If there had been a little diversity in the Campbell family it would have been a more bearable household. But they had the same prejudices and the same likes and dislikes, differing only in the intensity with which they held them. Mrs. Campbell and her son Robert were the most positive, Isabel was but little behind them, and Christina was easily bent as the others desired. Under present circumstances she could only be true to her family; under any other circumstances, it was doubtful if she could be false. This monotony of feeling pressed like a weight on Theodora, who felt that she could have borne opposition and unkindness better if there had been more variety in their exhibition; for then Life might have had some interesting fluctuations.

But Mrs. Campbell did precisely the same things every day, and to go to the works at the same moment every morning was the sum-total of Robert's life. The girls had certain dresses for the morning, and certain other dresses for the afternoon, and their employments were quite as uniform. There were even certain menus for every day's dinner in the week, and these were repeated with little or no change year in and year out. For Mrs. Campbell hated the unexpected; she tried to order her life so that there should be no surprises in it. On the contrary Theodora delighted in the unforeseen. She would have wished that even in heaven she might have happy surprises—the sudden meeting with an old friend, or good news from the dear earth still loved and remembered.

However, she had that hopefulness and virginity of spirit that makes the best of what cannot be changed, and as the weeks went on she learned to ignore the ill-will she could not conquer and to bear in silence the wrongs not to be put right by any explanations. And she soon made many acquaintances, and a few sincere friends. Among the latter were Dr. Robertson and his wife, and Mrs. Oliphant, the American. The former had called on Theodora about ten days after her home-coming and had been heartily attracted by her intelligence and beauty. The doctor was passionately fond of good music, and when he noticed the open piano and the name Mendelssohn on the music above it, he asked in an eager voice: "You will play for me?"

"Yes," Theodora answered, "very gladly! My piano is my great friend and companion. It feels with me in every mood. What shall I play?"

"The song before you. Mendelssohn can get very near to a musical soul."

She rose at once, and after a short prelude played in a manner so masterful as to cause the minister to look at his wife in wonder as her magnificent voice lifted that pathetic prayer, which has spoken for the sorrowful and suffering in all ages:

"O that I had wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest."

Every note and every word was full of passionate spiritual desire and tender aspiration, and the music was as if her guardian angel joined her in it. The doctor was entranced, and Mrs. Robertson rose and was standing by the singer's side when she ceased.

"O, my dear, my dear!" she said, "you have gone straight to my heart."

A long and delightful conversation followed; then Ducie set an exquisite little service, and gave the company tea and cake and sweetmeats, and the visit did not terminate for nearly another hour.

Mrs. Campbell was in a transport of anger. "I was never even asked after," she complained to her son, "and Dora kept them all of two hours—such ignorance of social customs—and I could hear them talking and singing like a crowd of daffing young people."

"You ought to have joined them, mother."

"I ought to have been asked to do so, but I was quite neglected."

A few minutes later Robert said to his wife: "Why did you not send for mother when the minister called?"

"Mother was not asked for, and whenever I do send for her she makes a point of refusing, often very rudely, and I did not wish Dr. Robertson to be refused in our parlor."

"Who was mother rude to? It is not her way."

"To Mrs. Oliphant for one, and there were others."

"She does not approve of Mrs. Oliphant."

"I did not know whether she approved of Dr. and Mrs. Robertson. I like them very much. The doctor was very happy, and Mrs. Robertson told me 'I had gone straight to her heart.'"

"Such extravagance of speech! But she is Irish, and the Irish must exaggerate. They are a most untruthful race."

"They are an affectionate race, and what is the good of loving people, if you do not tell them so? They might as well be without such love."

"Do not be foolish, Dora."

"Is that foolishness?"

"Yes."

"Then once you were very foolish. I have not forgotten the time, when you continually told me how dearly you loved me. I was very happy then."

He turned and looked at her, and her beauty conquered him. He took her to his heart, and said: "I do love you, Dora. Yes, I do love you!" And then she grew radiant, and joy transfigured her face, and they went in to dinner together like lovers.

A little later when Dr. Robertson and his wife were sitting alone they began to talk of Theodora. "She has a great heart," said Mrs. Robertson, "and more's the pity."

"Yes, Kate, more's the pity, if she loves Robert Campbell; for it's small love she will get in return. Like ivy on a stone wall, she will obtain only a rigid and niggardly support, and even for that must go searching all round with humble embraces."

"You may take back your last two words, Angus. Yonder woman will stand level with her husband, or not stand with him at all. She would scorn your humble embraces."

