She was ill for some hours, and all day much troubled at the circumstance. In her proposed fight against the hatred of her husband's family she had lost the first move, for she could well imagine the triumphant mockery of her mother-in-law over her weakness and squeamishness. In the afternoon she asked for the carriage, as she wished to do some shopping, and was told Mrs. Campbell was intending to use it. Then she sent for a cab and while she was dressing, Christina came into her room wearing her street costume.

"Isabel is going out with mother," she said. "Can I go with you, Theodora?"

The proposal was not welcome, but without hesitation Theodora answered: "I shall be obliged if you will. I have some shopping to do, and you can tell me the best places to go to."

"I certainly can; I know all the best shops. I always do the shopping. I like to shop; Isabel hates it. She says the shopmen are not civil to her. Isabel is so particular about her dignity."

"That is rather a good quality, is it not?"

"I don't know—with that kind of people—shopmen and the like—it is rather a daft thing to do."

"Daft?"

"Silly, I mean. They have to wait on you, why should you care how they do it? I don't."

"I am ready. Shall we go now?"

"I am ready. What will you buy first?"

"Linen—sheets, pillow-cases, table-cloths, napkins, etc. We shall want a linen draper."

"Then tell cabby to drive us to Smith and McDonald's. It is perfectly lovely to be with you, and without mother and Isabel to snub me. I feel as if I were having a holiday."

"Perhaps I might snub you."

"I am sure you will not. I believe I am going to have a happy afternoon."

And she really had a few hours that perfectly delighted her. Theodora asked her advice, and frequently took it. Theodora bought her gloves and lace, and after the shopping was finished, they went into McLeod's confectionery and had ices and cakes, lemonade and caramels. For once in her life, Christina had felt herself to be well-informed and important. She had told several funny stories also, and Theodora had laughed and enjoyed them; indeed, she felt as if Theodora considered her quite clever.

"I have had such a jolly afternoon," she said as they parted. "Thank you for taking me with you! I cannot tell you how happy I have been."

But to Isabel's queries, she answered with an air of ennui: "You know well, Isabel, what shopping means. We went here and there, and bought linen of all kinds, and wine and cakes, and then we went to the large furniture store, and selected a bookcase; for it seems that Robert, with all his carefulness, forgot one."

"Did you like her?"

"She is good-natured enough. Everywhere we went the shopmen fell over each other to wait on her. My! but it is a grand thing to be beautiful."

"Do you really think her beautiful?"

"Every one else does. It matters little what the Traquair Campbells think. She is rather saucy, but she is so pleasant about it you can't take offence."

"Was she saucy to you?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She said she would be much obliged if I would tap at the door before entering her room."

"The idea!"

"Oh, she is nice enough! I wish mother was not so set against her. I know she plays and sings, and I adore good music."

"You will be adoring her next."

"No, I will not, but I intend to use her when I can."

"What for?"

"To give me a little pleasure—to show me how to dress—to lend me books and music, and take me with her when she goes calling and shopping."

"I would not receive such favors from a person mother disliked so much."

"Mother never finds any one she likes, except the Campbelton people—frowsy, vulgar things, all of them; and I do think it was a shame to use Dora's dresses and furs and jewelry the way they did."

"Mother said it was right, and Robert seemed to think so also—that is, after mother had explained the subject to him."

"Whatever mother thinks, Robert finally thinks the same. He is more afraid of mother than we are. I despise a man who can't stick to his own opinion."

"But if his opinion is wrong?"

"All the same, he ought to stick to it; I should. I think Dora is a lovely woman, and good, and clever. Mother ought to be proud of her new daughter."

"Mother had a high ideal for Robert's wife."

"One that nobody but a Traquair Campbell—or a Jane Dalkeith could fill."

"Jane might have pleased her."

"No one pleases mother! If you gave her the whites of your eyes, she would not be pleased."

