With slow-pacing shadows, the hot hours crept athwart the heath, and the house, and the dead, and carried the living with them in their invisible current. There is no tide in time; it is a steady current, not returning. Happy they whom it bears inward to the center of things! Alas, for those whom it carries outward to “the flaming walls of creation!” The poor old laird who, with all his refinement, all his education, all his interest in philology, prosody, history, and reliquial humanity, had become the slave of a goblet, had left it behind him, had faced the empty universe empty-handed, and vanished with a shadow-goblet in his heart; the eyes that gloated over the gems had gone to help the grass to grow. But the will of the dead remained to trouble for a time the living, for it put his daughter in a painful predicament: until Crawford's property was removed from the house, it would give him constant opportunity of prosecuting the suit which Aleza had reason to think he intended to resume, and the thought of which had become to her insupportable.

Great was her astonishment when she learned to what the door in the study led, and what a multitude of curious and valuable things were there of whose presence in the house she had never dreamed. She would gladly have had them for herself; and it pained her to the heart to think of the disappointment of the poor ghost when he saw, if he could see, his treasured hoard emptied out of its hidden and safe abode. For, even if George should magnanimously protest that he did not care for the things enough to claim them, and beg that they might remain where they were, she could not grant his request, for it would be to accept them from him. Had her father left them to her, she would have kept them as carefully as even he could desire—with this difference only, that she would not have shut them up from giving pleasure to others.

She was growing to care more about the truth—gradually coming to see that much she had taken for a more liberal creed, was but the same falsehoods in weaker forms, less repulsive only to a mind indifferent to the paramount claims of God on His child. She saw something of the falseness and folly of attempting to recommend religion as not so difficult, so exclusive, so full of prohibition as our ancestors believed it. She saw that, although Andrew might regard some things as freely given which others thought God forbade, yet he insisted on what was infinitely higher and more than the abandonment of everything pleasant—the abnegation, namely, of the very self, and the reception of God instead. She had hitherto been, with all her supposed progress, only a recipient of the traditions of the elders! There must be a deeper something—the real religion! She did not yet see that the will of God lay in another direction altogether than the heartiest reception of dogma!—that God was too great and too generous to care about anything except righteousness, and only wanted us to be good children!—that even honesty was but the path toward righteousness, a condition so pure that honesty itself would never more be an object of thought!

She pondered much about her father, and would find herself praying for him, careless of what she had been taught. She could not blind herself to what she knew. He had not been a bad man, as men count badness, but could she in common sense think him a glorified saint, shining in white robes? The polite, kind old man! her own father!—could she, on the other hand, believe him in flames forever? If so, what a religion was that which required her to believe it, and at the same time to rejoice in the Lord always!

She longed for something positive to believe, something into accordance with which she might work her feelings. She was still on the outlook for definite intellectual formulae to hold. Her intercourse with Andrew had as yet failed to open her eyes to the fact that the faith required of us is faith in a person, and not in the truest of statements concerning anything, even concerning him; or to the fact, that faith in the living One, the very essence of it, consists in obedience to Him. A man can obey before he is sure, and except he obey the command he knows to be right, wherever it may come from, he will never be sure. To find the truth, man or woman must be true.

But she much desired another talk with Andrew.

Persuading himself that Alexa's former feeling toward him must in her trouble reassert itself, and confident that he would find her loath to part with her father's wonderful collection, George waited the effect of the will. After the reading of it he had gone away directly, that his presence might not add to the irritation which he concluded, not without reason, it must, even in the midst of her sorrow, cause in her; but at the end of a week he wrote, saying that he felt it his duty, if only in gratitude to his friend, to inform himself as to the attention the valuable things he had left him might require. He assured Alexa that he had done nothing to influence her father in the matter, and much regretted the awkward position in which his will had placed both her and him. At the same time it was not unnatural that he should wish such precious objects to be possessed by one who would care for them as he had himself cared for them. He hoped, therefore, that she would allow him access to her father's rooms. He would not, she might rest assured, intrude himself upon her sorrow, though he would be compelled to ask her before long whether he might hope that her father's wish would have any influence in reviving the favor which had once been the joy of his life.

