Fergus was not kept long in suspense; his letter was answered by return of post. Messrs. Green and Richardson had been evidently struck with the concise, businesslike note they had received, and they took great pains in furnishing him with full particulars, and begged that, if he had any special intelligence to impart, he would write direct to their client, Sir Hugh Redmond, Redmond Hall, Singleton.

After studying Messrs. Green and Richardson’s letter with most careful attention, Fergus came to the conclusion that it would be as well to write to Sir Hugh Redmond. He was very careful to post this letter himself, and, though he confided in no one, thinking a secret is seldom safe with a woman, he could not hide from Lilian and Aunt Jeanie that he was “a bit fashed” about something.

“For it is not like our Fergus,” observed the old lady, tenderly, “to be stalking about the rooms and passages like a sair-hearted ghost.”

Sir Hugh was sitting over his solitary breakfast, with Pierre beside him, when, in listlessly turning over his pile of letters, the Scotch postmark on one arrested his attention, and he opened it with some eagerness. It was headed, “The Manse, Rowan-Glen,” and was evidently written by a stranger; yes, he had never heard the name Fergus Duncan.

A few hours later a telegram reached the Manse.

“Aunt Jeanie must be taken into counsel now,” was Fergus’s first thought as he read the telegram; his second was, “better sleep on it first; women are dreadful hands at keeping a secret. She would be fondling her with tears in her dear old eyes all the evening, and Mrs. St. Clair is none so innocent, in spite of Jean and Lilian calling her a woman-angel. Ay, but she is a bonnie lassie, though, and brave-hearted as well,” and the young minister’s eyes grew misty as he shut himself up in the study to keep himself safe from the temptation of telling Aunt Jeanie.

He had a sore wrestle for it, though; but he prided himself on his wisdom, when, after breakfast the next morning, he led the old lady into the study, and, after bidding her prepare for a shock, informed her that Mrs. St. Clair’s husband, Sir Hugh Redmond, would be down that very afternoon.

He might well call Aunt Jeanie soft, to see her white curls shake tremulously, and the tears running down her faded cheeks.

“Eh, my lad—eh, Fergus,” she sobbed, “Mrs. St. Clair’s husband—the father of her bairn. Oh, whatever will Jean say? she will be for running away and hiding them both—she can not bide the thought of that man.”

“Aunt Jeanie,” broke in Fergus in his most masterful voice, “I hope you will not be so foolish as to tell Jean; remember I have trusted this to you because I know you are wise and sensible, and will help me. We have made ourselves responsible for this poor child, and shall have to account to Sir Hugh if we let her give us the slip. I have said all along that no doubt there were faults on both sides, only you women will take each other’s parts. Now, I am off to the farm to see Lilian. Just tell Jean that I am expecting a friend, and she had better choose a fine plump pair of chicks for supper; she will be for guessing it is Lothian or Dan Ambleby, or one of the old lot, and she will be so busy with her scones and pasties that one will hardly venture to cross the kitchen.” And then, begging her to be careful that Mrs. St. Clair might not guess anything from her manner, Fergus strode off to the farm to share his triumph and perplexities with Lilian.

It was well for Aunt Jeanie that Fay was extremely busy that day, finishing a frock for her baby; so she sat in her own room all the morning at the window overlooking the orchard, and baby Hugh, as usual, crawled at her feet.

He was a beautiful boy now, with the fresh, fair complexion of the Redmonds, with rough golden curls running over his head, and large, solemn gray eyes. Fay had taught him to say “dada,” and would cover him with passionate kisses when the baby lips fashioned the words. “Yes, my little boy shall go home to his father some day, when he can run about and speak quite plain,” she would tell him; and at the thought of that day, when she should give him up to Hugh, she would bury her face in the fat creasy neck, and wet it with tears. “How would she ever live without her little child?” she thought; but she knew, for all that, that she would give him up.

When Fergus returned to luncheon, he found Aunt Jeanie had worked herself almost into a fever—her pretty old face was flushed and tremulous, her eyes were dim when Fay came into the room carrying her boy.

“He is far too heavy for you, Mrs. St. Clair,” exclaimed Fergus, hastening to relieve her. “I know mothers’ arms are generally strong, but still this big fellow is no light weight. What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon? Aunt Jeanie always takes a nap in Uncle Donald’s room, but I suppose you have not come to the age for napping.”