"You must not forget, Christina, that she is our mother, and that the Scriptures command us to honor her."

"Sometimes, and in some cases, Isabel, that command is a gey hard one—I might say an impossible one."

"Perhaps, but the Holy Word makes no exceptions—good or bad, wise or foolish, they are to be honored. Dr. Robertson said so, in his last sermon to the Sunday School."

"Dr. Robertson isna infallible, and 'wi' his ten romping, rampaging sons and daughters, he be to lay down a strict law.' That was Jenny McDonald's commentary on his sermon. I heard her say so, and I thought to myself 'Jenny McDonald, you are a vera discerning woman.' I have respected her ever since, and I shall see she gets a pair of blankets at the Christmas fair."

"Well, Christina, I shall not quarrel with you about Dora. I can live without Dora, but you are essential."

The evening proved to be as pleasant, as the morning had been disagreeable. Robert had doubtless suffered some qualms of conscience regarding his wife's treatment, and resolved to make it up to her by his own attention. For he believed so firmly in himself, and in Theodora's love for him, that he really thought a few kind words would atone for every wrong and unkindness she had suffered.

He found Theodora in the mood he expected. She was beautifully gowned, and radiant with welcoming smiles. He forgot to name her morning indisposition, but asked what she had been doing all day, and was much pleased when she answered:

"Christina and I have been shopping this afternoon. She was of great assistance to me, and we had a delightful time." Then she told him what she had bought, and made some very merry comments on the strange shops and polite shopmen.

Two things in her recital were particularly satisfactory—one of his own family had shared her pleasure, and he had not been asked for money to contribute to it. For his wedding expenses had begun to give him a sense of poverty, and his naturally economical nature was shocked at their total. But if Theodora liked to buy more linen and furniture, and treat his sister and herself he had no objections. He supposed she had plenty of money, he thought of what Mr. Newton called her "royalties," and felt he might—at least for a few weeks—throw his responsibilities upon them.

On the whole, sitting by Theodora's side and listening to her pleasant conversation, he felt life to be decidedly worth living. Her moderated dress was also in consonance with his desires. For she had felt her costume on the previous night to be out of tone with her surroundings, and had therefore made a much simpler toilet. She had even wondered if the rich silk and lace, and pearls, were to blame for the unkindness of her reception; if so, she resolved not to err in that respect again. So she wore a light gray liberty silk gown of walking length, with a pretty white muslin waist, and an Eton jacket. A short sash of the same silk tied at the left side was the only trimming, and her wedding ring with its diamond guard her only jewelry. Its simplicity elicited her husband's ardent admiration, and she hoped it would be satisfactory to all. But who can please jealousy, envy, and hatred? An angel from heaven would fail, then how should a mortal woman succeed?

"Last night," said her mother-in-law scornfully, "my lady came sweeping into the room like a very butterfly of a woman. She thought she would astonish us. Did she imagine the Traquair Campbells could be snubbed by a silk dress and a string of pearls? And to-night she comes smiling in as modest as a Quakeress. I am led to believe, Robert has been giving her a few words. I know right well she deserved them."

"Mother," said Isabel, "I dare say she wanted us to believe that she had been used to full dress dinners."

"A likely thing in a Methodist preacher's house, or a girl's school either."

"College, you mean, mother," corrected Christina. "Or perhaps she thought if she was dressed very fine, we would like her better. Dress does make a deal of difference. None of us like our cousins Kerr, because they dress so shabby."

"Speak for your own feelings, Christina. Your sister Isabel and I always treat the Kerr girls with respect."

"Respect is a gey cold welcome. I would not take it twice."

"I think you are forgetting yourself, Christina," said Isabel.

"She has been in bad company all afternoon, Isabel. What can you expect? I heard her tee-heeing and laughing with Dora, almost until dinner time."

And even as the old woman spoke, Robert entered and asked his sisters to come and spend the evening with Dora and himself. "Dora is going to sing," he said, "and it will be a great treat for you to hear her."

