as he caught her giving a quick and an occasional glance toward the shore, he believed that she was expecting to meet some one there in a few minutes. He wondered who it was, and he felt that Nell was not altogether pleased at the idea of seeing the one who was expecting to meet her there. The thought gave him considerable satisfaction, though he could not explain why.

"You will come again soon, will you not?" the professor asked, as Douglas bade him good-by.

"I should like to very much," was the reply. "I am most anxious to see your book, and hear more about it."

"Certainly, certainly. That will give me great pleasure. I intended to discuss it with you this evening, but I do not feel equal to it now."

"And I want to hear some of your wonderful music," Nell remarked. "I am so sorry that you have not played anything this evening."

"There is nothing wonderful about it, I assure you, Miss Strong. Just ordinary music."

"It is wonderful," Nan declared. "I have heard you twice now, and I guess I know. And when you come next time, remember you're not going to play all the time, nor talk book nor Church matters; you're going to talk to me. I've got a whole string of questions I want to ask you, and this afternoon I've had to be as mum as an oyster."

"All right, then," Douglas laughingly replied. "I shall see that you are not overlooked the next time I come."

The western sky was all aglow as Douglas walked slowly along the road. There was a sweet peace over meadow and forest. The thought of Nell brought a thrill to his heart and a strange new peace into his soul, It was the mystic glow, the prelude of the coming night, and the dawn of a new to-morrow.



CHAPTER X

PRIDE AND IMPUDENCE

It was not easy for Douglas to get to sleep that night. He thought much about the Bentons and their anxiety over their wayward daughter. How sad it was that a young life should be so quickly and easily ruined in the city. He knew that there were many such cases, of mere girls, carefully reared, who were drawn to the city only to be singed or ruined, as moths by the glaring flame. An angry feeling came into his heart, as he recalled how little was being done to keep such girls from destruction. He thought of Dr. Rannage, and his indifference to such matters. Instead of talking, always talking, he could accomplish so much by throwing the weight of his influence as rector of St. Margaret's into the cause.

From the Bentons and their troubles, his mind drifted on to the professor and his daughters. He became greatly puzzled over their position. They had a comfortable home, and seemed to be doing well. Why, then, was it necessary for the blind old man and Nan to beg on the city streets? Did Nell know about it? he wondered. A vision of her beauty and grace of manner rose before him. What strength of character she seemed to possess, and how thoughtful she was of her father's comfort. But what was the mystery surrounding the man she was in the habit of meeting by the old tree on the shore? It was quite evident that her father knew nothing about it. He longed to know more, and the professor's antagonism to "parsons" and church "leaders in the parish."

He thought over these problems the next morning as he worked in the field. Jake might know something, but he did not care to ask him. He did not wish his employer to have any idea that he was interested in the Strongs. Though he would not acknowledge it to himself, yet his hesitation, in fact, was due to the feeling that in some way the real secret of his heart might be revealed. He did not wish to let others have the slightest hint of the deep impression Nell had already made upon him.

Just as they had finished dinner, a neighbour, driving down the road, left a message for Jake. It was from Si Stubbles, who wanted Jake to help him that afternoon with his hay. He was short-handed at the mill and could not spare a man for the field.

"That's jist like Si," Jake growled, as the neighbour drove away. "He's always thinkin' of himself, an' can't seem to see that others have hay to git in."

"But you don't have to go, do you?" Douglas asked. "It isn't fair to ask you to leave your own hay."

"H'm, that's all very well in theory. But I guess ye don't know Si yit. If I don't help him this afternoon, he'll never fergit it, an' next winter, when I want a job with my team, he'll remember it. Si wouldn't fergit, not on yer life."

"Suppose I go, then, in your place," Douglas suggested. "It will be better for you to stay here as you know more about your own work."

"Would ye mind?" Jake asked, much relieved. "You will do jist as well as me."

Douglas was only too glad to go. He did want to meet Si Stubbles of whom he had heard so much, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. He would, no doubt, see Stubbles, and thus be able to form an opinion of the man without arousing any suspicion. He would be a farm-hand and nothing more.

The Stubbles' house was an imposing one, situated but a short distance from the main highway. A spacious verandah ran around the front and sides, several feet from the ground. Everything about the place was in excellent condition, the lawn well kept, and the hedges neatly trimmed. To protect the grounds from trespassers, a strong wire fence had been erected along the road, and the gate leading to the house was always kept closed. A board fastened to the gate bore the imposing name of "The Castle" in bright gilded letters.

As Douglas opened the gate and entered, a team had just rounded the corner of the house on its way to the barn. As it came in front of the house, Stubbles himself appeared upon the verandah, carrying a table napkin in his hand, for he had not yet finished his dinner. He was in no pleasant frame of mind, and was furiously berating the teamster.

"What do you mean by driving in front of the house?" he demanded. "Don't you know any better?"

"I've got to git that hay down there in the corner," the teamster surlily replied. "If I don't go in this way, how am I to git out, I'd like to know? I can't turn down there."