"I fear she is in trouble already. There were tears in her voice as she sang."

"It would have melted the heart of a stone. Trouble? Certainly. How can she live with those three amazing women, and be out of trouble?"

"Well, Kate, the key of life which opens all its doors, and answers all its questions, is not 'how' or 'why' or even 'I wish' or 'I will.' It is I must. She must live with them. She must, she must, she must; and she'll do it."

"She will not do it long. Mind what I say. She will strive till she is weary, and then she must leave him—or else drift on a sorrowful sea like a dismasted ship."

"She believes in God—a believer in God never does that."

"Then she will have to leave him. Who could stand the ill-natured nagging of those women, and his sullen, masterful ways? No one."

"She must! The tooth often bites the tongue, but they keep together."

"Poor woman! It is a hard road for her to walk on."

"It is the ground that we do not walk on, that supports us. Faith treads on the void, and finds the rock beneath. She has found that rock, or I am greatly mistaken."

"I feel sure she has found it. Angus, if you could get her to sing that prayer, 'O For the Wings of a Dove' in church, say, while the Elders went round with the collection boxes, it would do a deal of good. It would touch every heart—they wouldn't mind their pennies, they might even give a crown where they have given a shilling."

"That is a capital idea, but I should have to ask Campbell for his consent."

"He does not own her voice."

"He thinks he does, and he must have his say-so. But if she could touch every heart as she touched ours what a gracious gift of song it would be!"

"I believe she could. Ask Robert Campbell."

"I will."

Under all circumstances Robert would have received the minister with extreme courtesy, for a Scotchman can no more afford to quarrel with the dominie of his Kirk than a Catholic in Rome can afford to quarrel with the Pope in Rome. Also, he had a great respect for Dr. Robertson, and when he was told of the sermon he intended to preach on the following Sabbath he was very proud of the confidence, and still prouder to be of service in promoting its effectiveness.

"Of course," he said, "Mrs. Campbell would sing. Why not? Was he not always happy to oblige the doctor and benefit the church?" And it never struck him that he was assuming an absolute right in Theodora's voice, and in her use of it; because he actually felt what he assumed. Nor did he see that in giving her voice to benefit the church he was thinking solely of the church as a religious society, and the souls composing it were never for a moment in his calculation. Both of these facts were clear to the minister, and he hoped that when Campbell saw and felt the effects of his concession he would be disposed to give some thanks to Theodora, and so get a glimpse of what he owed to a wife so good, so clever, and so lovely.

It was remarkable that he never named the subject to his mother, and to Theodora he only spoke of the minister's visit, and asked if he had called on her.

"Yes," she answered, "I made all arrangements with him." She did not dare to express her pleasure, for in that case she knew by experience he would probably cancel his concession. She permitted him to think she was willing to oblige the doctor, because he wished it, and then he felt it necessary to say that it was for "the good of the church, and that he had only consented to her singing for that reason."

Two days afterwards Mrs. Robertson called on Theodora and they went out together, nor did Theodora return until after ten o'clock. At that hour Mrs. Campbell sent for her son to discuss Dora's absence with him. She found him satisfied, instead of angry, as she supposed he would be.

"It is quite right, mother," he said. "Dora is dining with the Robertsons. I was invited, but I preferred to remain at home."

"You did the proper thing. Neither I nor your sisters were invited. I consider our neglect a great insult."

"No insult was intended, mother. They are infatuated with Dora, and I dare say have invited some of the congregation to meet her. Why, there she is now!" he exclaimed, "and I wonder who is with her?"

"I advise you to find out."

He followed the advice, and went to the open door. Theodora was in the embrace of Mrs. Oliphant. "You darling," she was saying, "I can hardly wait for Sunday. O, how are you, Mr. Campbell? You ought to have been with us. We have had the loveliest evening with your adorable wife—but we have brought her safe home."

Then Mr. Oliphant laughed: "You ought to keep at her side, Campbell. Every man o' us would like to run awa' with her."

He said the words jokingly, but Robert was very angry, and Theodora felt that his permission for the Sunday singing wavered in the balance. But the danger passed in his criticisms of the offender, whom he stigmatized as "the most uxorious and foolish of husbands."

