According to a literary scripture, my story should end here. I have satisfied my proposition—the man who lost God has found Him; therefore, to say more is to pass my climax and break a very prominent canon of criticism. But I am sure that there are many who have followed the struggle of Ian Macrae into the Second Birth who will desire to know what the New Man did with his New Life; and I think it better to grant a good wish than to keep a literary law.

In that blessed night, full of the presence of God, which Ian had spent on the hills surrounding Ambleside, he had looked steadily and hopefully into the future, and clearly understood what he must do. So he never thought of returning to London, but early in the morning took a train to Glasgow. In the place where he had doubted and denied God he must show Him forth publicly as the Father and Lover of Souls, the God gracious and long-suffering, full of mercy and truth. He was anxiously longing to begin this work; he grudged the hours in which he had to be silent, and was full of a buoyant joyfulness so sincere and so radiant that people looked into his face and involuntarily smiled.

He reached Glasgow before the noon hour, and as soon as he was inside his uncle's house he called him in resounding tones, full of eager, wistful excitement. And the Major, who was in his private office, recognized the voice and went hastily to meet his nephew.

"Why, Ian, Ian! What is the matter?" he cried. "Whatever has come to you? You look—you speak like a different man!"

"Uncle! Brother of my father! I have found what I lost! I have found Him whom my soul loveth!" Then they sat down, and Ian related the wonderful story of the last wonderful twenty-four hours; and the old man listened with a joy past utterance. His face radiated wonder and love, his blue eyes shone through reverential tears, unconsciously his head and hands were uplifted, and his lips whispered the prayer of thanksgiving that was in his heart.

"It is a heavenly story, Ian," he said, "and the greatest wonder is this—though numberless souls have such experiences, every one has its own solemnly distinct personality. And their number never makes them common. They are always wonderful. They are never doubted, and they never fail. But, Ian, no one that has been 'called by name' can ever forget the voice that called him; it haunts and hallows life forevermore. Now, then, what are you going to do?"

"I am going to preach the Love of God!—the patient, everlasting Love of God! O Uncle, can I ever forget the love in that father's face as he stood waiting to die with his child? I was not told, I did not read of it, I saw the love of God in that father's face, and knew in that moment how God so loved the world that He gave His Son for its salvation. Now, through all the days of my life, I am going to preach the Love of God."

"That is right. You shall have a church here—in Glasgow."

"Somewhere among the teeming habitations of the poor."

"No. The rich need the gospel you have to preach more than the poor do. We will build among the terraced crescents, where the rich dwell. And we will build of good gray granite, and finish it with the best of everything—and the pulpit will be yours."

"Dear Uncle, no pulpit! I could not go into one again. I have two memories of a pulpit. I wish to forget them. But there is something we have not spoken of that I desire greatly to have in connection with my church. I mean a dispensary. Christ healed the body as well as the soul; for it is not a soul, nor is it a body we wish to train upward—it is a Man, and we ought not to divide them."

So they talked over the dispensary with perfect accord, all the time the table was being laid for dinner and the meal eaten. Nothing interfered with this interest. It was quite a fresh one to the Major, and he was greatly delighted with the idea. Indeed, it was the old soldier who first proposed a small surgery connected with the dispensary. "When I was at the wars," he said, "I saw many a poor man suffering for want of the knife and a bandage. We must have a little surgery, Ian." And Ian joyfully acceded to the proposition.

"It will be a big increase in your work, Ian, but——"

"O Uncle, I am here to work—not to study and dream. I must work, I must preach; I must help the sick and sorrowful. How soon can the church be ready?"

"I do not know exactly, but we will build the surgery and dispensary as soon as we have got the proper location. They will give you many good opportunities while the church is building. And I hope you have not forgotten duties kin and kindred to yourself. They cannot be overlooked, Ian."

"I will overlook none of them, Uncle. I have been a great sinner in this respect."

"For instance, Marion has never weaned herself from you. She talks of you constantly when she comes here, and we have had some tearful hours about your silence and neglect."

"I will atone for them as soon as may be. I have often been sorry that I did not stay and see her marriage."

