Amelia E. Barr

"Love is a sea for which no compass has been invented."

There are times which mark epochs in life; they cut it sharply asunder—the continuity of life is broken.

There was a sense of relief when the two divines were comfortably beyond the horizon of the Little House the next morning, and Mrs. Caird could begin her preparations for their own removal. "I was fain to come to this place, Marion," she said, "and mightily set up with it when I got here. But I have had lots of care in its pretty rooms and among its flowers. So I am just as fain to go back to the big, dull rooms in Bath Street. Paradise is fairly lost, dear. We may dream of it, but we never find it."

"O Aunt Jessy, some surely find it."

"They may think they do for awhile, but indeed,

She was tearing up some old cotton for dusters as she repeated the rhyme, and she emphasized "some domestic cross" by a rent of rather angry vigor; then she added, "Go to your father's study, you will be out of the way of the cleaners there, and I have no doubt whatever that you have an important letter to write."

"Aunt, when did you hear from Donald?"

"It is so long since, I have forgotten."

"Where were they then?"

"In the Shetland Islands. Whiles I fear they have been shut in there by early storms, or have gone out pleasuring in some cockle shell of a boat and got——"

"No, no, Aunt. I had a letter from Perth. They were on the mainland the seventh of September."

"Then they are all right. Some day soon they'll come traipsing in, wet and draggled, and tired and hungry."

"They will not come here, will they?"

"I hope not. It is little welcome I'll give them if they come after this house is in order. They would have to go to the kitchen itself."

"You would never do that, Aunt?"

"Would I not? If the occasion comes you will see."

The occasion came that afternoon. Mrs. Caird was standing before a large chest of fine napery, counting napkins, when Donald threw open the door of the room and, before she could speak, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, and kissed her over and over again. "You dear Auntie! You dear Mammy!" he shouted, and she, between laughing and crying, gasped out: "Be done, you ranting, raving laddie! See you have made me drop the finger cloths, and my count is lost; and I shall have to go over them again."

"I'll count them for you, Mammy."

"You!" she ejaculated with horror. "Your hands are not fit to touch them."

"Oh yes, you are going to give me one when you give me my dinner."

"I will not. The tale of them is correct and just from the laundry, and I shall not have one of them soiled for anybody."

"Not even for Richard Cramer?"

"Where is he?"

"In the parlor with Marion."

"Humph!"

"And we are hungry, Auntie, and we are going to stay here to-night."

"No. Your rooms are now in the cleaning, you had better go to the Hall."

"Very well, we can do that."

"No, you can't. I won't have it, and Lady Cramer is in London."

"Jericho! What took her there? Richard will be astonished."

"So you will have to stay here. It's notably inconvenient, but whenever do men consider the conveniences? I'll give the two of you the guest-room, and we will just have to stay here a day longer, and make it decent-like after you."

"Auntie, we are hungry; nothing to eat since breakfast, and I am not in love. I can't live on kisses and sweet words like Richard."

"Surely not. Come with me and I will give you pot luck until six o'clock, then you'll get your dinner, and not a minute sooner. I have three extra women hired by the day and I can't slack my care of them."

"Come and see Richard. He wants to see you."

"Not he! He would have come up with you if he had wanted bad enough."

"He got stopped on the way. How could he pass Marion? She was watching for him."

"Did she know you were coming?"

"I think so—certainly, certainly she knew."

"And the little minx so innocently asked me if I knew!"

So Mrs. Caird went down to the lovers, pretended to scorn them, and sent Richard upstairs to wash and make himself like a gentleman. Then, with a beaming face, she turned to Marion and said: "My dear girl, we will have a few days' happiness, no matter what comes or goes. We can put the cleaning behind the dear lads."

"They can go to the kitchen, Aunt. They are quite used to it. From what Richard says, I think they have mostly lived in kitchens, and also thoroughly enjoyed kitchen hospitality."

"That would be like them. It takes gentlemen to understand the reality of kitchen hospitality. We will give them the best in our cupboard, and set them a fair table in the dining-room. It is not too often in life that true love comes to eat with you."

"Richard must go away to-morrow. When he heard Lady Cramer was in London it worried him. He said he must go and see what she was doing."

