During the following three weeks, Robert lived in an earthly paradise. His brother drew him with cords of strong wisdom and affection always into the ways of pleasantness and peace. Theodora grew every day more lovely and more familiar; her little coolnesses vanished in the warmth of Robert's smiles, her shy pride was conquered by his persistent and passionate wooing; and the days went by in a glory of innocent amusements. Theodora and little David were clever and fearless riders, and they soon made the accomplishment easy to Robert, who was delighted with its joyful mastery, and greatly disappointed if bad weather, or any other event, prevented their morning gallop.

Very frequently he accompanied his brother into San Francisco, met many of her great financiers and merchants, and was their guest at such elaborate lunches and dinners as he had never dreamed possible. Or, he went with Mr. Newton to his vineyard and watched the process of raisin-making. And Theodora had a dance for him, and the lovely young girls present taught him the American steps, and made him wonder over their beauty, their brightness, their perfect ease of manner, and their manifest superiority and authority over male adorers, who appeared to be perfectly delighted with their own subjugation. A full course at the greatest university in the world would not have given him such a civilizing social education as the pretty girls of San Francisco did in a month.

But all things come to an end, and one day Robert received two letters which compelled a pause in this pleasant life. They were from his mother and his head manager. His mother wrote: "You be to come home, Robert Campbell; everything is going to the mischief wanting you! I am hearing that the men are on strike at the works, and that the fires have been banked, and the gates locked. Jamie Rathey is drinking too much wine and neglecting his business, and Christina is whimpering and scolding, for she knows well he will not behave himself until he gets the word from you. As for myself, I am barely holding up against the great strain, for there's none to help me, Christina having trouble enough in her own shoes, and My Lady Wynton having almost forgotten the way to her own home, since she was promoted to a residence in Wynton Castle. So, Robert, my lad, come back as quick as you can, for your mother is sorely needing you."

He showed this letter to his brother, and David only smiled. "Let me see your manager's letter, Robert," he asked, and when he had read it, he smiled still more significantly.

"I do not think your letters need give you any anxiety, Robert," he said. "The letter from Andrew Starkie, your manager, is dated two days later than mother's, and he does not even name a strike among your workers. He seems troubled only because the orders are so large he is afraid that the cash left at his command will not be sufficient to carry them out. We can send more money to-day. I see no necessity for you to hurry. I want you to take a sail up to Vancouver, and another sail down to the Isthmus. You have given me no time yet. And what about your position with Theodora?"

"I must find that out immediately. The day after I came, I gave her a ring she valued highly—a ring that her pupils presented to her. It had been stolen, and I recovered it, and she was delighted when I put it on her finger. But when I offered her the wedding ring she returned it to me, she shook her head, closed her eyes, and would not look at it."

"Try her again. She has changed since then. I am sure she loves you now."

"I am just going to her," and he turned away with such a mournful look that his brother called him back.

"Look here, Robert," he said, "faint heart never won fair lady, or anything else for that matter. Your face is enough to frighten any woman. Women do not fancy despairers."

"David, you don't know what a hopeless task it is to court your wife. She knows all your weak points, and just how most cruelly to snub you."

"That is not Theodora's way! Speak to her kindly, but bravely. Be straight in all you say, for I declare to you she feels a lie."

"Great heavens! I should think I know that, David. I was often forced to break my promises to her, or in the stress of business I forgot them; and at last, she never noticed any promise I made. It used to make me angry."

"What made you angry?"

"O, the change in her face, when I said I would do anything. She never contradicted me in words, but I knew she was mentally throwing my promise over her shoulder. It was not pleasant."

"Very unpleasant—to her."

"I meant to myself."

"Well, Robert, when you are going to ask a woman to do you a miraculous favor, do not think of yourself, think of her. Forget yourself, this morning."

"O, I think constantly of Theodora."

David looked queerly at his brother, and seemed on the point of asking him a question, but he likely thought it useless. Robert went off trying to look hopeful and brave, but inwardly in a muddle of anxious uncertainty, because of his mother's letter. He found Theodora in a shady corner of the piazza; she was reclining in a Morris chair, and thinking of him. Her loving smile, her happy leisure, her morning freshness and beauty, her outstretched hand, made an entrancing picture. He placed a chair at her side, and sat down, and Theodora after a glance into his face asked:

"O, knight of the rueful countenance, what troubles you this beautiful morning?"

"I have had letters from home," he answered; "not pleasant letters."

"From your mother, then?"

"One of them is from mother."

"She could not write a pleasant letter, and if she could, she would not."

"Will you read it?"

"I would not cast my eyes upon anything her eyes have looked on."

"She says enough to make it necessary for me to go home."

"Home?"