"It was a grand affair. Nothing like it was ever seen in Glasgow before or since. There were the Bishop and two clergymen to perform the ceremony and a notable company to see that it was properly done. Among this company were three officers from the Household troop, and, if I had the words, I would tell you about their splendid uniforms and stars and ribbons of honor. And there was Lochiel, in full Highland costume, looking more like some old god than a man—and McAllister and McLeod and Moray, and half a dozen more in all their varieties of kilts and plaids and philabegs; velvet vests and gold buttons, and eagle feathers in their Glengary caps. They were a splendid and picturesque background for the lovely bride, clothed in white from head to foot and looking like an angel. McAllister had sent a basket of white heather for bridal bouquets, and every Highlander there wore a spray of it in his vest or cap. I had a stem or two at my own breast—and Marion's veil was crowned with a wreath of the lovely flowers."

"After the marriage, where did they go?"

"First of all, they came here, to my house—and we had a bridal breakfast that none will forget. Lord Glasgow toasted the bride, and the Provost of the City made answer for her. His speech was well enough, but a little o'er long—considering the occasion."

"And then?"

"They went to all the capital cities of Europe. It was a wonderful honeymoon trip. They might have been royalties themselves, they were that nobly entertained. Well, well! Marion Macrae was a bonnie bride, and she is far bonnier and better now than she was then—the best of mothers, the best of wives, a noble woman every way. She has a son called 'Ian,' after you, and two little girls who wear the names of Agnes and Jessy—you know——"

"Yes—I know. How could I ever forget?"

"And there is poor Donald. You are not to slight Donald. You will write to him, Ian?"

"I will go to him. I can never be quite satisfied until I have seen Donald. I was cruel and selfish then, but I loved him. I love him now better than ever. He sits in the center of my heart. I must go as soon as may be to California."

"You are right. We will buy our land and make our estimates, and set the men to work. Then you can go and kiss your banished son."

"I am afraid I cannot bring him home again."

"Would you think of suchlike foolishness? God gave him his wife and his portion out there. But I will tell you what you can do—you can bring home Mrs. Caird. In her last letter to Marion she said she was weary of golden oranges and perpetual sunshine; and she hoped God would let her come hame to her ain countrie before she died. She was fairly sick for the gray skies and green braes of Scotland, and, as for the rain, it was only gloom upon gleam, and gleam upon gloom—very comfortable weather upon the whole. I was sorry for the pleasant little woman. You can bring her back. See that you do so. For I am counting on you living with me, Ian. Why should we part? I am growing old, and need your love and company; and I want to be your right hand in the Godlike work before you."

"My dear Uncle, you shall have all your will. I desire nothing better than to share your love and your home, and have your constant counsel and help."

"Then bring back Mrs. Caird. She will send away all the wasteful, lazy, dirty men bodies round the house, and hire in their place tidy, busy young lasses. Then, Ian, I can have a dream of a home for my old age. No matter what her 'will and want,' give her everything she asks—only bring her back."

"I will do so, Uncle—if possible."

"Possible or not—bring her back."

There was no pause in their conversation until the long summer twilight filled the quiet square. Then they suddenly remembered Doctor James Lindsey and the London duties that might be hard to relinquish, and thus delay the work which they so eagerly willed to do. So Ian spent the evening in writing to his friend, while the Major lost himself the while in financial calculations about the great project.

Ian had not one doubt of his friend's sympathy. "I know James Lindsey, Uncle," he said with an air of happy confidence; "he will count God's claim long before his own. And he will see at once that I have been unconsciously preparing myself for the great work we are planning for eleven years; and, though I have been led by a way I knew not, every step has been taken right."

Then the Major looked into his happy face and said solemnly: "Ian, if you saw the love of God shining on that father's face in the awful pit, I see it just as plainly on your countenance. It has absolutely changed it. Your voice is also different, and your words go singing through my soul. You are a new man. You are a happy man, and I used to think that, of all men, you were the most miserable."