"Thank you, brother," said Isabel. "I prefer to stay with mother."

"Perhaps mother will also come."

"No, Robert, I do not care for worldly music, and if I did, Christina sings and plays very well."

"Robert, I shall be delighted to come," said Christina. "You know I love music."

"You will remain with your sister and myself, Christina."

"Please, mother, let me go! Robert, please!" and she looked so entreatingly at her brother, that he sat down by his mother, and taking her hand said: "You must humor me in this matter, dear mother. I want some of you with me, and I am sure Christina can learn a great deal from Dora. It will cost her nothing, and she ought to take advantage of Dora's skill."

The last argument prevailed. If Christina could get any advantage for nothing, and especially from Theodora, Mrs. Campbell approved the project.

"You may go with your brother, Christina, for an hour, and make the most of your opportunities. One thing is sure, the woman ought to do something for the family, for goodness knows, we have been put to extraordinary expense and trouble for her pleasure."

A few minutes after the departure of Robert and his sister, Mrs. Campbell said: "Open the parlor door, Isabel, and let us hear the 'treat' if we can."

But the songs Theodora sang were quite unknown to the two listeners and Mrs. Campbell indulged herself in much scornful criticism. "Who ever heard the like? Do you call that music? It is just skirling. I would rather hear Christina sing 'The Bush Aboon Traquair,' or 'The Lass o' Patie's Mill,' or a good rattling Jacobite song like 'Highland Laddie,' or 'Over the Water to Charlie.' There is music in the like o' them, but there isn't a note o' it in Dora's caterwauling."

"Listen, mother! She is singing merrily enough now. I wonder what it is? Robert and Christina are both laughing."

"Something wicked and theatrical, no doubt. Shut the door, Isabel, and give me my Practice of Piety. Then you may leave me, and go to your room, unless you wish to join your sister."

"Mother, do not be unjust."

"In an hour remind Christina. You are a good daughter, Isabel. You are my greatest comfort."

"Good-night, mother; you are always first with me."

When Christina's hour was nearly at its close, Isabel went to her brother's parlor door. Theodora was singing the sweetest little melody and her voice was so charmful that Isabel could not tap at the door—as Christina had been instructed to do—until it ceased. And for many a day the words haunted her, though she always told herself there was neither sense nor reason in them.

After this question had rung itself into her heart and memory, she tapped at the door and Robert rose and opened it. And when Isabel spoke they brought her in, willing or unwilling, and made so much of her visit that she could not deny their kindness. Besides, as Robert told her, they wanted a game of whist so much, and she made it possible. "You shall be my partner," he added, "and we are sure to win." He was holding her hand as he spoke, and ere he ceased, he had led her to the table and got her a seat. Christina threw down a pack of cards, and Isabel found it impossible to resist the temptation, for she loved a game of whist and played a clever hand. Then the hours slipped happily away, and it was near midnight when the sisters stepped softly to their rooms.

"I have had such a good time," whispered Christina.

"It was a good game," answered Isabel.

"Don't you think she is nice?"

"Dora?"

"Yes."

"She puts on plenty of nice airs."

"I hope Robert will ask us to-morrow night."

"I shall not go again. I could not help to-night's visit. There is no need to say anything to mother. It would only worry her."

"In the morning she will tell us the precise moment that we came upstairs. No doubt she was watching and listening, and if we had the feet of a mouse she would hear us."

But if Mrs. Campbell heard she made no remark on the situation. She knew well that if Isabel was brought face to face with her frailty, she would defend it, and defend all concerned in it, and also make a point of repeating the fault in order to prove the propriety of her position. That would be giving Theodora too great an advantage. On the contrary, she was in her pleasantest mood, and as Theodora had her coffee in her own parlor there was no incident to mar the even temper of the breakfast table.