"It is the only home I have. You——"

"Do not include me, in any remark about your home."

"Once you made my home your home."

"Never! There was no such thing as home, in Traquair House."

"But, my darling Dora—my darling wife——"

"I am not your wife. When I sent you the wedding ring back—that you said was yours, not mine—I divorced myself from all a wife's duties, pains, and penalties."

"You are my wife, and nothing but my death can make you free."

"Oh, but you are mistaken! You made a solemn contract with me, and you broke every condition of that contract."

"Suppose I did, that——"

"Your faithlessness made the contract null and void——"

"The law of England——"

"I care nothing about the law of England. I am now an American citizen."

"But, Dora, my dear, dear love, you will surely go back to Glasgow with me?"

"Not for all creation! I would rather die."

"Am I to go back alone? That is too cruel."

"Why do you wish to go back?"

"Have you considered my business, Dora?"

"No, I have thought only of you."

"But you must think of my business. How can you expect me to give it up? Why, the 'Campbell Iron Works' are almost historic. They were founded by my great-grandfather. They are making more money under my management than ever they did before."

"If you put your historic iron works before me, you are not worthy of me."

"My mother's, and my sister's livelihoods are in the works. They look to me to protect them."

"If you put your mother, and your sisters before me, you are not worthy of me."

"They love me, Dora."

"Your mother has many investments. She is rich. Your sisters are well married. Neither of them would put you before their husbands, why should you put them before your wife and son? If they had loved you, they would not have broken up your home, and driven your wife and child away from you. You were a provider of cash, a giver of social prestige to them—no more."

"Then you expect me to give up my family, my business, my country—everything."

"I will have everything, or nothing."

She rose as she said these words, and stood looking into his face with eyes full of love and trouble.

"Then God help me, Theodora," he faltered, "for this hour I die to every hope of happiness in this life!" He lifted her hand, and his tears dropped on it as he kissed it. "Farewell! Farewell!"

He was standing before her the image of despairing Love, and she lifted her eyes, and they met the passionate grief in his. She could not bear it. "Oh, Robert!" she sobbed, "Oh, Robert, I do love you. I have loved none but you. I never shall love any other." She laid her head against his shoulder, and he silently kissed her many times, and then went slowly away.

He went straight to his brother with his sorrow, and David listened in grave silence, until the story of the interview was over. Then he said softly:

"Poor Theodora!"

Robert was astonished, even hurt by the exclamation. "Why do you pity Theodora?" he asked. "It is I you ought to pity."

"You ought to have had pity on yourself, Robert. Of course, you are miserable, and you will be far more miserable. How could you bear to give your wife such a cowardly disappointment; how could you do it?"

"I do not understand you, David—cowardly——"

"Yes, that is the word for it. You have been persuading her for a month, that you loved her before, and above, all earthly things. As you noticed, she did not at first believe this, but I am sure the last two weeks she has taken all your protestations into her heart."

"I told her nothing but the truth."

"And as soon as you think she loves you——"

"She does love me—she says so."

"You take advantage of her love, and ask her to go back to a life that almost killed her, before she fled from it. Poor Theodora! And I call your act a selfish, cowardly one."

"What did you expect me to do?"

"To give up everything for her."

"To give up the works—the Campbell Iron Works! To give them up! Sell them perhaps at a loss! Did you expect I would do this?"

"I did. I supposed you wished her to be again your wife."

"You know I wished it."

"I do not believe you. I think as your holiday was over, you wished to back out of your promise, and you knew the easiest way to do so was to require her to go back to Glasgow."

"Back out! What do you mean, David?"

"Your mother orders you home, and rather than offend her, or meet her sarcasms, you ask Theodora to do what you well know she will never do. Having taught her to love you again, you make her an offer that it is impossible for her to accept; then you leave her to suffer once more the pang of wrong and despairing love. Cowardly is too mild a word; your conduct is that of a scoundrel."

"My God, David, are you turning against me?"

"Robert, Robert! I am ashamed of you. Suppose Theodora went back to Glasgow with you, what would be her position, and what would people—especially women—say about it? She would be a wife who ran away from her husband, but whom her husband discovered, and brought back to her duties. Upon this text, what cutting, cruel speeches mother and all the women in your set would make. The position would be a triumph for you—some men would envy and admire you, all would praise you for standing up so persistently for the authority of the male. But poor Theodora, who would stand by her?"

"I would."

"And your defence of your wife would be counted as a thing chivalrous and magnanimous in you, but it would be disgraceful in her to require it. She, the poor innocent one, would get all the blame and the shame, you, the guilty one——"

"Stop, David! I never thought of her return in this light."

"I can imagine mother and the rest of the women chortling and glorying over the runaway wife brought back."