"Well, then, give the day to him. When he has left to-morrow, Donald can do a deal to help. I taught him everything about the house, as you know. He'll not need to marry any girl that she may make the pot or kettle boil, or sew a button on. And he'll help us with carpets and curtains, and the like, and enjoy it. We will have one good day when we can get it. You may look up Ecclesiasticus 14:14 for permission. So come with me and we will spread in the dining-room a comfortable 'pick-up' for hungry men, and you must serve and entertain them, for there is too much fine linen lying loose, and too many strange hands around, who may be clever at finding things—not lost."

The dinner and the evening were all that Mrs. Caird intended. She left the lovers very much to themselves and, wherever she was, Donald was with her. Never had she been so proud and so fond of him. "He is the handsomest lad in Scotland," she said, "and the best, and I care not who says 'no' to that truth—it will stand."

Still the visit delayed them a day, and it was Tuesday when they again reached the Bath Street home and, for a few days, Mrs. Caird was always finding out some advantage in it hitherto unnoticed. She was glad to live under high ceilings once more; the Bath Street water made far better tea. She had had enough of lamps and candlesticks forever—even if they were made of silver—just give her a common gas burner and she would never inquire what it was made of. Thank goodness there was a market now to go to! You had to take what meat and poultry you could get in the country; the fleshers in Glasgow knew they must give you the very best, that and that only; and, above all, she could order a street car to wait on her, or a noddy to call for her whenever she wanted to step to church or call on a friend, and that suited her feelings far better than any lady's Victoria.

Dr. Macrae was not pleased at such remarks. "Gratitude is a late plant," he said; "it grows at the very gate of heaven. A human being hardly ever receives it. I am sure, Jessy, if you had had to pay rent for the house and all its favors and advantages, it would have cost you a large sum of money."

"If you are sure, Ian, that a kindness is true kindness, it is easy to be pleased and grateful; but, if you come to see there has been a selfish foundation for it, why should you be grateful?"

"There was no selfish motive in Lady Cramer's kindness, Jessy."

"I am glad to be informed of that. I thought it was very like the thousand pounds left you as a token of Lord Cramer's friendship. What weary reading and writing you have given for it, not to speak of the mental and spiritual danger and trouble, I call that thousand pounds the worst money you ever put in your purse. I don't think you owe Lord Cramer a pennyweight of gratitude for it. When did you get rid of the Reverend Dr. Scott?"

"He went home early on Monday morning. He asked a queer favor of me on the Sabbath morning."

"What was it?"

"'Macrae,' he said, as we ate our breakfast, 'I ask you not to come to the Church of the Disciples to-day. I could not preach if you were present. I should be dumb.' I wondered at it."

"I think it was a most natural request. Men are just like women. That last wet day made you say things to each other you were soon sorry for."

"That may be so. Where is Donald? Did he not return with you?"

"He came to the very doorstep with us. Then he had to hurry away to the Buchanan Street Station to see Lord Cramer, who is off to London."

"Why?"

"I never asked him. Donald will be here anon; he said he would not miss eating with us the first meal of our home-coming. He seemed particular about it. I thought he might be thinking of going away himself, perhaps——"

"He is going to St. Andrews."

"You are reckoning without your host, Ian. Donald has not one intention about St. Andrews."

"Nevertheless, he is going to St. Andrews."

"Just so—according to Ian Macrae. Donald Macrae is to hear from."

"Every Scotchman, Jessy, considers it a great privilege to go to St. Andrews. St. Andrew was a good and a great man."

"He was a very prudent, forecasting Saint—the only one of the Disciples who, at the great Preaching, knew where the bread and the fishes were. But, though I will not preach for your Saint, I will say nothing against him. If he can get Donald he may have him. But we will have our meal at six o'clock, Ian, and I hope there will be only good words with it to-night. It would be real unlucky to have a quarrel over our first meal."

Certainly Mrs. Caird did all she could to prevent it. It was a pleasure to go into the firelit, gaslit room, and see the pretty plenteous table; and to hear the pleasant laughter of Donald and Marion, who were standing together on the hearthrug. Dr. Macrae took in the charming picture at a glance, but his attention was specially drawn to Donald. His holiday had improved him. He was so manly and so handsome that his father quite involuntarily addressed him as sir. "Well, sir," he said, "I hope you have had a good holiday."

"A grand one! I do not see how I could have had a better one in every way."

"That is good. Your aunt is waiting. Let us sit down. Where did you go first?"

