Chapter Nine.

Other favourites of Mrs Nasmyth’s were Mr Snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. Mr Snow had been their friend from the very first. He had made good his promise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. He had taught them to skate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pockets full of rosy apples to the little ones. They made many a day pleasant for his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thought nothing too much to do for those who were kind to Emily.

Janet’s kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energies exercised in behalf of Mr Snow’s melancholy, nervous wife. In upon the monotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine into her room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. During a long and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after the minister’s arrival in Merleville, Janet had watched with her a good many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was at the minister’s, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness of them all. But it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm room in wintry weather, and Sampson’s visits were made alone, or in company with little Emily.

The schoolmaster, Mr Isaac Newton Foster, came often, partly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. The night of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to grow weary.

Graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soon became interested in their studies for their own sake, and Mr Foster had not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. Janet had her doubts about her “taking up with books that were fit only for laddies,” but Mr Foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were altogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did not object, and Graeme herself had great delight in it, she made no objections. Her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. But by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect for Mr Foster.

But all the evenings when Mr Foster was with them were not given up to lessons. When, as sometimes happened, Mr Snow or Mr Greenleaf came in, something much more exciting took the place of Algebra. Mr Greenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even Graeme and Janet, in the discussion of some exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institutions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to the willing Mr Foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. They seldom lost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favoured occasions. For Janet and Janet’s bairns were prompt to do battle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though Mr Foster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. He could not conscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. Mr Snow was ready too with his hints about “despotism” and “aristocracy,” and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things in general, and Yankee institutions in particular. It is to be feared the disputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used; but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot words spoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came.

A chance word of the master’s had set them all at it, one night when Mr Snow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. The lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due to Mr Foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resent it, and Mr Snow’s silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of this particular occasion. The strife was getting warm when Mr Greenleaf’s knock was heard. Norman was in the act of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster’s devoted head, while Mr Foster strove hard to shield himself by holding up “Britain’s wretched operatives and starving poor.”

“Come along, Squire,” said Mr Snow. “We want you to settle this little difficulty. Mrs Nasmyth ain’t going to let you into the study just now, at least she wouldn’t let me. The minister’s busy to-night.”

Mr Greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew Marian to his knee.

Neither Norman nor Mr Foster was so eager to go on as Mr Snow was to have them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, they were soon in “full blast,” as he whispered to his friend. The discussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. It was not confined to Norman and Mr Foster. All the rest had something to say; even Janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. But Norman was the chief speaker on his side. The subject had been discussed in the village School Lyceum, and Norman had distinguished himself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of his arguments—certainly not by their originality. But he thundered forth the lines beginning “I would not have a slave,” etcetera, to the intense delight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of the other.

To-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and Mr Foster complained at last.

“But, Norman, you don’t keep to the point.”

“Talks all round the lot,” said Mr Snow.

“I’m afraid that is not confined to Norman,” said Mr Greenleaf.

“Norman is right, anyway,” pronounced Menie.

“He reasons in a circle,” said the master. “And because slavery is the only flaw in—”

“The only flaw!” said Norman, with awful irony.

“Well, yes,” interposed Mr Snow. “But we have had enough of the Constitution for to-night. Let’s look at our country. It can’t be beaten any way you take it. Physically or morally,” pursued he, with great gravity, “it can’t be beaten. There are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. Our laws and our institutions generally are just about what they ought to see. Even foreigners see that, and prove it, by coming to share our privileges. Where will you find such a general diffusion of knowledge among all classes? Classes? There is only one class. All are free and equal.”

“Folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal,” said Mrs Nasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. “For my part, I never saw pride—really to call pride—till I saw it in this fine country o’ yours—ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour.”

“Well—so they be. Liberty and equality is our ticket.”

“But ye’re no’ a’ equal. There’s as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. There are folk coming and going here, that in my country I would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. Gentlemen like the Judge, or like Mr Greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister’s time; but upsettin’ bodies such as I could name—”

“Well, I wouldn’t name them, I guess. General principles are best in such a case,” said Mr Snow. “And I am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. Your friend the Judge belongs to that and your father, Miss Graeme; and I expect Squire Greenleaf will, too, when he goes to Congress. But no man is great here just because his father was before him. Everybody has a chance. Now, on your side of the water, ‘a man must be just what his father was.’ Folks must stay just there. That’s a fact.”

“You seem to be weel informed,” said Janet drily.

“Ah! yes; I know all about it. Anybody may know anything and everything in this country. We’re a great people. Ain’t that so, Mr Foster?”

“It must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that Britain has produced some great men,” said Mr Foster, breaking out in a new spot as Mr Snow whispered to the Squire.

“Surely that would be granting too much,” said Norman.

“But,” pursued Mr Foster, “Britons themselves confess that it is on this Western Continent that the Anglo-Saxon race is destined to triumph. Descended from Britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall—which must—which—”

“Sounds considerable like the glorious Fourth, don’t it?” whispered Mr Snow.

“Which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet,” said the literal Mrs Nasmyth.

“I was about to say that—that—”

“That the British can lick all creation, and we can lick the British,” said Mr Snow.

“Any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority,” said Mr Foster, taking a new start.

“That’s been proved already,” said Mr Snow, watching the sparkle in Graeme’s eye. She laughed merrily.

“No, Mr Snow. They may fight it out without me to-night.”

“I am glad you are growing prudent. Mrs Nasmyth, you wouldn’t believe how angry she was with me one night.”

“Angry!” repeated Graeme. “Ask Celestia.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t have much chance between Celestia and you. But I said then, and I say now, you’ll make a first-rate Yankee girl yourself before seven years.”

“A Yankee!” repeated her brothers.

“A Yankee,” echoed Menie.

“Hush, Menie. Mr Snow is laughing at us,” said Graeme.

“I would rather be just a little Scotch lassie, than a Yankee Queen,” said Menie, firmly.

There was a laugh, and Menie was indignant at her brothers for joining.

“You mean a president’s wife. We don’t allow queens here—in this free country,” said Mr Snow.

“But it is dreadful that you should hate us so,” said the Squire.

“I like you, and the Judge. And I like Mrs Merle.”

“And is that all?” asked Mr Snow, solemnly.

“I like Emily. And I like you when you don’t vex Graeme.”

“And who else?” asked Mr Greenleaf.

“I like Celestia. She’s nice, and doesna ask questions. And so does Graeme. And Janet says that Celestia is a lady. Don’t you like her?” asked Menie, thinking her friend unresponsive.

“You seem to be good at asking questions yourself, Menie, my woman,” interposed Mrs Nasmyth. “I doubt you should be in your bed by this time.” But Mr Snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy.

“And don’t Cousin Celestia like me?” asked he.

“Yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?”

“Well, not exactly—we’re not very near cousins. But I see to her some, and mean to. I like her.”

The study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as Mr Snow went up the hill he said to himself: “Yes, I shall see to her. She is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to Congress.”

Chapter Ten.

“I like the wood fires,” said Graeme. “They are far clearer than the peat fires at home.”

They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again.

Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight.

Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through Graeme’s dream and disturbed it at last. Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly:

“The winter’s near over now, Janet.”

“Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way,” said Janet. She knew that Graeme’s words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. And the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to Janet.

To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. The lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed the winter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to Rose; and never since their mother’s death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, Mr Elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years.

But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. Home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. Night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. Morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces.

The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. Arthur’s letters to his father and Graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, “so like a printed book,” made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over Sandy’s obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. She had of old justly prided herself on Sandy’s “hand o’ write;” but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy’s writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition.

Poor Sandy! He had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. In wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. There was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! Mr More of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that Mrs Smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at Saughless for the winter after all.

There were other troubles too, that Janet had to bear alone. The cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. Unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the New England winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour spent in Mrs Snow’s hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the “Steadfast” had been. To say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. She was angry at her folly, and called herself “silly body” and “useless body,” striving with all her might to throw the burden from her.

Then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. They were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise “above what is written,” self-satisfied and curious. The fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in Merleville. She never could make out “who was somebody and who was naebody;” and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves.

Mrs Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister’s in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them Mrs Page evidently believed it to be herself. Mrs Merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while Mrs Page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. Both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. She was out of her element. Things were quite different from anything she had been used with. She grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her.

Some thought of all this came into Graeme’s mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little of Janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father’s study. She blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew nearer.

“What is it, Janet?” asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. “Winna you tell me?”

Janet gave a startled look into her face.

“What is what, my dear?”

“Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme, reproachfully.

“Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I’m weel enough.”

“You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it’s hardly time yet, Janet.”

“I’m no wearyin’ the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort.”

“Then something ails you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme again, in a grieved voice.

“My dear, I hae naething to tell.”

“Is it me, Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I wouldna willingly do wrong?” pleaded Graeme.

Janet put her fingers over the girl’s lips.

“Whist, my lammie. It’s naething—or naething that can be helpit,” and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. Graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it.

“Lassie, lassie! I canna help it,” and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on Graeme’s bent head like rain. Graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that God would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted.

“I am an auld fule, I believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it’s ain mind, and I think I’m growing waur ilka day,” and she paused to wipe the tears from her face.

“But what is it, Janet?” asked Graeme, softly.

“It’s naething, dear, naething that I can tell to mortal. I dinna ken what has come ower me. It’s just as if a giant had a gripe o’ me, and move I canna. But surely I’ll be set free in time.”

There was nothing Graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on Janet’s hand again, and there were tears upon it.

“Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme,” cried Janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. “What will come o’ us if you give way. There’s naething ails me but that I’m an auld fule, and I canna help that, you ken.”

“Janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and Sandy to come with us. I never thought till to-night how great it must have been.”

“Ay, lassie. I’ll no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge it now. It wasna made in a right sperit, and that the Lord is showing me. I thought you couldna do without me.”

“We couldna, Janet.”

“And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father and your father’s bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. And I hae gotten my wish. You’re a’ weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. God help me.”

“God will help you,” said Graeme, softly. “It is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by Babel stream. But the Lord never brought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will pass away.”

“Weel, it may be. That’s what my mother said, or something like it. He means to let me see that you can do without me. But I’ll bide still awhile, anyway.”

Graeme’s face was fall of dismay.

“Janet! what could we ever do without you?”

“Oh, you could learn. But I’m not going to leave you yet. The giant shallna master me with my will. But, oh! lassie, whiles I think the Lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride.”

“But, Janet,” said Graeme, gravely, “the Lord never turns against his own people. And if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. It is for us you are living, and not for yourself.”

Janet shook her head.

“And, Janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. The weight will be lifted off, I’m sure it will. And, Janet, about Sandy—. You may be sure o’ him. If you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. But now the Lord will have him in His keeping, for, Janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and He will never forsake him—never, never!”

Janet’s tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens.

“And, Janet, we all love you dearly.” Graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. “Sometimes the boys are rough, and don’t seem to care, but they do care; and I’m thoughtless, too, and careless,” she added, humbly, “but I was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken I loved her dearly.” And the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. Janet held her close.

“And, Janet, you must ’mind me of things, as my mother used to do. When I get a book, you ken I forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother’s sake. We have no mother, Janet, and what could we do without you? And all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again.”

And so it was. The worst was over after that night. Much more was said before they separated, and Graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as Janet was concerned. Housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce system was a great embarrassment to her. This getting “a pickle meal” from one, and “a corn tawties” from another, she could not endure. It was “living from hand to mouth” at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the “minister’s tax,” as the least delicate among the people called it.

“And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. For I hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. Things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things.”

Graeme looked grave. “I wonder what my father thinks,” said she. Janet shook her head.

“We mauna trouble your father if we can help it. The last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. I’m no’ feared but we’ll be provided for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you’ll need to begin and keep an account again.”

Janet’s voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and Graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father’s mind easy, and the household accounts straight.

Weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let Janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. The letter that Harry brought in with a shout before March was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused Janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was the writer still. The two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. A new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with Sandy, “as you will see by this letter, mother,” he wrote, “I hope it will be better worth reading than the last.”

If Mrs Smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. Janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of Saughless. And Sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them.

And her heart was set at rest; and Janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again.

Chapter Eleven.

“Miss Graeme,” said Janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. Graeme was at her side in a moment.

“Never mind putting by your book, I only want to tell you, that I’m going up the brae to see Mrs Snow awhile. It’s no’ cold, and I’ll take the bairns with me. So just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. I winna bide late.”

Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones.

“I wish I could up with you, Janet. How mild and bright it is to-day.”

“But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long with your book, you ken, and we’ll be home again before it’s dark.”

“Think long!” echoed Graeme. “Not if I’m left at peace with my book—I only hope no one will come.”

“My dear!” remonstrated Janet, “that’s no’ hospitable. I daresay if anybody comes, you’ll enjoy their company for a change. You maun try and make friends with folk, like Menie here.”

Graeme laughed. “It’s easy for Menie, she’s a child. But I have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. I would far rather have the afternoon to myself.”

She watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. Life was very pleasant to Graeme, these days. She did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother’s death. But it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with Janet, or merry play with the little ones. Janet’s returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear.

She was fast growing into companionship with her father. She knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. In all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother’s duty to them. In other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years.

And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. She was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Not that she would have confessed this. Not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont to declare to Janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. But it was agreeable to her all the same.

She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of Janet, and the tea-kettle. Then there came a knock at the door, and Graeme opened it to Mr Greenleaf. If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. He did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in.

What the charm was, that beguiled Mr Greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister’s study, the good people of Merleville found it difficult to say. The squire’s ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. For once, Mrs Page had been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of Mrs Page’s standard of excellence. But to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest.

“If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so,” said he, as he shook hands with Mr Elliott, over a table covered with books and papers.

“You can hardly do that,” said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. “I am nearly done for the night. Excuse me, for a minute only.”

Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty.

“I have something for you,” said Mr Greenleaf, in a minute. Graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. It was a note this time.

“From Celestia!” she exclaimed, colouring a little.

Graeme did not aspire to the honour of Celestia’s confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and Mr Greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands.

“Read it,” said he.

Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note was very brief. Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. Mr Greenleaf would fetch her.

“Celestia, going away!” she exclaimed, raising herself up.

“Yes,” said he, “have you not heard it?”

“I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would still stay in Merleville.”

“So did I,” said Mr Greenleaf, gravely.

“When will they go?”

“Miss Jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at Rixford. They are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go.”

“To her uncle?”

“No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. They will live by themselves, with the children.”

“How sorry Celestia will be to go away,” said Graeme, sadly.

“She will not be persuaded to stay,” said Mr Greenleaf.

Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, “Have you asked her?” He answered her in words.

“Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay.”

There was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. There was none of the bitterness which, while it made Celestia’s heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right.

“Oh! it’s not that,” said Graeme, earnestly, “I’m sure she cares. I mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it.”

“Is it right to make herself and me unhappy?”

“But her mother and the rest. They are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them.”

“It need not. They might stay with her.”

“I think, perhaps—I don’t think—” Graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly,—

“Are you rich, Mr Greenleaf?” He laughed.

“I believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I may safely answer, yes. I have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes.”

“Yes; but—I think,—oh, I can’t say what I think; but I’m sure Celestia is right. I am quite sure of that.”

Mr Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Graeme feared he might, at her bold speech.

“I don’t believe I had better take you to see her to-morrow. You will encourage her to hold out against me.”

“Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, it would make no difference. Celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right.”

“Wise and strong,” repeated Mr Greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. Mr Elliott made a movement to join them, and Graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away.

“Never mind,” she whispered, “it will all end well. Things always do when people do right.”

Mr Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. Not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. He had more than once that very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the “strength and wisdom” so unhesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to her friend. So that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him.

They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by Graeme, and before tea was over, Janet and the bairns came home. The boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in Mr Snow’s sleigh. To escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, Mr Greenleaf and the minister went into the study again.

During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into Mr Greenleaf’s mind a thought that had been often there before. It was a source of wonder to him that a man of Mr Elliott’s intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. Mr Elliott smiled.

“I don’t see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. Indeed, I should say, far less wonderful. You are young and have the world before you.”

“But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a living, and I mean to get a good one too, and besides,” added he, laughing, “Merleville is as good a place as any other to go to Congress from; there is no American but may have that before him you know.”

“As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. For the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. I am thankful for my field of labour.”

Mr Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them “for what they were worth,” as a correct thing for a minister to say. But the quiet earnestness and simplicity of Mr Elliott’s manner struck him as being not just a matter of course.

“He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. There must be something in it.” He did not answer him, however.

“There is one thing which is worth consideration,” continued Mr Elliott, “you may be disappointed, but I cannot be so, in the nature of things.”

“About getting a living?” said Mr Greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of Deacons Fish and Slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair.

“That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may be sure of that, too. ‘Your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.’ And there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which I really am labouring, the glory of God, and the good of souls.”

“Well,” said Mr Greenleaf, gravely, “there must be something in it that I don’t see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. It is by no means impossible that I may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine—I may say it without vanity—have risen higher than to the Congress of our country. I don’t look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in Merleville made straight! Well, to say the least, I don’t see how you can be very sanguine about it.”

“Well, I don’t say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of Him whom I serve to accomplish. But though I may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that I am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule in the White House even, which is not beyond your ambition either, I suppose. You know how a promise may be ‘kept to the ear and broken to the heart,’ as somebody says.”

“I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. But even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain.”

Mr Elliott smiled.

“I suppose the converse of the poet’s sad declaration may be true. The promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. I am not afraid.”

“And, certainly,” thought the young man, “he looks calm and hopeful enough.”

“And,” added Mr Elliott, “as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, I think mine may well bear comparison to yours.”

“Yes, in one sense, I suppose—though I don’t understand it. I can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement—a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but—I was not looking at the matter from your point of view.”

“But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen,” said Mr Elliott, quietly.

“Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. One ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and I fancy that can be said of few.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr Elliott. “Do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer.”

“By no means. My thoughts were altogether in another direction. In fact, I was thinking of the great ‘bread and butter’ struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession.”

Mr Elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. Mr Greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on.

“Constituted as we are, I don’t see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. The shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. I don’t know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. I don’t mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. Comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. Such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. There is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. It is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. And what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. No, really, I cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one.”

“I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it,” said Mr Elliott.

“I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but I cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. Why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves—might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. How they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. They will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years.”

“Unless they have some charm against it—which may very well be,” said Mr Elliott, quietly.

“I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. He was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. But if ever a man’s life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. He has since gone West, I hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. The circumstances of his predecessor were no better. He died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the matter somewhere.”

There was a pause, and then Mr Greenleaf continued.

“It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in Merleville. Still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what I fear awaits you. Otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all.”

“I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture,” said Mr Elliott.

“Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more than enough in my earnestness. I am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise.”

“I like you already,” said Mr Elliott, smiling. “I assure you I had a great respect for you as the children of the Puritans, before ever I saw you.”

“Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. We are the children of the Puritans, but very little, I daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. Mind, I don’t allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers’ sakes. But we are different. It is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence—one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us.”

“Well,” said Mr Elliott, as his friend paused.

“Oh! I have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in Merleville. You have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker.”

“I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen,” said the minister.

“Earnestness!” said Mr Greenleaf. “No, we are earnest enough here in Merleville. But the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form—the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. At least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it.”

“You are severe,” said the minister, quietly.