"I tell you, I would stand by her through thick and thin."

"But you could not prevent the women hounding her, and upon my honor, Robert, she would deserve it."

"No, David. She would not deserve it."

"I say she would."

"What for?"

"For coming back with you. Every woman with a particle of self-respect would feel that she had betrayed her sex, and dishonored her wifehood, and they would despise, and speak ill of her for doing so. And she would deserve it."

"Then all this month you have been expecting me to come here to live?"

"There was no other manly and gentlemanly way out of your dilemma; and your coming at all authorized the expectation."

"The iron works are not all, David. Do you think I care nothing for my family, and my country?"

"Do you think you are the only person who cares for their family? What about Theodora's feelings? Her father gave up his ministry, and taking his wife and the savings of his whole life, he came here to the ends of the earth with his child, because you had treated her and her son cruelly. Now you ask her to leave them here, in a new country, where they have not one relative—in their old age——"

"I forgot their claim. I will pay all their expenses back to England."

"Mrs. Newton could not bear the journey back. Mr. Newton has lost all his interests in England; what money they have is invested here. Oh, if you do not instantly see their pitiful condition without their daughter, it is useless to explain it to you. Then there is their grandchild. He is the light of their life. If their grandchild was taken away, they would be bereft indeed."

"Their grandchild is my son. My claim is paramount. I must have my boy at all hazards. I want him educated in Scotland, and brought up a Scotchman, not an American. He will be heir to the works, and must understand the people, and the conditions he has to live with, and work with."

"You will never make a Scotchman of Davie. You will never get him out of this country, or this state. You will never make an iron-worker of David, he loves too well the free, and open-air life; and the blue skies, and sunshine."

"He is under authority, and must come."

"Under his mother's authority yet, and mind this, Robert, you will not be permitted to take him from her; not be permitted, I say."

"My God, what am I to do?"

"Do right. There is no other way to be happy."

"There are two rights here, my mother and my sisters have claims as well as my wife and my son."

"Then for God's sake go to your mother and your sisters! Why did you come to me for advice, when you are still tied to your mother's apron-strings."

"Now, you are angry at me."

"Yes, and justly so. But if you are bent on Glasgow, the sooner you start for the dismal city, the better."

"I will go at once. Will you let some one drive me to San Francisco?"

"I will tell Saki to bring a buggy to the door in half-an-hour."

"Don't go away from me, David—don't do that! I am miserable enough without your desertion."

"I am disappointed in you, Robert—sorely, sorely disappointed. I have had a dream about our future lives together, and it is, it seems, only a dream. Good-bye, Robert! I do not feel able to watch the ending of all my hopes, so Saki will drive you to the city. And you, too, will be better alone. Good-bye, good-bye!"

So they parted, and Robert was driven into the city and took his ticket for the next train bound for New York. He had some hours to wait, and he went to the hotel he had frequented with his brother, and sat down in the office. Undoubtedly there was a secret hope in his heart, that David would follow him, and he watched with anxiety every newcomer. But David did not follow him, and when he could wait no longer, he went to his train. Bitter disquiet and uncertainty wrung his heart, and he was glad when the moving train permitted him to isolate himself in a dismal, sullen stillness.

He had also a violent nervous headache, and physical pain was a thing he knew so little about, that he was astonished at his suffering, and resented it. "And this is the end of everything!" he muttered to himself, "the end of everything! It was brutal to expect me to give up my business, my family, and my country," and then he ceased, for something reminded him that Theodora had once made that same sacrifice for him. In any crisis the "set" of the life will count, and the "set" of Robert's life was selfishness. This passion now boldly combated all dissent from his personal satisfaction, denied any supremacy but his will, drowned the voice of Honor, the pleadings of Love, and insisted on his own pleasure and interest, at all costs.

Sorrow, if it be possible, takes refuge in sleep; but sleep was far from Robert Campbell. His body was racked with physical suffering that he knew not how to alleviate; his soul was aching in all its senses. He was assailed by memories, every one of which he would like to have met with a shriek. All he loved was behind him, every moment he was leaving them further behind. And his God dwelt—or visited—only in sacred buildings. He never thought of Him as in a railway car, never supposed Him to be observant of the trouble between his wife and himself, would not have believed that there was present an Omniscient Eye, looking with ancient kindness on all his pain, and ready to relieve it. And oh, the terror of those long nights, when suffering, sorrow, and remorse were riotous, and where to him, God was not!

On the second day, the conductor began to watch Campbell. He induced him to take a cup of strong coffee and lie down, and then went among the passengers seeking a physician. "I am a physician," said a young man whose seat was not far from Robert's. "I am Dr. Stuart of San Francisco. I have been watching the man you mean; he is either insane or ill. I will not neglect him."