Except to Theodora, he did not name the subject of her singing on the coming Sabbath, and as neither Mrs. Campbell nor her daughters spoke of it, Theodora followed the example set her and kept silence. When Sunday arrived, she went quietly out of the house while the rest were dressing, and at the last moment Robert joined his family, saying: "I will go to church with you this morning, mother." He gave no reason for his conduct, nor did Mrs. Campbell ask for one. She concluded that Theodora was sick, or that more likely she had had a dispute with her husband about the service, and in consequence had refused to attend it.

As it happened Mrs. Campbell had only heard Theodora sing from a distance, or behind closed doors, and Isabel was very near in the same ignorance of her voice and its ability. Christina was more likely to recognize the singer, for she had frequently heard her, but she did not, or at least only in a vague and uncertain manner. She wished Theodora had been present, that she might learn her deficiencies, and she wondered that two people should have voices so similar; but she reflected, that her own voice was so like Isabel's that her mother frequently mistook them. But Robert knew, and his heart melted to the passionate stress and longing of her cry: "O that I had wings like a dove," and thrilled to the joy and triumph of the rest hoped for.

The whole church was moved as if it had been one spirit and one heart. The place seemed to be on fire with feeling, and as the marvellous voice died away in peace and rest a strange but mighty influence swept over the usually cold and stolid congregation. Some wept silently, some bowed their heads, and a few stood and looked upward, while the soft, rolling notes of the organ died away in the benediction. Very quietly and speechlessly the congregation dispersed. All went home with the song in their hearts, but not until they sat down in their homes did they begin to talk together of the psalm and the singer. Even Mrs. Campbell was touched and pleased, and she took a great delight in praising the singer, as they sat at lunch.

"That was singing," she said, "and the finest singing I ever heard. Many people pretend to sing who know nothing about it and have no voice to sing with—but, thank God, for once in my life, I have heard singing."

"It sounded very like Dora's voice," said Christina.

"You are mistaken," replied Isabel, "besides, the voice we heard this morning is a finely trained voice—I mean, as voices are trained for oratorio and public singing. It was a soprano, and soprano voices are very much alike."

No one cared to dispute Isabel's explanation and the conversation drifted to the sermon from the same psalm. "It was a good sermon," said Mrs. Campbell, "but people will forget it in the song."

"The song was the sermon to-day," said Isabel.

"The sermon was water, the song was wine," said Robert.

"I wish you would get the music, Dora. I am sure you could learn to sing it very well," said Christina; and Theodora smiled and answered, "I will try and get the music, if you wish, Christina."

"No, no!" cried Mrs. Campbell. "I would not have the memory of this morning's song spoiled for a great deal."

"Nor I, mother," added Isabel. "Would you, Robert?"

The better man had possession of Robert at that hour and he replied with a strong fervor:

"No, not for anything. It is one memory I shall hope to keep green as long as I live." He looked at Theodora, and if any there had had eyes to see, they might have read the secret in their beaming faces.

In their own parlor Robert was more enthusiastic than Theodora had seen him for a long time. "You have often gone to my heart, Dora," he said, "but this morning you touched my soul." And they were very happy together. This was the man Theodora loved. This was the man to whom she had given her heart and hand. Oh, how was she to keep this Robert Campbell always to the fore?

To do any great thing with the heart of another, you must vivisect your own, and this truth Theodora had to practise continually. Her life was one of such painful self-denial as left all its little pleasant places bare and barren; but she knew that in this way only could peace be bought, and she paid the price, excepting always, when it struck at her self-respect or violated her conscience. For she had constant opportunities of seeing that the spirit of submission carried too far was responsible for most of the misery and wrongs of the household; since despotism is never the sin of one, but comes from the servility of those around the despot. And as Robert was not always indifferent, but had frequent visitings from his better self, she made the most of these happy times, and took the envy and hatred of the rest as she took wet weather, or wind, or snow, or any other exhibition of the Higher Powers. For if training and education had made Theodora self-respectful, it had also made her avoid everything like self-indulgence.

So the weeks passed on in a kind of armed truce with short intervals of satisfying happiness, whenever Robert chose to make her happy. She still took her breakfast alone, and now and then Robert, allured by the pretty appetizing table on the cheerful hearth, drank his coffee and ate a rasher of bacon beside her. Then how gay and delighted she was, and as on such occasions he gave up his porridge and salt herring, McNab, in order to pleasure the mistress whom she loved, always found him some dainty to atone for his deprivation. And the meal was so good and cheerful, that it was a wonderful thing he did not join his wife constantly.