"Carry the hay out, then, you lazy rascal."

"It'll take me all the afternoon to do it, an' then ye'll growl at me if I don't git done before night."

"None of your impudence to me," Stubbles roared. "I'll make an example of you if you dare to speak that way again."

He was livid with anger, and, forgetting where he was, he took a step forward as if he would then and there chastise the man with his own hands. As he did so, he stepped off the platform, and with a wild shriek and a frantic effort to save himself, he went headfirst down the steps to the ground below.

Douglas had been standing not far off listening with considerable interest to the angry conversation between master and man. But when he saw Stubbles take the wild plunge, he rushed forward and picked up the injured man. The latter was groaning and cursing, contending that he was killed, and that the teamster was to blame for the accident.

Lifting him in his arms, Douglas carried him up the steps just as Mrs. Stubbles came from the house.

"Oh! what is the matter?" she cried. "What has happened to Simie?"

"He's had a bad fall," Douglas replied. "Hold the door open while I carry him into the house. Show me where to lay him."

Into the sitting-room he carried the wounded man, and placed him upon a large sofa near the window. Mrs. Stubbles followed, and stood over her husband, wringing her hands in despair.

"Are you much hurt, Simie?" she asked. "Shall I send for the doctor?"

"Shut up your bawling!" her husband ordered. "I'm not killed, though I thought I was at first. Get some warm water and bathe my bruises. Confound that teamster! I'll discharge him at once. What business had he to drive in front of the house and then talk back to me as he did? When is Ben coming back?"

"He expected to get home this morning," Mrs. Stubbles replied.

"He expected to do so, did he? H'm, he's always expecting to do things he never does. He should have been here to look after the haying. I've got too many things on my mind already without having to bother with that."

"Don't be too hard on the dear boy, Simie. He is to bring the girls, you know. They must have delayed him."

"Yes, yes, that's just like you; always excusing Ben, the worthless scamp. If he were as interested in business as he is in running around in the car and spending so much time in the city, what a help he would be to me. But hurry up with that water, can't you? My, I'm sore!"

"You won't need me any more now, I suppose," Douglas remarked when Mrs. Stubbles had left the room. "I might as well get to work."

"Who are you, anyway?" the injured man asked, turning his little squinting eyes upon Douglas' face. For the first time he seemed to realise that it was a stranger who had assisted him.

"I am John Handyman, Jake Jukes' help," was the reply. "I have come to give you a hand with the hay this afternoon."

"And isn't Jake coming?"

"No. He has hay of his own to get in, and so I offered to come in his stead."

"Just like Jake," Stubbles growled, "always thinking of himself. He knows very well what a fix I am in. I don't know what this place is coming to, anyway. One can't get a neighbour to do a hand's turn, and the men you hire these days are as impudent as the devil."

"Don't you worry about the hay," Douglas soothed. "We can get it in all right this afternoon."

"Do you know anything about haying?"

"I was brought up on a farm, and should know something about it."

"You look big and strong enough," and Stubbles viewed him from head to foot. "Say, are you the chap who beat Jake in a wrestling bout lately?"

"So you heard about that little encounter, did you?"

"Oh, yes, I naturally hear of such things sooner or later. But what are you doing here, anyway? You don't look like a man who has been in the habit of hiring out."

"I'm just trying to earn my daily bread, and farming suits me at the present time."

"I suppose I'll have to put up with you," Stubbles growled. "Get to work at once, and no fooling, mind."

Douglas found the teamster a pleasant working companion, who loaded the hay on the wagon.

"How is Si feelin' now?" he enquired.

"Oh, I guess he's all right. He had a nasty fall and might have been killed."

"H'm, that old cuss won't die that way. It would be too easy a death. If he doesn't bust when he gits in one of them mad fits of his, he'll be skinned alive by somebody one of these days. I'd like to be around an' hear him squeal. It would make up fer a great deal of impudence I've stood, to say nuthin' of his confounded pride, as well as the whole darn family. But I kin put up with Si better than I kin with Ben; he's the limit."

"What's the matter with him?"

"Well, Si knows a little about farmin', but Ben knows no more about it than I do about harnessin' up a baby with pins, strings, ribbons, an' all its other gear. Ben thinks he knows, an' that's where he makes a fool of himself. He gives orders which no one in his right mind would think of obeyin', an' then he gits as mad as blazes when ye don't do as he says."

"Is Ben the only son?" Douglas asked.

"Thank goodness, yes. One is bad enough, dear knows, but if there were more, ugh!"

"What does Ben do?"

"Do? Well, I wouldn't like to tell ye."

"Does he work at anything, I mean?"

"Not a tap. He depends upon his dad fer a livin'. See what he did this mornin'. Instead of stayin' home an' lookin' after the hayin', he went to the city. That's what he's always doin'; runnin' away when there's work to be done."

"He was home yesterday, was he not?"