"Lord Cramer was with me and we went first to Skye, and spent nearly four days at Dunvegan Castle with Macleod of Macleod. He remembered my grandfather and spoke bravely of him, and, if I had not been a Scotchman to the last drop of my blood, Dunvegan would have made me one."

"It is the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland," said Dr. Macrae, "and in my grandfather's day it was only accessible from the sea by a boat and a subterranean staircase."

"It is now approached by a modern bridge crossing the chasm."

"Is the old castle intact?"

"Yes, and there are many good modern additions. On the whole it is very picturesque. We were nobly entertained. We saw all to be seen in the neighborhood. The castle has some rare relics, also. The Macleod himself put into our hands for a few minutes a wooden cup beautifully carved and mounted in silver, which belonged to Catherine O'Neill in 1493. We also saw the fairy banner which controls the destiny of the Macleods, and the claymore and horn of Rory More, or Sir Roderick Macleod. It was a very memorable visit, sir."

"I am glad you have been there. You saw a grand Scotch noble. Where did you go next?"

"To Oban, where we spent a couple of days on the mountains with John Stuart Blackie. Such a lunch as we had with him on the hills—curds and rich cream—cold salmon—cold lamb—roasted duck—veal pie—ham—peas and, of course, hard-boiled eggs. I was told Blackie does not think any meal perfect without them. With these things we had plenty of milk, beer, and claret with a fine rich bouquet. Blackie said claret without it was no better than colored cold water."

"Did Blackie talk much?"

"Did he ever cease talking? But every word was good. You would not have missed one of them."

"On what subjects did he speak?"

"While eating he told us that every meal should have three courses, adding, 'Three is a sacred number. Aristotle settled that. Three is the first number that has a beginning, a middle, and an end, and this gives the perfect idea of a whole. Every dinner ought to have three courses, every song three verses, every novel three volumes, every sermon three heads.'"

Dr. Macrae really laughed as he asked, "What were your three courses, Donald?"

"Curds and cream first, salmon and roast duck second, and, for the third, cheddar cheese, beautifully browned oat cakes and a glass of old port that Blackie said 'fell like the dew of Hermon' upon the oat cakes."

"That was like Blackie. His similes often have a Biblical flavor."

"He talked wisely and cleverly about eating, said the Englishman was an aristocratic animal, and his eating large, royal and rich, and that the man who fed in his style would do nothing in a meager style. The French thought we did not understand how to eat—that we eat without science, had only one sauce, that we made of flour and water, and called melted butter. He quoted Novalis for the Germans, who said, 'Eating is an accentuated living.' I think, Father, Novalis is right, for everything is always best when well accentuated. A student from Edinburgh joined us while we were eating, a tall, thin man who was living on the hills to recruit after the severe drill of last winter at the University."

"Yes, the drill is severe," said Dr. Macrae, "unless you have a grand purpose for it."

"Blackie said he knew him well, that he met him near Glencoe two years ago, and at that time he could only speak a few words in broken English. Two years afterward he won the bronze medal in the Greek class at Edinburgh, and that all had been done upon oatmeal, cheese, salt herrings, and fifteen pounds sterling."

"That is by no means a singular instance," said Dr. Macrae. "All things are possible to a Scotch Celt in love with learning and seeing a pulpit in the distance. No doubt his medal paid for all his privations."

"I was very sorry for the man. That bronze medal would not have paid me for two years' hard study and meager living."

"I am sorry to hear you say that, Donald," and Dr. Macrae's face suddenly shadowed, and he asked for no further stories of his son's holiday. On the contrary he remembered some letters that must be written, and rose, saying:

"Donald, after breakfast to-morrow morning, I should like to speak to you. Come to my study."

"Yes, Father. I will certainly come."

Then, with a slight reluctance, Dr. Macrae went away, but long afterward he could hear, if he listened, sounds of happy talk and laughter at the pleasant table he had deserted. And he had several longings to go back to the cheerful parlor; his heart was not satisfied, and he could offer it no excuse for its deprivation that it would accept.

"I am sorry Father has gone away, Donald," said Marion. "I had a feeling you were coming to something very interesting."

"Then it is just as well his father did not stay to hear it," replied Mrs. Caird. "I never saw two men whose ideas of what was interesting were further apart than those of Ian and Donald Macrae."