"Uncle, I might well be miserable. The phantoms that peopled my nights must have destroyed life if God had not forbidden it—remorse that came too late—cries uttered to inexorable silence—doubt—anguish—prostration worse than death. I was afraid to look back, equally afraid to look forward; and then last night changed all in the twinkling of an eye. I fell at the feet of the Father of Spirits with a joy past utterance. Troubles of all kinds grew lighter than a grasshopper. I had a rest unspeakable until rapture followed rest, and I cried out, 'Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee!'" Then the two men involuntarily clasped hands. They had no words fit for that moment. Words would have been a hindrance, not a help.

The next morning Ian was crossing Exchange Place when he saw a man approaching who gave him a thrill of recollection. He hesitated for a moment, and then went quickly forward. His hand was outstretched and his face smiling.

"Richard!" he cried. "I am glad to see you. I am glad to have this opportunity of saying I did you wrong. I was very unkind both to you and to Marion. I am sincerely sorry for the past, will you forgive it now?"

And Lord Cramer clasped the hand offered and answered with hearty gladness: "I cannot forgive it now, sir. I forgave it many years ago. Marion stands between us. We are the best of friends." Then they walked together cheerfully to a hotel and ordered a good lunch, for both English and Scotchmen cannot celebrate any event—whether it concern the heart or the purse—without offering a meat and drink sacrifice for the occasion. During the meal Ian sent loving words to Marion, and promised to be with her on the following day, and thus love and good-will took the place forever of wronged and slighted affection. Then he saw his eldest grandchild, a beautiful boy of ten years old, Ian, the future Lord of Cramer, and his heart went out to the lovable child, as it did also to the bright, seven-year-old Agnes and the pretty baby, Jessy. Three days he spent at Cramer Hall, and saw all the improvements made there—the additions to the Hall, the fine condition of the park and gardens, and the famous and highly profitable oyster beds. So his heart was filled with that mortal love for which it had been aching and perishing.

When he returned to Glasgow he found Dr. Lindsey with his uncle. He had come in answer to Ian's letter, and he was enthusiastic concerning all Ian's intentions and eager to assist in realizing them. "You know, Ian," he said, "we were preparing for a long holiday together when you started for Furness and Ambleside. This is 'the long journey' for which we were unconsciously preparing. I called at the little mining village as I came here——"

"And that father and his boy?" interrupted the Major.

"They died together in the pit. They were laid in one wide grave, and rich and poor, from far and near, came to honor that perfect image of the Divine love. I called on his widow. She was still weeping for 'her man and her lile lad.' He was her first-born, but she has four other children, the youngest a few weeks old. She is very poor. Her neighbors are feeding her."

"But that must stop," cried Ian. "It is my duty and my pleasure. How can I ever pay the debt? I will see to it at once. It is a sin that I have not already done so."

"You are right, Ian," answered the Doctor; "and we may recall now how wonderfully you have been led, and realize that there is a kind of predestination in our life. It was necessary for you to spend ten years in the House of Pain and Suffering and Death; necessary for you to know how to cure the sick and to heal the wounded, in order to prepare you to receive the sacred mystery in that horrible pit, and make you fit for the work you have yet to do. Do you remember how impossible we found it, night after night, to satisfy ourselves as to the course and country our holiday should take? And all the time the journey was being arranged for us. Surely the steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord."

"'Steps,'" said the Major. "We may be glad of that word, for it is easy for a man to take just one step to ruin or to death."

The journey to America being determined, Dr. Lindsey went back to London to prepare his business for an absence of three months. Ian was glad of his companionship, and promised to meet him in Liverpool on the 25th of July. There they would take together passage for New York. This plan was fully carried out, but of the voyage, the journeyings and their life in California there is no necessity to write. Possibly most of my readers have crossed the Atlantic, and know far more about California than I do; so that I may well leave any descriptions to their memories or imaginations. It is the humanity of my story with which we have to do.

They had been eagerly looked for at Los Angeles, and were welcomed with unbounded love and respect. Donald and his father drew aside for a moment, but what they said to each other only God knows. There is a divine silence in forgiveness. When Peter first met Christ, after his denial of Him, what did Peter say? What did Christ say? We are not told; but great wrongs can be wiped out in one tender word, though such acts in the drama of life are not translatable. It was different with Macbeth. He greeted his guests with a proud and delightful extravagance.