"Y'bet yer life he was, especially in the evenin'. He's ginerally around about that time."

"Why?"

"Oh, he's struck on the old professor's daughter. Her father doesn't like the Stubbles crowd, an' so Ben sneaks around there after he's in bed."

"Isn't it strange that the professor's daughter would do such a thing?"

"Now ye've got me," and the teamster gave a savage thrust at a forkful of hay Douglas had just handed up. "The whole thing is a mystery. Nell's as fine a girl as ever wore shoe-leather, an' why she meets that feller in the evenin' beats me."

Douglas made no reply to these words, but went on quietly with his work. So it was Ben Stubbles who met Nell Strong every night by the old tree! Surely she must know something about his life if what the teamster had just told him were true. He could not understand it. She did not seem like a woman who would have anything to do with such a worthless character. And yet she was meeting him regularly, and at the game time deceiving her blind old father.

The hay in the corner field had all been loaded, and the teamster was stooping for the reins, when the raucous honk of an auto caused him to pause and look toward the road.

"It's Ben an' the girls now," he exclaimed. "Ye'd better open the gate."

"Oh, I guess they will get through all right," Douglas replied.

"No, ye'd better go," the teamster urged. "Ben'll be as mad as the devil if ye don't. If ye won't, then I'll have to git down an' do it. There, he's tootin' his horn agin. He's pretty mad, I can tell ye that."

Carrying his fork over his shoulder, Douglas walked deliberately across the field toward the gate. He did not wish to hurry, as he wanted to see how angry Ben could become, and what he would do.

"Get a move on there, you lazy devil!" Ben shouted. "Didn't you hear the horn?"

Douglas had almost reached the gate, when he suddenly stopped and stared at the man in the car. He had seen that face before only for a few seconds beneath the electric light at Long Wharf on the waterfront. But he would have known it anywhere, for it had been indelibly impressed upon his memory. So Ben Stubbles was the contemptible coward who had pushed that woman into the water and left her to her fate! He had often longed to come face to face with that man, and he had planned what he would do when they met. But here he was before him, haughty and impudent, Nell's lover, and the son of the autocrat of Rixton.

"What in h—— are you staring at?" Ben demanded. "Didn't you ever see human beings before? Open the gate, and be damned quick about it, too."

The blood surged madly through Douglas' veins, and to relieve his feelings he clutched the gate and tore it open. The occupants of the car were greatly amused at his alacrity, and attributed it to fear.

"That stirred your stumps, all right, didn't it?" Ben sneered, as the car lurched past and then sped up the drive-way.

Douglas closed the gate, fastened it, and hastened to the barn where the teamster was awaiting him. He climbed into the loft and stowed away the hay as it was handed up to him. At times he hardly knew what he was doing, so greatly was his mind agitated. Why had he not given that fellow the sound thrashing he deserved? And yet he was thankful that he had controlled himself, as he might have spoiled all his plans had he given way to hasty action. He worked with a feverish haste all that afternoon, and talked but little. This change puzzled the teamster, and he advised him to take his time.

"It's no use killin' yerself," he told him. "Si Stubbles won't thank ye if ye work yer head off."

"I want to get through with this job," Douglas replied. "I'm not working by the day as you are, and Jake needs me."

When the last of the hay had been unloaded, Douglas left the barn and started for the road. He had not seen Ben since the encounter at the gate, and he was hoping that he would not meet him again that afternoon. He did not feel altogether sure of himself, and he needed time and quietness to think carefully over what he had better do.

He was part way down to the road when he heard some one calling. Stopping and looking back, he saw that it was Ben hurrying after him. As he approached, Douglas saw that his manner was altogether changed, and he seemed quite affable. He was dressed in a white tennis-suit, and he looked cool and self-possessed.

"Say," he began, "I understand you play the fiddle."

"Well, what of it?" Douglas curtly questioned.

"You really do, then?"

"Yes, when I feel like it."

"Won't you feel like it to-night? You see, there's to be a dance in the hall this evening, but the man who generally plays is sick."

"Can't you get any one else?"

"No one who can really play. There is a chap who tries to, but you would think he was filing a saw instead of playing a fiddle."

"Perhaps I can't do any better."

"Oh, you'll be all right. Jake and his wife have heard you, and so has Empty."

"And Empty spread the report, did he?"

"Yes. But, say, you'll play, won't you?"

Douglas did not reply at once. He wondered what Ben would say if he told him what he knew about his contemptible act at Long Wharf. He did not want to play at the dance, and yet he knew it would be too good an opportunity to miss. He would see many of the young people of Rixton, and learn things which might prove of great assistance.

"Where is the hall?" he at length asked.

"Down at Kane's corner, about a mile and a half from here."

"What time does the dance begin?"

"Oh, about nine o'clock. The crowd won't get there much before that."

"Very well, then, I will be there and do the best I can."