"Well," continued Donald, "our next move was a doubtful one, and it might perhaps have seriously offended Father. I told Professor Blackie I had a little lecture ready about the private history of our favorite Scotch songs—the men or women who wrote them, the circumstances that produced them, the places in which they were written, and so on. And I said I would like to deliver it in Oban. He was greatly delighted, offered to be my chairman, and arranged the program, adding also to my facts many interesting anecdotes. Both Lord Cramer and I illustrated the songs with our violins and voices, and Blackie provided the enthusiasm for the crowds that came to hear the stories and the singing and to see the dancing. The enthusiasm was beyond belief. Indeed, at our battle song of Lochiel's men charging the French at Waterloo, most of the audience stood up, and from all parts of the hall came the Sa! Sa! Sa! Sa! of a Highland regiment charging an enemy. Well, when all expenses were paid, we had cleared one hundred and four pounds, which was very acceptable, as we were both out of money. At Perth we raised the sum of eighty pounds, and then at Wick we took a boat for Shetland, and had a glorious time with the fishermen on Brassey Sound—out on the ocean with them, all through the long, light nights, while the sunset lingered in the west and the dawn was tremulous in the east, and the moonlight silvered everything on earth and sea, and the aurora, with rosy javelins, charged the zenith. Such wonderful nights! Such quiet, grave, purposeful men! Such nets full of quivering fish, in the silver lights between sea and deck! We got away with the strange fishers after the foy or feast and, stopping at St. Andrews, tramped through all the queer little coast towns of the ancient kingdom of Fife and so to Edinburgh, with three times as much money as we started with, and all the health and happiness of the trip added to it."

"I am glad you called at St. Andrews. What did you think of the place?" asked Marion.

"It is pretty enough, but the very atmosphere is learned as well as religious, and you catch the spirit of the place whether you like or not. Walking the streets you appear to imbibe knowledge. I could think only of divinity, science, and philosophy. One of the professors asked me to give my lecture, and said he would sanction the meeting—but I could not sing there."

"Why?"

"Well, Marion, it is a psychical problem. The atmosphere had infected me, and the scientific or philosophical man is never a singing man. Now, Aunt, you see there was nothing wrong in our way of raising the wind, but it is very uncertain how Father would look at it."

"I do not think it would have his approval and, if you take my advice, you will tell him nothing about it."

The following morning, however, Dr. Macrae reverted over and over to Donald's adventures, and would have been really glad if Donald had taken up the subject again, but he did not care to ask the favor—partly because he was a proud man with his children, and partly because it was not a suitable preface for the serious conversation he intended to have with him. He left the table before Donald and spent the interval in steadying his mind and purpose with regard to his boy's future. Never had he been so dear to his heart, never had he been so proud of his beauty, his fine presence and mental alertness. He told himself the world would be full of temptations to such a youth, so charming, and that it was his manifest duty "to bind him, even with cords, to the horns of the altar." There only he would be safe from the lures of the world, the flesh, and the devil. Many things he was not sure about, but this thing he regarded as a duty from which he could not righteously relieve himself.

In the midst of such a positive decision Donald, handsome and happy, entered the room. His father met him with the respect and kindness due from one man to another, whatever their relationship, for Dr. Macrae had fully recognized the preceding evening the manhood of his son, and had resolved in the future to acknowledge it in all his dealings with him.

"Sit down, my dear Donald," he said, "I want to talk with you about your future. Your holiday has been a long and delightful one. You have got rid of the commercial life you disliked so much—though, by-the-by, Mr. Reid says you would have made a good business man—now, then, I should like you to start for St. Andrews at once, so as to go in with the entering classes—it is always best. You will find St. Andrews a delightful little city."

"I spent three days there a week ago, sir. The classes were gathering then."

"And you liked it, I am sure?"

"I wished to like it for your sake, Father, but I could not. I disliked everything about it."

"I am sorry for that, because you will require to spend a few years there. But, even if you do not like the place, it has many compensations and, among these I count the name that will be yours as soon as you are entered on its list."

"The name, sir?"

"Yes. You will then be A Man of St. Andrews! Other universities have students, scholars, fellows, etc., but St. Andrews breeds Men! In after life you will know each other as 'Men' and call each other 'Man' with the grip of a kindly world-wide brotherhood, for East, West, North, or South St. Andrews' 'Men' soon find each other. Donald, my dear son, be a Man of St. Andrews."