When Robert left it, he was followed so quickly by Christina that she had an opportunity of speaking to him as he was putting on his overcoat and gloves, and thus to thank him for his invitation of the previous evening. "I never had such a happy time in all my life, Robert," she said, "and Theodora does play and sing wonderfully. It is a joy to listen to her."

"Is it not?" he queried with a beaming face. "You were a good girl to call on her, and go out with her; and I will remember you at the New Year handsomely if you make things pleasant for Theodora."

"I would do so to please you, Robert. I do not want to be paid for that," replied Christina. Robert smiled and went away in such a happy temper, that Jepson said as he took his place at the head of the kitchen breakfast table: "The master is off in high spirits this morning. The bride is winning her way, I suppose. She seems rather an attractive woman."

"You suppose! And pray what will your supposing be worth, Mr. Jepson?" Mrs. McNab asked this question scornfully from the foot of the table. "Attractive, indeed! She's charming, she's captivating, she's enchanting, she's bewitching; and if she was only Highland Scotch, she would soon be teaching thae sour old women the meaning o' them powerful words. She would that! But she's o'er good, and o'er good-tempered for the like o' them."

"You are talking of the mistress, McNab."

"I am weel acquaint wi' that fact, and I'll just remind you that my name is Mistress McNab, when you find sense enough to give me my right. And if it isna lawfu' to talk o' Mistress Traquair Campbell, there's no law forbidding me to talk o' them Lairds and Crawfords. If they ever come here again, the smoke will get through their porridge, and they'll wonder what the de'il is the matter wi' Mistress McNab's cookery."

"The guests of the house, McNab, ought to have a kind of consideration."

"Consider them yoursel', then."

"The Crawfords and Lairds both are the most respect——"

"Ill-bred, and forwardsome o' mortals. I could say much worse——"

"Better not."

"Bouncing, swaggering, nasty, beggarly creatures! They turn up their lang noses, and the palms o' their greedy hands at the like o' you and me, but there isna a lady or a gentleman at this table, that wouldna scorn the dirty things they did here."

"They gave none o' us a sixpence when they went awa," said Thomas, the second man.

"Sixpence! They couldna imagine a bawbee or a kind word to anybody but themsel's. They wouldna gie the smoke aff their porridge—but I'll tell you the differ o' them. The young mistress, God bless her, sends her maid to me last night, and the girl—a civil spoken creature—says: 'Mrs. McNab, my mistress would like her coffee and rolls in her own parlor, and there will be due you half-a-crown a week for your trouble, and thank you.' That's the way a lady puts things. And mind you, if there's the like o' a fresh kidney, or a few mushrooms coming Mrs. McNab's way, they will go to my lovely lady in her own parlor—and Jepson, you can just tell the auld woman I made that remark."

"What is said at this table goes no further, Mrs. McNab, and that you know."

"Then the auld woman has the far-hearing, that's a'——" and being by this time at the end of her temper and her English speech, she plunged into Gaelic. It was her sure and unconquered resort, for no one could answer unpronounceable and untranslatable words. All her companions knew was, that she rose from the table with an air of victory.

The next week was very wet. Day after day it was rain only interrupted by more rain, and Robert seemed to take a kind of pride in its abundance. "Few countries are so well watered as Scotland," he said complacently:

This storm included Sunday, and every one went to church except Theodora. She had a headache, and having been told by Christina that the Kirk would size her up the first Sabbath she appeared, she resolved to put off the ordeal. The pleasure of being quite alone for a few hours was a temptation, for she needed solitude more than service, bewildered as she was by the strange household ideas and customs which had suddenly encompassed her life.

She had thought that religion, or some point of nationality, would be the most likely rocks of offence, but as yet all her trials had come from some trivial circumstance of daily life. She had been embarrassed by such small differences, that she hardly knew in the hasty decisions they compelled, what to defend and what to abandon.