CHAPTER XI

THE FACE AT THE DOOR

It was after nine before the dance in the hall at the Corner began. Douglas was there early, and he watched with much interest the arrival of the various young couples. He did not know any of them, and as he sat back in one corner he mused upon their lives, and wondered how many of them would be members of his flock in the years to come. They gave the stranger who was to play for them that night but passing glances, though all had heard of his prowess as a wrestler. But if they had only known who he really was, how curiously they would have observed his every movement.

Douglas was much pleased at the quiet way in which the young men and women conducted themselves. There was no loud talking, and when the dance began, they took their places upon the floor without any undue commotion. They danced well and it was a real pleasure for him to play. He was quite familiar with the dances, and he recalled just such events in his own home village years before, when he himself had taken a leading part. He smiled grimly to himself as he thought of what his Bishop and certain of his brother clergymen would say if they could see him playing the fiddle at a country dance.

Among those upon the floor there was one couple which attracted his special attention. They danced well, and seemed greatly devoted to each other. The man was good-looking, and a fine specimen of physical strength. His partner was of medium height, neatly dressed, and remarkably pretty. Her eyes danced with pleasure, and her whole body moved in a graceful rhythm to the music, and occasionally she cast a grateful glance toward the player. She evidently enjoyed good music when she heard it. Everywhere there seemed to be perfect peace and harmony, and to Douglas the dancers appeared like one big family. They all knew one another, and were happy together.

During the intermission which followed the first dance, Ben Stubbles and his sisters, Miss Annabel and Miss Maria, arrived. They were accompanied by Nell, who looked, Douglas thought, prettier than ever. She had no right to come with the Stubbles, so thought he, and she seemed to be out of place with them.

A new atmosphere now pervaded the room. The feeling of harmony had vanished, and it was easy for Douglas to tell that this was due to the presence of Ben and his sisters. Their pride and haughtiness were most apparent, and Ben dominated the gathering.

He and Nell were partners in the first dance. Douglas' eyes followed them as they moved around the room, and in and out among the others. Nell fascinated him, though it was quite evident that she was not happy. There was no light of pleasure in her eyes, and her face was unusually pale. Though she danced well, yet she had the appearance of one who was moving almost mechanically. This appealed to Douglas more than if she had shown a great vivacity of spirit. There was something tragic about her face and manner, which, in fact was almost akin to despair. What could it be? the player wondered. How he longed to know the mystery surrounding her young life, and why she was acting a part for which she evidently had no liking.

When the dance was finished, Nell came to where Douglas was sitting and took a chair by his side. A slight sigh of relief escaped her lips, which Douglas was not slow to notice.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"Very," was the low reply. "I have been working hard all day, and this dance is too much for me."

"You dance well. It was a great pleasure to watch you."

"Was it?" and she looked at him with large, grateful eyes. "No one could help dancing well with such music. This is something new for you, is it not?"

"What makes you think so?"

"It is merely a notion of mine. We have never had such playing here before."

"I suppose you know every one here?" Douglas queried, wishing to change the subject of conversation.

"Oh, yes. I know them quite well."

"Who, then, is that fine-looking young man just across from me with the pretty girl by his side?"

"That is Tom Morrison, who, next to Jake Jukes, is the best wrestler in the parish. The girl is Susie Stephenson. They are to be married in September, so it is reported."

"They seem to be very happy in each other's company."

"They are now," was all the information Nell vouchsafed in reply, and then became suddenly silent.

This was the only conversation Douglas had with Nell that evening. She was too much in demand to remain long off the floor, tired though she was. Douglas noticed that Ben did not miss a dance, and that whenever he came near Tom Morrison there was some trouble. Ben seemed to make a special effort either to crowd him off the floor or to interfere with his movements. Tom endeavoured to keep out of his way and not to make any trouble. It was plain that he was very angry, for his face had lost its bright, sunny expression and was dark and lowering. His habit of always retreating puzzled Douglas. "Why doesn't he give the impudent fellow warning to leave him alone?" he asked himself. "I know what I should do. That cad deserves a thrashing, if ever any one did, and I believe Tom could do it without any trouble."

During the fifth dance Ben again claimed Nell as his partner. They had not been long on the floor when Ben became suddenly agitated. His face went white as death, and his staring eyes were turned toward the door. Douglas, too, looked, and the surprise he received caused him to stop playing. There, looking in at the open door, was the face of a woman. He remembered it at once, for it was the face of the same woman he had rescued from the harbour at Long Wharf. He glanced toward Ben, and saw that he had left Nell and was moving slowly toward the door.

There was a breathless hush, now, in the hall, as all watched to see what would happen next. The face at the door had been withdrawn, and as Ben passed out into the night Douglas again struck up the music, and the dance was continued. Nell sat apart by herself. Her face was very pale, and her hands lying in her lap were clenched hard together. Many curious glances were cast upon her, though she did not appear to notice them.