"O Father, I cannot. It is impossible! I would rather die."

"Speak sensibly, Donald, men don't talk of dying because duty demands of them a certain amount of self-denial."

"Duty asks nothing of me, sir, in regard to St. Andrews. I have seen the world has now one test. It asks of every man and of every proposition, Will it work? If it will not, it must go. I could not do any kind of work in a university. Plenty of better men than I am would work splendidly there. I should die of spiritual and mental nausea. I have considered university life, both as regards law and medicine. I thought we might compromise, perhaps, on medicine, but my feeling is the same. I am an open-air man. I want to live with every part of my body at the same time, not with my brain only—to be tethered to a desk with a book, whether ledger or Bible, would be to me a dreadful existence."

"We will put me out of the question. Do I not deserve some honor and obedience? It is my positive will that you should go to St. Andrews."

"In order to give you pleasure, sir, I might be willing to give up, say three of the best years of my life, but you would then want the whole of my life to preach Calvinism."

"I have given my youth and my life to preach Calvinism or the Truth—they are the same thing."

"If Calvinism is true, sir, then I think my opinion ought to have been asked before I was sent into the world on such terms."

"This talk is irrelevant. What I ask of you is, will you go to St. Andrews and study Divinity? Donald, I will make it as pleasant as I can for you—will you go?"

"No, sir. Forgive me. I cannot."

Dr. Macrae looked steadily at his son, and his large, lambent eyes were full of tears.

"It is for your salvation, Donald. My son, think again, your father asks of you this favor—for your own good."

Donald was even more moved than his father and, if he had followed his instincts, he would have fallen at his father's knees and said, "I am your son. I will do all you wish." But his resolve was not a something of yesterday, and his will was the strongest force in his nature. He put all feeling under its majestic orders and, though his heart was aching with sorrow, he answered, "Forgive me, Father. I must take my own way. I must live my own life."

Then Dr. Macrae turned his face toward his desk. It was covered with papers and he lifted a pen and began to write. Donald waited patiently, neither speaking nor moving for about five minutes. Then his father lifted his head and said with cold politeness, "You can go, sir, there is nothing more to say."

"I would like to tell you something about my plans, Father."

Dr. Macrae went on writing and did not answer. In a few moments Donald continued: "I have resolved to go——"

"I have no interest in your plans, sir."

"But Father, listen."

Then Dr. Macrae threw down his pen. It fell upon his sermon and left a large, unsightly blot which irritated him. He did not speak, however, but by an almost imperceptible movement of his eyes and outstretched hand said to Donald more plainly than words could have done, "Leave the room!"

With that relentless figure regarding him, Donald knew that delay or entreaty was vain. He gave his father one long, last look, a look of such love as would master time, and then, with two scarcely audible words, "Farewell, Father," he obeyed the silent order he had received.

That look pierced Dr. Macrae's heart like an arrow, and those two words went pealing through his ears like words of doom. He threw up his hands and rushed to the door. He wanted to cry, "Come back, come back, Donald," but the hall was empty and still. It was but a few steps to the front door, he opened it in frantic haste, but neither up nor down Bath Street could he see the son he loved so dearly and had sent away so cruelly. He called Mrs. Caird and she came from the kitchen, her hands covered with flour.

"What are you wanting, Ian?" she asked. "I am just throng with the pastry."

"Have you seen Donald within the last five minutes?"

"Nor within the last hour. He went to your study after his breakfast. That is the last I have seen of the poor lad. What is the matter?"

"He has gone."

"Gone! Where to?"

"God knows," and, heedless of Mrs. Caird's inquiries and reproaches, he fled to his study and locked the door. He was suffering as he had never before suffered in all his life. He said to himself, "My heart is bleeding," and he felt as if this sensation might be a reality. For a long time he stood by his table quite still, heartless, hopeless, aidless, almost senseless. He had expected a fight, but that his child would be finally disobedient had been an incredulity to smile at. Yet he had bid him farewell and had gone to face the world without either his help or his counsel.

He would take no lunch, nor would he see or speak to anyone. His heart and brain seemed stupefied by this irreparable sorrow that had so suddenly ruined all his happiness. He tried to think of it as appointed and inevitable, but his heart would not listen to such a suggestion. It told him plainly that many times all had depended on his own yes or no; that a step forward, a look of kindness, a gesture of entreaty would have prevented it. He understood at that hour that sorrow has only the weapons we ourselves give her.