It was now getting near to Christmas, but none of the family had yet ventured to tell Mrs. Campbell the truth concerning the singing in the church although she frequently spoke of it. In fact, ever since that Sabbath she had made a point of sending a note to Theodora whenever she heard the piano. "I know practising from music," she said in every note, "and I do not like practising." Only Christina being present at the practising interfered with the message, and many times it had been sent when it was the caller who was doing the practising. The order was always obeyed, lest it should be more offensively repeated, and to no one but Mrs. Oliphant did Theodora confide her reason for closing the instrument so promptly. The message elicited from Mrs. Oliphant scornful laughter, and the three women listening for the manner of its reception were not surprised.

"They are laughing at my order," said Mrs. Campbell, "what dreadful manners Americans do have!"

"Dora's manners are equally bad. She had no business to show her the note," said Isabel.

"Dora is English; what can you expect?"

"Dora ought to send for me when she has company," said Christina, "then she would be allowed to practise, would she not, mother?"

"Christina, I am always willing to sacrifice myself for my children, and you profess to learn something from her playing."

"I do, and I love to hear her play and sing. Dora has been kind to me, she isn't half bad."

"Well, Christina, in all proper things I consult my children's pleasure, rather than my own comfort."

Isabel said nothing, and yet Theodora had made many whist parties for her pleasure, persuading Robert to invite to them such unmarried men as would be suitable partners for his sisters in life, as well as at the whist table. These parties had always terminated with supper and music, Christina being the principal, and generally the only performer. She had taken both of the sisters out with her, dressed them for entertainments, shown them how to dress themselves, and taught them those little tricks of the toilet, which are to women at once so innocent and so indispensable. Many times these services had been rendered cheerfully when she was sick or depressed, but neither of the girls had any conception of a kindness, except as it related to themselves—how it benefited their looks or their feelings, and what results would accrue to them from it. Never once had they expressed a sense of obligation for any favor done them. They took every kindness as their right, for they heard their mother constantly assert: "Dora could never do enough for them."

"She has forced herself into our family without our desire or permission," she would say, "and if she could only understand it she is a great wrong and annoyance to us. If she does teach Christina music and singing and French, and entertain you both now and then, it is her bounden duty to do that, and more. She is a born schoolmistress anyway, and no doubt feels quite at home teaching you any little thing she can."

This was not a happy life for Theodora, but she had chosen it, and our choices are our destiny. It was now her duty to make the best of it, and if Robert was only a little loving and just, her fine spirits and hopeful temper made her gay as a bird in spring. Her enthusiasms were incomprehensible to the three women, they were even repulsive; for neither the selfish, ill-tempered mother, nor the selfish, servile daughters, could understand that joy, which, coming from the inner life, is illimitably glad and hopeful, "something afar from the sphere of our sorrow."

But even Robert was now ashamed of his enthusiasms as a lover, as a married man he considered them quite out of place. They had served their purpose and ought to be retired from the sensible atmosphere of daily life. So he allowed the noblest and tenderest symbols of love to die of cruel neglect, and his occasional breakfasts with Theodora were the only remnant of his once passionate personal love. He was quite willing to consider Dora as belonging to the whole family, and he smiled grimly if he remembered the days in which he was intensely jealous even of her own father and mother's claim on her affection.

One great reason for Theodora's life being so troubled by dislike and unrest was doubtless because her angel was not, and could not, be friends with the angels of her new connections. They had no business to be in the same house. They got in each other's way and provoked friction. And though physical crowding is bad, spiritual crowding is much worse. Theodora had been well aware of the antagonism of her angel to her marriage with Robert Campbell. By intuitions, presentiments, omens, dreams, and even by clairaudient words, she had been warned of matrimonial troubles.

But she had an invincible faith in her influence over her intended husband, and as for a fight with others, or with circumstances, of neither was she afraid. She had always won her way triumphantly. She believed in God, she believed in herself, and she believed in humanity. The calibre of a Scotch family composed of three-fourths women, was a combination she had never seen, never heard of, never read of, and could not possibly imagine.

Yes, she had been abundantly counselled, and she remembered especially the last warning that she received before her marriage. She was at the Salutation Hotel on Lake Windermere, standing at the window of her room looking over the lovely scene. All Nature was calm as a resting wheel, the sky full of stars; all the mystery and majesty of earth, the lake, the woods, the mountains encompassed her. And as she stood there musing on the past, and on the future as connected with Robert Campbell, the voice she knew so well pleaded with her for the last time.

"Are you able?" it asked.

"Yes," she answered softly but audibly.

"The fight will be hard."