Douglas felt very sorry for Nell. He realised that she must be suffering greatly. He himself was more excited than was his wont, though outwardly he remained calm and went on with his playing. Who could the woman be? he wondered. She must have followed her false lover to Rixton, and had awaited the moment when he was dancing with Nell Strong. From Ben's excitement, he surmised that the villain believed that she was dead and would trouble him no longer.

The dance had just finished as Ben came back into the hall. He was still pale, and his face was somewhat haggard. Crossing the floor, he chose a partner and called out for the music. As Douglas was in no hurry to obey, Ben ripped forth an angry oath and demanded what was the matter. Douglas was tempted to play no more, but being anxious to see how far Ben would carry his reckless spirit which now possessed him, he did as he was bidden.

Soon the dancers were in full swing, among whom were Tom Morrison and Susie Stephenson. Ben now began to interfere with every one on the floor, choosing out Tom and Susie for special attention. It was quite evident to Douglas that all tried to keep out of his way, but the more they tried the more Ben was determined to produce a quarrel. The climax was reached when, coming near a young couple, he deliberately surged against them and sent the girl reeling against the nearby wall.

At that instant the music ceased. Douglas waited for a few seconds while all eyes were turned in his direction.

"I shall not play another note," he calmly began, "unless Mr. Stubbles decides to behave in a proper manner."

"What's that?" Ben demanded, somewhat surprised that any one should dare to rebuke him.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Douglas asked, as he laid aside his violin and rose to his feet. "I said that I would not play another note unless you decide to behave in a proper manner."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I have not been behaving myself?" Ben retorted.

"I did more than insinuate. And I say further that you have been behaving disgracefully and not at all like a gentleman."

"You impudent cur," Ben roared as he stepped forward. "How dare you speak to me like that? Take back those words at once or I'll make an example of you."

"Come and do it, then. I will meet you half way," and Douglas advanced toward him as he spoke.

But Ben hesitated. He found himself in a fix, and did not know how to get out of the tangle. His bluffs had always been effective in the past, and no one had dared to oppose him simply because he was Simon Stubbles' son. But here was a man, a stranger, who looked very big to him, just then, standing before him and challenging his right to rule. Ben was no fighter, and no one knew it better than himself. He was a coward at heart, and his present embarrassing position unnerved him. He glanced quickly around and seeing the eyes of all riveted upon him made him angry. If he should back down, he well knew that he would be the laughing-stock of the whole parish.

"Are you going to take back those words?" he at length found voice to ask.

"Not unless you make me," Douglas calmly replied. "Now is your chance."

"Do you realise who I am?" Ben roared, thinking to intimidate his opponent.

"I have a fairly good idea. But that doesn't make any difference. It's you I am dealing with now, and not your father."

"But I can drive you out of this parish. I can make it so hot for you that you won't dare to stay here another day."

"H'm," and Douglas gave a slight sarcastic laugh. "Why don't you do it, then? Here is your chance. Make it hot for me, and let me feel some of your great driving power."

These deliberate and tantalising words stirred Ben to the highest pitch of anger. He threw all discretion to the winds, and raved, cursed and stamped in his fury.

"Stop that," Douglas sternly ordered, stepping forward and laying his right hand firmly upon his shoulder. "If you have no respect for yourself, have it for the ladies who are present."

Ben's only reply was to throw aside the warning hand and hit his opponent a blow in the face. Like lightning Douglas suddenly reached out, seized Ben in his arms, lifted him bodily from the floor, and hurried with him toward the door. Ben tore and scratched like a wildcat in his efforts to free himself. But he was helpless in the powerful grip, and soon he found himself tumbling down the steps leading to the hall.

Douglas stood for a few seconds at the door looking out into the night. Then he turned and walked slowly back across the room, picked up his violin and put it into its case.

"I think it best to discontinue the dance," he told the people who were watching him with keenest interest. "I am in no mood for playing any more to-night."

As he spoke his eyes happened to rest upon the Stubbles sisters, who were standing together on the opposite side of the hall. Scorn and anger were depicted upon their faces as they glared upon him. It was the elder, Miss Annabel, who gave the parting thrust. She stepped quickly forward into the middle of the room, and looked about over the gathering.

"When you have another dance," she began, "see to it that you get some one to play who has the instincts of a gentleman. Pa will be greatly annoyed when he hears how our pleasant evening has been spoiled, and by an unknown farm-hand at that." She emphasised "farm-hand" and cast a look of withering scorn upon Douglas.

The latter bowed slightly before this outburst, and picked up his violin.

"I feel that all the reasonable ones here to-night know quite well who spoiled the dance," he replied. "They can judge for themselves who has shown the want of the instincts of a true gentleman."

Having said this, he moved swiftly toward the door and disappeared into the night.



CHAPTER XII

ASTRAY ON THE HILLS

Leaving the hall, Douglas walked slowly up the road. He had partly expected to find Ben waiting outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. Douglas had not gone far, however, ere an auto overtook him and went by at great speed. He knew very well who was the driver, though he could not tell how many were in the car. He smiled grimly to himself as he thought of Ben's anger, and he wondered in what way he would try to wreak a suitable revenge. He realised now that the Stubbles were his principal opponents in the place, and he felt quite sure that they had been the chief cause of the trouble in church affairs in the past. Why did the people allow them to rule in such an autocratic way? he asked himself. Surely there was some one strong enough to oppose their pride and impudence.