Robert was really ill; he grew better and worse, better and worse constantly, until they were near Denver. Then Dr. Stuart went to his side and made another effort to induce him to converse. "You are ill," he said. "I am a physician and know it. You must stop travelling for a few days. Get off at Denver. Where is your home?"

"In Scotland. I am going there."

"Impossible—as you now are. Get off at Denver. Go to an hotel, and send for this physician," and he handed him a slip of paper on which the name was written. Robert glanced at it, and held it in his hand.

"Put it in your vest pocket."

He did so, but his hands trembled so violently, and he looked into the man's face with eyes so full of unspeakable suffering and sorrow, that the stranger's heart was touched. He resolved to get off at Denver with him, and see that he was properly attended to.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"I am Robert Campbell."

"Brother of David Campbell of San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"He is as good a man as ever lived. I know him well."

"Write and tell him his brother is dying—he will come to me."

"Oh, no! you are not dying. We will not bring him such a long journey. I will stay with you, until you are better—but off the train you must get."

"Thank you! I will do as you say. I will pay you well."

"I am not thinking of 'pay.' I know your brother, it is pay enough to serve him, by helping you."

Robert nodded and tried to smile. He put his hand into the doctor's hand, went with him to a carriage, and they were driven to an hotel. During the change, he did not speak, he had all that he could manage, to keep himself erect and preserve his consciousness. But there are mystically in our faces, certain characters, which carry in them the motto of our souls; and the motto the doctor read on Robert's face was—No Surrender. He told himself this, when he had got his patient into bed, and surrounded him with darkness and stillness and given him a sedative. "Some men would proceed to have brain fever," he mused, "but not this man. He will fight off sickness, resent it, deny it, and rise above it in a few days. I'll give him a week—but he will not succumb. There's no surrender in that face, though it is white and thin with suffering."

For four days, however, Robert wavered between better and worse, as the gusts of frantic remorse and despair assailed him. Then he forgot everything but the irreparable mistake that had ruined his life, and during the paroxysms whispered continually: "Oh, God! oh, God! that it were possible to undo things done!" a whisper that could hardly be heard by mortal ears, but which passed beyond the constellations, and reached the ear and the heart of Him, who dwelleth in the Heaven of Heavens.

It was in one of those awful encounters of the soul with itself, that he reached the depth of suffering in which we see clearly; for there is no such revealer as sorrow. Suddenly and swift as a flash of light, he knew his past life, as he would know it in eternity—its selfishness, its cruelty, its injustice. Then he heard words which pealed through his soul, with heavenly-sweet convincingness, and left their echo forever there. For awhile he remained motionless and speechless, and let the comforting revelation fill him with adoring love and gratitude. And those few minutes of pause and praise were not only sacrificial and sacramental, they were strong with absolution. He knew what he must do; he had not a doubt, not a reservation of any kind. In a space of time so short that we have no measure for it, he had surrendered everything, and been made worthy to receive everything.

O, Mystery of Life, from what a depth proceed thy comforts and thy lessons! Even the chance acquaintance had had his meaning, and had done his work. Robert had some wonderful confidences with him, as he lay for a week free of pain, and quietly gathering strength for the journey he must take the moment he was able for it. He had no hesitation as to this journey. He knew that he must go back to Theodora—back to the same goal he had turned away from. Peradventure the blessing he had rejected might yet be waiting there.

In ten days Dr. Stuart permitted him to travel, and without pause or regret he reached San Francisco, refreshed himself, and taking a carriage drove out to the Newtons'. It was afternoon when he reached the place, and it had the drowsy afternoon look and feeling. He sent the carriage to the stable, and told the driver to wait there for further orders—and then walked up to the house. As he passed Mr. Newton's study he saw him sitting reading, and he opened the door and went in. The preacher looked up in astonishment, rose and walked towards him.

"Robert," he said softly, "is that you?"

"Yes, father. I have been very ill. I have come back to ask your forgiveness—and hers—if she will listen to me."

"I am glad to see you. Sit down. You look ill—what can I do for you?"

"Listen to me! I will tell you all."

Then he opened his heart freely to the preacher, who listened with intense sympathy and understanding—sometimes speaking a word of encouragement, sometimes only touching his hand, or whispering, "Go on, Robert." And perhaps there was not another man in California, so able to comprehend the marvellous story of Robert's return unto his better self. For he had in a large measure that penetrative insight into spiritualities, which connect man with the unseen world; and that mystical, incommunicable sense of a life, that is not this life. He knew its voices, intuitions, and celestial intimations—things, which no one knoweth, save they who receive them. And when Robert had finished his confession, he said:

"I also, Robert, have stood on that shining table-land which lies on the frontier of our consciousness; and there received that blessed certainty of God which can never again leave the soul. And you must not wonder at the suddenness and rapidity of the vision. Every experience of this kind must be sharply sudden. That chasm dividing the seen from the unseen, must be taken at one swift bound, or not at all. You cannot break that leap. Thank God, you have taken it! This remembrance, and the power it has left behind, can never depart from you; for

The whole world may deny, but what is the voice of the whole world to those, who have seen and heard and known

What you have told me, Robert, also goes to confirm what I have before noticed—that this great favor of vision is usually the cup of strength, given to us in some great agony or strait."