"I shall win it."

"Though as by fire!"

Then she was alone, and she felt strangely desolate and afraid.

For though one come from the dead, the soul self-centred and confident in its own wisdom will not believe. Then it can only learn its life's lesson by those cruel experiences from which its good angel would so gladly have saved it.

"Though as by fire! Though as by fire!" Often she had thought of that prophecy since her marriage, when she had been forced day after day to say with David:

"They have spoken against me with a lying tongue.

"They compassed me about with words of hatred, and fought against me without cause.

"For my love they are my adversaries, and they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love."

She was sitting alone one afternoon, and very weary and disconsolate after a morning of petty slights, and unkind words, when Robert entered. He was earlier than usual and more responsive to her smile of welcome.

"I am so glad to see you, Robert, so glad! I did not expect you for an hour."

"The minister called on me this afternoon, and I returned to the city with him. He wants you to sing, Dora, at the New Year's service. He is going to preach from the first verse of the fourteenth of Job: 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.' He says the sermon will necessarily be solemn and warning, so he wishes you to sing something that lifts up the heart and looks hopefully forward."

"Are you willing that I should sing, Robert?"

"Yes, I should like you to do so."

"Then what could be better than Job's triumphant confession, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth'?"

"That is the very thing! You sung it once in Sheffield. I have never forgotten it."

"Has your mother been told about my singing, 'O that I had wings like a dove'?"

"No. I have never found a good opportunity to tell her. I knew she would feel it much. As soon as you have settled the matter with the doctor, I will tell her of both together."

The next morning Dr. Robertson called to see Theodora, and was delighted with her selection. He did not stay long, but Mrs. Campbell was deeply offended because she was neither personally visited by him, nor yet invited by Theodora to meet him in her parlor. The lunch table was made a fiery furnace for her, and she had not the physical power to resist the evil. Assailed by a sudden faintness, she was obliged to leave the room.

"Dora looks ill," said Christina.

"She is always complaining lately. She had Dr. Fleming in the house twice last week, had she not, Isabel?" Isabel sighed deeply, and Christina absently nodded assent. She was counting the custard cups and considering the best way to appropriate the one intended for Theodora.

Jepson, however, had noticed the white face and unsteady steps of the sick woman and assisted her to her own apartments. On his return he was confronted by the angry face of his mistress. She laid down her knife and fork with a clash and asked:

"How dared you leave the room, Jepson? I hired you to wait on the Miss Campbells and myself."

"I thought Mrs. Campbell looked very ill, ma'am."

"You are here to obey orders, not to think. And I am Mrs. Campbell, the other is Mrs. Robert. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

For some hours Theodora lay on the sofa in deep sleep, or in some other form of oblivion. She came back to consciousness with the feeling of one shipwrecked on a dark, desolate land, and after a little sobbing cry, went upstairs to try and dress for dinner. A depressing anxiety, a horror of the great darkness from which she had just returned was on her, and as soon as her exhausting toilet was over, she went back to the parlor, and lifting a book sat down at a small table with it in her hand.

Isabel, who was with her mother, heard both the ascent and descent, and directed her attention to it. "Dora has been dressing for dinner," she said. "Her sickness has not lasted long."

"There was nothing the matter with her."

"You are looking very well, mother, but I must change my gown. Why not go and question Dora about the minister's visit? She ought to tell you the why and the wherefore of it."

"She shall tell me. I will make the inquiry at once."

Theodora was sitting with her elbows on the small table, her head in her hands and the open pages of the book below her heavy eyes, when the door was imperiously opened and Mrs. Campbell entered.

"You have got over your impromptu attack, I see, very readily."

"I feel better than I did a few hours ago."

"Why did Dr. Robertson call on you this morning?"

"He called on business—not socially."

"Money as usual, I suppose."

"He did not name money."

"Then what did he name?"

"His business."

"And what was his business?"

"I cannot tell you—yet."

"So you are the doctor's confidant! You are the doctor's adviser! You are set up before me, about the doctor's business. You! You, indeed! Have you argued the matter out with the devil, as to how far you can go with a minister?"

"I never argue with the devil. 'Get thee behind me' is enough for him."

"I perfectly think scorn of you and your pretensions. I suppose the doctor is trying to save your soul!"

"My soul is saved."

"You are an impertinent huzzy!"

"I do not intend to be impertinent—and I do not deserve such a contemptuous word as huzzy."

"You are a fifty-fold huzzy! You are not reading. Lift your eyes and look at me!"