“Not too severe. This seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. And such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. There are not many men among us here—I don’t know more than two or three—who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends—even by shaving closely in matters of business.”

“And yet you say their standard is a high one?”

“High or not, the religious people among us don’t seem to doubt their own Christianity on account of these things. And what is more, they don’t seem to lose faith in each other. But how it will all seem to you is another matter.”

“How does it seem to you?”

“Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, I am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, I am disposed to think little of the whole matter. With you it is different.”

“Yes, with me it is indeed different,” said the minister, gravely—so gravely, that Mr Greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject.

“It must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations,” said he, in a little. Mr Elliott started,—

“No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers.”

Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr Greenleaf said no more. In a little Mr Elliott went on,—

“It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. We had always looked forward to it sometime. And when I was left alone, the thought of my children’s future, and the longing to get away—anywhere—brought me here.”

He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly.

“Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. I thought it would be better for my children when I left them to leave them here. But God knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to America.”

“We can live on little. I trust you will be mistaken in your fears. But if these troubles do come, we must try, with God’s grace, and Mrs Nasmyth’s help, to get through them as best we can. We might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one.”

“The love and pursuit of the ‘almighty dollar,’ is most certainly a national characteristic. As to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course I have not the means of judging. Here I know it has been bad enough in the past.”

“Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto,” said Mr Elliott.

“Have you had a settlement with them since you came?” asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind.

“No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, I suppose it will come soon. Still I have no fears—I think I need have none. It is not theirs but them I seek.”

“Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you? I saw you there among the rest. If my heart rose up in thankfulness to God that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. God is my witness that I saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls—living souls to be encouraged—slumbering souls to be aroused—dead souls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, spoken by me and blessed by Him.

“No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this matter. I may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to God’s people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but God will bless his Word. And even if I do not live to see it, I can rest in the assurance that afterward, ‘both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.’”

He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful.

“The peace that passeth understanding,” thought the young man, with a sigh. For he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that Mr Elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. It came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. So he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The minister looked up and met his eye.

“And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. You may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. But for me, all must end well—let the end be what it may.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Spring came and went. The lads distinguished themselves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work besides. The free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. Mr Foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. In future they were to devote themselves to agriculture.

In vain Janet hinted that “new things aye pleased light heads,” and warned them that they were deciding too soon. In vain Mr Snow said that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a farmer’s life. Harry quoted Cincinnatus, and Norman proved to his own satisfaction, if not to Mr Snow’s, that on scientific principles every farm in Merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double the profits. Even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of Merleville.

An opportunity to test the strength of the lads’ determination, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. Early in May a letter was received from Mr Ross, in which he offered to take the charge of Arthur’s education on himself, and, as he was well able to do so, Mr Elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. The money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son’s use, returned to his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain or valley.

It came, about this time, to the worst, with Mrs Jones and her daughter Celestia. The mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and Squire Skinflint had foreclosed. Nothing remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for herself and her children. On the homestead she was about to leave, the heart and eyes of Mr Snow had long been fixed. As a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, Sampson would fain have it pass into his. But the only condition of sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. Meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had been some failure in Squire Skinflint’s Western land speculation, and money must be had. If the widow could have held it still, Mr Snow would never have desired to have the land; but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put into one.

Just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law’s generosity had placed at his disposal. A very few words settled the matter. The minister lent the money to Mr Snow, and for the annual interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. The arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and before May was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds of Janet and the bairns.

And a very pleasant home it promised to be. Even in that beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier spot. Sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around it. Close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay Merle pond, the very loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these mountains. Over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that fringed the village street. Close by the farm-house, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran Carson’s brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of the name of river as the Merle itself. Before the house was a large grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led to the door. There were shade trees, too. Once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large garden. Some of these had been injured because of the insufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the name of trees. There were elms whose branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been clipped and cared for by experienced hands. There had been locusts once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look upon as home.

Formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and borders now. There were a few perennials easy to cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. There was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. But, though it looked like a wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, Janet’s quick eye foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, Janet saw clearly.

There was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. It was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. Much of it had been little used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. But all this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these disappeared in time.

For, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident landlord’s own hands. He had no mind to pay out money for what he could do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. A good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home were being told over by the children, the living so near to Mr Snow and little Emily was never left till the last.

A very pleasant summer thus began to them all. It would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. But Janet’s prophecy came true. The newness of farming proved to be its chief charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would not have been much to show for the summer’s work. But their father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of Mr Snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously.

Not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. There was not a lazy bone in their bodies, Mr Snow declared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than he. But their strength and energy were not exerted always in a direction that would pay, according to Mr Snow’s idea of remuneration. Much time and labour were expended on the building of a bridge over Carson’s brook, between the house and Pine Grove Hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. Even Mr Snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. When the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine grove at the top. Then, among the pines, there was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and creeping plants. The Grotto, the children called it, Mr Snow called it the Cave. A wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. To be sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their labours.

The lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. The girls helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as well. Even Graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even Graeme would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again.

As for Janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the brae. With the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace of mind. The first basket of eggs collected by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. Not that she valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they brought to the household. She had a natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned to know and love her in return. All helpless creatures seemed to come to her naturally. A dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship again. The very bees, at swarming time, did not sting Janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. And so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange—“unco like” in her new home.

Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. Not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to “Fleckie” or “Blackie,” now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. But “Brindle and Spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name,” and many a child in Merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. Morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers’ wives in Merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old Mrs Snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. And when in the fall Mr Snow went to Boston with the produce of his mother’s dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of Janet’s butter went too, for which was to be brought back “tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price,” and other things besides, which at Merleville and at Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained.

The Indian-summer had come again. Its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. The minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that “’minded” her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first Sabbath-day, she had “near grat herself blind” from utter despairing home-sickness. She could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. Even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. So she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when Mr Snow appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep.

“Your folks are all gone, are they?” asked he.

“The minister is in his study, and Miss Graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. Your Emily’s with them.”

“Yes, I reckoned so. I’ve just got home from Rixford. It wouldn’t amount to much, all I could do to-night, so I thought I’d come along up a spell.”

Janet repeated her kindly welcome.

“The minister’s busy, I presume,” said he.

“Yes,—as it’s Saturday,—but he winna be busy very long now. If you’ll bide a moment, he’ll be out, I daresay.”

“There’s no hurry. It’s nothing particular.”

But Mr Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, Janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face.

“Are you no’ weel the night?” she asked.

“Sartain. I never was sick in my life.”

“And how are they all down-by?” meaning at Mr Snow’s house, by “down-by.”

“Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness.”

There was a long silence after that. Mr Snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them.

“It’s kind o’ pleasant here, ain’t it?” said he, at last.

“Ay,” said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. He sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure Carson’s brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. He was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, Janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. At last, a thought struck her.

“What for wasna you at the Lord’s table, on the Sabbath-day?” asked she.

Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh.

“Well, I guess our folks would ha’ opened their eyes, if I had undertook to go there.”

Janet looked at him in some surprise.

“And what for no? I ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. Though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their Lord, is more than I can understand. What hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?”

There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and said, gravely.

“Mis’ Nasmyth, I ain’t a professor. I’m one of the world’s people Deacon Fish tells about.”

Janet looked grave.

“Come now, Mis’ Nasmyth, you don’t mean to say you thought I was one of the good ones?”

“You ought to be,” said she, gravely.

“Well,—yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain’t a great sight of difference between folks,—leastways, between Merleville folks. I know all about them. I was the first white child born in the town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I’m related to most folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by this time. Except on Sundays, I expect they’re all pretty much so. It wouldn’t do to tell round, but there are some of the world’s people, that I’d full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. Now that’s a fact.”

“You’re no’ far wrong there, I daresay,” said Janet, with emphasis. “But that’s neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken.”

“No,—I don’t know as it is. But it kind o’ makes me feel as though there wasn’t much in religion, anyway.”

Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued.

“Well now, see here, I’ll tell you just how it is. There ain’t one of them that don’t think I’m a sinner of the worst kind—gospel hardened. They’ve about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone the talk, I don’t believe there’s a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the Lord knows I’m bad enough. And so you see, I’ve about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, I haven’t never come across the real article.”

“That’s like enough,” said Janet, with a groan. “I canna say that I have seen muckle o’ it myself in this town, out of our own house. But I canna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word.”

“Well, yes. I’ve always had the Bible, and I’ve read it considerable, but I never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. And it ain’t because I ain’t tried, either. There was one spell that I was dreadful down, and says I to myself, if there’s comfort to be got out of that old book, I’m bound to have it. So I began at the beginning about the creation, and Adam and Eve, but I didn’t seem to get much comfort there. There was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that I could see nothing to. Some of the Psalms seemed to kind o’ touch the spot, and the Proverbs are first-rate. I tell you he knew something of human nature, that wrote them.”

“There’s one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in Genesis,” said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, “that you are a condemned sinner. You should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to look for comfort.”

“Yes. I knew that before, but I couldn’t seem to make it go. Then I thought, maybe I didn’t understand it right, so I talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best I could, thinking surely what other folks had got, and I hadn’t, would come sometime. But it didn’t. The talking, and the going to meeting, didn’t help me.

“Now there’s Deacon Sterne; he’d put it right to me. He’d say, says he, ‘Sampson, you’re a sinner, you know you be. You’ve got to give up, and bow that stiff neck o’ your’n to the yoke.’ Well, ‘I’d say, I’d be glad to, if I only knew how to.’ Then he’d say, ‘But you can’t do it yourself, no how. You’re clay in the hands of the potter, and you’ll have to perish, if the Lord don’t take right hold to save you.’ Then says I, ‘I wish to mercy He would.’ Then he’d talk and talk, but it all came to about that, ‘I must, and I couldn’t,’ and it didn’t help me a mite.

“That was a spell ago, after Captain Jennings’ folks went West. I wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she wouldn’t hear a word of it. I was awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and I tell you, I’d ha’ given most anything, to have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to.”

Mr Snow paused. There was no doubting his earnestness now. Janet did not speak, and in a little while he went on again.

“I’d give considerable, just to be sure there’s anything in getting religion. Sometimes I seem to see that there is, and then again I think, why don’t it help folks more. Now, there’s Deacon Sterne, he’s one of the best of them. He wouldn’t swerve a hair, from what he believed to be right, not to save a limb. He is one of the real old Puritan sort, not a mite like Fish and Slowcome. But he ain’t one of the meek and lowly, I can tell you. And he’s made some awful mistakes in his lifetime. He’s been awful hard and strict in his family. His first children got along pretty well. Most of them were girls, and their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their father’s hardness. And besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards keeping things straight. But his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. They both went, as soon as ever they were of age. Silas came home afterwards, and died. Joshua went West, and I don’t believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. The girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married again, Abby Sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought to have married him. She was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. She has changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. Her children all died when they were babies, except William, the eldest,—wilful Will, they call him, and I don’t know but he’d have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don’t change his course with him, he’ll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother’s heart to boot. Now, what I want to know is—if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why don’t it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes in life?”

Janet did not have her answer at her tongue’s end, and Sampson did not give her time to consider.

“Now there’s Becky Pettimore, she’s got religion. But it don’t keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall—”

“Whist, man!” interrupted Janet. “It ill becomes the like o’ you to speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon—one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and many another trial. She’s a worthy woman, and her deeds prove it, for all her sourness. There’s few women in the town that I respect as I do her.”

“Well, that’s so. I know it. I know she gets a dollar a week the year round at Captain Liscome’s, and earns it, too; and I know she gives half of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. But it’s an awful pity her religion don’t make her pleasant.”

“One mustna judge another,” said Mrs Nasmyth, gently.

“No, and I don’t want to. Only I wish—but there’s no good talking. Still I must say it’s a pity that folks who have got religion don’t take more comfort out of it. Now there’s mother; she’s a pillar in the church, and a good woman, I believe, but she’s dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn’t ought to. Now it seems to me, if I had all they say a Christian has, and expects to have, I’d let the rest go. They don’t half of them live as if they took more comfort than I do, and there are spells when I don’t take much.”

Janet’s eyes glistened with sympathy. There was some surprise in them, too. Mr Snow continued—

“Yes, I do get pretty sick of it all by spells. After father died—and other things—I got over caring about going out West, and I thought it as good to settle down on the old place as any where. So I fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, and made believe happy. And I don’t know but I should have stayed so, only I heard that Joe Arnold had died out West—he had married Rachel Jennings, you know; so I got kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. Rachel had changed considerable. She had seen trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o’ run down, but I brought her right home—her and little Emily. Well—it didn’t suit mother. I hadn’t said anything to her when I went off. I hadn’t anything to say, not knowing how things might be with Rachel. Come to get home, things didn’t go smooth. Mother worried, and Rachel worried, and life wasn’t what I expected it was going to be, and I worried for a spell. And Mis’ Nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, I should have got it then, for I tried hard, and I wanted something to help me bad enough. There didn’t seem to be anything else worth caring about any way.

“Well, that was a spell ago. Emily wasn’t but three years old when I brought them home. We’ve lived along, taking some comfort, as much as folks in general, I reckon. I had got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me as discontented with myself and everything else as well.”

“You should thank the Lord for that,” interrupted Janet, devoutly.

“Well, I don’t know about that. Sometimes when he has been speaking, I seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and make property. But then again, I don’t see but it’s just what folks do who have got religion. Most of the professors that I know—”

“Man!” exclaimed Janet, hotly, “I hae no patience with you and your professors. What need you aye to cast them up? Canna you read your Bible? It’s that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last.”

“Just so, Mis’ Nasmyth,” said Mr Snow, deprecatingly, and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. “But it does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world; now don’t it?”

“There’s no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your Fishes and your Slowcomes. It’s no breach o’ charity to say that they dinna adorn the doctrine. But there are other folk that I could name, that are both light and salt on the earth.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Sampson; “since I’ve seen your folks, I’ve about got cured of one thing. I see now there is something in religion with some folks. Your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. He’s a good man.”

“You may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as I have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters.”

“Yes, I expect he’s just about what he ought to be. But then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten.”

“Man! it never fails!” exclaimed Janet, with kindling eye. “It never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. And lad! take heed to yourself. That’s Satan’s net spread out to catch your unwary soul. It may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no’ few; but there’s a time coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the Lord in ‘that day.’ You have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the Fishes and Slowcomes o’ them, and you may be angry or no’ as you like at me for telling you.”

Sampson opened his eyes.

“But you don’t seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. I ain’t jeering at professors or their misdeeds, I’m grieving for myself. If religion ain’t changed them, how can I expect that it will change me; and I need changing bad enough, as you say.”

“If it hasna changed them, they have none of it,” said Mrs Nasmyth, earnestly. “A Christian, and no’ a changed man! Is he no’ a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive—born again to a new life? Has he not the Spirit of God abiding in him? And no’ changed!—No’ that I wish to judge any man,” added she, more gently. “We dinna ken other folk’s temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. We have all reason to be thankful that it’s the Lord and no’ man that is to be our judge. Maybe I have been over hard on those men.”

Here was a wonder! Mrs Nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. Sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. He was more moved by his friend’s earnestness than he cared to show.

“Well, I expect there’s something in it, whether I ever see it with my own eyes or not,” said he, as he rose to go.

“Ay, is there,” said Mrs Nasmyth, heartily; “and there’s no fear but you’ll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened.”

“Mis’ Nasmyth,” said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, “I may be deceiving myself in this matter. I seem to get kind o’ bewildered at times over these things. But I do think I am in earnest. Surely I’ll get help some time?”

“Ay—that you will, as God is true. But oh man! go straight to Him. It’s between you and Him, this matter. But winna you bide still? I daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now.”

“I guess not. I hadn’t much particular to say to him. I can just as well come again.” And without turning his face toward her, he went away.

Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,—

“If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show what He could make of him. Something to His praise, I hae no doubt—Yankee though he be. God forgive me for saying it. I daresay I hae nae all the charity I might hae for them, the upsettin’ bodies.”

Chapter Fifteen.

The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There was no “wailing wind” complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The very pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which Graeme Elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her.

She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. Seen through “the smoky light,” the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. The glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. It looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills.

“There is no place like Merleville,” Graeme thinks in her heart. It is home to them all now. There were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. It came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first Sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. Yes; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But the thought of it came with no painful longing. Even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all.

And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. Something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away.

“It is quite absurd,” she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. “I won’t believe it; and yet—oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?”

“It’s kind o’ pleasant here, ain’t it?” said a voice behind her. Graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. It was only Mr Snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road.

Mr Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. He had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and Graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. And yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house.

There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:

“Mrs Nasmyth.”

For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn’s own Janet still. There was no coaxing echo in Graeme’s voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs.

“Are you not going to sit down?” asked Graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. “I wonder where the bairns are?”

“The bairns are gone down the brae,” said Mrs Nasmyth; “and I’m just going to sit down to my seam a wee while.”

But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room.

“Janet,” said she, at last, “what brings Deacon Snow so often up here of late?”

Janet’s back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, she answered:

“I dinna ken that he’s oftener here than he used to be. He never stayed long away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him.” There was another pause.

“Janet,” said Graeme again, “what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told me all Merleville is saying?”

Janet expressed no curiosity.

“They say Deacon Snow wants to take you down the brae.”

Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer.

“He hasna ventured to hint such a thing?” exclaimed Graeme interrogatively.

“No’ to me,” said Janet, quietly, “but the minister.”

“The minister! He’s no’ blate! To think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! And what did my father say?”

“I dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and—”

“Janet!” Graeme’s voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, Mrs Nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning.

“Janet! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I declare I’ll take second thoughts and go away myself.”

“Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave Mr Foster his answer,” said Janet, not heeding Graeme’s impatient answer.

“Janet! A sticket minister!”

“My dear, he’s no’ a sticket minister. He passed his examinations with great credit to himself. You hae your father’s word for that, who was there to hear him. And he’s a grand scholar—that’s weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o’ tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. I aye thought you might do worse than go with him. He’s a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him.”

“Thank you. But when I marry it won’t be to get a comfortable home. I’m content with the home I have.”

“Ay, if you could be sure of keeping it,” said Janet, with a sigh; “but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day.”

“The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems,” said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, “there’s many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. If I’m worth the keeping here, I’m worth the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good a right as another.”

“Right, indeed! Nobody has any right to you but ourselves. You are ours, and we’ll never, never let you go.”

“It’s no’ far down the brae,” said Janet, gently.

“Janet! You’ll never think of going! Surely, surely, you’ll never leave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your own mother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us—!” Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back.

“Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, hae patience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way. I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here.”

Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words.

“It’s true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the head of your father’s house, while I manage all things, as I do.”

But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.

“You can manage far best,” said she.

“That’s no to be denied,” said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; “but it ought not to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no’ to think that I am taking upon myself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? It’s a pleasant life, I ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o’ the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!”

There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms.

“And if I should go,” continued Janet, “and there’s many an if between me and going—but if I should go, I’ll be near at hand in time of need—”

“I know I am very useless,” broke in Graeme. “I don’t care for these things as I ought—I have left you with too many cares, and I don’t wonder that you want to go away.”

“Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother’s bairns; and if you have done little it’s because you havena needed. And if I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother’s arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she met them.”

Graeme’s head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence.

“And, dear,” said Janet, in a little, “your father tells me that Mr Snow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again.” She had no power to add more.

“But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago.”

“My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to give her.”