"Now, father, may I see Theodora?"

"She went to her room to rest after our early dinner. She also has suffered."

"She is in the parlor. I hear her singing. Let us go to her."

At the parlor door they stood a minute and listened to the music. It was strong and clear, and her voice held both the sorrow and the hope that was in her heart:

The last strain was a triumphant one, and to its joy they entered. Then Theodora's face was transfigured, she came swiftly towards them, and Mr. Newton laid her hand in Robert's hand, and so left them. And into the love and wonder and thanksgiving of that conversation we cannot enter; no, not even with the sweetest and clearest imagination.

In a couple of hours David came, and Robert joined his father and brother, and Theodora went to assist her mother in preparing the evening meal. She found her standing by an open window, wringing her thin, small hands, and silently weeping.

"Mother, mother!" cried Theodora, clasping her in her strong arms; "why are you weeping?"

"It is that man here again," Mrs. Newton faltered. "I thought that trouble was over. I can bear no more of it, dear."

"He will never give you another moment's grief, dear mother. He is totally changed. He has had an experience; he has been what we call—converted—mother."

"Do you believe that?"

"With all my soul! He has given up everything that made sin and trouble."

"Then all is well. I am satisfied."

"Robert will not be happy until you have welcomed him."

"Then I will go and do so."

That evening as they sat together David said: "Father and mother, I wish to speak for my brother and myself. We are going into a business partnership, as soon as Robert has been to Glasgow, and turned all his property into cash. Whatever he is worth, I will double, and 'Campbell Brothers, Bankers,' I believe, will soon become an important factor in the financial world of San Francisco."

"It is a good thing, David. You two working as one will be a multitude. No one knows the financial conditions here better than you do, David, and as an investor, I do not believe you have ever made a mistake."

"I think not, father. Well, then, we will all go into San Francisco as soon as Robert has rested a little, and select a home for him. I know of two houses for sale, either of which would be suitable."

"And when the house is chosen," said Robert, "I hope, mother, you will assist Theodora in furnishing it just as she wishes, keeping her in mind, however, that she must be quite extravagant. Simplicity and economy are out of place in a banker's home, for entertaining on a large scale will have to be done."

It was arranged that David should go East with Robert, and see him safely on board a good liner, and the details of these projects occupied the family happily for three days; at the end of which they went to San Francisco. When Theodora's future home had been selected, David and Robert took the train for New York; the whole family sending them off with smiles and blessings. And Robert thought of his previous leaving, and was unspeakably happy and grateful.

On their journey to New York, the brothers settled every detail of their banking business, and Robert was amazed at his brother's financial instinct and business enterprise. "We shall make a great deal of money, Robert," he said, "and we must do a great deal of good with it. I have some ideas on that subject which we will talk over at the proper time."

So the journey was not tiresome, and when it was over, both were a little sorry. But work was to do, and Robert knew that he would be restless until he had finished his preparations for his new life, and got rid of all encumbrances of the past.

The sea journey was short and pleasant, and it removed the most evident traces of his illness. His face was thinner, but that was an improvement; and his figure, if more slender was more active, and there was about him the light and aura of one who is thoroughly happy, and at peace with God and man.

As soon as he arrived in Glasgow, he went to his club, and looked over the accumulation of letters waiting him. It was raining steadily—that summer rain which we feel to be so particularly unwanted. The streets were sloppy, the air damp, the sky dull, and not brightened by the occasional glints of pale sunshine; but when he had relieved his mind of its most pressing business, he went to Traquair House. Jepson opened the door for him, but the man looked ill, and said he was on the point of leaving Glasgow. Robert could now sympathize with him, for he had learned the agony of constant headache, and he said so. The man looked at him in amazement, and he told McNab of the circumstance, adding: "The master was never so kind to me in all his life, as he was to-day." McNab answered curtly:

"No wonder! He has been living wi' decent folk lately, and decency tells. Them Californians are the civilest o' mortals. You'll mind my ain lad, that was here about four years syne?"

"I'll never forget him, Mistress McNab. A perfect gentleman."