"You are welcome, 'Men of St. Andrews!'" he cried; "you are tenfold welcome!" And for the next five weeks he gave himself to entertaining them in every possible way. The pretty Spanish wife was shy and reticent, but her three sons spoke for her, and Donald was evidently the idol of his house and in all his surroundings prosperous and happy.

Jessy Caird, however, had failed and faded physically more than she ought to have done, so Ian was not slow to take the first opportunity of speaking confidentially to her. She was sitting just within the open door of her bungalow. Her eyes were closed, her work had fallen from her hands, and there was no book of any kind within her reach. Ian wondered at these things. Jessy doing nothing! Jessy without a book! What could be the meaning of it?

She opened her eyes as she heard his approach, and said with a smile, "You are walking like your old self, Ian, but for all that sit down by me."

"That is what I am here for. I want to talk with you, and with you only. My dear sister, you look sick—or very unhappy. Which is it?"

"Ian, I am both sick and unhappy. In the first place, I am heartbroken for my native land. I want to see once more the green, green straths of Scotland—the green straths with a haze of bluebells over them! I want the gray, soft skies and the little silvery showers that blessed both humanity and nature with constant freshness. And O Ian, I want, I want, I want the living tongue of running water! Do you mind that, in all the summers we spent in Arran, we could not go anywhere on the island and lose the happy sound of running water? Do you mind how the waters leaped from rock to rock, and thundered down the craggy glens, and then went singing and gurgling along the roadside? Ian, Ian, take me home! I want to die in my own country!"

"Die! Nonsense, Jessy! You must live for others even if you want to die. I need you. You must go back to Scotland and help me. I have told you of the great work my uncle and I are planning. We cannot do without you."

Her face brightened, there was a smile in her eyes, and she looked eagerly at Ian as he continued:

"It would make you heartsick to see that fine house in the Square going to destruction. The Major's heart and head are in the building of the church, and the servant men are neglecting everything beneath their hands."

"It serves him right. The Major was set on having only servant men. Three or four tidy women would have——"

"To be sure. We shall soon get rid of the men when you and I get home."

"What are you meaning, Ian? Speak straight."

"I am going to live with my uncle. He is an old man and needs me."

"Stuff and nonsense! He will never need either you or anybody else. You may need him."

"I need him now, Jessy. He is mainly building the church. His heart and soul are in it. He has given up practically his large business."

"Given up his business! What does the man mean?"

"He is only retaining the charge of three estates until the heirs come of age. He promised to do that, and does not feel it right to break a promise made to the dead."

"Well, then, a man may live decently from three estates."

"Jessy, we have laid out together such a great and good work, but without your help we cannot carry it forward. We must have some good woman to look after our food and our home. We are counting on you, and you must stand by us."

"I will go with you gladly. I will soon put a stop to the wastrie and pilfering going on in the Major's house; and I will take good care of you two feckless, helpless men—but I am your sister, Ian; I must look to my position."

"You are right. You will be mistress. You will stand at my right hand, as you always did; and the Major said you were to have 'your will and want and wish,' whatever it was. Jessy, you are going home."

"How soon, Ian?"

"Any mail may bring me word to hurry back to Scotland. I feel that I ought to be there now. Get ready for an early journey."

In less than two weeks the expected letter, urging Ian's early return, came; and Ian and Jessy set their faces Scotlandward the next day; but Dr. Lindsey resolved to stay another month and see more of a country so wonderfully fresh and interesting. Jessy went away very quietly, and it struck Ian she was glad when the parting was over; and she acknowledged that in a certain way she was so.

"I was that feared I would die there," she said, "and I could not keep the little Border graveyard out of my thoughts. My kindred for three hundred years lie there, and I wanted to take my last rest among them." This feeling would be to an American an unthinkable source of anxiety, but to the Scotch man or woman it would be a real and potent promoter of the feeling. For they cherish the memory of their fathers—good or bad—and there burns alive in them a sense of identity with the dead, even to the twentieth generation. Ian thoroughly understood Jessy's worry and respected her for it.