There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said,—

“It’s selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happy lately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming.”

Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns’ voices came in at the open door, and in a minute Marian entered.

“Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself,” said Janet, tenderly.

“We have only been down at Mr Snow’s barn watching the threshing. But, indeed, I have wearied myself.” And sitting down on the floor at Janet’s feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a’ the bairns.

“You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?”

Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.

“Oh! Janet, I’m better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. She looks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you, Graeme?”

“My dear,” remonstrated Janet, “rise up when I bid you; and go to the sofa, and I’ll go up the stair for the bottle.”

Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange; for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother’s could have been. At length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again.

“Miss Graeme,” said she, in a little, “I dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from God, and as though He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases.”

“I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for the better.”

“That’s true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. You mind what the Word says, ‘As an eagle stirreth up her nest.’ And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord’s children, He’ll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves.”

A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet’s words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly.

“How lovely she is!” whispered she.

A crimson flush was rising on Marian’s cheeks as she slept.

“Ay, she was aye bonny,” said Janet, in the same low voice, “and she looks like an angel now.”

Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again.

“Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?”

No, Graeme could not.

“Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have had her away to Italy, or some far awa’ place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was.

“For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming—except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand—the first of the season—and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spoke again.”

Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.

“She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. She ’minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian’s cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie’s, but it curled of itself, like hers.”

Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceased speaking. Graeme’s heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale.

“Janet,” said she, with difficulty, “there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie’s not going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!” Her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on.

“I cannot tell. I dinna ken—sometimes I’m feared to think how it may end. But oh! Miss Graeme—my darling—”

“But it is quite impossible—it can’t be, Janet,” broke in Graeme.

“God knows, dear.” Janet said no more. The look on Graeme’s face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, and Janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her—she could not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day.

There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet’s words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible—it could not be true—it could never, never be true, that her sister was going to die. She tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in God’s hands, whatever His will might be, the words would not come to her. It was, “No, no! no, no! it cannot be,” that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie’s the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream.

“What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?” she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister’s bright face.

“Graeme, tea’s over. Where have you been all this time?” asked Rose.

“My father was asking where you were. He wants to see you,” said Will.

“I’ll go ben now,” said Graeme, rising.

The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister was sitting in the firelight alone. He did not move when the door opened, until Graeme spoke.

“I’m here, papa. Did you want me?”

“Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to say to you.”

She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. He was looking troubled and anxious, Graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. Indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. The hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. It came into Graeme’s mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that Janet’s words had implied.

“My dear,” said the minister, at last, “has Mrs Nasmyth been speaking to you?”

“About—” Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word.

“About Mr Snow,” said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. Graeme started. She had quite forgotten.

“Mrs Greenleaf told me something—and—”

“I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty—as indeed why should it not?” said the minister. “He seems bent on taking Janet from us, Graeme.”

“Papa! it is too absurd,” said Graeme, all her old vexation coming back. Mr Elliott smiled.

“I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, and I had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. But we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for Mrs Nasmyth’s advantage.”

“But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. Why should there be a change now?”

“If the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. But, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, I fear it will be a difficult matter.”

“But, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment.”

“My dear, we don’t need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. She only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us.”

“But she has been quite happy with us.”

“Yes, love—happy in doing what she believed to be her duty—as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. I have been thinking of her to-night, Graeme. What a self-denying life Janet’s has been! She must be considered first in this matter.”

“Yes, if it would make her happier—but it seems strange that—”

“Graeme, Mr Snow is to send for her mother and her son. I could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. It will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. And she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers.”

Graeme sighed, and was silent.

“If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life.”

“But, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one.”

“I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell me that; but Graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. Not that I fear for you. You are all young and strong, and the God whom I have sought to serve, will never leave my children. But Janet is growing old, Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentially opened to her.”

“If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa—” Graeme hesitated and coloured. Her father smiled.

“Mrs Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will see things differently. And besides, she always liked and respected Mr Snow. I have no doubt she will be very happy with him.”

“We all liked him,” said Graeme, sighing. “But oh! I dread changes. I can’t bear to break up our old ways.”

“Graeme,” said her father, gravely, “changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. We have been very happy of late—so happy that I fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. We may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us.”

The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak.

“I know, dear,” said her father, kindly, “this will come hardest upon you. It will add greatly to your cares to have Mrs Nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and—”

“Oh, papa! it is not that—I mean it is not that altogether, but—” Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. In a little, she asked.

“When is it to be?”

“I don’t know, indeed, but soon, I suppose; and my dear child, I trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. The change you dread so much, will not be very great. Our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. I have no doubt, it will be for the best.”

“Shall I light your lamp, papa?” said Graeme, in a little while.

“No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night.”

Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. When she opened the door, the sound of the children’s voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. So she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too.

“Only my frail life between my children and homelessness,” he had said. It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. They had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again.

“As an eagle stirreth up her nest,” she murmured to herself. “Well, I ought no’ to fear the changes He brings— But, oh! I am afraid.”

Chapter Sixteen.

The rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going to take place among them, in a very different way from Graeme. Their astonishment at the idea of Janet’s marriage was great, but it did not equal their delight. Graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to keep quiet. But then Janet was in the minority, too, and Mr Snow’s suit was anything but prosperous for some time. Indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minister’s house, Mrs Nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. Her unhappiness was manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring Sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that lay so near the good deacon’s heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff would have been; and while Mrs Nasmyth’s silence grieved Mr Snow, the elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that “she would get over it,” that “it would all come right in the end,” were more than she could sometimes patiently endure.

“He’s like the lave o’ them,” said she to Graeme one day, after having closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all necessary. “Give a man an inch, and he’ll take an ell. Because I didna just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about it, he’s neither to hold nor bind, but ‘when will it be?’ and ‘when will it be?’ till I have no peace of my life with him.”

Graeme could not help laughing at her excitement.

“But, when will it be?” asked she.

“My dear, I’m no sure that it will ever be.”

“Janet!” exclaimed Graeme. “What has happened?”

“Nothing has happened; but I’m no’ sure but I ought to have put a stop to the matter at the very first. I dinna weel ken what to do.”

“Janet,” said Graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, “my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so—so strange as it did at first—and you should speak to Mr Snow about it, at any rate.”

“To put him out o’ pain,” said Janet, smiling grimly. “There’s no fear o’ him. But I’ll speak to him this very night.”

And so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. But Janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. With tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for Marian, and said, “It would seem like forsaking the bairns in their trouble, to leave them now.” Mr Snow’s kind heart was much shocked at the thought of Marian’s danger. She had been his favourite among the bairns, and Emily’s chief friend from the very first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason for her stay.

“So you’ll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. He winna ask any questions, I dare say.”

But in this Janet was mistaken. He did ask a great many questions, and failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the marriage. In vain Janet protested and held back. He said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to think and decide for her. As to Marian’s illness being an excuse, it was quite the reverse. If she was afraid Marian would not be well cared for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she went away. And then he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words.

“And, my dear friend,” said he, after a little, “I shall feel, when I am to be taken away, I shall not leave my children desolate, while they have you to care for them.”

So for Mrs Nasmyth there was no help. But on one thing she was determined. The day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. They might come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. She would fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she gave the minister. To Mr Snow, who doubted whether “them boys” would care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear.

“If they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. They must be asked, any way.”

And so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying that both Harry and Arthur would be home for a week at the time appointed. From Norman there came no letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, Norman came himself. His first greeting to Janet was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking her “bairns” after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a crisis much sooner. He rejoiced Mr Snow’s heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if Mrs Snow was not henceforth the happiest woman in Merleville.

Norman was greatly changed by his two years’ absence, more than either of his brothers, the sisters thought. Arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and Harry was a boy with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. But, with Norman’s brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance.

But, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. Norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. He was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and Graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all.

Norman’s letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. If his active and exposed life as an engineer at the West had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. His “once upon a time” was the signal for silence and attention among the little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to Norman’s rambling stories. Nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in Norman’s eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero begun.

There was one story which they were never tired of hearing. It needed none of Norman’s imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. It was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little Hilda Bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family of eight. Father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue that she could not understand. It would, perhaps, have been wiser in Norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents in their own land; but he had saved the child’s life, and when she clung to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could not bear to send her away.

“These people were poor, and had many children of their own,” said Norman. “I would have thought it a hard lot for Menie or Rosie to go with them; and when she begged to stay with me, I could not send her with them. If it had not been so far, I would have sent her to you, Graeme. But as I could not do that, I kept her with me while I stayed in C, and there I sent her to school. They say she bids fair to be a learned lady some day.”

This was an item of news that Norman’s letters had not conveyed. They only knew that he had saved Hilda from the burning boat, and that he had been kind to her afterwards.

“But Norman, man, the expense!” said the prudent Mrs Nasmyth, “you havena surely run yourself in debt?” Norman laughed.

“No; but it has been close shaving sometimes. However, it would have been that anyway. I am afraid I have not the faculty for keeping money, and I might have spent it to worse purpose.”

“And is the little thing grateful?” asked Graeme.

“Oh! yes; I suppose so. She is a good little thing, and is always glad to see me in her quiet way.”

“It’s a pity she’s no’ bonny,” said Marian.

“Oh! she is bonny in German fashion; fair and fat.”

“How old is she?” asked Mrs Nasmyth.

Norman considered.

“Well, I really can’t say. Judging by her inches, I should say about Rosie’s age. But she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be Rosie’s grandmother. She’s a queer little thing.”

“Tell us more,” said Rose; “do you go to see her often?”

“As often as I can. She is very quiet; she was the only girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. You should hear her talk about her little business matters. My dear Mrs Nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to account.

“I have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, Graeme. It seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home but a school. She seems happy enough, however.”

“And would she like to come?”

“She says she wouldn’t; but, of course, she would like it, if she were once here. I must see about it in the spring.”

The wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was rather a sad day to them all. It found Janet still “in a swither.” She could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking “the bairns.”

“And, Oh! Miss Graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing my mother and Sandy, my heart would fail me quite. And are you quite sure that you are pleased now, dear?”

“Janet, it was because I was selfish that I wasna pleased from the very first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the brae.”

Graeme did not look very glad, however. But if the wedding-day was rather sad, Thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. It was spent at the Deacon’s. Miss Lovejoy distinguished herself forever by her chicken-pies and fixings. Mr and Mrs Snow surpassed themselves as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. Emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at a loss how to take the change, Menie’s delight decided her, and she was delighted, too.

They grew quiet in the evening but not sad. Seated around the fire in the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to Merleville. And then, they went further back, and spoke about their old home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the “Steadfast.”

“I wonder what has become of Allan Ruthven,” said Marian. “It’s strange that you have never seen him, Arthur.”

“I may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. You mind, I was not on the ‘Steadfast’ with you.”

“But Harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw him.”

“And do you know no one of the name?” asked Graeme.

“I have heard of several Ruthvens in Canada West. And the house of Elphinstone and Gilchrist have a Western agent of that name. Do you know anything about him, Harry? Who knows but he may be Allan Ruthven of the ‘Steadfast.’”

“No, I thought he might be, and made inquiries,” said Harry. “But that Ruthven seems quite an old fogey. He has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood,—at least, a long time. Do you mind Allan Ruthven, Menie?”

“Mind him!” That she did. Menie was very quiet to-night, saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on Graeme’s knee.

“Allan was the first one I heard say our Menie was a beauty,” said Norman. “Menie, do you mind?”

Menie laughed. “Yes, I mind.”

“But I think Rosie was his pet. Graeme, don’t you mind how he used to walk up and down the deck, with Rosie in his arms?”

“But that was to rest Graeme,” said Harry. “Miss Rosie was a small tyrant in those days.”

Rosie shook her head at him.

“Eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?” said Norman, taking Rosie’s fair face between his hands. “Graeme had enough ado with you, I can tell you.”

“And with you, too. Never heed him, Rosie,” said Graeme, smiling at her darling.

“I used to admire Graeme’s patience on the ‘Steadfast’,” said Harry.

“I did that before the days of the ‘Steadfast,’” said Arthur.

Rosie pouted her pretty lips.

“I must have been an awful creature.”

“Oh! awful,” said Norman.

“A spoilt bairn, if ever there was one,” said Harry. “I think I see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us.”

“I never thought Graeme could make anything of you,” said Norman.

“Graeme has though,” said the elder sister, laughing. “I wouldna give my bonny Scottish Rose, for all your western lilies, Norman.”

And so they went on, jestingly.

“Menie,” said Arthur, suddenly, “what do you see in the fire?”

Menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. She started when her brother spoke.

“I see— Oh! many things. I see our old garden at home,—in Clayton, I mean—and—”

“It must be an imaginary garden, then. I am sure you canna mind that.”

“Mind it! indeed I do. I see it as plainly as possible, just as it used to be. Only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. I see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall white rose-bushes blossoming to the very top.”

“And the broad green walk,” said Harry.

“And the summer-house.”

“And the hawthorn hedge.”

“And the fir trees, dark and high.”

“And the two apple trees.”

“Yes,—the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, I used to think them,” said Norman.

“And I, too,” said Menie. “Whenever I think of the garden of Eden, I fancy it like our garden at home.”

“Your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can’t get beyond that for Paradise,” said Arthur, laughing.

“Well, maybe not, but I always do think of it so. Oh! it was a bonny place. I wish I could see it again.”

“Well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two,” said Norman. “You needna laugh, Graeme, I am going home as soon as I get rich.”

“In a year or two! you’re nae blate!”

“Oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. We’ll come back again. It will be time enough to make our fortune then. So be ready, Menie, when I come for you.”

“Many a thing may happen, before a year or two,” said Marian, gravely.

“Many a thing, indeed,” said Graeme and Norman, in a breath. But while Graeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister’s flushed face, Norman added, laughingly.

“I shouldn’t wonder but you would prefer another escort, before that time comes. I say, Menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you are growing?”

Menie laughed, softly.

“Oh! yes. Emily told me when she came home; and so did Harry. And you have told me so yourself to-day, already.”

“You vain fairy! and do you really think you’re bonny?”

“Janet says, I’m like Aunt Marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma.”

“Like Aunt Marian!” Graeme remembered Janet’s words with a pang. But she strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright faces round her, it was not difficult to do to-night. Surely if Marian were ill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. And even Janet’s anxiety had been at rest for a while. Menie was better now. How merry she had been with her brothers for the last few days. And though she seemed very weary to-night, no wonder. So were they all. Even Rosie, the tireless, was half asleep on Arthur’s knee, and when all the pleasant bustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister would be herself again. Nothing so terrible could be drawing near, as the dread which Janet had startled herewith that day.

“Emily,” said Harry, “why do you persist in going back to that horrid school? Why don’t you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?”

“I’m not going to any horrid school,” said Emily.

“You can’t make me believe that you would rather be at school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good time with Rose and Menie here.”

Emily laughed. “I would like that; but I like going back to school too.”

“But you’ll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking to you, if you stay much longer.”

“In that case, it might do you good to listen,” said Emily, laughing.

“But you are altogether too wise already,” Harry persisted. “I really am quite afraid to open my lips in your presence.”

“We have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it,” said Arthur.

“But, indeed, I must have a word with the deacon about it,” said Harry. “I can’t understand how he has allowed it so long already. I must bring my influence to bear on him.”

“You needn’t,” said Emily. “I have almost prevailed upon Graeme, to let Menie go back with me. There will be two learned ladies then.”

Graeme smiled, and shook her head.

“Not till summer. We’ll see what summer brings. Many things may happen before summer,” she added, gravely.

They all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. They grew quiet after that, and each sat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow’s parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meet on earth again.

Chapter Eighteen.

No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children’s lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian’s side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of her hand lay always Menie’s little Bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme’s trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise.

Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them.

“Graeme,” said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, “you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside me and rest, before Will and Rosie come home.”

Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. But she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence.

“Graeme,” said Marian, at last, “do you think papa kens?”

“What love?”

“That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme?”

Graeme’s heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,—

“You’re no’ feared, Menie?”

“No,” said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister’s face, she added, “Do you think I need to fear, Graeme?”

If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it.

“None need fear who trust in Jesus,” said she, softly.

“No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trust, now that I am going to die? I know He is able to save.”

“All who come to him,” whispered Graeme. “My darling, have you come?”

“I think he has drawn me to Himself. I think I am His very own. Graeme, I know I am not wise like you—and I have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often—but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, too.”

She lay quietly down again.

“Graeme, are you afraid for me?”

“I canna be afraid for one who trusts in Jesus.”

It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy.

“There is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt,” said Marian, again. “My life has been such a happy life. I have had no tribulation that the Bible speaks of—no buffetting—no tossing to and fro. I have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering.”

“God has been very good to you, dear.”

“And you’ll let me go willingly, Graeme?”

“Oh! Menie, must you go. Could you no’ bide with us a little while?” said Graeme, her tears coming fast. A look of pain came to her sister’s face.

“Graeme,” said she, softly; “at first I thought I couldna bear to go and leave you all. But it seems easy now. And you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?”

“No, no! my darling.”

“At first you’ll all be sorry, but God will comfort you. And my father winna have long to wait, and you’ll have Rosie and Will—and, Graeme, you will tell papa?”

“Yes, I will tell him.”

“He’ll grieve at first, and I could not bear to see him grieve. After he has time to think about it, he will be glad.”

“And Arthur, and all the rest—” murmured Graeme.

A momentary shadow passed over Marian’s face.

“Oh! Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart to leave you all—but I am willing now. God, I trust, has made me willing. And after a while they will be happy again. But they will never forget me, will they, Graeme?”

“My darling! never!”

“Sometimes I wish I had known—I wish I had been quite sure, when they were all at home. I would like to have said something. But it doesna really matter. They will never forget me.”

“We will send for them,” said Graeme, through her tears.

“I don’t know. I think not. It would grieve them, and I can bear so little now. And we were so happy the last time. I think they had best not come, Graeme.”

But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister’s face, who had no words with which to answer.

“Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so long to see them,” and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. “But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would think of me as I used to be, than to see me now. No, Graeme, I think I will wait.”

In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times.

“It won’t be long. And, Graeme—I shall see our mother first—and you must have patience, and wait. We shall all get safe home at last—I am quite, quite sure of that.”

A step was heard at the door, and Mrs Snow entered.

“Weel, bairns!” was all she said, as she sat down beside them. She saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting.

“Have the bairns come?” asked Menie.

“No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae again. Do you want them home?”

“Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them.”

The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence.

“It’s no’ like spring to-night, Janet,” said Menie.

“No, dear, it’s as wintry a night as we have had this while. But the wind is changing to the south now, and we’ll soon see the bare hills again.”

“Yes; I hope so,” said Menie, softly.

“Are you wearying for the spring, dear?”

“Whiles I weary.” But the longing in those “bonny e’en” was for no earthly spring, Janet well knew.

“I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother’s birthday. It was long before this time of the year—and it seems long to wait for spring.”

“Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You’ll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary.”

Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever.

“Janet, when will Sandy come? Have you got a letter yet?”

“Yes; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now.”

“Oh! I hope not. I want to see him and your mother. I want them to see me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards.”

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Snow, hoarsely, “go ben and sit with your father a while. It will rest you, and I’ll bide with Menie here.”

Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. Not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the March wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. Up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. Conscious only of one thought, that Menie must die, and that the time was hastening.

Yes. It was coming very near now. God help them all. Weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. She bowed herself utterly down.