It was a beautiful evening, and Douglas was in no hurry to reach home. Several teams overtook him, and as they approached, the animated voices became stilled. All knew the silent man walking alone in the night, and they waited until they were well past before resuming their conversation.

At length he came to the brow of the hill where it dipped into the valley, and here a most glorious scene was presented to his view. Beyond, lay the river, without a ripple disturbing its surface. Above, shone the moon, and across the water a stream of light lay like a path of burnished silver, leading to a world of enchantment beyond. Douglas' heart was deeply stirred at the sight, and he sat down under a fir which stood on the edge of a clump of trees, and leaned back against the trunk. He feasted his soul upon the magnificent panorama before him. It was just what he needed to dispel the miasma which had been gathering around him owing to his recent contact with the Stubbles. The air, rich and fragrant with the scent of new-mown hay, stimulated him like a magic elixir. Mother Nature was in one of her most gentle moods, and with unseen fingers soothed both heart and brain of her ardent worshipper.

Ere long, the sound of voices fell upon his ears, causing him to listen attentively. Several people were walking slowly along the road discussing the incident at the hall.

"He's in for it now, all right." It was a man who spoke.

"What can Ben do?" It was a woman who asked the question. "He was given the chance to fight it out there and then, but he acted like a fool."

"Ha, ha, Ben was cornered for once to-night. It needed a stranger to bring him to his senses."

"Who is that man, anyway? I liked the way he behaved, and his playing was so nice."

Douglas could not hear what the man said in reply, though he longed to know. It gave him a degree of comfort, however, to feel that all did not blame him for the disturbance at the hall. He knew how necessary it was to win the good will of the people in general if he expected to work among them in the future.

For some time he sat there, and then continued on his way. He had just reached the foot of the hill when he saw some one coming toward him. Soon he was able to recognise the form of Joe Benton, the shoemaker.

"You are out late to-night," Douglas accosted. "You seem to be in a great hurry. Is anything wrong?"

Joe came up close and looked keenly into the young man's face.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he panted. "Have you seen anything of my lass?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"No?" There was something so pathetic about the way that single word was uttered, that Douglas' heart ached for the old man.

"When did she leave home?" he asked.

"Just after supper."

"Oh, she'll come back all right, never fear."

"Ah, but Jean's so changed," and Joe clutched Douglas by the arm. "She's not what she used to be. Before she went to the city I had no fear about her not coming home in proper time. But now it is different. There's something troubling the lass, and I believe her mind is affected. Oh, it is terrible!"

"Has she told you anything?"

"No, not a word. It's not like Jean. She used to tell us everything. She was a child then; but now—Lord have mercy upon her!"

As Douglas stood there watching the heart-broken old man, a sudden idea flashed into his mind. Had he really seen Jean? Was it her face he had beheld at the hall door? Yes, he felt almost certain that it was she, the same woman he had rescued from the water of the harbour. But what should he do? Dare he tell Joe all about it, and how Ben Stubbles had tried to destroy her?

As he thought over these things, the shoemaker was standing looking out over the fields. Only by the light of the moon could Douglas see his face, and he noticed that it was very haggard. But he could not see the fire of anger which was kindling in his eyes. Only when the bent form straightened itself with a jerk, and a tense arm was thrust out, did he fully realise the greatness of his emotion.

"My Jean is not to blame," he cried. "She is as innocent as a child. Some villain has injured her, and I must find him. And when I do——"

"You will forgive him," Douglas added, as Joe paused for lack of suitable words to express his wrath.

"Forgive him! Why should I forgive a man who has ruined my lass?"

"Because you are so bidden by the Great Master."

Joe looked quickly up into his companion's face, and his body somewhat relaxed.

"But did he ever suffer like this?" he questioned.

"Surely you know what he endured."

"Ay, ay, I have read it all. But look, I could bear all that easier than this. I could stand to have my body torn to pieces bit by bit rather than see my darling child, my baby, injured. Was His suffering anything like mine?"

"'God so loved the world that he gave his only Begotten Son,'" Douglas quoted. "Have you forgotten what He said?"

Joe made no reply. A great struggle was going on in his heart between right and wrong, and Douglas pitied him. Just then the sound of some one hurrying across the field diverted their attention. In a moment Empty had leaped the fence and stopped suddenly before them. He was startled to see the two men standing there, and peered intently into their faces.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "Ye nearly jolted me to slivers."

"Empty, have you seen my Jean?" Joe eagerly enquired.

"Sure. She's out on the hills. I was jist hustlin' to tell ye."

"On the hills!" Joe repeated. "What is she doing but there?"