"I would rather not."

"I say, look at me. Why do you keep your eyes dropped? Do you think yourself beautiful in that attitude? You are full of tricks."

Then Theodora lifted her eyes and looked steadily at her tormentor. They were pleading and reproachful, and full of tears. "I should like to be alone," she said slowly, "I am not well."

"I wish to know the minister's business."

"I must tell Robert first."

"I must tell Robert first," cried Mrs. Campbell with mocking mimicry. "Let me tell you, Robert would rather you never spoke to him! He wishes you far away—he is sick of you, as I am—he is sorry he ever saw your face."

"I do not believe these things. Will you leave me? You are very cruel—I have not deserved such abuse." Once more she dropped her eyes on her book, but the letters were blurred and the solid earth seemed reeling.

"Give me that book and listen to what I say!"

There was no answer.

"Do you hear me? Give me that book."

Theodora neither spoke nor moved, and in a tragic frenzy of passion Mrs. Campbell seized the book and flung it to the other end of the room.

With a shriek, shrill yet weak, Theodora tottered to where it lay with its pages crumpled against the floor, and in the effort to lift the volume she fell like one dead beside it.

Then Ducie screamed for McNab and Jepson, and the two came hurrying in.

"She flung the Bible across the room! She flung the Bible!"

"Stop talking, Ducie, and help me get the dress of the poor lady slackened. Jepson, run for Dr. Fleming."

"I will if you say so, McNab."

"Run awa', and don't stand there like a born idiot, then."

"I will not have a doctor brought here," said Mrs. Campbell in passionate tones. "I will not have one! There is no necessity for a doctor. I say——"

"Say nothing at all, ma'am. Do you ken it was the Bible you flung across the room? What devil put it into your heart and hand to do the like o' that unforgiveable sin? I'm feared to be in the room wi' you, mistress. You'll never dare to pray again, you meeserable woman, you!"

For a few minutes Mrs. Campbell was really shocked. She went to the book, straightened out its leaves, and laid it on the table. "I did not know it was the Bible, McNab," she said. "No one respects the Holy Scriptures more than I do. I regret——"

"The deed is done. There's nae good in respecting and regretting now. Come here and help us to do what we can, till the doctor comes."

"I will not. It is her fault. She would make an angel sin. I am innocent, perfectly innocent. My God, what a tribulation the creature is!"

"I wouldna name God, if I was you," said McNab scornfully. "Maybe He'll forget you, if you dinna remind Him o' your sinfu' self."

"McNab, I give you notice to leave my house at once."

"That is more like you, Mistress Campbell, but I'm not going out o' this house till the master says so. I am his hired woman, not yours, thank God! and I am not feared to speak the Holy Name, as you may well be. Here's the doctor—thank God again for that mercy! You had better leave the room, or you'll be getting the words you're well deserving, mistress."

"I shall stay just where I am."

"You're a dour woman; you are that."

Dr. Fleming entered as the last words were spoken. He brought with him an atmosphere of help and strength, and barely glancing at Mrs. Campbell he knelt down beside the sick woman. In a few moments he rose, and calling Jepson, ordered him to "go to No. 400 Renfrew Street, and bring back with him Jean Malcolm."

"I cannot spare Jepson, doctor," said Mrs. Campbell. "It is nearly time to serve dinner."

"Do as I tell you, man, and be off at once. Don't waste a moment. Take a cab."

"Doctor——"

"Mrs. Campbell, this is a serious case. We have no time to think of dinners. I fear there is a slight concussion of the brain."

Then turning to McNab, he said: "There must be a mattress brought down here, and I shall want two men to carry the patient upstairs. Have you men in the house?"

"No, sir, none worth the name o' men. I'll step over to the hotel and get a couple o' their porters."

"That will do."

"Doctor, if there are any extraordinary arrangements to make, I am Mrs. Traquair Campbell."

"I know you, Mrs. Campbell. I have a very true knowledge of you."

"Then, sir, give your orders to me. What do you wish?"

"I wish you to leave the room. If your dinner is ready, you had better eat it. I may want your man for some time."

"Sir, you are rude. Will you remember this is my house?"

"It is not your house. It is your son's house, and this lady, I take it, is his wife. So then, it is her house."

"Yes, she is my son's wife, more's the pity, more's the shame, more's the sorrow——"

"My God, woman! Have you no heart, no pity, no sense of duty to a sick woman?" As he spoke he rose, and with an angry face and long strides walked to the door and threw it wide open, uttering only one fierce word: "Go!"