“So let it be! God’s will be done!”

And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. God gives power to his children to pray—face to face—in His very presence. Giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul’s deepest breathing, “I am Thine. Save me.” Between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. No foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than Menie’s death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In that hour she ate angel’s food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places.

She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met Mr Snow’s look, so grave in its kindliness.

“Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?”

“No,” said Graeme, humbly. “I am going in.” But she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand.

“Miss Graeme,” said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, “hadn’t you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He’s a mind to about it?”

“Yes,” said Graeme, “I give up. His will be done.”

“Amen!” said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that in “the golden vials full of odours” before the throne, Deacon Snow’s prayer for her found a place.

She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into Hannah’s bright kitchen.

“Will you go in and see papa, or in there?” asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke.

“Well, I guess I’ll sit down here. It won’t be long before Mis’ Snow’ll be going along down. But don’t you wait. Go right in to your father.”

Graeme opened the study-door and went in.

“I will tell him to-night,” said she. “God help us.”

Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand.

“Graeme,” said he, as she sat down, “have you seen Janet?”

“Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago.”

“Poor Janet!” said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always “Mistress Snow” or “the deacon’s wife” with him, and Graeme wondered to-night.

“Has anything happened?” asked she.

“Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her mother is dead.”

The letter dropped from Graeme’s outstretched hand.

“Yes,” continued her father. “It was rather sudden, it seems—soon after she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!”

Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. “Poor Janet!” well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. It was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. It did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend.

Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme found when she entered her sister’s room. Marian was asleep, and coming close to Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm’s about her neck without a word. At first Graeme thought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, “You see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans.”

“Oh, Janet! There’s nothing in all the world that we can trust in.”

“Ay, you may weel say that. But it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the Lord winna let us forget.”

There was a pause.

“When was it?” asked Graeme, softly.

“Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since I sat here. Her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go.”

“And would she have come?”

“Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from the beginning. I thought I asked God’s guiding, and I was persuaded into thinking I had gotten it. But you see my heart was set on it from the very first—guiding or no guiding—and now the Lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking.”

“Oh, Janet!” said Graeme, remonstratingly.

“My dear, it’s true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. I have more need to take the lesson to heart. May the Lord give me grace to do it.”

Graeme could say nothing, and Janet continued—

“It’s ill done in me to grieve for her. She is far better off than ever I could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me—I must submit.”

“You have Sandy still.”

“Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping.”

“And he will come yet.”

“Yes, I have little doubt. But I’ll no’ set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best.”

After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a time till Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he did not speak of her sister’s state till near the very last.

They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. They had been sitting thus a long time—so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father’s presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father’s eyes were upon her.

“You are tired to-night, Graeme,” said he, at last. Graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed.

“It will not be long now.”

Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak.

“We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her mother first. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!”

Graeme’s head drooped down on the table. If she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. She trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. Her father watched her for a moment.

“Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?”

“Not now, papa,” whispered she, heavily. “I am almost willing now.”

“What is the happiest life here—and Menie’s has been happy—to the blessedness of the rest which I confidently believe awaits her, dear child?”

“It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be left behind.”

“Ay, love! But we must bide God’s time. And you will have your brothers and Rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts.”

Graeme’s head drooped lower. She was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. Her father went on—

“And afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. I used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. If it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, I might have borne it better, I thought. But God knows. There are some things for which we cannot prepare.”

There was a long silence.

“Graeme, I have something which I must say to you,” said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. “If the time comes—when the time comes—my child, I grieve to give you pain, but what I have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. My child, I have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together—” Graeme did not move.

“My child, the backward look over one’s life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. I stand now, and see all the way by which God has led me, with a grieved wonder, that I should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. The dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty—Mounts of God, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. And yet, I mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable.

“My child, are you hearing me? Oh! if my experience could teach you! I know it cannot be. The blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and I need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of God, for which there is no balm. You are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. But there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that He will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. Are you hearing me, my child?”

Graeme gave a mute sign of assent.

“Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. Yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. God make us patient in it,—patient and helpful. Short as your sister’s life has been, it has not been in vain. She has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness—and to you Graeme, most of all.”

Graeme’s lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her face down on her father’s knee, and her tears fell fast. Her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little.

“Hush, love, calm yourself,” said he, at last. “Nay,” he added, as she would have risen, “rest here, my poor tired Graeme, my child, my best comforter always.”

Graeme’s frame shook with sobs.

“Don’t papa—I cannot bear it—”

She struggled with herself, and grew calm again.

“Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, it is not because I am altogether unhappy, or because I am not willing to let her go—”

“Hush, love, I know. You are your mother’s own patient child. I trust you quite, Graeme, and that is why I have courage to give you pain. For I must say more to-night. If anything should happen to me—hush, love. My saying it does not hasten it. But when I am gone, you will care for the others. I do not fear for you. You will always have kind friends in Janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, I am sure. But Graeme, I would like you all to keep together. Be one family, as long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, that you should keep together.”

The shock which her father’s words gave, calmed Graeme in a moment.

“But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?”

“No, love, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. That is all I had to say, love.”

But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,—

“I trust you quite, love, and you’ll bring them all home safe to your mother and me.”

It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. They were all together in Marian’s room, sitting quietly after worship was over. It was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. Not that any of them thought it would be to-night. Mrs Snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. She had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as Mrs Snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,—

“Janet, is it to be to-night? Are they all here? Papa, Graeme. Where is Graeme?”

They were with her in a moment, and Graeme’s cheek was laid on her sister’s wasted hand.

“Well, my lammie!” said her father, softly.

“Papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?”

Her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek.

“You are not afraid, my child?”

Afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. Her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the King’s messenger was come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but Janet’s toil-worn hand laid over them.

Graeme’s cheek still lay on her sister’s stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move.

“There is no need. Let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank God for the momentary forgetfulness which He has given her.”

Chapter Nineteen.

That night, Graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or Mrs Snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still.

“She is weary,” they said, in whispers. “Let her rest.” Kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. “Let her rest,” said all.

But when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, Mrs Snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. Graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to Mrs Snow’s question whether she felt rested, she said, “Oh! yes,” but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. Janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. Just then, her husband came in.

“Is anything the matter?” asked he, anxiously.

“No,” said his wife, rousing herself. “Only, I dinna ken weel what to do.”

“Is Miss Graeme sick? or is she asleep?”

“I hope she’s no’ sick. I ken she’s no sleeping. But she ought to be roused, and when I think what she’s to be roused to—. But, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before—before she’s laid in—”

A strong shudder passed over her.

“Oh! man! it’s awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin—”

“Need she see her again?” asked Mr Snow.

“Oh! yes, I doubt she must. And the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now.”

“Her father,” suggested Mr Snow.

“He has seen her. He was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. But he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. I canna disturb him.”

“Couldn’t you kind of make her think she was needed—to her father or the little ones? She would rouse herself if they needed her.”

“That’s weel said,” said Mrs Snow, gratefully. “Go you down the brae for the bairns, and I’ll go and speak to her again.”

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said she, softly; “could you speak to me a minute?”

Her manner was quite calm. It was so like the manner in which Graeme had been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the time or circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly,—

“Well, what is it, Janet?”

“My dear, it is the bairns. There is nothing the matter with them,” added she hastily, as Graeme started. “They have been down the brae with Emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben yonder, and I think they should see her before—before she’s moved, and I dinna like to disturb your father. My bairn, are you able to rise and take Will and wee Rosie ben yonder.”

Graeme raised herself slowly up.

“Janet, I have been forgetting the bairns.”

Mrs Snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully:

“My dear, you were weary, and they have had Emily.”

She would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. Janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. She was ready at last.

“Are they come?” asked Graeme, faintly.

“No, dear. There’s no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. My dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?” added she, as Graeme rose.

“Yes, I think so. But I would like to go alone, first.”

“My poor lamb! If I were but sure that I have been right,” thought Janet, as she sat down to wait.

An hour passed, and when the door opened, and Graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest.

“She hasna’ been alone all this time, as I might have known,” said Janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. “I’m faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but I needna fear for them. The worst is over now.”

And was the worst over? After that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. There was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. There was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,—the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone.

By and by, came letters from the lads; those of Norman and Harry full of bitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again.

The coming of the “bonny spring days” for which Norman had so wished, wakened “vain longings for the dead.” The brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with Menie’s voice. The flowers which she had planted,—the May-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie’s eyes. The odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to Graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and Menie was a happy child. All these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content.

And Mrs Snow, watching both the minister and Graeme, “couldna be thankful enough” for what she saw. But as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. “As though the Lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful,” she said to herself, many a time. At last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of Graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen.

“It’s her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain’t it?” said Mr Snow, but his face was grave, too.

“I dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. She wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder,” said Mrs Snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. “And no wonder. Even Emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. I dare say I’m troubling myself when there is no need.”

“The children, Will, and Rosie, don’t worry her with their lessons, do they?”

“I dinna ken. Sometimes I think they do. But she would weary far more without them. We must have patience. It would never do to vex the minister with fears for her.”

“No, it won’t do to alarm him,” said Mr Snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. In a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind.

“It ain’t worth while to worry her with it. I don’t more than half believe it myself. Doctors don’t know everything. It seems as though it couldn’t be so—and if it is so, it’s best to keep still about it—for a spell, anyhow.”

And Mr Snow vaguely wished that Doctor Chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms.

“And the doctor ain’t given to talking when he had ought to keep still. Can’t nothing be done for him? I’ll have a talk with the squire, anyhow.”

That night Mr and Mrs Snow were startled by a message from Graeme. Her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seized with illness. The doctor looked very grave this time, but seeing Graeme’s pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was something more than the indigestion which it had been called—severe but not dangerous. The worst was over for this time, and Graeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by.

The minister was better, but his recovery was very slow—so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two Sabbaths in succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. It was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, Graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow dark. She roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts.

“Shall I read to you, papa? You have hardly looked at the book that Mr Snow brought. I am sure you will like it. Shall I read awhile.”

“Yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. There is no haste. I have been thinking as I sat here, Graeme—and I shall find no better time than this to speak of it to you—that—”

But what he had been thinking Graeme was not to hear that night, for a hand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to Graeme’s invitation, Mr and Mrs Snow came in, “just to see how the folks were getting along,” said Mr Snow, as Graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. But there was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather abruptly after a little.

“They’ve been talking things over, down there to the village, and they’ve come to the conclusion that they’d better send you off—for a spell—most anywhere—so that you come back rugged again. Some say to the seaside, and some say to the mountains, but I say to Canada. It’s all fixed. There’s no trouble about ways and means. It’s in gold, to save the discount,” added he, rising, and laying on the table something that jingled. “For they do say they are pretty considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in Canada, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper,” and he sat down again, as though there was enough said, and then he rose as if to go. Graeme was startled, and so was her father.

“Sit down, deacon, and tell me more. No, I’m not going to thank you—you need not run away. Tell me how it happened.”

“They don’t think papa so very ill?” said Graeme, alarmed.

“Well—he ain’t so rugged as he might be—now is he?” said Mr Snow, seating himself. “But he ain’t so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him—I don’t suppose he’d care about going by himself. And Mis’ Snow, and me—we’ll take care of the children—”

“And what about this, deacon?” asked Mr Elliott, laying his hand on the purse that Sampson had placed on the table.

But Mr Snow had little to say about it. If he knew where the idea of the minister’s holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and Graeme.

“But that matters little, as long as it is to be,” said Mrs Snow, coming to the deacon’s relief. “And it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives,” added she, looking anxiously from Graeme to her father.

“You need not be afraid, my kind friends,” said Mr Elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. “The gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. It gives me great pleasure.”

“And, Miss Graeme, my dear,” continued Mrs Snow, earnestly, “you needna look so grave about it. It is only what is right and just to your father—and no favour—though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. And surely, if I’m satisfied, you may be.”

Sampson gave a short laugh.

“She’s changed her mind about us Merleville folks lately—”

“Whist, man! I did that long ago. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that Harry tells us of! It will be almost like seeing Scotland again, to be in the Queen’s dominions. My dear, you’ll be quite glad when you get time to think about it.”

“Yes—but do they really think papa is so ill?”

She had risen to get a light, and Mrs Snow had followed her from the room.

“Ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him from home? But he needs a rest, and a change—and, my dear, you do that yourself, and I think it’s just providential. Not but that you could have gone without their help, but this was done in love, and I would fain have you take pleasure in it, as I do.”

And Graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and “though it wasna just the thing for the Sabbath night,” as Janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. They returned to the study with the light just as Mr Elliott was saying,—

“And so, I thought, having the prospect of but few Sabbaths, I would like to spend them all at home.”

Janet’s first impulse was to turn and see whether Graeme had heard her father’s words. She evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. There was nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband’s face, Mrs Snow thought, but his words were cheerful.

“Well, yes, I vote for Canada. We ain’t going to believe all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys.”

Graeme laughed softly. The boys would not have been the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring Canada as the scene of their summer wanderings. She did not join in the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyful.

If Mrs Snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to the true state of the minister’s health, she said nothing of it to Graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. Indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. Ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where half the number would have served. Her affairs were made a personal matter by all her friends. Each vied with the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble; and if the reputation of Merleville, for all future time, had depended on the perfect fit of Graeme’s one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as Mrs Snow rather sharply remarked, “have been more fuss made about it.” And she had a chance to know, for the deacon’s house was the scene of their labours of love. For Mrs Snow declared “she wouldna have the minister and Miss Graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be done at all.”

But Mrs Snow’s interest and delight in all the preparations were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offended at her sharpness. In her heart Mrs Snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, but in public, “saw no good in making a work about it,” and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the kindness of the people as their proper right and due. When Mrs Page identified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to Rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest Boston fashion for sleeves, before Graeme’s dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which that lady’s advances were always met; and listened rather coldly to Graeme’s embarrassed thanks, when the same lady presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warm enough in her thanks to Becky Pettimore—I beg her pardon, Mrs Eli Stone—for the soft lamb’s wool socks, spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her regrets that her baby’s teeth would not permit her to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than were Mrs Page’s profuse offers of assistance.

On the whole, it was manifest that Mrs Snow appreciated the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment of thanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the “deacon’s wife,” and her appreciation of them and their favours. Nothing could be more easily seen, than that the deacon’s wife had greatly changed her mind about many things, since the minister’s Janet used “to speak her mind to the Merleville folk,” before they were so well known to her.

As for Graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no means arduous. She was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. It was some time before Will and Rosie could be persuaded that it was right for Graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogether delightful to live all the time at Mr Snow’s, and go to school in the village—to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of Merleville. But they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that Graeme should afterward have nothing to teach them. About the little ones, the elder sister’s heart was quite at rest. It was not the leaving them alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who had cared for them all their lives.

Graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. She never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow Lovejoy, and her father’s voice repeating,—

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow’s groans had risen, Graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face—the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond—the very shadows of the maples on the grass. Then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon—the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her.

Afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. He had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to Graeme, of the early days of their married-life—of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. And more than once he said,—

“You are like your mother, Graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. You must be more hopeful and courageous, my child.”

He spoke of Marian, Graeme remembered afterward. Not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. Of the lads far-away, he always spoke as “your brothers, Graeme.” He spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too.

“For many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and I know not whether they have all found it yet. Not that I am afraid of them. I believe it will be well with them at last. But in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. You must be patient with your brothers, Graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother’s sake and mine.”

He spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, “of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon.”

“We might have come here, love, had your mother lived. And yet, I do not know. The ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. Her departure made all the rest easy for me, and I am quite convinced our coming was for the best. There is only one thing that I have wished, and I know it is a vain thing.” He paused a moment.

“Of late I have sometimes thought—I mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden—that I would like to rest beside her at last. But it is only a fancy. I know it will make no difference in the end.”

If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. If it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. She saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. The peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she “feared no evil.”

Afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought—forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them.

They all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. The preparations for the journey were all made. The good-byes were said to all except to Mrs Snow and Emily. The last night was come, and Graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. She was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. The shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as Menie’s resting-place. How peaceful it looked! Graeme thought of her sister’s last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by Menie’s side. She thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. She thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother’s death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that God suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on Him, for which He does not also provide a balm.

“I will trust and not be afraid,” she murmured.

She thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams.

At least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. She did not hear it when she listened for it again. She did not think of Rosie or Will, but went straight to her father’s room. Through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. The lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. The moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, Graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more.

Chapter Twenty One.

“It is just three years to-night since we came to M. Did you remember it, Arthur?” said Graeme, looking up from her work.

“Is it possible that it can be three years?” said Arthur, in surprise.

“It has been a very happy time,” said Graeme.

Rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother’s chair. Arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister’s face. Rose did not heed it.

“Three years!” repeated she. “I was quite a child then.”

The others laughed, but Rose went on without heeding.

“It rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. How well I remember the time! Graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for Janet.”

“That was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper,” said Graeme; “and you were not at all homesick yourself, I suppose?”

“Perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days,” said Rose, gravely; “but I was not homesick very long.”

“I am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time—more than you let me know about,” said Arthur.

Graeme smiled and shook her head.

“I am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. If I had known how hard you would have to work, I think I would have stayed in Merleville after all.”

“Pooh! Nonsense! Hard work is wholesome. And at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in Merleville.”

“But that was quite different—”

“Did I tell you that I have got a new client? I have done business for Mr Stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth I am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of ‘Grove & Stone.’ It will add something to our income, little woman.”

Rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother’s ear.

“Don’t be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of ‘Grove & Stone.’ You know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated,” said Graeme.

“To the Merleville visit. But this is not at all an extravagance, is it, Arthur?” said Rose.

“That depends—. I am afraid Graeme is the best judge. But we won’t tell her to-night. We must break the matter to her gently,” said Arthur.

“Graeme is so dreadfully prudent,” sighed Rose.

Graeme laughed.

“It is well there is one prudent one among us.”

“I don’t believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. They are nicer than usual, are they not?” said Rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother’s case.

“Yes. I treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of Grove & Stone. They are very nice. Have one?”

Rose took it with great gravity.

“Suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards,” said she, coaxingly.

Arthur made a grimace.

“And where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?”

“There is no telling, indeed,” said Rose. “Graeme, I am going to put on my new hat. When Mr Elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know.”

“But, Arthur, you have an engagement to-night. Don’t you remember?” asked Graeme.

“To Mrs Barnes’,” said Rose. “Miss Cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. Her sister is nurse there. The party is to be quite a splendid affair. It is given in honour of Miss Grove, who has just come home. I wish I were going with you.”

“You may go without me! I will give you my invitation. It is a great bore, and I don’t believe I shall go. I don’t see the good of it.”

“But you promised,” said Graeme.

“Well, I suppose I must go for a while. But it is very stupid.”

“Just as if you could make us believe that. It must be delightful. I think it’s very stupid of you and Graeme, not to like parties.”

“You forget. I was not asked,” said Graeme.

“But you might have been, if you had returned Mrs Barnes’ call soon enough. How nice it would have been! I wish I were Miss Grove, to have a party given for me. She is a beauty, they say. You must notice her dress, Arthur, and tell me all about it.”

“Oh! certainly,” said Arthur, gravely. “I’ll take particular notice. But come, get your hats. There is time enough for a walk before I go. Haste, Rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. Are you coming, Will? Man! you shouldna read by that light. You will blind yourself. Put away your book, you’ll be all the better for a walk.”