"Weel, he was, in a way, a Californian—born, of course, in Scotland, but knocked about among the Californians, until he learned how to behave himsel' to rich and poor and auld and young, and special to women and bairns."

While this conversation was going on Robert sat in the old dining-room. It was dismal enough at all times, especially so in rainy weather, and more specially so when it was summer rain, and no blazing fire brightened the dark mahogany and the crimson draperies.

His mother was at home, but he was told Christina was occupying the little villa he had bought at Inverkip. He had not been asked for its use, and it contained a good deal of Theodora's needlework, and much summer clothing. For a few minutes he was angry, but he quickly reasoned his anger away. "There are no happy memories about any of the things. It is better they should not come into our future life," he said to himself. He wondered his mother did not come, and asked Jepson if she had been told. "Yes, she had been told, and had sent word 'she would be down as soon as dressed.'"

It was an hour before she was dressed, and Robert felt the gloom and chill of waiting. Indeed, he was so uncomfortably cold, that he asked for a fire, and was standing before it enjoying its blaze and warmth when Mrs. Campbell entered.

"Good gracious, Robert!" she cried, "a fire in August! I never heard tell of such a thing."

"I am just from a warm, sunny country, mother, and I have also been ill, and so I feel the cold."

"Well, well! Put a screen between me and the blaze. I am not auld enou' yet, to require a blaze in August."

"To-morrow, it will be the first of September. How are you, mother?"

"Fine. That foolish fellow you left over the works came here—came special, mind ye—to tell me you were vera ill. He said he had received a letter from a Dr. Stuart, living in a place called Denver, saying you were at Death's door, or words to that effect; but I sent him back to his proper business wi' a solid rebuke for leaving it. I'm not the woman to thank any one for bringing me bad news—lies, too, very likely."

"No, I was very ill."

"Say so, where was there any necessity for the man to be sending word o' it half round the world? Nobody here could help. It was just making discomfort for no good at all."

"I suppose he thought, if I died, my friends might possibly like to know what had become of me."

"I wasna feared for you dying. Not I! I knew Robert Campbell had mair sense than to die among strangers. Then there was the works left to themselves, as it were, and that weary woman you've been seeking mair than four years, just found out, and I said to myself, if I know Robert Campbell, he won't be stravaganting to another world, whilst his affairs in this world are all helter-skelter."

"I have come here to put my affairs as I desire them. Then I am going back to California."

"I do not believe you. You are just leeing to me."

"Mother, I am going to sell the works. I want to live in California."

"To please Theodora," she said scornfully.

"To please Theodora and myself. I like the country; it is sunny and delightful, and the people are wonderfully gracious and kind."

"Of course, they have to be more than ordinary civil, or what decent people would live among the crowd that went there?"

"That element has disappeared. There are no finer men and women in the world than the Californians. I shall ask for citizenship among them."

Then the temper she had been trying to control broke loose, and carried all before it. "You base fellow!" she cried, "you traitor to all good! You are unworthy of the country, the home, and the business you desert. I am ashamed to have brought you into the world. To surrender everything for a creature like your runaway wife is monstrously wicked—is incredibly shameful!"

"If I could surrender more for Theodora, I would gladly do it, so that I might atone for what I, and you, made her suffer. And she has not taken me to California—you drove her there."

"I'm gey glad I did."

"And as she will not come back here, I must go to her there. Your own work, mother."

"Very good. I accept it. I'm proud o' it."

"My dear mother——"

"Stop palavering! You can cut out 'dear.'"

"Let us talk reasonably. I came here to ask whether you will remain a shareholder in the works, or withdraw your money?"

"I'll withdraw every bawbee out o' them. Your sisters can do as they like. And may I ask, what you are going to do? Become a miner, and carry a pick and a dinner-pail? That would be a proper ending for Robert Campbell."

"I am going to join my brother David in a banking business in San Francisco."

"Your brother David! Your brother David! So he is in California, too? Dod! I might have known it—the very place for the like o' him."

"He is one of the princes of Californian finance. He dwells in a palace. He is worth many millions of dollars."

"Dollars!" and she spit the word out of her mouth with inexpressible scorn—"dollars! what kind o' money is that? I wouldn't gie you a copper half-penny for your dollar."

"A dollar is worth just one hundred half-pennies."

"I'm not believing you. Why should I? And pray how did you foregather wi' your runawa' brother?"

"He is Theodora's neighbor, and she is educating his daughters."

"And pray how did Dora happen on your brother? It is a vera singular coincidence, and I am no believer in coincidences. If the truth were known, they have all o' them been carefully planned, and weel arranged."

"She met my brother here in Glasgow."

"She did nothing o' the kind."

"She met him at the Oliphants'."

"Oh, oh! I see, I see! The dark man so often riding about wi' Mistress Oliphant was your brother?"