“No,” returned Fay with a smile; “but Jean has finished her preparation for the strange gentleman, and she wants to take baby down to Logill; Mrs. Mackay has promised her some eggs. It will do the boy good, will it not, Mrs. Duncan?” turning to the old lady; “and as I have been working all the morning, and it is such a lovely afternoon, I think I will go down to the falls.”

“That is an excellent idea,” returned Fergus with alacrity before his aunt could answer. He had to put down the carver to rub his hands, he was so pleased with the way things were turning out—Mrs. St. Clair safely at the falls, where they knew exactly where to find her; Jean, with the boy and her basket of eggs comfortably occupied all the afternoon; and Aunt Jeanie obliged to stay with Uncle Donald. Why, he would have the coast clear and no mistake. Sir Hugh would have no difficulty in making his explanations with the Manse parlor empty of its womankind.

He had received a second telegram, and knew that the expected visitor might be looked for in an hour’s time; but it was long before that that he saw Jean with the boy in one arm, and the basket on the other, strike out bravely down the Innery Road, from which a cross lane led in the direction of the village where the accommodating Mrs. Mackay lived.

A few minutes later Mrs. St. Clair passed the parlor window. It was a lovely May day, and she wore a dainty spring dress—a creamy silky fabric—and a little brown velvet hat, which particularly suited her. As she saw Fergus, she looked up and smiled, and then called Nero to order as he scampered amongst the flower beds.

“Ay, my lady, I have my grip of you now,” he observed, with a gleam in his eyes, as he turned away.

About twenty minutes later he heard the click of the gate, and saw a tall, fair-bearded man, in a tweed traveling suit, walking up the steep little path, and casting anxious glances at the windows. Mrs. Duncan saw him too.

“Ay, but he is a goodly man,” she said, half aloud. “I like a man to walk as though all the world belongs to him;” and for the first time a doubt crossed her mind, whether Fay’s childishness may not have been to blame; for Hugh Redmond’s handsome face and frank, careless manner always found favor in women’s eyes.

Fergus felt himself impressed by Sir Hugh’s lordly bearing; he felt an awkward, raw-boned Scotchman beside this grand-looking aristocratic man. As he went out into the porch, Sir Hugh put out his hand, and said, in a quick, agitated voice, “Mr. Duncan, you have made me your debtor for life, but we will talk of that presently. Will you take me to my wife, please?”

“Certainly, but Mrs. St. Clair—Lady Redmond, I mean—has gone down to the Rowans—the falls over yonder; shall we walk there at once, or will you come in and rest a little?” moved by the pale harassed look of the face before him. “You have had a long journey, Sir Hugh, and perhaps you would like to get rid of the dust.”

“No, I can not rest until I have seen my wife; you will understand my feelings, I am sure, Mr. Duncan;” and Fergus took down his hat from the peg, and said gravely that he could well understand them. “It is only a step,” he continued, “and I will just walk with you to the gate. The Rowans is Lady Redmond’s favorite haunt; she thinks there is no place to compare with the falls. You will find no difficulty if you follow the little path”—but with that rare intuition that belongs to a sympathetic character, Fergus said no more. He could see that Sir Hugh was much agitated at the thought of the impending meeting; and directly they reached the wicket-gate leading to the falls, he pointed to the path, and retraced his steps to the Manse.

Hugh gave a sigh of relief as he found himself alone. His hand shook a little as he unlatched the gate. As he passed the covered rustic seat he noticed a few sprays of withered heather that had been lying there since last year. Perhaps Fay had gathered them.

He hesitated a moment—should he wait for her here or seek her further? A trifle decided him. Among the raspberry bushes that tangled the underwood was a little bunch of wild flowers caught on a bramble. The floral message seemed to lure him onward, and he followed the narrow, winding path. By and by he came to a little green nook of a place as full of moss and sunshine as a nest; there was a great pool near it, where some silver trout were leaping and flashing in the light. The whole spot seemed to come before him strangely. Had he seen it in a dream?

He crept along cautiously. He fancied he had caught a white gleam between the trees that was neither sunshine nor water. He groped his way through the underwood, putting the branches back that they might not crackle, and then all at once he stood still; for he saw a little runlet of a stream making dimples of eddies round a fallen tree, and a great silver birch sweeping over it; and there, in her soft spring dress, with the ripples of golden-brown hair shining under her hat, was his lost Wee Wifie. She had floated a rowan-branch on the stream and was watching it idly, and Nero, sitting up on his haunches beside his little mistress, was watching it too.