"Search me! I don't know what she's doin' there, an' I guess she doesn't."

"W-what do you mean?" There was an anxious note in the old man's voice.

"Well, she's been wanderin' round there fer some time now, talkin' to herself strange like, an' singin'. She gives me the shivers, that's what she does. It ain't nat'ral fer Jean to be actin' that way. Ye'd better come an' see fer yerself."

Silently the two men followed Empty across the field, and up the side of a hill. At the top was a fence, and as they came to this, Empty paused and peered cautiously through the rails, and held up a warning finger.

"S-s-h," he whispered. "There she is now. Ye kin jist see her. She's comin' this way. Listen; she's singin'!"

This hill had been used as a sheep pasture for many years. It was a desolate place, devoid of trees, and full of stones. Looking across this barren waste, Douglas was soon able to detect the form of a woman silhouetted against the sky. Yes, she was singing, and he was able to recognise the words:

"Truer love can never be; Will ye no come back to me?"

Joe could now restrain himself no longer. With the cry of "Jean! Jean!" he scrambled over the fence, and made straight for the advancing woman. Empty was about to follow, when Douglas laid a firm hand upon his arm and drew him back.

"Don't go yet," he ordered. "It's better for us to keep out of sight for a while. Her father can do more than we can, and our presence might frighten her."

Joe's cry had startled Jean and she stopped singing. Seeing him coming toward her, she stood for a few seconds watching him. Then she turned and fled along the path she had recently travelled, and disappeared among the rocks.

Then it was that Douglas leaped over the fence and hastened forward, with Empty close at his heels. For a few minutes he was guided by Joe's voice as he called to his daughter. Then all was silent, and though he and Empty searched long and patiently, they could not find the missing ones.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" Empty ejaculated, as he sat down upon a rock to rest. "I can't make out what has happened to 'em. Guess it's not much use huntin' any more. We'd better go home now an' git somethin' to eat. I'm most starved."

Douglas realised that it would be useless to search any longer just then. He would go with Empty, wait at his place until daybreak, and then return if Joe did not reappear.

The house to which Empty led him was a humble one. A woman was standing at the door as they approached.

"Where's Jean?" she enquired.

"Don't know," Empty replied. "She's out on the hills somewheres."

"What, ye didn't leave the poor girl there all alone, did ye?"

"Oh, her dad's with her, an' I guess he'll round her up all right. I'm most starved, ma. Got anything good?"

Mrs. Dempster was a bright, active, talkative little body, and she bade Douglas a hearty welcome.

"So ye'r the great wrestler, are ye?" she asked, as she offered her visitor a chair, and then hustled about to get some food. "Empty has told me all about ye, an' how ye defended him aginst Jake. It was mighty good of ye, an' sez I to Empty, sez I, 'bring that man home with ye some time, so I kin thank him fer his kindness to a poor fatherless boy.'"

"I didn't do much, I assure you," Douglas replied. "I don't believe Jake would have hurt him."

"No, Jake wouldn't really mean to hurt him, that's true. But ye see, he's so big an' strong that what he might think was a little love tap alongside of the head would knock an ox down. He doesn't intend to hurt. But when Si Stubbles hits, he means it, an' so does Ben. My, I'm mighty glad ye did up that skunk to-night. He deserved it all right."

"So you've heard about that already?" Douglas asked in surprise.

Mrs. Dempster poured a cup of hot tea, brought forth a plate of frosted doughnuts, and bade Douglas "draw up an' have a bite." When her visitor had been served, she sat down on a chair by the side of the table.

"Ye seem surprised that I know about that racket at the hall," she began. "Empty was watchin' at the door, an' saw it all. He was hustlin' home by the short-cut across the hills to tell me the news when he heard Jean singin'. Say, I admire ye'r pluck. But ye must be keerful, sir."

"Why?"

"It's always necessary to be keerful when ye'r dealin' with skunks. Ye jist never know what they're goin' to do next."

"But why do the people put up with such creatures?" Douglas laughingly enquired.

"Because they can't get rid of 'em, that's why. Me an' Empty have always stood on our indignity, an' it's a mighty good stool to stand on. We don't have to depend on the Stubbles fer a livin'. We have our little farm, our cow, pig, an' hens. Empty ketches enough fish to do us, an' he always gits a deer or two in the fall, an' that is all the meat we want. We pick an' sell a good many berries, an' what eggs an' butter we kin spare. Mark my words, there's somethin' wrong with a place when all the people have to bow down to any one man, 'specially when it's a critter like Si Stubbles. I git terribly irritated when I think of the way that man is allowed to rule this parish."

"He rules in Church matters, too, I understand," Douglas remarked.

"Ye've hit the nail right on the head, sir. It was him that druv our last two parsons out of the parish an' almost out of their minds, too."

"Did all side with Mr. Stubbles?"

"Oh, no, not all. There were a few who stood at his back, sich as the Bentons, an' me an' Empty. Nellie Strong, God bless her, an' Nan, her sister, didn't go agin 'em, but they were in a difficult persition with that cranky father of theirs."