Alexa saw that if she consented to see him he would take it as a permission to press his claim, and the idea was not to be borne. She wrote him therefore a stiff letter, telling him the house was at his service, but he must excuse herself.

The next morning brought him early to Potlurg. The cause of his haste was his uneasiness about the chalice.

Old Meg opened the door to him, and he followed her straight into the drawing-room. Alexa was there, and far from expecting him. But, annoyed at his appearance as she was, she found his manner and behavior less unpleasant than at any time since his return. He was gentle and self-restrained, assuming no familiarity beyond that of a distant relative, and gave the impression of having come against his will, and only from a sense of duty.

“Did you not have my note?” she asked.

He had hoped, he said, to save her the trouble of writing.

She handed him her father's bunch of keys, and left the room.

George went to the laird's closet, and having spent an hour in it, again sought Alexa. The wonderful watch was in his hand.

“I feel the more pleasure, Alexa,” he said, “in begging you to accept this trinket, that it was the last addition to your dear father's collection. I had myself the good fortune to please him with it a few days before his death.”

“No, thank you, George,” returned Alexa. “It is a beautiful thing—my father showed it me—but I can not take it.”

“It was more of you than him I thought when I purchased it, Alexa. You know why I could not offer it you.”

“The same reason exists now.”

“I am sorry to have to force myself on your attention, but—”

“Dawtie!” cried Alexa.

Dawtie came running.

“Wait a minute, Dawtie. I will speak to you presently,” said her mistress.

George rose. He had laid the watch on the table, and seemed to have forgotten it.

“Please take the watch with you,” said Alexa.

“Certainly, if you wish it!” he answered.

“And my father's keys, too,” she added.

“Will you not be kind enough to take charge of them?”

“I would rather not be accountable for anything under them. No; you must take the keys.”

“I can not help regretting,” said George, “that your honored father should have thought fit to lay this burden of possession upon me.”

Alexa made no answer.

“I comforted myself with the hope that you would feel them as much your own as ever!” he resumed, in a tone of disappointment and dejection.

“I did not know of their existence before I knew they were never to be mine.”

“Never, Alexa?”

“Never.”

George walked to the door, but there turned, and said:

“By the way, you know that cup your father was so fond of?”

“No.”

“Not that gold cup, set with stones?”

“I saw something in his hands once, in bed, that might have been a cup.”

“It is a thing of great value—of pure gold, and every stone in it a gem.”

“Indeed!” returned Alexa, with marked indifference.

“Yes; it was the work of the famous Benvenuto Cellini, made for Pope Clement the Seventh, for his own communion-chalice. Your father priced it at three thousand pounds. In his last moments, when his mind was wandering, he fancied it the Holy Grail He had it in the bed with him when he died; that I know.”

“And it is missing?”

“Perhaps Dawtie could tell us what has become of it. She was with the laird at the last.”

Dawtie, who had stood aside to let him pass to the open door, looked up with a flash in her eyes, but said nothing.

“Have you seen the cup, Dawtie?” asked her mistress.

“No, ma'am.”

“Do you know it?”

“Very well, ma'am.”

“Then you don't know what has become of it?”

“No, ma'am; I know nothing about it.”

“Take care, Dawtie,” said George. “This is a matter that will have to be searched into.”

“When did you last see it, Dawtie?” inquired Alexa.

“The very day my master died, ma'am. He was looking at it, but when he saw I saw him he took it inside the bed-clothes.”

“And you have not seen it since?”

“No, ma'am.”

“And you do not know where it is?” said George.

“No, sir. How should I?”

“You never touched it?”

“I can not say that, sir; I brought it him from his closet; he sent me for it.”

“What do you think may have become of it?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Would you allow me to make a thorough search in the place where it was last seen?” asked George, turning to his cousin.

“By all means. Dawtie, go and help Mr. Crawford to look.”

“Please, ma'am, it can't be there. We've had the carpet up, and the floor scrubbed. There's not a hole or a corner we haven't been into—and that yesterday.”

“We must find it,” said George. “It must be in the house.”

“It must, sir,” said Dawtie.

But George more than doubted it

“I do believe,” he said, “the laird would rather have lost his whole collection.”

“Indeed, sir, I think he would.”

“Then you have talked to him about it?”