The call to lunch broke the dumb stupidity which had followed the blow of Donald's farewell. Thoughts of what the Church and friends would say began to pierce through the first black despair of his personal feelings and, as the clock struck two, a great change occurred. In half an hour the postman might bring him a letter from Lady Cramer—must bring him one. He stood up, shook himself, and went into a small adjoining room and washed his face and hands. The knowledge that she loved him went like wine to his heart, and her letter would bring him great consolation; he was sure of that.

No young girl waiting for her first love letter ever watched more feverishly for the tall, uniformed official that was to bring it. He was ten minutes later than usual, ten minutes full of hope and despair, but at length the letter was given to him. It was small and light, and he weighed it in his right hand and was disappointed. He had hoped for a long letter telling him of all his beloved was doing, and perhaps asking him to visit her in London, and he had resolved to accept her invitation as soon as it came.

There was no sign of such favor in the few hastily written lines he held in his hand.

Dear Ian—You know that I love you, and I would like to tell you so one thousand times in this little letter. I am, however, in a tumult of hurry and preparation, for I am going to Paris this afternoon with Lady Landgrave's party. We shall only be a week, so do not get blue and think I have deserted you. I shall write you a long letter from Paris, if I can find one hour by myself. Yours,

Ada.

He threw the tiny note down on the table. He was in one of those atavistic rages which should have revealed to him the original type of bare-armed thanes from whom he was descended. His grandfather, in the same insurrection of feeling, would have instantly put his hand on his dirk. With a slow passion Dr. Macrae tore the offending letter into minute pieces, and then dropped them on the burning coals, and his face and movements during the act had a black expression of anger and contempt. None the less he suffered, none the less he would have taken the offending woman with unspeakable joy to his heart.

But this tempest of rage calmed him. After it he sat down like a man exhausted, and he wished to weep but would not. "It has been a calamitous morning," he whispered, "but what is ordered must be borne. If the lad would only come back! If he would only come back! But he will not—he will not—he will never come back. I must get myself together—there are other things, yes, there is Ada. As Donald was preparing to leave me, she was coming for my consolation."

Then he remembered that he had a session that night at the Church of the Disciples—a session regarding the expenses of the coming year, and not to be neglected. He dressed leisurely for the meeting, and then was sensibly hungry and wished his dinner was ready. When the little silver bell tinkled he needed no other call and, with a preoccupied air, took his place at the table. He could see that Mrs. Caird had been crying, and Marion was white and silent with a trace of indignation in her manner. But, when her father clasped her hand as he took his seat and smiled faintly, she returned his clasp and smile and looked at her aunt with an expression that seemed to plead for tolerance.

At the beginning of the meal there was little conversation, but when the family were alone, Mrs. Caird said, "I hope you are feeling better, Ian. What at all was the matter with you at the lunch hour?"

"I was not sick. I was very wretched, and could not eat."

"Donald, poor lad! I suppose?"

"Just so. Donald has treated me in a very ungrateful and disobedient manner. I know not how I can bear it."

"Forgive him."

"I have forgiven so often."

"That is the way. The best children are aye doing something wrong, forgive Donald as you go along. It is God's way with yourself, Ian."

"His behavior has destroyed my happiness."

"Perhaps, also, you have destroyed his happiness. Everyone has their own kind of happiness, but you want everyone to be happy in your way or not be happy at all. I call that even down selfishness. Ian, you have made a great blunder. I only hope it will not be followed by a great penalty."

"Blunder! Yes, if it be a blunder to take a man out of temptation and put him under the best of influences."

"You think college life the best of influences?"

"It is better than wandering about the country as a musician, however clever he is, must do."

"But Donald likes wandering. He wants to see the wide world over."

"A roving life, Jessy, leads to wavering principles. How can a man be religious who has no settled church? Already, Donald disbelieves in the creed his father preaches, and a man without a creed is a loose-at-ends Christian. General scepticism will succeed it, and scepticism poisons all the wells of life and undermines the foundations of morality."

"Donald is no sceptic. He is a God-loving, God-fearing lad. You'll be to excuse me now. I have a sore headache and I want to be alone."

So she went to her room and Dr. Macrae was much annoyed at her air of injury and sorrow.