"He was my brother David, and he was also McNab's foster-son."

"Great heavens! What a fool Margaret Campbell has been for once! To think o' Flora McNab making a mock o' me. She told me he was her son."

"So he was, in a way. McNab suckled him, and mothered him, as well as she could. She was the only mother he had."

"You lie, Robert Campbell. I was his mother."

"You ought to be proud of it."

"Is his wife alive or dead?"

"She is dead. He will marry again soon."

"Some of the Oliphant kin, I suppose?"

"No. She is not a Scotchwoman."

"I hope to goodness she isn't English."

"She is Spanish-American, a great beauty, and almost as rich as David himself."

"Humph! I am believing no such fairy-tale. Why would a rich beauty be wanting David Campbell?"

"David is a very handsome man."

"Mrs. Oliphant seemed to think so!"

"Every one thinks so."

"I hope she is not a Methodist."

"She is a Roman Catholic."

"A Roman Catholic! A Campbell can get no further downward than that. Your forefathers fought—and, thank God, mostly killed—a Roman Catholic on sight. Ah weel, I suppose it is the money."

"Oh, no! David would not marry for money."

"He didn't anyhow. He married a poor, plain, beggarly sewing-girl."

"She was a minister's daughter, and he loved her."

"Weel, Robert Campbell, I hope you have emptied your creel o' bad news. If you have any more tak' it back to where it came from. I'll not listen to another word from you."

"I must ask you, what you wish about this house? If you desire to remain here, I will not sell it."

"I'll not stop in it, any longer than it takes me to move out o' it. You are no kin to me now, and thank God, I am not come to a dependence on a Scotch turncoat, or even an American citizen!"

"Do you think Christina would like the use o' it?"

"Christina is doing better. Rathey is going to be man-of-law and private secretary to Sir Thomas, and they are to have the Wynton Dower House to live in, a handsome place in a big garden."

"Will you go with her, mother?"

"It is none of your business where I go. I would not ask a shelter from you, if I were going to the poor-house. I am going where I'll be rid of whimpering wives, and whining bairns, and fleeching, flattering folk, who want siller for their fine words. I'm done with the old, unhappy house. Sell it as soon as you like. It was an ill day when I stepped o'er its threshold."

"Then good-bye, mother. Say a kind word to me. We may meet no more in this world." He advanced towards her and put out his hand.

She rose and lifted her solitaire pack of cards—which was lying on the table by which she stood—and began shuffling them in her hands. "You ungrateful son of your mother Scotland and your mother Campbell!" she cried. "You traitor to every obligation due your family! You slave to a Methodist wife, go to your Papist-loving brother. California is a proper home for you. Dod! I am sick of the whole lot o' you—lads and lassies baith—Isabel is o'er much 'my lady' for any sensible body to thole; and Christina is aye sniffling and worrying about her bairns, or her silly, fiddling husband. I am sick, tired—heart and soul tired—o' the serpent brood o' you Campbells; and you may scatter yoursel's o'er the face o' the whole earth, for aught I care," and with these words she flung the cards in her hand far and wide, over the large room. She was in an incredible passion, and Robert put his hand on her arms, crying in terror and amazement:

"Mother! Mother! Mother! For God's sake I entreat——"

"Out o' my sight instanter!" she answered. "Scotland and Margaret Campbell is weel rid o' the like o' you." She shook off his restraining hands, and clasping her own behind her back, she went to a window and stood there looking far over the dull, wet street to some vision conjured up by her raging, scornful passion.

Robert again approached her. "I am going, mother," he said. "God forgive us both! Farewell!" and he once more offered her a pleading hand. She looked at it a moment, but kept her own resolutely clasped behind her, and finally with an imperative motion uttered one fierce word:

"Go!"

She was still at the window when he reached the sidewalk, and he raised his hat, and looked at her as he passed. But her gaze was intentionally far off, and if she saw this last act of entreaty, she was beyond the wish, or even the ability to notice it.

Robert was very miserable, so much so that he forgot to write to Theodora, and when he awoke after a restless night and remembered the omission he said with a sigh: "Theodora is right. It must be everything or nothing. If I could get her to come back here, it would be the old trouble over again—and worse."

That day he went to the Wyntons', and talked with Sir Thomas about the sale of the works. He was in hopes that he could form a syndicate, buy the works, and make himself president. And at first the baronet was enthusiastic about the scheme, but day after day, and week after week went on, and nothing definite was arrived at. Isabel had strong family feeling, and she was sullenly silent about the sale of the furnaces, and her brother's settlement in America. The works had done so well under Robert's direction, that her income had been nearly doubled, and she thought that he ought to continue his labor, where Providence had enabled him to do so well for the family. Finally, Robert abandoned the Wynton scheme, and went to Sheffield to see his old business friend Priestley. The visit was destined and propitious, and in three weeks the transfer of the Campbell Iron Works to a Yorkshire iron company was completed, and Robert was ready to return home.