“Yes, I have, sir,” answered Dawtie, sorry she had brought out the question.

“And you know the worth of the thing?”

“Yes, sir; that is, I don't know how much it was worth, but I should say pounds and pounds.”

“Then, Dawtie, I must ask you again, where is it?”

“I know nothing about it, sir. I wish I did!”

“Why do you wish you did?”

“Because—” began Dawtie, and stopped short; she shrunk from impugning the honesty of the dead man—and in the presence of his daughter.

“It looks a little fishy, don't it, Dawtie? Why not speak straight out? Perhaps you would not mind searching Meg's trunk for me. She may have taken it for a bit of old brass, you know.”

“I will answer for my servants, Mr. Crawford,” said Alexa. “I will not have old Meg's box searched.”

“It is desirable to get rid of any suspicion,” replied George.

“I have none,” returned Alexa.

George was silent

“I will ask Meg, if you like, sir,” said Dawtie; “but I am sure it will be no use. A servant in this house soon learns not to go by the look of things. We don't treat anything here as if we knew all about it.”

“When did you see the goblet first?” persisted George.

“Goblet, sir? I thought you were speaking of the gold cup.”

By goblet Dawtie understood a small iron pot.

“Goblet, or cup, or chalice—whatever you like to call it—I ask how you came to know about it.”

“I know very little about it.”

“It is plain you know more than you care to tell. If you will not answer me you will have to answer a magistrate.”

“Then I will answer a magistrate,” said Dawtie, beginning to grow angry.

“You had better answer me, Dawtie. It will be easier for you. What do you know about the cup?”

“I know it was not master's, and is not yours—really and truly.”

“What can have put such a lie in your head?”

“If it be a lie, sir, it is told in plain print.”

“Where?”

But Dawtie judged it time to stop. She bethought herself that she would not have said so much had she not been angry.

“Sir,” she answered, “you have been asking me questions all this time, and I have been answering them; it is your turn to answer me one.”

“If I see proper.”

“Did my old master tell you the history of that cup?”

“I do not choose to answer the question.”

“Very well, sir.”

Dawtie turned to leave the room.

“Stop! stop!” cried Crawford; “I have not done with you yet, my girl. You have not told me what you meant when you said the cup did not belong to the laird.”

“I do not choose to answer the question,” said Dawtie.

“Then you shall answer it to a magistrate.”

“I will, sir,” she replied, and stood.

Crawford left the room.

He rode home in a rage. Dawtie went about her work with a bright spot on each cheek, indignant at the man's rudeness, but praying God to take her heart in His hand, and cool the fever of it.

The words rose in her mind:

“It must needs be that offenses come, but woe onto that man by whom they come.”

She was at once filled with pity for the man who could side with the wrong, and want everything his own way, for, sooner or later, confusion must be his portion; the Lord had said: “There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed, neither hid that shall not be known.”

“He needs to be shamed,” she said, “but he is thy child; care for him, too.”

George felt that he had not borne a dignified part, and knew that his last chance with Alexa was gone. Then he too felt the situation unendurable, and set about removing his property. He wrote to Alexa that he could no longer doubt it her wish to be rid of the collection, and able to use the room. It was desirable also, he said, that a thorough search should be made in those rooms before he placed the matter of the missing cup in the hands of the magistrates.

Dawtie's last words had sufficed to remove any lingering doubt as to what had become of the chalice. It did not occur to him that one so anxious to do the justice of restoration would hardly be capable of telling lies, of defiling her soul that a bit of property might be recovered; he took it for granted that she meant to be liberally rewarded by the earl.

George would have ill understood the distinction Dawtie made—that the body of the cup might belong to him, but the soul of the cup did belong to another; or her assertion that where the soul was there the body ought to be; or her argument that He who had the soul had the right to ransom the body—a reasoning possible to a child-like nature only; she had pondered to find the true law of the case, and this was her conclusion.

George suspected, and grew convinced that Alexa was a party to the abstraction of the cup. She had, he said, begun to share in the extravagant notions of a group of pietists whose leader was that detestable fellow, Ingram. Alexa was attached to Dawtie, and Dawtie was one of them. He believed Alexa would do anything to spite him. To bring trouble on Dawtie would be to punish her mistress, and the pious farmer, too.