A better and a more powerful spirit than her own gave this order, and she perforce obeyed it; but when she reached the dining-room, she threw herself on the sofa in a frantic passion.

"I have been insulted," she cried. "I have been insulted shamefully. Oh, Isabel! that woman will be the death of me!"

"Perhaps she will die herself, mother. Ducie says she has hurt her brain in falling—a concussion, she said."

"Not a bad concussion, though——"

"No, a slight one, but one never knows, and she is so excitable——"

Thus they comforted each other until the porters arrived, and went upstairs for the mattress. Their rough voices and heavy feet, and the natural confusion attending their business roused Mrs. Campbell and her daughters to a pitch of distraction, only to be relieved by motion and loud talking. Walking up and down the room, and striking her large cruel hands together, Mrs. Campbell was heard above all the confusion attending the removal of Theodora; and in the midst of this confusion, Robert came home.

"Whatever is the matter, Jepson?" he asked in an angry voice.

"The doctor will tell you, sir. I fear my young mistress is dying."

He did not answer, but went rapidly to his rooms. They were in the utmost disorder, the windows open and the rooms empty. He rushed upstairs then, and Dr. Fleming met him at the door of Theodora's room.

"Doctor, where is my wife? What is wrong?"

"She had a long fainting fit, fell heavily, and has, I fear, slight concussion of the brain."

"What cause, what reason was there?"

"Her maid will tell you. I will send her."

"But I must see my wife first!"

"You cannot. I shall stay here until I judge it safe to leave her. I have sent for a competent nurse, and expect her every moment."

"Surely, doctor—there is no fear—of death."

"I should not like another lapse of consciousness."

Robert did not speak. He steadied himself by grasping the baluster, and the doctor left him, and sent out Ducie.

"How did this happen, Ducie?" he asked.

Then Ducie told him everything. She described the way her mistress was sitting, and the entrance of Mrs. Campbell. She remembered the words, and the tones in which the conversation had taken place, and the inability of her mistress to answer the last two questions—the snatching of the book from the table, and the flinging of it to the end of the room, and after an emphatic pause she added: "The book was the Bible, sir."

Campbell had not spoken a word during Ducie's recital, but at her last remark he started as if shocked, and then said: "You have told me the truth, Ducie?"

"Nothing but the truth. Ask Jepson."

"I believe you. Go back to your mistress, and as soon as it is possible tell her I was at the door but not allowed to enter."

Then he went slowly downstairs, and the talking and exclamations ceased sharply and suddenly when he entered the dining-room, for his face, and his intentional silence, was like that which Isabel had not inaptly compared to a black frost.

After a short interval, during which he had frozen every one dumb, he looked steadily at Mrs. Campbell and said:

"Mother, I am amazed at what I hear."

"You may well be amazed, Robert," was the answer. "I myself am nearly distracted," and then she told her story, with much skill and all the picturesque idioms she fell naturally into when under great emotion. Her son listened to her as he had listened to Ducie, without question or comment. He was trying to weigh everything justly, for justice was in his opinion the cardinal virtue.

"The dispute arose, then, concerning Dr. Robertson's visit to Theodora?" he asked.

"Yes. I had a right to know why he called, and she would not tell me."

"Theodora had no right to tell you. Out of kindness the reason for his visit had been kept from you. I will tell you now. He wished Theodora to sing at the New Year's service, and he called to see what her selection would be."

"The organist ought to select the music, not Dora Campbell."

"Allow me to finish. She chose 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

He ceased speaking and took his place at the dinner table. "Order dinner, Isabel," he added, in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Campbell was speechless. She was stunned by anger and amazement. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears—a most extraordinary exhibition of feeling in her. Isabel with a piteous look directed his attention to her mother, and he said:

"Take your chair, mother. I want my dinner. I have had a hard day. The men at the works are quarrelling and going to strike. I did not require extra quarrelling at home."

"I cannot eat, Robert. I will not eat again in this house. I can laugh at insults from strangers, but when my son connives with his English wife to deceive me and make me humble myself before her, it is time I went away—I don't care where to."

"You have your own house at Saltcoats."

"It is rented."

Robert made no remark and the dinner went silently on. Just as it was finished the doctor asked for Robert, and he left the room to see him. "Your wife has fallen asleep," he said, "and, Campbell, you must see to it that she is not awakened for anything less than a fire or an earthquake." A short conversation followed, and after it Robert went directly to the library.