"You should have written to me, Jessy. A word concerning your fear would have brought me to you at any time. Why did you think of dying? Were you not well treated?"

"I could not have been better treated. I was close to Donald's heart, the children loved me, and Macbeth wanted me to be his wife."

"And Mercedes?"

"Perhaps not so much. She was a wonderfully jealous little woman. She did not like Donald or the children or her father to be long in my company. She did her best to conquer the feeling, but how could she with centuries of Castilian blood in her veins? It was my own fault if I was not happy, but the longing for Scotland was above all other desires. I had too little to do. I wanted some work that was my work. No one can be content without it."

"The children are fine boys."

"Yes—do you remember the morning you would not hear of their father going either to the army or navy? You said he was the only Macrae to keep up the name of the family, and forthwith sent him to a desk in Reid's shipping office. You have four grandsons now, three of them Macraes. You see God knew, if you could only have trusted Him. What is the Major's worry now?"

"He has a hankering after a pulpit. I do not want one."

"But will your creed be respectable without a pulpit?"

"I have no creed."

"Ian!"

"Except the commandment that we love God and do unto others as we would like them to do unto us. Love is the fulfilling of the whole law. If this creed does not satisfy you, Jessy——"

"Oh, you know, Ian, I can abandon my creed at any time, but I shall carry my prejudices into eternity."

Thus discussing, in Jessy's various moods, their old religious differences, they came finally to the end of their journey, and found the Major waiting to receive them at the Buchanan Street railway station. He had ordered a feast to honor their arrival, and the men who prepared it—not knowing for whom it was prepared—cooked it badly and served it in slovenly fashion. The next morning they all went away forever, and three clever, active girls reigned in their stead. Then Jessy, the happy-tempered bringer of the best out of the worst, was satisfied; and the Major knew he would have a home to live in, and Ian, always fastidiously fond of order and quiet, was sure his domestic life would fill every necessity of his public work.

This work was progressing in spite of various delays, and at the end of the following year the beautiful building was fully ready for use. It was filled as soon as opened. Doubtless, curiosity had something to do with the crowded services; yet Ian was already much beloved among all classes and conditions of men and women, for the love of God, which filled and influenced his whole life, attracted to him the love of all who met him. Many remembered him as a haughty cleric, full of learning, and not very approachable, even to his own congregation. But this new Ian was always smiling and kindly, ready to cure the wounded and heal the sick and to give with love and sympathy all the consolations that flow from the reality of heavenly things.

The opening of the new church was a great day in Glasgow. There was not even standing room for one more worshiper, and when Ian saw a large contingent from the old Church of the Disciples present he was very happy. And as he looked at them his face shone with love and they saw it as the face of a Man of God. Tender and inspiring was the sermon he preached that day, and one sentence in it went—no one knew how—the length and breadth of Scotland. Yea, before it had been spoken half an hour there came to him testimony that it had begun its mission. For, as he was walking leisurely down Sanchiehall Street, Bailie Muir, an old class-mate at St. Andrews, joined him.

"O man! man!" he cried in an exultant voice, "I bless you for some words you said to-day! I have been longing to hear them, though I knew not until this morning what I wanted."

"And you know now, Bailie?"

"Yes. You said that we came here to work out our salvation with fear and trembling. Listen! You said, 'Immortality is an achievement! It is not a favor, not a gift, not a selection, not a chance; it is something we must work for—something we must win. Immortality is an achievement!' Are these words true?"

"They are faithful and true words. Come home with me and we will talk them over."

Thus out of the old paths and into the brighter new ones this great heart led his people. By day or night he knew no weariness in well-doing. His loving kindness was a constant over-flowing of self on others—a heavenly thing, springing from the soul just at that point where the divine image is nearest and clearest.

Do you ask if he is preaching to-day? It is not impossible. Yet my feeling is that by the full employment of a holy life he arrived some years ago at maturity for death. Such a man could not linger too long on the Border Land. Christ himself would speak the compelle intrare, "Enter! Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!"

THE END