He was glad of it. His visit had been a painful and separating one. His sisters had disappointed him. He was sure Isabel had prevented her husband's desire to buy the works, and she had let him feel, in her cold, silent way, that she disapproved of his selling them, and still more disapproved of his settlement in America. And the selfish little soul of Christina complained constantly of Robert leaving her money in strange hands. She thought it was his duty to stay in Glasgow and manage the works for his mother's and sisters' benefit; and when the sisters talked of the matter together, they expressed themselves very plainly about that "Englishwoman who had been so unfortunate to their house."

Robert went from Sheffield to Liverpool, and did not return to Glasgow. He was glad and grateful to set his face westward and homeward. Nothing of importance happened on the journey, and when he reached San Francisco his brother David was waiting at the railway depot to welcome him. They clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes, and everything was well said that words would have said clumsily. It was then nearly dark, and they went to the hotel for the night. Far into the midnight hours they sat discussing their business future, and David was astonished at the fortune which Robert had made out of the old works. And Robert was still more astonished at the fortune which his brother had made out of his relatively small capital, and his own business sagacity and native industry and prudence.

In the early morning David wished his brother to go and look over the new home which Theodora had been preparing, but Robert said he wanted to see Theodora above all things, and would go at once out to the Newtons'.

"Very good," replied David, "then you will go alone, for I am to bring Mercedes with me, and I cannot call for her before ten. It is a charming thing, Robert, that Mercedes and Theodora love each other dearly. They have worked together constantly over your new home, and made it a lovely place. I suppose you will be married this afternoon."

"Married! Married! Does Theodora expect it?"

"I think all preparations are made for the little ceremony. I would not disapprove, if I were you, Robert."

"Disapprove! What do you mean? I shall be the most joyful man in the world."

Breakfast was scarcely over when Robert reached Newton Place; and Theodora came running to meet him with a large apron over her pretty white dress. But oh, how beautiful was her beaming, smiling face, how tender her embrace, how sweet the loving words with which she welcomed him. He was paid, and overpaid, for all he had suffered, and all he had resigned.

"We shall be married this afternoon, eh darling?" he asked.

"All shall be as you wish, my love. I am ready," she answered.

Such a delightful morning! Such a happy hurry in the house! Such sweet laughter, and pleasant calling of each other's names! Such enthusiasm over Mercedes' beauty in her pink satin costume! Such an enjoyable little lunch at one o'clock! Such a bewildering number of pleasant events crowded into a few hours. If ever there was in any earthly home a sense of heavenly love and joy, it was in the Newton house that day. Angels might—and probably did—rest in the flower-scented atmosphere of its spotless rooms, for if angels rejoice with the sinner forgiven and accepted, surely still more will they rejoice in the fruition of tried and accepted love, and in the unselfish affection of those who rejoice, because others rejoice.

Just before three o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Newton went together to the parlor and sat down by a small table covered with a white cloth, on which there lay a Bible and a Book of Common Prayer. A few minutes later David and Robert came in, and stood talking to them, until the door opened and Theodora and Mercedes entered. Then Mr. Newton stood up, and Robert and Theodora stood before him, and renewed their marriage vows in the most solemn and simple manner. There were no decorations, no music, no attendants, no company, nothing but a prayer, and the old, old ritual of a thousand years. But after it Mr. Newton told them in a few sentences, how supremely important love is to the soul.

"It perishes without love," he said. "To the soul love is blessing, love is salvation, love is the guardian angel, and without love the centrifugal law easily overpowers and sweeps it far out from its divine source, towards the cold frontiers of the material and the manifold."

Then there was a tender and cheerful good-bye, and Robert and Theodora went to their new home. They wandered hand in hand through all its beautiful rooms, and through the scented walks of its fair garden, and Robert said: "It is a palace in Paradise, darling."

"And I am so happy! So proud, and so happy, dear Robert!" she answered.

After a perfect dinner at their own table, Robert went to his wife's parlor to smoke his cigar, and then he told her all about his last unhappy visit to his family, and his native land.

It was the necessary minor note in their joyful wedding song, but it soon returned to its triumphant dominant, since they must needs rejoice in that loving Power which had so surely "tempered all things well,"

And as they talked in the splendid room, with its sweet odors and dim light, their voices grew lower, and they were content to whisper each other's names, and fall into sweet silences, thrilled with such soft stir, as angels in their cloud-girt wayfarings know, when they "feel the breath of kindred plumes." And thus,