Greatly to his astonishment, his mother followed him there. He laid aside his cigar, and placed a chair for her. She had now assumed the only temper likely to influence him, and he was prepared to be amenable to her plea before she made it.

"I am sorry, Robert, that you have to bear this trouble. If it was only me, I would not care. Are you going to turn me and your sisters out of your house for that strange woman?"

"That strange woman is my wife. God has told me to leave father and mother, and cleave unto my wife."

"It is very hard."

"Let her alone, and she will not interfere with you."

"Isabel and Christina know——"

"Excuse me, she has been very kind and helpful to my sisters. She would love you all if you would let her."

"Her singing in the church——"

"Was a great delight, even to you. We were silent about it, out of kindness. I will not discuss that subject."

"Where would you advise us to go?"

"I do not advise you to go at all."

"I could not live with your wife if she is going to faint every time she quarrels with me."

"Mother, I know all about your quarrel with Theodora. I have heard it from Jepson and Ducie, and I know what the doctor thinks of it. Allow me to say your conduct was inexcusable. I would not blame you before the girls, but that is my opinion."

"Her silence was so provoking, you don't know, Robert——"

"I know that no provocation ought to have caused you to make the Bible the missile of your temper. It was an impious act. I shudder at it."

"I did not know it was the Bible."

"Mother, a Bible is known on sight. No other book looks like it. No form, no shape no color, can hide the Bible. There is a kind of divinity in this personality of the Book. I have often thought so."

"I shall sorrow for that act as long as I live, Robert. She made me do it. Yes, she did!"

"No, she did not."

"Why was she reading the Bible at that hour of the day? If it had been morning or night, I might have thought of it."

"Theodora reads the Bible at all hours."

"She does nothing like any one else."

"Theodora is my wife. I love her. She suits me exactly."

"And I and your sisters no longer suit you."

"You are, as I said before, my mother and my sisters. You are Campbells. That is enough."

"And, blessed be our ancestors, we are a' pure Campbells! Your father was o' the Argyle clan, and I was o' the Cawdor clan, but whether Argyle, Cawdor, Breadalbane, or Laudon, we are a' Campbells. We a' wear the wild myrtle and we hae a' the same battle-cry, 'Wild Cruachan!' and we a' hae hated and loved the same folk and the same things, and even if I had nae ither claim on yen, I would only require to say, 'Robert Campbell, Margaret Campbell is needing ye.'"

"You are my mother. That claim includes all claims."

"Doubly dear for being a Campbell mother."

"Yes. I am glad and proud of that fact."

Then she stretched out her hand, and he clasped and held it firmly, as he walked with her to the door.

"Good-night, mother!" he said. "I must go to Dora now. We will drop this day out of our memories."

Stepping proudly to the lilt of her Campbell eulogy, she went to her daughters with flashing eyes and a kindling face, and after a few moments of thrilling silence said:

"I hae got my way, girls, by the name o' the Campbells. Dod! but it's the great name! It unlocked his heart like a pass-key—yet I had to stoop a wee. I had to stoop in order to conquer."

"Mother, you always manage Robert."

"I ne'er saw the man I couldna manage, that is, if he was a sober man; but I'll tak' the management out o' her—see if I don't. I'll mak' her eat the humble pie she baked for me—I'll hae the better o' the English huzzy yet—I'll sort her, when I get the right time. I can do naething o' an extreme nature just yet. It has been a calamitous day, girls, morning and night. Now, go awa' to your ain rooms, I be to think the circumstances weel over."

"Mother, you are a wonderful woman," said Christina.

"Also a very discreet woman," added Isabel.

And the old lady walked to the sideboard, filled a glass with wine, lifted it upwards, and nodding to her daughters, said in a low but triumphant voice:

"Here's to the Campbells! Wha's like us?"

At the same moment Robert Campbell was stepping proudly upstairs with a heart full of racial pride. He had forgotten the ironworks. He was a Campbell of the Argyle clan, he was kin to all the Breadalbanes, and Cawdors, and Loudons. He was a Campbell, and all the glory of the large and powerful family was his glory. At that moment he heard the dirl of the bagpipes and felt the rough beauty of the thistle, and knew in his heart of hearts, that he was a son of Scotland, an inheritor of all her passions and traditions, her loves and her hatreds, and glad and proud to be so favored.

But even at this critical hour of his wife's life, he could not be much blamed, for all is race. There is no other truth, because it includes all others.