It was also a wearisome experience to be constantly exchanging suspicious courtesies with her husband's family, and by no effort of love or patience could she get beyond these. Their want of response made her sad, and checked her affectionate and spontaneous advances, but she knew that in the trials of domestic life all plans must come at last to the give and take, bear and forbear theory. So after some reflection, she said softly to herself: "These women are the samples of humanity given me with my husband, and I must make the best of them. I can choose my friends, but I must take my relations as I find them. They are not what I wish, not what I expected, but I fear nothing comes up to our expectations. The real thing always lacks the color of the thing hoped for."

Such despondent musings, however, were not natural to her hopeful temper. "There must be a bright side to the situation," she continued, "and I must try and find it." So she roused herself from the recumbent position she had taken. "Stand up on thy feet, and look for the bright side, Theodora." As she did so, her eyes fell upon the small book in her hand, and she read these words:

"Take a good heart, O Jerusalem, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee." With a joyful smile she read it again, and this time aloud:

"Take a good heart, O Theodora, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee!"[1] The glorious promise inspired her at once with strength and joy; she felt her soul singing within her, and her first impulse was to open the piano and pour out her thanksgiving.

"O come let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation."

At this point McNab rushed into the room crying: "For goodness sake, my lady, stop! You'll be having the police in, and the de'il to pay all round, disturbing the Sunday saints and the like o' it. Excuse me, ma'am, but you don't know what you're up to."

"I am singing a psalm, McNab. Is there anything wrong in that?"

"You've put your finger on the wrong, ma'am. Singing a psalm isna a thing fit to be done in your ain parlor on the Sunday. It is a' right in the Kirk, but it is a' wrang in the parlor."

"How is that?"

"You be to ask wiser folk than I am what's the differ. If you were singing the psalm o' the blessed Virgin itsel' and folk heard you, there would be no end o' the matter. You can sing without the piano, ma'am, it's the piano that's the blackguard on a Sunday."

"Thank you, McNab, for warning me. I have not learned the ways of the country yet."

"You'll never learn them, ma'am. They must be borned in ye, sucked in wi' your mither's milk, and thrashed into ye wi' your school lessons. Just gie them their ways, and stick to your ain. You can do that, McNab does. They are easy satisfied if it suits their convenience. Every soul in this house is at church but mysel', for I hae made collops the regular Sunday dinner, and no one but McNab can cook collops to suit Mrs. Traquair Campbell."

"I am sure she would not keep you from church to make collops."

"I am a Catholic, and she keeps me at home to make collops, to prevent me going to my ain church. God save us! she thinks she is keeping me from serving the devil."

"So you are a Catholic?"

"Glory be to God, I am a Catholic! Did you ever taste collops, ma'am?"

"I never heard of them."

"Weel, they arena bad, and when McNab makes them, they are vera good. I shall put a few mushrooms in them to-day for your sake."

"Thank you!"

"And you can sing twice as much the morn. I'm sure it is a thanksgiving to listen to you."

Then the door closed, and Theodora closed the piano, put away her music, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. The thanksgiving was still in her heart, and she sang it with her soul joyfully, as she put on one of her most cheerful and beautiful costumes. It seemed natural and proper to do so, and without reasoning on the subject, she felt it to be in fit sympathy with her mood.

Even when the churchgoers came home drabbled and dripping, and as cross and gloomy as if they had been to hear a Gospel that was bad news, instead of good news, she did not feel its incongruity with her environment, until her mother-in-law said:

"You are very much over-dressed for the day, Dora."

"It is God's day, and I dressed in honor of the day."

"Then you should have gone to church to honor Him."

Before his wife could reply, Robert made a diversion: "What did you think of the sermon, mother?" he asked.

"It was a very strong sermon."

"Who was the preacher?" asked Isabel.

"Dr. Fraser of Stirling," said Robert.

"Well, brother, I do not believe Dr. Robertson would have approved the sermon. It is not like his preaching."