They lingered a moment at the gate.

“Here is Harry!” exclaimed Rose. “And some one with him. Charlie Millar, I think.”

“We will wait for them,” said Arthur.

The look that came to Graeme’s face, as she stood watching her brother’s coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. She stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at Harry with anxious eyes.

“Are you going out, Graeme?” asked he, coming within the gate.

“Only to walk. Will you go with us? Or shall I stay?”

“Miss Elliott,” interposed Charlie Millar, “I beg you will not. He doesn’t deserve it at your hands. He is as cross as possible. Besides, we are going to D street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. He came yesterday. Did Harry tell you?”

“Harry did not come home last night. What kept you, Harry?” asked Rose.

“We were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and Harry stayed with me last night,” said Charlie.

“And of course Graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me,” said Harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice.

“Of course she did no such foolish thing. I saw to that,” said Arthur. “But which is it to be? A walk, or a quiet visit at home?”

“Oh! a walk, by all means,” said Charlie Millar.

“I have a great mind not to go,” said Harry.

“Nonsense, man! One would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. I refer to you, Miss Elliott. Would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?”

“Bother the new firm,” said Harry, impatiently.

“The new partner, you mean. He has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight—calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers.”

“Shy! A six-footer, with a beard enough for three. After that I’ll vanish,” said Harry.

“I don’t think Harry is very polite,” said Rose.

“Never mind. There are better things in the world than politeness. He will be more reasonable by and by,” said Harry’s friend.

“So your brother has come,” said Graeme. “How long is it since you have seen him?”

“Oh! not for ten years. He was home once after he came out here, but I was away at school, and did not see him. I remembered him quite well, however. He is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;” then he added, as Harry reappeared, “the fact is, Miss Elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. We must overlook his ill-temper.”

“By all means,” said Graeme, laughing.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “And I’ll try to be patient.”

“Well, shall we go now?” said Arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. The others followed him and Will.

“Is your brother going to remain here?” asked Graeme. “That will be nice for you.”

“Yes, on some accounts it would be nice. But if they send Harry off to fill his place at the West, I shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. And I am not sure I should like that long.”

“Send Harry!” exclaimed Graeme.

“Nonsense, Graeme!” said Harry. “That is some of Charlie’s stuff.”

“I hope so; but we’ll see,” said Charlie. “Miss Elliott, I had a letter from my mother to-day.” The lad’s eyes softened, as he turned them on Graeme.

“Have you?” said Graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. “Is she quite well?”

“Yes, she is much better than she was, and, Miss Elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks.”

“For what?” said Graeme, smiling.

“Oh! you know quite well for what. What should I have done, if it had not been for you and Harry? I mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes.”

“Stuff!” said Harry.

“Truth!” said Charlie. “I never shall forget the misery of my first months, till Harry came into our office. It has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again.”

“That was no great self-denial on our part,” said Graeme, smiling.

“You minded Graeme on some one she used to know long ago,” said Rose. “And, besides, you are from Scotland.”

Both lads laughed.

“And Graeme feels a motherly interest in all Scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be,” said Harry.

And so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of Mr Elphinstone’s garden, beyond which Arthur and Will were loitering.

“How pretty the garden is!” said Rose. “Look, Graeme, at that little girl in the window. I wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me.”

“I am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get,” said Graeme.

“Come in and let me gather you some,” said Charlie.

“No, indeed. I should not venture. Though I went in the first time without an invitation. And you dare not pick Mr Stirling’s flowers.”

“Dare I not?” said Charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall.

“Oh! don’t. Oh! thank you,” said Rose.

As far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel.

“Look,” said Rose, drawing back.

“The new partner,” said Harry, with a whistle. “A double partnership—eh, Charlie?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Charlie, looking wise.

“He knows what he’s about, that brother of yours. He’s cute. He knows a thing or two, I guess.”

“Harry,” said Rose, gravely, “don’t talk slang. And I don’t think it very polite to speak that way to Mr Millar about his brother.”

“My dear Rosie, I am not talking slang, but the pure American language; and I think you are more considerate about other people’s brothers than you are of your own. Twice this night I have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke.”

“You deserved it,” said Rose, laughing.

“Miss Rose,” said Charlie, “let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can’t look cross for the rest of the evening.”

Rose turned her laughing face to her brother.

“Be a good boy, Harry. Good bye.”

As they returned, Will and Rose went on before, while Graeme lingered with Arthur.

“Did you hear what Mr Millar said about the possibility of Harry’s being sent West? It must be to take the new partner’s place, I suppose,” said Graeme, after a little.

“No; did he say so? It would be a capital good thing for Harry.”

“Do you think so? He would have to leave home.”

“Yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. I doubt whether there is much in it, however. Harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. Still, it may be. I know they have great confidence in him.”

There was a pause, and they walked slowly on.

“Arthur,” said Graeme, in a low voice. “Do you think Harry is—quite steady?”

“Steady,” repeated Arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. “Why should you doubt it?”

Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother’s arm, and he knew it cost her an effort.

“I dare say there is no cause for doubt. Still, I thought I ought to speak to you. You will know better than I; and you must not think that I am unkind in speaking thus about Harry.”

“You unkind! No; I should think two or three things before I thought that. But tell me why you have any fears?”

“You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. And once or twice—more indeed—he has been excited, more than excited—and—”

Graeme could not go on.

“Still, Graeme, I do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after—too much for his good, I dare say. But he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. Why, Graeme, in P street Harry is thought much of for his sense and talent.”

Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. But she did not speak.

“Shall I speak to him, Graeme? What would you like me to do? I don’t think there is much to fear for him.”

“Well, I will think so, too. No; don’t speak to him yet. It was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. I dare say I am foolish.”

They walked on in silence for a little, and then Graeme said,—

“I hope it is only that I am foolish. But we have been so happy lately; and I mind papa and Janet both said to me—it was just when we were beginning to fear for Menie—that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. It proved so then.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” said Arthur, with a sigh. “We must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. But, Graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. And I am quite sure that after all your care for Harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. That would be too sad.”

They said no more till they overtook the children,—as Rose and Will were still called in this happy household.

“I have a good mind not to go, after all. I would much rather stay quietly at home,” said Arthur, sitting down on the steps.

“But you promised,” said Graeme. “You must go. I will get a light, and you need not stay long.”

“You must go, of course,” said Rose. “And Graeme and I will have a nice quiet evening. I am going to practise the new music you brought home.”

“A quiet evening,” said Will.

“Yes; I have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. I’m sure, I don’t know where the time goes to. I wish I were going with you, Arthur.”

“You are far better at home.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Graeme; and Will added,—

“A child like Rosie!”

“Well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially Miss Grove’s, and tell me all about them.”

“Yes; especially Miss Grove, if I get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful.”

“Well, good-night,” said Rose. “I don’t believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you.”

Arthur bowed low.

“I suppose I ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. And I would, if I could conscientiously. But ‘fine feathers make fine birds,’ and Miss Grove aspires to be a belle it seems,—and, many who don’t aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little Scottish Rose of our garden. Good-night to you all—and Graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time.”

He went away, leaving Rose to her practising, Will to his books, and Graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. They were not very sad thoughts, though Arthur feared they might be. Her brother’s astonishment at her fears for Harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for Harry, Arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all.

“Arthur will think I am foolish. He will think that I have lost confidence in Harry, which is not true. I wish I were more hopeful. I wish I did not take fright at the very first shadow. Janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. Such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our Harry! I won’t think about it. And even if Harry has to go away, I will believe with Arthur, that will be for the best. He will be near Norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. Norman will be glad. And I will not fear changes. Why should I? They cannot come to us unsent. I will trust in God.”

But quite apart from the thought of Harry’s temptation or prospects, there was in Graeme’s heart a sense of pain. She was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. She feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. Except the thought about Harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. She had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. Even household care, Nelly’s skill and will had put far from her.

And now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and Janet had always spoken of life as a warfare—a struggle, and the Bible so spoke of it, too. She thought of Janet’s long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by God. She thought of her father—how, even in the most tranquil times of his life—the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in Merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. Yes, life was a warfare. Not always with outward foes. The struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained—the struggle must only cease with life. It had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, Graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with Christ in God,—constant warfare—and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. And what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days?

It was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. Had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? Had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father’s and her mother’s would have been? They had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger Christian men, because of her? And if, as she had sometimes feared, Harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame?

The friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. And yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for Harry. She always came back to Harry in her thoughts.

“But I will not fear for him,” she repeated often. “I will trust God’s care for Harry and us all. Surely I need not fear, I think I have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. Outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. If we are humble and trustful God will guide us.”

And busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, Graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Whether Nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, Rosie did not make her appearance at it. Graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. The late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, Rosie’s lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. All were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another.

This did not last long, however. The drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from Mrs Gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. Mrs Gridley had promised some friends from Toronto, a treat of Scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. But the consolation of Mrs Gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. Arthur was to be out of town, but Will was to go in his place. They went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable.

Mrs Gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same—the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. She would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. So there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. Graeme and Rosie, and Will too, enjoyed it well. Harry professed to have been bored.

Out of these parties sprang others. Graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. Perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by Arthur, with the long-established firm of Black & Company. They certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. Invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. Regular reading was interfered with or neglected. Household matters must have fallen into confusion, if Nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. The long quiet evening at home became the exception. They went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. There were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time.

Graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. The novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. Sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. Rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. Indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child’s sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. Then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. For a time, Graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. She determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. Several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. She only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved.

Christmas and New Year’s Day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. Rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till Nelly had taken it from his hand. She just noticed that it was addressed to Graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it.

“What is it, Graeme?” asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. “I am almost sure it was left by Mrs Roxbury’s servant. See, there is their crest. What is it? An invitation?”

“Yes,” said Graeme, quietly, laying down the note. “For the twenty-seventh.”

“Such a long time! It will be a grand affair. We must have new dresses, Graeme.”

She took up the note and read:

“Mrs Roxbury’s compliments to Miss Elliott.”

“Miss Elliott!” she repeated. “Why, Graeme! I am not invited.”

“So it seems; but never mind, Rosie. I am not going to accept it.”

Rose was indeed crestfallen.

“Oh, you must go, of course. You must not stay at home on my account.”

“No; certainly. That is not the reason. Your being invited would have made no difference.”

“I could hardly have gone without you,” said Rose, doubtfully.

“Certainly not. Neither of us would have gone. If I don’t accept this invitation our acquaintance with the Roxburys will perhaps go no further. That would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others.”

“A sufficient reason for not refusing, I should rather say,” said Rose.

“No. There is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. There is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter.”

“But Arthur wishes it. He thinks it right.”

“Yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. I don’t mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. But so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. I am tired of it. We won’t speak of it now, however; I must finish my letter.” For to tell the truth, Rosie’s face did not look promising.

“Don’t send a refusal till you have spoken to Arthur, Graeme. If he wishes you to go, you ought, you know.”

“I am by no means sure of that. Arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. He does not enjoy them, and I see no reason why I should deny myself, in so bad a cause.”

“But Graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. I am sure I have always enjoyed them.”

“Yes, I have enjoyed some of them, but I am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. I mean, it may be too dearly bought. And besides, it is not the party, as a party, that I ever enjoy. I have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only—only one or two friends, than I ever had at a party, and—, but we won’t talk about it now,” and she bent over her letter again. She raised her head almost immediately, however.

“And yet, Rosie, I don’t know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, I have meant to say. We have not been living a good or wise life of late. Do you mind, love, what Janet said to us, the night before we came away? Do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? Do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be—more fit to meet them where they are?”

Graeme spoke very earnestly. There were tears in her eyes.

“Graeme,” said Rose, “do you think it wrong to go to parties—to dance? Many good people do not.”

“I don’t know, love. I cannot tell. It might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. Certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. I am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately.”

Rosie looked grave, but did not reply. In a little, Graeme added,—

“I am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to Mrs Snow, Rosie. She seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world.”

“But, Graeme, everything is so different in Merleville, Janet cannot know. And, besides—”

“I know, dear; and I would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. If we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, I daresay it would do us no harm. But, Rosie, I am afraid for myself, that I may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and I am afraid for you, too, dear Rose.”

“I enjoy parties very much, and I can’t see that there is any harm in it,” said Rosie, a little crossly.

“No, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. But, Rose, think how dreadful, to become ‘a lover of pleasure.’ Is there no danger do you think, love?”

Rose hung her head, and was silent. Graeme went on,—

“My darling, there is danger for you—for me—for us all. How can we ever hope to win Harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?”

“But, Graeme, it is better that we should all go together—I mean Harry is more with us than he used to be. It must be better.”

“I don’t know, dear. I fear it is only a change of evils. Harry’s temptation meets him even with us. And, oh! Rosie, if our example should make it easier for Harry to go astray! But we won’t speak about Harry. I trust God will keep him safe. I believe He will.”

Though Graeme tried to speak calmly, Rose saw that she trembled and grew very white.

“At any rate, Rose, we could not hope that God would hear our prayers for Harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to Him. For it is not well with us, dear. We need not try to hide it from ourselves. We must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. Yes, we must go farther back than that, Rosie,” said Graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. “Do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? How little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. Rosie! I could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. My darling! we must begin again.”

There were tears on Rose’s cheeks, as well as Graeme’s, by this time. But in a little Graeme sat down again.

“It is I who have been most to blame. These gay doings never should have commenced. I don’t think Arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. And if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change.”

It was not difficult to reconcile Arthur to the change. “Graeme must do as she thought right,” he said. “It must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance—a loss of time to little purpose,” and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if Harry had not discovered Mrs Roxbury’s note.

“I declare Mrs Gridley is right,” said he. “We are a rising family. I hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. But how is this? Miss Elliott. Have you one, Rosie?”

Rose shook her head.

“No. Have you, Harry?”

“Have I? What are you thinking of, Rose? Do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? It is only for such commercial successes as Mr Green, or Allan Ruthven, that that honour is reserved. But never mind, Rosie. We shall find something to amuse us that night, I have no doubt.”

“Graeme is not going,” said Rose.

“Not going! Oh! she’ll think better of it.”

“No, she has sent her refusal.”

“And why, pray?”

“Oh! one can’t go everywhere, as Mrs Gridley says,” replied Graeme, thus appealed to.

“Yes; but Mrs Gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, Willie Birnie, the tailor. I can understand how she should not find time to go there. But how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for Mrs Roxbury’s select affair, is more than I can comprehend.”

“Don’t be snobbish, Harry,” said Will.

“I think the reasons are obvious,” said Arthur.

“Yes,” said Graeme, “we knew Willie Birnie when we were children. He was at the school with you all. And I like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, I enjoyed it well.”

“Oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, I have nothing to say. And Willie is a fine fellow; I don’t object to Willie, or the new wife either—quite the contrary. But of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs Roxbury and her set.”

“Graeme is not like people generally,” said Rose.

“I hope not,” said Will. “And, Harry, what do you suppose Mrs Roxbury cares about any of us, after all?”

“She cares about Graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her.”

“I am not sure of that,” said Graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. “I suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. They are connected with the Blacks, in some way. Now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, I daresay she will be just as well pleased that I should stay at home.”

“That is not the least bit uncharitable, is it Graeme?”

“No. I don’t think so. It certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. I really think she asks me from a sense of duty—or rather, I ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the Blacks. It is very well that she should do so, and if I cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though I stay away.”

“Well, I can’t but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. I should think the Roxbury’s would be the very house you would like to go to.”

“Oh! one has to make a beginning. And I am tired of so much gaiety. It makes no difference about its being Mrs Roxbury.”

“Very well. Please yourself and you’ll please me,” said Harry, rising.

“Are you going out to-night, Harry?” said Graeme, trying not to look anxious.

“Yes; but pray don’t wait for me if I should not be in early,” said Harry, rather hastily.

There was nothing said for some time after Harry went out. Will went to his books, and Rose went to the piano. Graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious.

“What can make Harry so desirous that you should go to Mrs Roxbury’s?” said Arthur, at last. “Have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?”

“Do you think Harry really cared? No; I have no reason for not wishing to go there. But, Arthur, we have been going out too much lately. It is not good for Rosie, nor for me, either; and I refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, I might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her—as she would have been eager to go. But it is not good for her, all this party-going.”

“I dare say you are right. She is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. She is a very pretty girl.”

“Pretty! Who can compare with her?” said Graeme. “But she must not be spoiled. She is best at home.”

“Proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend Ruthven, and Miss Elphinstone,” said Arthur. “It seems the wedding is to come off soon. Proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know.”

“No; I did not know it,” said Graeme; and in a little she added, “ought that to make any difference about my going? My note is written but not sent.”

“I should think not. You are not supposed to know anything about it. It is very likely not true. And it is nothing to us.”

“No; that is true,” said Graeme. “Rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. That should be quite otherwise at the close,” and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. They played a long time together, and it was Rose who was tired first ‘for a wonder.’

“Graeme, why did you not tell Harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to Mrs Roxbury’s?” said Rose, when they went up-stairs together.

“The true reason?” repeated Graeme.

“I mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?”

“I don’t know, dear. Perhaps I ought to have done so. But it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. I am afraid Harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one I gave.”

“I don’t know, Graeme. He was not satisfied; and don’t you think it would have been better just to say you didn’t think it right to go out so much—to large parties, I mean.”

“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her Bible in her hand for the nightly reading. Rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,—

“Graeme, you are not afraid for Harry now? I mean not more afraid?”

Graeme started. Her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of Harry.

“I don’t know, love. I hope not. I pray God, no harm may come to Harry. Oh! Rosie, Rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. We have been dreaming, I think. We must waken up, and begin again.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Graeme’s first judgment of Allan Ruthven, had been, “how these ten years have changed him;” but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, “he is the same, the very same.”

But her first judgment was the true one. He was changed. It would have been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for the better.

In the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new acquaintance he made with his brother Charlie, he came to know himself that he had changed greatly. He remembered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he had not always withstood. He knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him.

Yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest an the deck of the “Steadfast,” watching the gleaming lights of a strange city. Standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its attainment; and reading in Graeme’s truthful eye “the same, the very same,” his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving her.

He was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten years had not changed him more. The lonely life he had pictured to his friends, that last night on the “Steadfast,” fell far short of the reality that awaited him. Removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the turmoil of a Western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a merchant’s office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that seemed opening before him. His native place, humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. A few months ago the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. Between gigantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay undisturbed still. The air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation is one of mistrust and doubt.

All his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. If business men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. Business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest portion. The feverish activity and energy which were fast changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end—the getting of wealth. Wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. There was no respite, no repose. One must go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. Fortune was daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till a new chance could be grasped at.

“Honest labour! Patient toil!” Allan wondered within himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle.

Allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by old standards. But there were among the swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish feet had wandered over English meadows, or trod the heather on Scottish hills. Men whose fathers had spent their lives content in mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, patient, God-fearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. The very diggers of ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of the new world.

That there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. He never could associate the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at every corner. He could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting the smiling mouth of a little child. Home! Why, all the world seemed at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. Even the children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. They troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future might be. Looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale little lips “dollar” and “change” fall more naturally than sweeter words, Ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. He fancied he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the daily strife.

Ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the first part of his residence in C. He changed his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became changed at last. By and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. Uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then pleasant to him. At first his duties were merely mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his time was his own. But this did not continue long. Trusted always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good service to his employers. His skill and will guided their affairs through more than one painful crisis. His integrity kept their good name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their credit. He thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. He did his duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. So passed the first years of his commercial life.

In default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from those who were about him. Those who came into close contact with him called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above them, was willing so to be called. But as one cannot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. So it came to pass that, as the years went on, Allan Ruthven was greatly changed.

It need not have been so. It doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of the Christian faith and the Christian life. There were those over whom the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman they held, the “constraining love of Christ,” in them. Those walked through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. But Ruthven was not one of them. He had the name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his heart. He was a Christian only in name; and so, when the influence of early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for a time, his mother’s teachings “in the house, and by the way,” at the “lying down and the rising up,” no wonder that the questionable maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last.

Not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own sake. He never sank so low as that. But in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from degenerating into a character so despicable. If he was not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. Another ten years of such a life would have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly—all that in his youth he had most despised.

This may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely—that he could not open his hand and let it go. He had been pleasing himself all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him—content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these he could not be content. It was a great shock and surprise to him to be forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here.

Ruthven’s intercourse with his uncle’s family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin Lilias, who was then a child. Indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to M, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. I am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. For what a child Lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still!

But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt’s wish was pleasant to Allan Ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. He could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. The new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to Lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. It was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. He was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well—conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. Nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. He knew that this wealth had not bought him. He loved his cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. The thought did come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. He did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won.

He was happy—they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when Allan clasped the trembling hand of Graeme Elliott. Indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the Elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. Around the heiress and only child of Mr Elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the Elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. But there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in Graeme’s quiet parlour. The mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet.

The pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father’s side. Her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like Rose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. The long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were Rosie’s delight, Graeme seldom shared. But she was quite as much the friend of Lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to Allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias shared so happily. He was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future.

But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. In the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. Almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule—or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. These days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not always a pleasant retrospect. There were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. These were moments when he could not meet Graeme’s truthful eyes, as with “Don’t you remember?” she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth—a strong desire to begin anew—a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed.

But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called Allan, for a time, to his old home in C, and to his uncongenial life there. It was not pleasant business. There was a cry, louder than usual, of “hard times” through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the West had become, Allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. He was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him.

A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. The letter was brief. Knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated Allan’s immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of Lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband’s right to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. But the words smote on Allan’s heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to Mr Elphinstone’s half-expressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme Elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. But the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face.

It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. But this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. He knew it was a son’s place that he had got in the firm. He could only claim it as a son. If his relations to Lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. He must begin life again a poor man.

But let me not be unjust to him. It was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. Had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when Mr Elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. But now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss—possible ruin—lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? He knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances.

He was very wretched. He could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. Whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. There was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. He did not hasten home. He had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. But it was only for the time. He knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision.

If his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the word to him. But his honour was involved—his honour as a man, and as a merchant. He could not leave his uncle to struggle with misfortune in his old age. He could not let the name, so long honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. He was responsible for the stability or the failure of the house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. More than this. His own reputation as a wise and successful man of business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a juncture so perilous.

And then, Lilias. Nothing but her own spoken word could free him from the tacit engagement that existed between them. In honour he could never ask her to speak that word.

Through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the future. He met his uncle’s eager greeting with no word of change. His face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but not more so than hers. But that might very well be said each of the other. Lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew; and Allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watching and anxiety for her father’s sake might well account to him for her sad looks. After the first clasp of their hands he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The next few days were weary ones to all. Will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, Graeme’s spirits flagged sadly. She looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that Will must be left to the tender mercies of Rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. It is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did Graeme less good than attendance on Will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. At any rate, Graeme was thankful for a few days’ quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time Rose and Will got on very well without her.

And Harry—poor, unhappy, repentant Harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night—these were dreary days to him. Graeme never spoke to him about that night. She had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. The preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go West after all. He said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for Graeme to hear.

Much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of Harry, Mr Ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return.

“He does not trust me. He does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs,” said Harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of Allan’s share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. However, he forced himself to wait a little.

“If I am sent West after all, well and good. If not I shall remain no longer. The change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least I will make it so. I can’t stay, and I won’t. If he would but come back and put an end to it all.”

And Harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of Mr Ruthven. Poor Mr Elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. Lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for Allan’s untimely devotion to business. Poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of Mrs Roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. She considered it a very equivocal proof of Lilias’ love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. There had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and Mrs Roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. So, at last, Lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father’s room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near.

“Graeme,” said Harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, “don’t you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? Don’t you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? I think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate.”

Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. Then she said something about being tired and not very well—and about its being impossible always to help one’s looks.

“Why don’t you say at once that it is I who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me—that I am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say—you know very well.”

“Harry,” said she, gently, “I did not mean to say anything unkind.”

Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan.

“If you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme! If you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! I could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, I cannot bear.”

“I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. I can only say, I have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night.”

Harry groaned.

“Oh! well; don’t bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. The chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation.”

“Have you seen—has Mr Ruthven returned?”

“Mr Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I have not spoken with him. It was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. He was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. Well, it does not matter. I shall take the decision into my own hands.”

“What do you mean, Harry?”

“I mean, I shall give up my situation if he does not send me West—if he hesitates a moment about sending me, I shall leave his employment.”

“But why, Harry?”

“Because—because I am determined. Ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, I suppose.”

“Harry,” said his sister, gravely, “is it surprising if he does not?”

“Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be trusted here, and I leave. Graeme, you don’t know what you are talking about. It is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to Allan Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate.”

“Then, why do you say he does not trust you?”

“I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. Not that I care much. I would rather be in the employment of some one else. I shall not stay here.”

“Harry,” said Graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, “what has happened between you and Allan Ruthven.”

“Happened! What should have happened? What an absurd question to ask, Graeme.”

“Harry, why are you so determined to leave him? It was not so a little while ago.”

“Was it not? Oh, well! I daresay not. But one wants a change. One gets tired of the same dull routine, always. Now, Graeme,” added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, “don’t begin to fancy any mystery. That would be too absurd, you know.”

Graeme came and knelt close beside him. His face was turned away so that she could not see it. Her own was very pale.

“Harry, speak to me. Do you believe that Allan Ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and—in other matters? Tell me, Harry.”

“Oh, yes! as gentlemen go. No, Graeme, that is not right. I believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. I think more highly of him than I did at first. It is not that.”

The colour came slowly back to Graeme’s face. It was evident that Harry had no foolish thoughts of her and Allan. In a little she said,—

“And you, Harry—you have not—you are—”

“I hope I am an honourable man, Graeme,” said Harry, gravely. “There is nothing between Mr Ruthven and me. I mean, he does not wish me to leave him. But I must go, Graeme. I cannot stay here.”

“Harry, why? Tell me.” Graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair.

“It is nothing that I can tell,” said Harry, huskily.

“Harry—even if I cannot help it, or remove it—it is better that I should know what is making you so unhappy. Harry, is it—it is not Lilias?”

He did not answer her.

“Harry, Harry! Do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too.”

She drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. In a little she said,—

“Brother, speak to me. What shall I say to you, my poor Harry?”

But Harry was not in a mood to be comforted. He rose and confronted her.

“I think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that I am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. You had better say that to me, Graeme.”

But something in his sister’s face stopped him. His lips trembled, and he said,—

“At any rate, it isn’t worth your looking so miserable about.”

“Hush, Harry,” whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. “And Lilias?”

“Graeme, I do not know. I never spoke to her, but I hoped—I believed till lately—.”

He laid his head down on his sister’s shoulder. In a little he roused himself and said,—

“But it is all past now—all past; and it won’t bear talking about, even with you, Graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. It was only a dream, and it is past. But I cannot stay here—at least it would be very much better—”

Graeme sighed.

“Yes, I can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet—but you are right. It won’t bear talking about. I have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less.”

No, there was nothing that Graeme could say, even if Harry would have listened to her. Her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. It seemed to Graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. Yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for Harry was pressing with tenfold weight. Why had this new misery come upon her? She had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears.

In her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. She judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man—between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him.

Sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. She took no such consolation to herself as that. She knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. She accepted the lot. She thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with God’s help, to be contented.

But Harry—poor Harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? Perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, Graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. Harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. The commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister’s lips, and it was all the better that Graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. After the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister’s sympathy, and I am afraid, if the truth must be told, that Graeme that night suffered more for Harry than Harry suffered for himself. If she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. If from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. She could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. How gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. She felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? Remembering her own impulse to be away—anywhere—to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. That the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. Alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. Best give him into God’s keeping and let him go, she thought.

“But he must not leave Mr Ruthven. That will make him no better, but worse. He must not go from us, not knowing whither. Oh, I wish I knew what to do!”

The next day the decision was made. It would not be true to say that Harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into Mr Ruthven’s private room. There was more need for Charlie’s “keep cool, old fellow,” than Charlie knew, for Harry had that morning told Graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. In spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend Allan, but Mr Ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. He was busy with some one else when Harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him.

There was a good deal said about matters that Harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. There were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. Harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him.

There came a pause at last. Mr Ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. Indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. Harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,—

“Mr Ruthven, may I trespass a moment on your valuable time now?”

Mr Ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. Harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. Certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that Mr Elliott might have to say.

“It is a matter of great importance to me, and I have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. The Western agency—”

“You are right. It is of great consequence to the firm. There is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding—”

“I beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that I should be employed in it.”

“Will a single day make much difference to you?” said Mr Ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be.

“Excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. But, Mr Ruthven, it is better I should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. Allow me, then, to inform you that I wish—that I no longer wish to remain in your employment.”

“Harry,” said Mr Ruthven, gravely, “does your brother—does your sister know of your desire to leave me? Would they approve, if you were sent West?”

“Pardon me, Mr Ruthven, that question need not be discussed. I must be the best judge of the matter. As for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you—drew back.”

Mr Ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. He took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now.

“I understand you, sir,” said Harry, with a very pale face. “Allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place—or at once, if you like—I must go.”

But Mr Ruthven was not listening to him. He had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. He broke the seal, and read it while Harry was speaking. It was very brief, only three words and one initial letter.

“Let Harry go. G.”

He read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. Then he turned to Harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door.

“What is it, Harry? I did not hear what you were saying.”

“I merely said, sir,” said Harry, turning round and facing him, “that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, I shall consider myself at liberty to go.”

“But why should you wish to go?”

“There are several reasons. One is, I shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. If I am not to be trusted at a distance, I shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me.”

His own eye flashed as he spoke.

“But, Harry, man, that is nonsense, you know.”

It was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and Harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone.

“I do not think it is nonsense,” said he.

“Harry, I have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. Let me say, once for all, that I should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. Harry, the world would look darker to me the day I could not trust your father’s son.”

Harry made no answer.

“It is of you I have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. Harry, when I think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish—wrong to wish to send you away.”

Harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home.

“I know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home—such a home as yours—the better. When I think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil I have seen since—. Well, there is no use in going over all that. But, Harry, it would break your sister’s heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us.”

There was nothing Harry could say to this.

“So many fail in the struggle—so many are changed or ruined. And, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. Don’t be angry, Harry,” for Harry started and grew red. “Even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. I have known and proved the world. What we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister’s lips. And if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should I ever answer to her?”

He walked up and down the room two or three times.

“Don’t go, Harry.” For Harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. “You said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. But, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. As for the interests of the firm, I have no fear.”

“I may consider it settled then,” said Harry, huskily. “Arthur was always of opinion that I should go, and Graeme is willing now. And the sooner the better, I suppose?”

“The sooner the better for us. But there is time enough. Do not be hasty in deciding.”

“I have decided already, I thank you, sir—” He hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more.

“I hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. Remember, Harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. I do not believe I shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me.”

Harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn.

And so the decision was made. After this the preparations did not occupy a long time. The second day found Harry ready for departure.

“Graeme,” said Harry, “I cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. I shall begin to think you are not willing that I should go after all.”

“You need not think so, Harry. I am sure it is best since you are determined. But I cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. You would not have me look joyful, when I am going to lose my brother?”

“No—if that were all. But you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. It is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. I shall be home often—once a year at the least; perhaps oftener.”

“Yes, dear, I know.”

“Well, then, I think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if I were worthy of it, which I very much doubt.”

Graeme’s face did not brighten. In a little while her tears were falling fast.

“Graeme, what is it? There is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. You do not trust me, Graeme, you are afraid.”

Graeme made an effort to quiet herself.

“Yes, Harry, I am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. You have hardly been our own Harry for a while, as you know, dear. And what will you be when you are far from us all? I am afraid to let you go from me, Harry, far more afraid than I should be for Will.”

Harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again.

“I wish I could make you quite satisfied about me, Graeme.”

“I wish you could, dear. I will try to be so. I daresay you think me unreasonable, Harry. I know I am tired, and foolish, and all wrong,” said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears.

“You look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything,” said Harry, with a touch of bitterness.

“Do I? Well, I am all wrong, I know. There ought to be hope and comfort too, if I sought them right. I will try to leave you in God’s keeping, Harry, the keeping of our father’s and our mother’s God.”

Harry threw himself on his knees beside her.

“Graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. If you only knew! Such things are thought nothing of. If I disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced.”

Graeme put her hand upon his lips.

“But, Graeme, it is true. I must speak, I can’t bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. Even Allan Ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he—”

“Hush, Harry, you do not need Mr Ruthven to be a conscience to you. And it is not of the past I am thinking, but the future! How can I bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you, Harry.”

It was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. The words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor Harry’s temptation. So she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. By and by he came back to her side, again.

“Graeme,” said he, gravely. “Indeed, you may trust me. The shame of that night shall never be renewed. You shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again.”

She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. It was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but Harry understood it so.

“Graeme, what shall I say to you? How shall I give you courage—faith to trust me? Graeme, I promise, that till I see you again I shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. I solemnly promise before God, Graeme.”

“Harry,” said his sister, “it is a vow—an oath, that you have taken.”

“Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do you trust me, Graeme? Give me that comfort before I go away.”

“I trust you, Harry,” was all she had voice to say. She clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed God to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. And Harry vowed, with God’s help, to be true to himself and her. He did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in Heaven.

That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. Next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by Graeme, but the last glimpse Harry had of home, showed his eldest sister’s face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,—

“Harry, I trust you quite.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Arthur Elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect—common sense. He remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. She had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of God’s saints besides. Living for years in daily intercourse with his sister Graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. Yet in the choice of one who was to be “till death did them part” more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. Flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life’s happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child.

One who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that Arthur Elliott’s is by no means a singular case. Quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. If, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. A woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her solitary way through life content. But if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. For then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. Her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. What God has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss.

But it is possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. It is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. The rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. But when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. He grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. When he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. The voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. The tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part.

But this is a digression, and I daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. Indeed, I am not sure that I quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. There are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness.

Charlie Millar’s private announcement to his friend Harry of his brother Arthur’s engagement, was in these words:

“The efforts of the maternal Grove have been crowned with success. Your brother is a captive soon to be chained—”

Charlie was right. His clear eye saw, that of which Arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. And what Charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy Mr Green, the great Western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. Had the interesting fact transpired, that the great Elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, “wriggled himself clear,” it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. But Mr Green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as Mrs Grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. She acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it.

When the pretty Fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. Fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. Mr Elliott was by no means Mr Green’s equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,—except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. And then Fanny, though very pretty, was “a silly little thing,” she said to herself with great candour. Her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. The chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. Then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma’s own darlings; Charlotte twelve and Victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have Fanny well away.

And so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the Grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the Grove mansion, and roamed with the fair Fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the Grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. He made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. There were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. Not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests—parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town—but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which Mrs Grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. Very charming little fÊtes her guests generally pronounced them to be. Arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. He enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. He enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair Fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things.

Everything went on naturally and quietly. There was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. Quite the contrary. If any watchful fairy had suggested to Arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. Did not mamma keep watchful eyes on Fanny always? Had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? Had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest?

And if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of Mrs Grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. If it had been averred that mamma’s faith, in her daughter’s tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma’s faithlessness was not surprising. As to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter.

But there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till Graeme came home from Cacouna, to play, in Mrs Grove’s opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. She was mistaken, however. Graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. Even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother’s short intimacy with the Groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. So, if there came a pause in the lady’s operations, if Arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of Graeme. If he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and Graeme’s influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to Mrs Grove, or her schemes.

But that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. She could not conceal from herself or Miss Fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. Not that this defection on Arthur’s part was ever discussed between them. Mrs Grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. Fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. Indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. But mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. Besides she fancied that Mr Elliott’s attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. Two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and “mar dear Fanny’s prospects.”

And so Mrs Grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. Another invitation was given, and it was accepted. In the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. With a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her “dear friend” for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible Fanny.

“Fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. But oh! Mr Elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?”

In vain Arthur looked the astonishment he felt. In vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society—that he did not understand—that she must be mistaken. The tender mother’s volubility was too much for him. He could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on.

Mr Elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. She quite freed him from all intention of wrong. And after all, it might not be so bad. A mother’s anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. Change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to—in short Mr Elliott must understand—. And Mrs Grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom Arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation.

But “pique and wounded pride!” He had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. Indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. Mrs Grove’s exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. The motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. How she could look her dear Fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so—so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. If, indeed, Miss Fanny had a secret. He wished very much not to believe it. Secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months’ acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed.

Not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to Miss Grove and the epaulets. The result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. Greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. He was listened to with politeness, but not with Miss Fanny’s usual amiability and interest, that was evident.

By and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here Miss Fanny was distant and dignified still. She gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom Mrs Grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. Arthur approached the centre-table, but Mrs Grove was too much occupied with Captain Starr to include him in the conversation. Mr Grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and Arthur felt there was no help for him. Miss Fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. Miss Grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that Captain Starr had sent her. She did sing it, very prettily, too. She had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. Then she played a brilliant piece or two; then Mrs Grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet Scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of Mr Elliott’s, also. Then there were more Scottish airs, and French airs, and then there was a duet with Captain Starr, and mamma withdrew Mr Elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the Captain’s handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. Then, when there had been enough of music, Miss Grove returned to her embroidery, and Captain Starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that Arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that Miss Fanny listened from “pique or wounded pride,” or something else, not certainly because she liked it. Not but that she seemed to like it. She smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to Mr Elliott a single glance.

By and by Mr Grove came in and withdrew Mr Elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as Arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. It was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. It was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. Never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature.

It is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which Miss Fanny’s working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary Point Saint Charles, past an imaginary Griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. It is quite possible that Mr Grove’s explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of Mount Royal City, and of Canada. And if Mr Grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it.

It was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over Miss Fanny’s white hand when he said good-night. He had one uncomfortable moment. It was when Mrs Grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,—

“It would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite.”

He was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on Miss Grove’s “good points,” and wondered “whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow’s pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made.” He was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. What if “pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection” should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! It would be sad, indeed.

And then he wondered if Miss Grove really cared for him in that way. Surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. As he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, Miss Fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. He visited Grove House a good many times—not to seem odd—and saw a good deal of Miss Fanny. Mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about I cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady’s smiles, and the old lady’s management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that Graeme had of it was given by Arthur on the night that Norman went away.

Time passed on. The wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. Graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when Arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. She had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. There were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when Miss Grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and Graeme took hope for Arthur. This was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have Fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. At such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with Rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother’s choice.