Hugh’s heart beat faster as he looked at her. He had not admired her much in the old days, and yet how beautiful she was. Either his taste had changed or these sad months had altered her; but a fairer and a sweeter face he owned to himself that he had never seen, and all his man’s heart went out to her in in a deep and pitiful love. Just then there was a crackling in the bushes and Nero growled, and Fay, looking up startled, saw her husband standing opposite to her.In life there are often strange meetings and partings; moments that seem to hold the condensed joy or pain of years. One grows a little stony—a little colorless. There are flushes perhaps, a weight and oppression of unshed tears, and a falter of questions never answered; but it is not until afterward that full consciousness comes, that one knows that the concentrated essence of bitterness or pleasure has been experienced, the memory of which will last to our dying days. It was so with Fay when she looked up from her mossy log and saw Hugh with his fair-bearded face standing under the dark larches. She did not faint or cry out, but she clasped her little hands, and said piteously, “Oh, Hugh, do not be angry with me. I tried so hard to be lost,” and then stood and shivered in the long grass.

“You tried so hard to be lost,” he said, in a choked voice. “Child, child, do you know what you have done; you have nearly broken my heart as well as your own. I have been very angry, Fay, but I have forgotten it now; but you must come back to me, darling, for I can not live without my Wee Wifie any more;” and as she hid her face in her trembling hands, not daring to look at him, he suddenly lifted the little creature in his arms; and as Fay felt herself drawn to his breast, she knew that she was no longer an unloved wife.

******

She was calmer now. At his words and touch she had broken into an agony of weeping that had terrified him; but he had soothed her with fond words and kisses, and presently she was sitting beside him with her shy, sweet face radiant with happiness, and her hands clasped firmly in his. He had been telling her about his accident, and his sad solitary winter, and of the heart-sickness that he had suffered.

“Oh, my darling, will you ever forgive me?” she whispered. “It was for your sake I went. How could I know that you would miss me so—that you really wanted me? it nearly killed me to leave you; and I do not think I should have lived long if you had not found me.”

“My child,” he said, very gravely and gently, “we have both done wrong, and must forgive each other; but my sin is the heavier. I was older and I knew the world, and I ought to have remembered that my child-wife did not know it too. If you had not been so young you would never have left me, but now my Wee Wifie will never desert me again.”

“No, never. Oh,” pressing nearer to him with a shudder, “to think how you have suffered. I could not have borne it if I had known.”

“Yes,” he said, lightly, for her great, beautiful eyes were wide with trouble at the recollection, and he wanted to see her smile, “it has changed me into a middle-aged man. Look how my hair has worn off my forehead, and there are actually gray hairs in my beard. People will say we look like father and daughter when they see us together.”

“Oh,” she returned, shyly, for it was not quite easy to look at him—Hugh was so different somehow—“I shall not mind what people say. Now I have my own husband back, it will not matter a bit to me how gray and old you are.” Then, as Hugh laughed and kissed her, she said in a very low voice, “Do you really mean that you can be content with me, Hugh; that I shall not disappoint you any more?”

“Content,” he answered, fondly, “that is a poor word. Have I ever really deserved you, sweetheart; but I mean to make up for that. You are very generous, Fay; you do not speak of Margaret—ah, I thought so,” as her head drooped against his shoulder—“she is in your mind, but you will not venture to speak of her.”

“I am so afraid you must regret her, Hugh.”

And Hugh, with a shade of sadness on his fine face, answered, slowly:

“If I regret her, it is as I regret my lost youth. She belongs to my old life; now I only reverence and cherish her memory. Darling, we must understand each other very clearly on this point, for all our unhappiness springs from that. We must have no secrets, no reservations in our future life; you must never fear to speak to me of Margaret. She was very dear to me once, and in some sense she is dear to me still, but not now, thank God, so precious in my eyes as the wife He has given me.” Then, as she put her arms round his neck and thanked him with innocent, wifely kisses, he suddenly pressed her to him passionately, and asked her to forgive him, for he could never forgive himself.

Then, as the evening shadows crept into the green nest, Fay proposed timidly that they should go back to the Manse, for she wanted to show Hugh their boy; and Hugh consented at once. And hand in hand they went through the tangled underwood and past the shimmering falls; and as Hugh looked down on his little wife and saw the new sweet womanliness that had grown on her with her motherhood, and the meek purity of her fair young face, he felt a proud happiness thrilling within him, and knew that it was God-given, and that its blessing would last him throughout his whole life.