"It was an excellent sermon," reiterated Mrs. Campbell. "I hope all the uncovenanted present felt its weighty solemnity." She muttered, twice over, its awful text: "The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God."

"There is a better word for them than that," said Theodora, her face alight with spiritual promise. "'The Lord is long-suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.' That is what Saint Peter says, and Timothy, 'God our Saviour will have all men to be saved,' a great all that, and the Testament is full of such glad hope."

"Those passages do not apply to the lost, Dora."

"But as your great Scotch preacher, Thomas Erskine, said, we are lost here as much as there, and Christ came to seek and to save the lost."

Mrs. Campbell looked with sorrowful anger at her son, and Robert said: "My dear Dora, you argue like a woman. Women should listen, and never argue."

"Women are told to search the Scriptures, Robert. I search and understand them, but I do not often understand the men who profess to explain them."

"Your father——"

"Oh, my father! He has come unto Bethlehem. Those who can believe God has any pleasure in punishing sinners, are still at Sinai."

"God must punish sinners," said Isabel.

"God can reform and forgive them, just as easily; and it would be far more in accord with His nature, for 'God is Love.'"

"If we are to have a theological discussion by young women, I shall retire," said Robert, and with these words he rose from the table.

"Sit down, Robert. You have had no pudding."

"The collops were very fine to-day, mother, and I am satisfied."

As he left the room Theodora rose and went with him, but he did not appear to notice her. When they were in their parlor he said: "You ought to have sat still and finished your argument with my sister."

"Have I done something wrong, Robert?"

"I think if you cannot assent to mother's statements, it would be more becoming not to contradict them."

"If it had been a matter of no importance, I would have kept silence, but I must always testify in any company, the absolute perfection of Jesus Christ's sacrifice."

"Nobody challenged it."

"But if it does not save all it is imperfect. And surely John the Beloved knew his Master's heart, and he says 'Jesus Christ is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world.' How can any one dare to narrow that zone of mercy?"

"You argue like a woman, Dora."

"I am not arguing. I am only quoting what the greatest of men have said."

Then Robert lifted the Sunday Magazine and answered all her further efforts at conversation in polite monosyllables, and finding the position she had been relegated to both embarrassing and humiliating, she finally went to her room upstairs, and shut herself in with God. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, as she turned the key, for she felt that something in her life had lost its foothold. Was it her faith? Oh, no! She trusted God implicitly. She could not think any ill of Him, she had loved Him from her cradle. Was it her love? Oh, how reluctant she was, to even ask this question. But there was a great change in Robert, or was it that she now saw the real Robert Campbell, while the man who had wooed and won her had been but a man playing a lover's rÔle?

For even during the few days they had been at home, it was evident that both he and his family were resolved on her surrendering her faith, and her individuality. She was to be made over by the Campbells in their own image and likeness. Robert had loved and married Theodora Newton; was she to change her character with her name? She had made no such promise, and, without the slightest egotism, she could see that such a denial of herself would compel from her mental and spiritual nature a downward, backward movement, so deep and wide she dared not contemplate it.

Her duty to her husband was plain as the Bible, and she promised herself to fulfil it to the last tittle, but while doing this, she must find the courage to be true to herself, as well as to others. And as nothing can be done in the heart by halves, it would be no fitful or uncertain struggle. The whole soul, the whole heart, the whole mind, the whole life, would be demanded. She was troubled at the prospect before her. Would she find strength and wisdom for it? Or would it prove to be another of the lost fights of Virtue?

"No, no!" she cried. "I shall not fight alone. God and Theodora are a multitude."

She had certainly that doleful afternoon gone back in piteous memory to her teaching and writing, and her own peaceful, loving home, and thought that if trouble was necessary for her higher development it could have been better borne in either environment. But she acknowledged also that

So if God had chosen this gloomy house, full of jealousy, envy, hatred, and apparently dying love, for her battlefield, it was not her place to murmur "No," nor even her desire, since He that