But there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. On more than one occasion Graeme had dispatched Nelly as a messenger to Arthur, to tell him that Fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. For Fanny never appeared agreeable to her in Arthur’s presence; and what was worse to bear still, Arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister’s eyes, in the presence of Miss Grove. The coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see Arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one’s authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but really as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than Graeme could patiently endure. It was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. The lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times Graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them.

And almost as disagreeable were the visits which Fanny made with her stepmother. These became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than Graeme thought at all necessary. They used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made Graeme and Rose uncomfortable. The little airs of superiority, with which Miss Fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. How would it be when Fanny’s marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? At present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by Rose, and sometimes even by Graeme. But it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time.

It must be confessed that Graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of Fanny’s clever stepmother. Sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. More than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. Many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by Mrs Grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. It is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to Graeme’s judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. As Miss Fanny said on one occasion, “One could never tell what mamma meant by what she said,” and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. Yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. They were not so deep as to be dangerous. The little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. So Graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still.

The respect and admiration which Mrs Grove professed for Miss Elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. They were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. Her joy that the Elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless Fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister’s longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. It was so dear in Miss Elliott to consent to it. Another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother’s house. And then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear Fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. Miss Elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. How could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! She only hoped that Fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed.

Graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma’s private admonitions to her “wayward daughter” tended rather to the encouragement of a “judicious resistance” than of “a proper and amiable submission” to the anticipated rule. But as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of Graeme’s trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. She was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady’s declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made Arthur a little uncomfortable too. He had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to Mrs Grove. He had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured.

“However, it is all right now,” said Arthur, congratulating himself. “Graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma’s twaddle, and there is no fear as far as Fanny and she are concerned.”

The extent to which “mamma’s twaddle” and other matters “put Graeme about” at this time she concealed quite, as far as Arthur was concerned. The best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on.

But her feelings changed somewhat. She did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call Arthur’s mistake in the choice he had made. But now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. There seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. She was quite sure that Arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of Miss Grove, had he seen them in any one else. She remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. Now how blind he was! All her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. She was very amiable and charming in his eyes. There were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on.

Graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this—that it was better so. If it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other’s faults. Somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. If they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. At any rate, there was no use vexing herself about Arthur now. If he was content, why should not she be so? Her brother’s happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now.

But as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to Rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. She called herself foolish and faithless—selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. When Arthur should come quite to see with Fanny’s eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? Fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed!

And so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. As a part of her marriage-portion, Mr Grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of Columbus Square, and there the young lady’s married-life was to commence. The house was quite a little fortune in itself, Mrs Grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the Elliotts. It is just possible that Arthur’s intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law’s affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. The troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of Elphinstone & Company, had been felt more seriously still by Mr Grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter’s benefit, could not but suggest itself to Arthur. He was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. But the state of Mr Grove’s affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and Arthur might well look grave.

Not that he troubled himself about it, however. He had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. He knew that Miss Grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. So, if to Mrs Grove’s surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of Fanny’s father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. His remarks were reserved for Mr Grove’s private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness.

As for Graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. If she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? They might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when Fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. But there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for Fanny’s handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future.

“Fanny’s house!” could it ever seem like home to them? Her thoughts flew back to Janet and Merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible—nay best and wisest, for her and Rose to go away.

“However, we must wait a while; we must have patience. Things may adjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just now.”

In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will Graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, “We must wait—we must have patience.” And she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than “patient waiting?”

Chapter Thirty.

Graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled Will’s pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease.

“For there is no good vexing him. He cannot even advise me; and, indeed, I am afraid I have not the courage really to go away.”

But she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness.

They came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied—to Nelly’s indignant satisfaction—by Mrs Grove. Graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. Rose came first, and her sister’s question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face.

“Graeme, I have something to tell you. What is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?”

Graeme shook her head.

“I should have to consider a while first—I am not good at guessing. But won’t it keep? Nelly is out of all patience.”

But Rose was too excited to heed her.

“No; it won’t keep. Guess who is coming—Janet!”

Graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Arthur got a letter from Mr Snow to-day. Read it.”

Graeme read, Rose looking over her shoulder.

“I am very glad. But, Rosie, you must make haste. Fanny will be down in a minute, and Nelly is impatient.”

“No wonder! But I must tell her about Mrs Snow.”

And with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. Nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. Regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations.

“Nelly! Who do you think is coming? You will never guess. I may as well tell you. Mrs Snow!”

“Eh, me! That’s news, indeed. Take care of the gravy, Miss Rose, dear. And when is she coming?”

There was not the faintest echo of rebuke in Nelly’s tone. There was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. Besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. She looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more.

“And when will she be coming?” she asked.

“Some time in June. And, Nelly, such preparations as we shall have! But it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. We could not help it, indeed.”

“You dinna need to tell me that. I heard who came with you. Carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly.”

“And so your old nurse is coming?” said Mrs Grove, after they had been some time at the table. “How delightful! You look quite excited, Rose. She is a very nice person, I believe, Miss Elliott.” Graeme smiled. Mrs Grove’s generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, Mrs Grove continued.

“We must think of some way of doing her honour. We must get up a little fÊte—a pic-nic or something. Will she stay here or at Mr Birnie’s. She is a friend of his, I suppose, as Rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. It is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. They are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one’s time—”

Rose sent her a glance of indignation; Graeme only smiled. Arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first.

“I doubt such things would hardly be in Mrs Snow’s way. Mrs Grove could hardly make a lion of our Janet, I fancy, Graeme.”

“I fancy not,” said Graeme, quietly.

“Oh! I assure you, I shall be willing to take any trouble. I truly appreciate humble worth. We so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. You must tell me all about her some day, Rose.”

Rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. Mrs Grove went on.

“Didn’t she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? Certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded—”

“By a pic-nic,” said Rose, as Mrs Grove hesitated.

“Rose, don’t be satirical,” said Arthur, trying not to laugh.

“I am sure you must be delighted, Fanny—Arthur’s old nurse you know. It need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. It is not you she comes to see.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. “I fancy Fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. She will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, I can assure her.”

“And Janet was not Arthur’s nurse,” said Rose. “Graeme was baby when she came first.”

“And I fancy nursing was but a small part of Janet’s work in those days,” said Arthur. “She was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. Eh, Graeme?”

“Ay, and more than that—more than could be told in words,” said Graeme, with glistening eyes.

“And I am sure you will like her,” said Rose, looking straight into Mrs Grove’s face. “Her husband is very rich. I think he must be almost the richest man in Merleville.”

Arthur did not reprove Rose this time, though she well deserved it. She read her reproof in Graeme’s look, and blushed and hung her head. She did not look very much abashed, however. She knew Arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther.

“Do you know, Fanny,” said Mrs Grove, in a little, “I saw Mrs Tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. She has seen better days. It is sad to see a lady—for she seems to have been quite a lady—so reduced.”

“And who is Mrs Tilman?” asked Arthur.

Fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on.

“She is a person Mrs Gridley was speaking to Fanny about—a very worthy person indeed.”

“She was speaking to you, you mean, mamma,” said Fanny.

“Was it to me? Well, it is all the same. She is a widow. She lived in Q— a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in Haughton Place. I don’t know why she left. Some one married, I think. Since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn’t agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel.”

“She seems to have experienced vicissitudes,” said Arthur, for the sake of saying something.

“Has she not? And a very worthy person she is, I understand, and an admirable cook. She markets, too—or she did at Haughton House—and that is such a relief. She must be an invaluable servant.”

“I should think so, indeed,” said Arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything.

Graeme and Rose were speaking about Janet and her expected visit, and Fanny sat silent and embarrassed. But Nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and Mrs Grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and Nelly “could put this and that together as well as another.” The operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as Nelly shut the door Mrs Grove said,—

“She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. But you must be prompt if you wish to engage her.”

“Oh! there is no hurry about it, I suppose,” said Fanny, glancing uneasily at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. Mrs Grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving Graeme out of the conversation. She was very willing to be left out. Besides, she never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of her stepmother.

“Oh! but I assure you there is,” said Mrs Grove. “There are several ladies wishing to have her. Mrs Ruthven, among the rest.”

“Oh! it is such a trouble changing,” said Fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly.

“Not at all. It is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome,” said Mrs Grove, and she had a right to know. “I advise you not to let this opportunity pass.”

“But, after all, Nelly does very well. She is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, I suppose,” said Fanny.

“You are quite right, Fanny,” said Arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. “I daresay Nelly is a better servant—notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know—than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be a second Janet, yet—an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. We couldn’t do without Nelly. Eh, Graeme?”

Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Rose answered for her.

“No, indeed I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs Snow.”

“Very well,” said Mrs Grove. “Since Miss Elliott seems to be satisfied with Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a pity you had not known sooner, Fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. But she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate.”

Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure.

“What is it all about! Who is Mrs Tilman?” asked Arthur.

“Some one Mrs Grove has seen,” said Graeme, evasively.

“But what about Nelly? Surely you are not thinking of changing servants, Graeme?”

“Oh! I hope not; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately—grumbled a little—”

“Out of sorts, grumbled!” exclaimed Fanny, vexed that Mrs Grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that Arthur should have addressed his question to Graeme. “She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and I shall not bear it any longer.”

Poor little Fanny could hardly keep back her tears.

“Impertinent to you, Fanny,” cried Graeme and Arthur in a breath.

“Well, to mamma—and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says Nelly has been long enough here. Servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon Graeme as mistress rather than me. She quite treats me like a child,” continued Fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded.

“And, besides,” she added, after there had been a moment’s uncomfortable silence, “Nelly wishes to go.”

“Is Barkis willing at last?” said Arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment.

Rose laughed too. It had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified Mr Stirling. Nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener’s attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged.

“Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it,” said Fanny.

“Then, she must be going to her sister—the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. She has spoken about that every summer, more or less. Her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But she will get over it. It is all nonsense about her leaving.”

“But it is not nonsense,” said Fanny, sharply. “Of course Graeme will not like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says I shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. And I think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance.”

“But how good a servant is she?” asked Arthur.

“Didn’t you hear what mamma said about her? And, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing.”

“Well, I think we may as well ‘sleep upon it,’ as Janet used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to-night,” said Arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess.

The rest sat silent. Rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from Graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. Graeme was indignant, but not surprised. Indeed, Nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing.

She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. She felt that there was some truth in Fanny’s declaration, that Nelly looked upon her as a child. She had Nelly’s own word for that. She considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and “no’ heeded” when any serious business was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it.

The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let Fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of Mrs Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to Nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. And yet, as she looked at Fanny’s pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,—

“We must have patience and wait.”

And the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister’s cows and children, and the estimable Mrs Tilman was installed in her place. It was an uncomfortable time for all. Rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to Mrs Elliott as she ought to have done. If half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, Graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, Nelly would have been content. But Graeme would not compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of Mrs Grove in their affairs. And yet she could not bear that Nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes.

“Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? There are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you.”

“I’m no’ sure, Miss Elliott. I have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. And as to another place—”

Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. But she said nothing, and went away—ran away, indeed. For when she saw the sorrowful tears in Graeme’s eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when Graeme said:

“You’ll let us hear from you, Nelly. You’ll surely let us hear from you soon?”

There was very little said about the new order of affairs. The remonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never came. Mrs Grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave Graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. Mrs Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce Graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when Fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. She was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week’s trial; and Fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. Mrs Tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that Fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer’s book and the butcher’s book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. She was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of Mrs Tilman’s magnificent experiences. But the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner.

To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to Sarah. But fortunately for her and the household generally, Graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people’s duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. Not that Nelly’s departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart Graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life.

For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of Mrs Snow’s visit; and second, that Mrs Snow should admire and love Arthur’s wife. She had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother’s choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she could not bear to think that Janet should not be quite content. Not that she was very much afraid. For Graeme’s feelings toward Fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. She was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and Graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which Fanny was not long recovered. Her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, and Fanny would improve in consequence. The vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to Graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire.

But she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. So Mrs Tilman’s administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on Fanny’s part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Rose was inclined to resent. Graeme did not resent it, and Rose was ready to forgive Fanny’s triumph, since Fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of Mrs Snow’s visit. As for Will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody’s equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the McIntyre children and cows had proved irresistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency.

Chapter Thirty One.

They came at last. Arthur and Will met them on the other side of the river, and Graeme and Rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go.

It was a very quiet meeting—a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and Janet’s eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. They had all changed, she said. Arthur was like his father; Will was like both father and mother. As for Rosie—

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Snow, “I think Rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister Marian,” and her eye rested on the girl’s blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. Graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had not changed more than any of them.

As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. She need not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Even now she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr Snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. That there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and Fanny relented. What might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before Janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, Mr Snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities—good—and not so good—of the pretty little housekeeper.

After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr Snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. Fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside Graeme; and Janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. Graeme grew silent too. Indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak.

She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. Rose’s extraordinary restlessness prevented that. She seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with Fanny or Will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between Mr Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hanging over Graeme’s chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs Snow’s side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even Will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight.

The truth was, Rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of Mrs Snow’s visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. She had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing—not to themselves. Janet would always be Janet to them—the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as Mrs Grove. But Rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals.

But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, Rose’s misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. She had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little.

“A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn—is not little Emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? And such a beauty of a shawl!—that’s the one Sandy brought.”

And so Rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on Graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. All Rosie’s admiration was for Mrs Snow.

“Is she not just like a picture sitting there?” she whispered to Will, as she passed him.

And indeed Rosie’s admiration was not surprising; she was the very Janet of old times; but she sat there in Fanny’s handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been “used with” fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes.

And yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth.

That Mr Snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, “had the faculty of doing ’most anything,” had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. The hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. A judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that Will should show him Canada.

Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr Snow’s ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old “History of the French and Indian War.” Of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of Montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the Aborigines. Still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of Will and the indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the Queen’s dominions. So when he proposed that Will should show him Canada, Rose looked gravely up and asked,—

“Where will you go first, Will? To the Red river or Hudson’s Bay or to Nova Scotia? You must be back to lunch.”

They all laughed, and Arthur said,—

“Oh, fie, Rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of Canada!—such ignorance!”

“They are in the Queen’s dominions, though, and Mr Snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on British soil.”

“Well, I guess we can make out a full day’s work in Canada, can’t we? It is best to take it moderate,” said Mr Snow, smiling benignly on Rose. He was tolerant of the young lady’s petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see.

He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must be confessed that just at first Arthur was a little disappointed in him. He had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the “sharp Yankee deacon.” For Harry had a good story about “Uncle Sampson” ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. But Harry’s acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their Merleville life, and Mr Snow had changed much since then. He saw all things in a new light. Wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. The charity which “believeth and hopeth all things,” and which “thinketh no evil,” lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as Will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of “showing him Canada,” but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw.

The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. With the town itself he was greatly pleased. The great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. But as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. All these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the Montrealers “a leetle behind the times.” On the whole, however, his appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances.

“You’ve got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one’s ideas of what a river ought to be—broad and deep and full,” he said to Arthur one day. “It kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea.”

“Yes, it is like your Father of Waters,” said Arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner.

“One wouldn’t be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. I didn’t see it the day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we stood looking down upon it, I couldn’t but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, I suppose, or ever since the time of Adam and Eve—if the date ain’t the same, as some folks seem to think.”

“I always think how wonderful it must have seemed to Jacques Cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore,” said Rose. “No wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the China seas.”

“A wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that,” said Arthur. “The sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year.”

“If ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too.”

“Oh! the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. The Western trade will be benefited as well. What do you think of your Massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? This communication with the more northern cotton growing States is more direct by this than any other way.”

“Well, I ain’t prepared to say much about it. Some folks wouldn’t think much of that. But I suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow.”

But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. Of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain.

“A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! Why, our sheep pasture at Merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. It is only a hill, and moderate at that. You must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call that one. You’ve forgotten all about Merleville, Rosie, to be content with that for a mountain.”

While, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content “to putter along” as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. In Merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. If the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony New England hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the Saint Lawrence, what a garden it might become! And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers.

One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. They had a fair day for a fair sight, and when Mr Snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. Above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon.

Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which June loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. There were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses.

Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them.

“I suppose the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must have been like this,” said Mr Snow, as he gazed.

“Yes, the Promised Land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water,” said Will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. Could they ever gaze enough? Could they ever weary themselves of the sight? The shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go.

“I wouldn’t have missed that now, for considerable,” said Mr Snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. “No, I wouldn’t have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team’ll cost,” added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. Will smiled, and made no answer. He was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. To Will’s imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He was one of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. Then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. And coming back to actual life, with an effort—a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his.

But Will was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. He passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of the Ottawa, as over the river of Death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the Divine Companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the Divine Exemplar.

Will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad’s heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of God’s face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend’s eyes saw. A word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but Will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. And so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight.

That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, Mr Snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. It was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than Mr Snow had ever known him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, and had been sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likeness had been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. She was never weary of looking at it, and even Mr Snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. In a little, Rose came and stood beside him.

“Do you think it is very like him?” asked she.

“Well,” said Mr Snow, meditatively, “it’s like him and it ain’t like him. I love to look at it, anyhow.”

“At first it puzzled me,” said Rose. “It seemed like the picture of some one I had seen in a dream; and when I shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father’s face as it used to be in Merleville, it would not come—the face of the dream came between.”

“Well, there is something in that,” said Mr Snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. “No, it won’t do that for me. It would take something I hain’t thought of yet, to make me forget his face.”

“It does not trouble me now,” said Rose. “I can shut my eyes, and see him, Oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin—” She was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. Mr Snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,—

“Yes, dear, and so can I, If we didn’t know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. But I shall never forget him—never. He did too much for me, for that. He was the best friend I ever had, by all odds—the very best.”

Rose smiled through her tears.

“He brought you Mrs Snow,” said she, softly.

“Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even she is—and that is saying considerable,” added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair.

“Were you speaking?” said Mrs Snow, looking up at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, I was speaking to Rosie, here. How do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to Merleville with us?”

“She is going with us, or she will soon follow us. What would Emily say, if she didna come?”

“Yes, I know. But I meant to stay for good and all. Graeme, won’t you give us this little girl?”

Graeme smiled.

“Yes. On one condition—if you will take me too.”

Mr Snow shook his head.

“I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We should have other conditions to add to that one.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, laughing. “You would have to take Fanny and me, as well, in that case. I don’t object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them—that would never do.”

“But it must be both or neither,” said Graeme, eagerly, “I couldna’ trust Rosie away from me. I havena these sixteen years—her whole life, have I, Janet? If you want Rosie, you must have me, too.”

She spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. Indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. The others saw it, and were silent, but Fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,—

“But what could we do without you both? That would not be fair—”

“Oh! you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you. At any rate, Rosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to any one who won’t have me, too. She is all I shall have left when Will goes away.”

“Graeme would not trust Rosie with Arthur and me,” said Fanny, a little pettishly. “There are so many things that Graeme don’t approve of. She thinks we would spoil Rose.”

Janet’s hand touched hers, whether by accident or design Graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,—

“Mrs Snow thinks that you and Arthur are spoiling us both, Fanny.”

Janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking Graeme’s bowed head,—

“I dare say you are no’ past spoiling, either of you, but I have seen worse bairns.”