"Your aunt is fretting about Donald," he said. "Donald has behaved very cruelly to me, Marion. I suppose you know how."

"About college, Father?"

"Yes. I begged him, for his own good, to go to St. Andrews, and he flatly refused, bid me farewell, and left his home."

"Did you not ask him where he was going?"

"No."

"I am so sorry."

"I knew you would be sorry for me. Never would Marion treat her father in a way so disrespectful and disobedient, eh, dear?"

"While I live I never will say farewell to you, my dear Father."

"You will always obey my wishes, I know."

"When I can, yes, when I can I will always gladly obey them."

"Do I not know what is best for you?"

"Not always, you might be wrong sometimes, Father—everybody is wrong sometimes—but, even so, I would obey you if I could."

"You mean that if you could not you would take your own way?"

"Not exactly."

"And say farewell to me and leave your home?"

"I would never say farewell to you. I do not think I would leave my home in any such way."

"What would you do?"

"Love you and die daily at your side. When you saw me suffering you would give me my desire, because it would be my life."

"I would not. If confident I was right I would not do wrong to please you. And it would be far better for you to die than to make yourself a wanderer in improper company and a prodigal daughter."

"Father, fear to say such words. I am God's daughter. I am your daughter and I do not forget I am a daughter of the honorable clan of Macrae. Such words are an insult to me, to yourself, and to every Macrae, living or dead." She rose as she spoke and with a white, angry look was leaving the room when her father laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder and said:

"Promise me you will not marry anyone without my consent."

"For nearly two years, Father, I could only make a runaway marriage, liable to be temporarily broken at your will."

"Why do you say temporarily?"

"Because, if I loved any man well enough to run away with him I should stay with him forever. You might sever us 'temporarily,' but I should go back to him as soon as I went twenty-one and marry him over again," and her face flushed crimson, and she lifted her brimming eyes to her father and added:

"But all the time I should love you. I should never say farewell to you. To the end of my life, throughout all eternity, I should be your daughter, and you would be my dear, dear Father. Is not that so? Yes, it is! It is!"

He looked at her with a swelling heart full of intense admiration and unbounded love. He could have struck and kissed her at the same moment, but he could find no words to answer her loving question. So he lifted his hand from her proud, indignant form and, with such a sob as may come from a breaking heart, he turned from her to go to his study. She could not bear it. When the parlor door shut, that piteous cry was still in her ears, and she hastened to the study after him. But just as she reached the door she heard the key turn in its lock.

Then she fled upstairs and found her aunt lying still in the semidarkness of her room. "Aunt! Aunt!" she cried in a passion of tears, "I cannot bear it! No, I cannot bear it! My poor Father! Someone ought to think of his feelings. Yes, indeed they ought."

"It seems to me, Marion, that you are busy enough in that way. What is the matter with the Minister now?"

Then Marion, with many tears and protestations, related her conversation with her father, and Mrs. Caird listened as one destitute of much sympathy, and, when she spoke, her words were not more comforting.

"You are a half-and-half creature, Marion; neither here nor there, neither this, that, nor what not. Why didn't you speak plainly to him as your brother did? Mind this! You can't move the Minister with tears and a mouthful of good words. Not you! He will keep up his threep like a gamecock till he dies with it in his last crow. I'm telling you—heed me or not—I am telling you the truth."

"No, he will not, Aunt."

"Such to-and-fro words as you gave him! He'll build his own way strong as Gibraltar upon them. See if he doesn't. Your fight is all to do over, but, as you have taken the matter in your own hands, you and him for it."

"O Aunt! I am so miserable."

"Well, then, I have seen lately that you are never happy unless you are miserable."

"I have not heard from Richard, either yesterday or to-day."

"What is that! At your age I was very proud and satisfied with a love letter once in a fortnight. That's enough in all conscience."

"Two weeks! If Richard was so long silent it would kill me."

"Have you any more nonsense to talk?"

"Aunt, do not be cross with me. I thought you were as full of trouble as I am. Why else did you come here?"

"Partly to keep the doors of my lips shut, and partly to think. I am not full of trouble. I cannot do as I wish to do, but I have a Friend who does all things well. And, when it is my time to act, I shall be ready to act. Now go to your sleeping place and dream without care sitting on your heart; then in the morning you can rise with a clear, trusting soul, such as God loves."