"Would Church matters have gone on smoothly but for the Stubbles?" Douglas asked.

"They always did before Si an' his brood came to this place. Even supposin' the parsons weren't up to the mark, we would have got along all right. Country people, as a rule, are not hard to please, an' will put up with most anythin'."

There were many questions Douglas wished to ask this entertaining woman, but just then a noise was heard outside, and at once the door was pushed open and the shoe-maker entered. His hat was gone, his clothes were torn, and his hands and face were bleeding. He stood near the door trembling in every limb, and looking appealingly into the faces of those before him.

"Fer the love of heavens, Joe! what's the matter with ye?" Mrs. Dempster exclaimed, as she rose to her feet and gave the old man her chair. "Have ye been fightin'?"

Joe's lips moved, but a groan was the only sound he uttered, as he crouched there, the picture of abject misery.

"Where's Jean?" Mrs. Dempster demanded, laying her right hand kindly upon his shoulder.

"Gone! Gone!" was the low despairing reply.

"Couldn't ye find her?"

"See," and the old man pointed to his torn clothes and bleeding hands. "I followed her over the rocks and through the bushes. I was too slow and fell so often that she got away. Oh, my Jean, my little lass! She doesn't know her father any more; she wouldn't listen to his voice calling to her."

"You poor man," and Mrs. Dempster wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "You are tired out, and must have a cup of tea an' somethin' to eat. Then you must go right home an' git some rest. Me an' Empty will find Jean as soon as it gits light. The dear child, she used to come here so often, an' her an' Empty were great playmates."

The rest and the food strengthened the weary man, and Mrs. Dempster's hearty manner cheered him. When he at length arose to go, Douglas offered to accompany him, and together the two passed out into the morning air.



CHAPTER XIII

NOTICE TO QUIT

The shoe-maker was very tired, and he leaned heavily on the arm of his companion all the way up the road. He did not speak, and Douglas made no effort to start a conversation. Reaching home, Joe opened the door of his shop and entered. Douglas was about to bid him good-bye when the old man asked him to come in for a few minutes. Lighting a candle, Joe held it carefully before the picture of the Good Shepherd.

"I'm puzzled to-night," he began. "I never thought of it before."

"What is it?" Douglas questioned.

"You see that lamb?"

"Yes."

"It's in danger, isn't it?"

"It certainly is."

"And it wants to be helped, and saved? See how its head is raised, and it seems so glad that the Shepherd has come to rescue it."

"Is there anything puzzling about that?"

"Ah, but suppose that lamb didn't want to be helped, and held back, no matter how hard the Shepherd pleaded, what then?"

"He was strong enough to lift it up bodily and carry it back to the fold, was He not?"

"Ay, ay, I have no doubt about His strength. But I don't believe He would have done it. He would not have saved it against its will. He didn't want a rebellious lamb in His fold."

Joe lowered the candle and placed it upon a shelf. Then he looked intently into his companion's face.

"Jean doesn't want to come back," he whispered. "She's not like that lamb," and he jerked his thumb toward the picture.

"Perhaps she will change her mind," Douglas suggested.

"Do you think so?" was the eager question.

"Let us hope so, at any rate. But, come, you are worn out, and must get some sleep. Trust your trouble to the Good Shepherd. He will find some way to bring back your wandering lamb."

Douglas walked swiftly home, and obtained a little sleep before the work of the day began.

"Ye should have stayed in bed longer," Jake greeted, as he joined him at the barn.

"That's not my habit when there's work to be done," Douglas replied.

"But ye did an extry piece of work last night, though. Great punkins! how I'd like to 'ave been there."

"So you have heard about it already, eh?"

"Sure; couldn't keep a thing like that a secret fer two hours in this place. Sandy Morgan, on his way to the wharf, stopped to tell me about it. Ho, ho, it was great."

Jake continued his milking, and when he was through, he came to where Douglas was sitting.

"I've been thinkin'," he began, "an' feel a bit uneasy about ye."

"In what way?" Douglas questioned, looking up from his milking.

"I'm uneasy about what Si will do. He'll hear only one side of the story from Ben an' the gals, an' they'll paint it as black as they kin, mark my word."

"I'm not afraid of the whole gang," Douglas replied. "What can they do to me?"

"I don't know," and Jake scratched his head in perplexity. "But I advise ye to be keerful. Si's an ugly brute when he gits his dander up, an' it's ginerally up most of the time."

Douglas was not left long in doubt as to what action Simon Stubbles would take. He was working with Jake that morning in the field back of the barn when a man approached. He carried a letter which he at once handed to Douglas.

"The boss wants an answer," he informed him. "He's in a big hurry about it, too."

Opening the letter, Douglas read the brief note, and as he did so an amused expression overspread his face. He studied it carefully for a few minutes without making any comment. Shoving it into his pocket, he was about to resume his work when the messenger stopped him.