After this, Mr Snow and Will began the survey of Canada in earnest. First they went to Quebec, where they lingered several days. Then they went farther down the river, and up the Saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. This part of the trip Will enjoyed more than his friend, but Mr Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. Then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. They did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though Mr Snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire.

Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. That a “live Yankee,” cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. Will’s frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and Mr Snow’s kindly advances were seldom long withstood. But there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention—perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. If he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of Glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than “so had their fathers said and done before them,” and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the American frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five.

Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other’s point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. This power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other’s theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. By this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. They would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening.

Before returning home, they visited Niagara, that wonderful work of God, too great and grand, as Mr Snow told Rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. This part of the trip was for Will’s sake. Mr Snow had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for Will’s benefit, but those were not the parts which Mr Snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards.

“It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and Will’s, too. If ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. It was worth going, just to see his pleasure.”

When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of Canada, known as the Eastern Townships. Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they could give it. Passing in through Missisquoi County to the head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. Their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the County of Stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what Mr Snow declared to be “as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see.”

This “seeing Canada” was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, Mr Snow acknowledged to the delighted Rose. It could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was.

“Canada will be heard from yet, I expect,” said he, one night when they had returned home. “By the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you’ll be ready to go ahead. I don’t see but you have as good a chance as ever we had—better, even. You have got the same elements of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. Then for inhabitants, you’ve got the Scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you’ve got the Englishman, who’ll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you’ve got Frenchmen, Germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you’ve got what we didn’t have to begin with, you’ve got the Yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, Rosie.”

Rose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night.

“Yes,” continued he, “the real live Yankee is about as complete a man as you’ll generally meet anywhere. He has the caution of the Scot, to temper the fire of the Irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the Englishman has. He’ll keep things going among you. He’ll bring you up to the times, and then he won’t be likely to let you fall back again. Yes; if ever Canada is heard from, the Yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake.”

Chapter Thirty Three.

“Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?”

The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute.

“Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?” he repeated impressively, fixing Will with his eye.

“Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West,” said the literal Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired.

“He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts,—cool, sharp, far-seeing,—”

Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from Rose’s little hand, intended to remind him that real live Yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company.

“Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?” said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. “Why don’t you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars.”

“And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content,” said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose.

“Quite true, Charlie,” said Arthur; “if Mr Green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the ‘ultimate end,’ he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith.”

“Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral,” said Charlie. “When he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it—the carpet and curtains—the books and pretty things—even the ladies—”

“Yes,” continued Arthur; “if he were to come in here just now, it would be—Mrs Snow worth so much—naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head.”

“The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself,” interposed Charlie.

“Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady’s love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn’t have a chance with him. You needn’t frown, Rosie, you haven’t. Whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, I can’t say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him.”

“A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron,” said Charlie.

“Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you,” said Rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. “You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has a very kind heart.”

“Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can’t speak for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. I didn’t know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry’s authority and yours.”

“You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say.”

“Especially tender hearts,” said Charlie; “I have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort.”

“Charlie, I won’t have you two quarrelling,” said Graeme, laughing. “Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying,” she added, turning to Mr Snow. “Mr Green is a real live Yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hard perhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his father’s saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money.”

“But, who is he?” asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested; His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,—

“Oh, he is a rich merchant—ever so rich. He is going to give up business, and travel in Europe.”

“For the improvement of his mind,” said Arthur.

“I don’t know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor.”

“I want to know?” said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny’s triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity.

“He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott,” said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more.

“Do tell?” said Mr Snow.

“A singular and eccentric person you see he must be,” said Will.

“A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don’t frown, Miss Rose. Mrs Grove’s statement proves my assertion,” said Charlie.

“If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday,” said Mrs Grove. “I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expect you all. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope.”

“But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us,” said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table.

“Pray, don’t mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a family party. I shall be quite disappointed if I don’t see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now.”

“And one more wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can’t you speak a good word for me,” whispered Charlie.

“Thank you,” said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. “I have been longing to show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over.”

“Oh, no!” said Arthur. “There are any number left; and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will be delightful by moonlight, won’t it, Rosie?”

Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by Arthur. “So unlike him,” she thought. Mr Millar’s coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, “and have it over,” as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said,—

“Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest.”

Charlie would be delighted, and said so.

“But the flute,” added he to Rose. “Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming.”

Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove’s intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.

A dinner en famille, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow—that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap—in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.

“If she has spoiled Janet’s evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad,” whispered Rose.

It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be “put over,” on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny’s old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.

It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen—some of them at least—smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow’s gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.

“It minds me of the Ebba Gardens,” said she, after a little. “Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme.”

They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.

“No,” said Graeme, “I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful.”

“It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight.”

“Perhaps so. But I don’t think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don’t you mind?”

“Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place,” said Janet, with a sigh.

“But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond.”

“It wasn’t hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?” said Mr Snow.

“It did for want of a bigger, you know,” said Graeme, laughing. “It made up in beauty what it wanted in size.”

“It was a bonny spot,” said Mrs Snow.

“And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then.”

“No, there are no such singing birds here,” said Mrs Snow. “I used to miss the lark’s song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here.”

“Ain’t it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme,” said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife’s voice when she spoke of “home.” Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,—

“No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds—not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding.”

“The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!” said Graeme, with a sigh. “You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too.” Will smiled.

“I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don’t remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother’s cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well.”

“I mind it, too,” said Mrs Snow, gravely.

“And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things,” said Graeme.

“I wouldna fear anything of that kind,” said Mrs Snow; “I mind them all so well.”

“Do you ever think you would like to go back again?” said Will. “Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?”

“No, lad,” said Mrs Snow, emphatically. “I have no wish ever to go back.”

“You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old ‘Steadfast’.”

“I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother’s cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,—

“I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content.”

Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs Snow’s either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet’s lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood’s quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?

“What are you thinking about, Graeme?” said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.

“Oh! of a great many things. I don’t know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago—an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!”

“And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well,” said Mr Snow.

“I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?”

“I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it.”

“And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day,” said Mrs Snow.

“Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don’t think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night.”

“Miss Graeme! my dear,” expostulated Mrs Snow.

“No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you—I am afraid I never did—how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed—in taking Janet from us, I mean?”

She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with a grave smile.

“I don’t think you ever told me in words.”

“No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier—far happier with you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be.”

“I reckon, the happiness ain’t all on one side of the house, by a great deal,” said Mr Snow, gravely.

“No, I know that—I am sure of that. And I am glad—so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much.”

“Ain’t you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?” said Mr Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife’s face. They were quite alone by this time. Will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away.

“No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad I am we lost her, for her sake. And when I remember all that she has lived through—all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid.”

His eyes left his wife’s face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to Graeme.

“What is it, dear?” he asked. “Is there anything I may not know?”

“No. Only I am glad for Janet’s sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because—”

It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be Mrs Grove’s intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be Mrs Grove’s first remark.

“Ah! I see you have an eye for the beautiful.”

She had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. It was varied a little, this time.

“You see, Mr Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the beautiful. I knew we should find her here, with her friends.”

The rest was as usual.

“Observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. There is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. The scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. Can you imagine anything more tranquil? It seems the very domain of silence and repose.”

The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by Charlie Millar and Will, and the young Groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight.

“It is a bonny, quiet place,” said Mrs Snow.

“The garden is not seen at its best now,” continued Mrs Grove. “The beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season.”

“It looks first-rate,” said Mr Snow.

“It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept,” continued Mrs Grove. “I sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye.”

Mrs Grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought “the economical dodge” was as good as any, considering her audience.

“There is something in that,” said Mr Snow, meditatively; “but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, I think.”

“Oh! I expect it pays,” said Mr Green. “To people who are fond of such things, I expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from ’most any other thing.”

“To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk—to one’s friends,” suggested Mrs Snow.

“I was calculating that, too,” said Mr Green. “The pleasure one’s friends get tells on one’s own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. That pays.”

“If we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things God has made, the better and the happier we will be,” said Mr Snow. “It will pay in that way, I guess.”

He turned an inquiring look on Mr Green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife.

“Yes,” said, she, softly, “the more we see of God’s love and wisdom in the beautiful things He has made, the more we shall love Him, and in loving Him we shall grow like Him.”

Mr Snow nodded. Mr Green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke.

“I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, Mr Green,” said Mrs Grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. She flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of Mr and Mrs Snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their “rather peculiar” views and opinions. Whether Mr Green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,—

“Miss Elliott, Mr Green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. It must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire.”

Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she should respond to the lady’s admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating “Indeed;” but her enthusiasm was not to be damped.

“There must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. It must tend to enlarge one’s ideas, and satisfy one; don’t you think so, Miss Elliott?”

“I don’t know,” said Graeme, hesitatingly. “For a place of residence, I should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried.”

“Of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as Mr Green’s—I forget what style of architecture it is.”

But Mr Green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. He only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would “pay.”

“Oh! you cannot tell yet,” said Mrs Grove. “That will depend altogether on circumstances. It is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. You have been roaming about the world quite long enough. I don’t at all approve of the European trip, unless, indeed—”

She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that Mr Green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps.

“Miss Elliott,” continued Mrs Grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing Graeme into the conversation, “have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?”

“Accompanying Will? Oh! I have never for a moment thought of such a thing. The expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it.”

“Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fancied I heard you say how much you would like to go. I thought you longed for a chance to see Scotland again.”

“I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I should like to visit Scotland very much, and other countries, too. And I intend to do so when I have made my fortune,” added she, laughing.

“Or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?” asked Mrs Grove.

“Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes my fortune for me, I shall visit Europe. I think I may promise that.”

“Have you ever been West, yet, Miss Elliott? You spoke of going at one time, I remember,” said Mr Green.

“Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fireside. I have very much wished to visit my brother Norman. I daresay Rose and I will find ourselves there some day,” added she, turning to Mr Snow.

“Unless we keep you in Merleville,” said he, smiling.

“Oh! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know.”

“How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you?” asked Mrs Grove, reproachfully.

“Oh! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don’t think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness.”

“Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. We cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, I know.”

“Especially as they don’t stand in particular need of my devotion,” said Graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to Mrs Snow. “Let us walk, again. What can Will and the children be doing? Something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise.”

Mrs Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to Mr Snow on the exceeding loveliness of Miss Elliott’s disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend.

“And with you, too,” she added; “I scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel.”

“There,” said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, “I have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. One can see what he wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance.”

Chapter Thirty Five.

“It is a wonder to me, Miss Graeme,” said Mrs Snow, after one of their long talks about old times—“it is a wonder to me, that minding Merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us.”

“Worth our while!” repeated Graeme. “It was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. I wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. When we first came here, how Will, and Rosie, and I, used to plan and dream about it! I may confess, now, how very homesick we all were—how we longed for you. But, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. We were very near going once or twice.”

“And when was that?” asked Mrs Snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over Graeme. She did not answer immediately.

“Once was with Norman and Hilda. Oh! I did so long to go with them! I had almost made up my mind to go, and leave Rosie at home. I was glad I didn’t, afterward.”

“And why did you not?” demanded her friend.

“For one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and I did not like to leave home again; Arthur did not encourage me to go. It was on the very night that Norman went away that Arthur told me of his engagement.”

“I daresay you did right to bide at home, then.”

“Yes, I knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. I had the greatest desire to go to you. I had no one to speak to. I daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if I could have told you all about it.”

“My dear, you had your sister.”

“Yes, but Rosie was as bad as I was. It seemed like the breaking up of all things. I know now, how wrong and foolish I was, but I could not help being wretched then.”

“It was a great change, certainly, and I dinna wonder that the prospect startled you.”

Mrs Snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, Graeme went on rapidly,—

“If it only had been any one else, I thought. We didn’t know Fanny very well, then—hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what I thought Arthur’s wife should be; and I disliked her stepmother so much more than I ever disliked any one, I think, except perhaps Mrs Page, when we first came to Merleville. Do you mind her first visit with Mrs Merle, Janet?”

“I mind it well,” said Mrs Snow, smiling. “She was no favourite of mine. I daresay I was too hard on her sometimes.”

Graeme laughed at the remembrance of the “downsettings” which “the smith’s wife” had experienced at Janet’s hands in those early days. The pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from Arthur and his marriage to Merleville and the old times. Janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,—

“And when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?”

“Oh! that was before, in the spring. Arthur proposed that we should go to Merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. It was on my account; I was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what I needed.”

“The breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, I daresay. I wonder you didn’t come then.”

“Oh! I could not bear the thought of going then. I was ill, and good for nothing. It would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. I think I should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if Arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too.”

Unconsciously Graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart.

“But what ailed you?” asked Mrs Snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded Graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend.

“What ailed you?” repeated Mrs Snow.

“I can’t tell you. An attack of the nerves, Nelly called it, and she was partly right. I was tired. It was just after Will’s long illness, and Harry’s going away, and other things.”

“I daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder,” said Mrs Snow, tenderly.

“Yes, about Harry. I was very anxious. There were some doubts about his going, for a while. Mr Ruthven hesitated, and Harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last,” added Graeme, with a great sigh.

“Did Mr Ruthven ken of Harry’s temptation? Was it for that he hesitated?” asked Mrs Snow.

“I cannot say. Oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. But I don’t think he hesitated altogether because of that. As soon as he knew that we were quite willing—Arthur and I—he decided at once. Mr Ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all.”

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Snow, with some hesitation, “did you ever think there was anything between your brother Harry and his master’s daughter—the young lady that Allan Ruthven married—or was it only Sandy’s fancy?”

Graeme’s face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend.

“Sandy! Did he see it? I did not think about it at the time; but afterward I knew it, and, oh! Janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about Harry.”

“My bairn! There have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. No wonder your feet get weary, whiles.”

Graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend’s lap. In a little she said,—

“How I longed for this place! I had no one to speak to. I used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little.”

She did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. Janet’s kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by Graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,—

“And so Sandy saw poor Harry’s secret? I did not, at first. I suppose little Emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then.”

“Yes, Sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. Sandy never thought of Allan Ruthven and his cousin coming together.”

Graeme rose and took her work again. It was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it.

“Was it for her money—or why was it?”

“Oh! no. I never could think so. She was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, Rose and I. They had been engaged a long time, I believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. That was because of her father’s illness. He died soon after, you remember.”

“Yes, I remember. Well, I didna think that Allan Ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. But folk change. I didna ken.”

“Oh! no, it was not that,” said Graeme, eagerly. “Indeed, at that time Mr Elphinstone’s affairs were rather involved. He had met with great losses, Harry says, and Arthur thought that nothing but Mr Ruthven’s high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. Oh! no; it was not for money.”

“Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it. I am glad that Allan Ruthven hasna changed. I think you said he hasna changed?”

“At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thought him just the same.”

“Maybe it was her that wanted the money? If her father was in trouble—”

“No, oh! no! You could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. I don’t know how it happened. As all marriages happen, I suppose. It was very natural; but we won’t speak about it.”

“They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think you said you seldom see them now.”

“We don’t see them often. They have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. But we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since Arthur’s marriage—friends of Fanny’s, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. If Mr Ruthven knew you were in town, I am sure he would have been to see you before now.”

“I am no’ wearying to see him,” said Mrs Snow, coldly. “But, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?”

Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. So she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. When there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room.

“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, in a little, “how old are you now?”

Graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat.

“Oh! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point when ladies don’t like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute.”

“And what point may that be, if I may ask?”

“Oh! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid.”

“Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives,” said Janet, scornfully. “There must be near ten years between you and Rose.”

“Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman—past sixteen. I am growing old.”

“What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?”

“Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?”

“I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times,” said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme’s bowed head.

“I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday.” And Graeme sighed.

“Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?” said Mrs Snow, softly.

“No, rather because so many of them lie before me,” said Graeme, slowly. “Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past.”

“We may all say that, dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely. “None of us have done all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not have time to grow weary of them.”

“That is true,” said Graeme. “And I ought not to grow weary, be they many or few.”

There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme.

“Janet,” said she, “do you think I could keep a school?”

“A school,” repeated Mrs Snow. “Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, I daresay.”

“You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don’t mean that I could take charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But I could teach classes. I know French well, and music, and German a little.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely, “what has put such a thought in your head? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?”

“To Arthur? No, I haven’t spoken to him. He wouldn’t like the idea at first, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time.”

“You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing—”

“Oh! yes, it is not that I don’t know. Our expenses are greater than they used to be—double, indeed. But there is enough, I suppose. It is not that—at least it is not that only, or chiefly.”

“What is it then, dear child?” asked her friend.

But Graeme could not answer at the moment. There were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. They were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of Janet, even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. But with Janet’s kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. To herself she was willing to confess it. Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, “With God’s help I can bear it.” She declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. But, that Janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told.

“What is it my dear?” said Mrs Snow. “Is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?” Graeme laughed a little bitterly. “Can anything be worse than these?”

“Is it that your brother is wearying of you?”

“No, no! I could not do him the wrong to think that. It would grieve him to lose us, I know. Even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain.”

“And you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?”

Graeme was silent a moment. She did not care to enter upon the subject of Arthur’s wife just at this time.

“I don’t think you quite understand Fanny, Janet,” said she, hesitating.

“Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to deal with have not been of her kind. I have had no experience of the like of her.”

“But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. I love her dearly. And, Janet, I don’t think it is quite kind in you to think that I grudge Fanny her proper place in her own house. I only wish that—”

“You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. I wish that, too. And I am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have.”

“Oh! Janet,” said Graeme, with a sigh, “I shall never be able to make you understand.”

“You might try, however. You havena tried yet,” said Janet, gently. “It is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother’s winning, is it?”

“I don’t think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that I should eat bread of my own winning than of his. Everybody has something to do in the world. Even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. An idle life like mine is not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it. I ought not to be idle.”

“Idle! I should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. You used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but I see none of it now. You are ay busy at something.”

“Yes, busy about something,” repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. “But about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well.”

“And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no’ to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But it is no’ agreeable to do other folks’ work, and let them get the wages, I’ll allow.”

“Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it,” said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone.

“My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, and no’ you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate.”

“Fanny does not mean—she does not know much about it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time.”

“Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away.”

“About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me.”

“Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you.”

“But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be Will’s home again. It may never be his home, nor Harry’s either.”

“My dear, it will be Harry’s home, and Will’s, too, while it is yours. Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?”

“It ought to do so. A man’s wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, ‘A man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.’ Married people ought to suffice for one another.”

“Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother’s house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you.”

Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? She rose with a sigh.

“It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is because of Fanny that I want to go away. At first, I was unhappy—I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn’t think Fanny good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosie got vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I don’t think Fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not. I can see that now.”

“Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good deal of it was my fault. I think I was patient and forbearing, and I am quite sure I gave Fanny her own place from the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like Rosie, you know. Fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. There is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of Fanny I must go away.”

She paused, and began to arrange the lamp.

“Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left,” said Mrs Snow; and in a little Graeme came and sat down again.

“And about Fanny’s not being good enough for Arthur,” she went on. “If people really love one another, other things don’t seem to make so much difference. Arthur is contented. And Janet, I don’t think I am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my own sake. I think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. If Fanny has faults, it is better that Arthur should know them for the sake of both—that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. It is partly for them, as well as for Rose and me. For myself, I must have a change.”

“You didna use to weary for changes. What is the reason now? You may tell me, dear, surely. There can be no reason that I may not know?”

Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of Graeme.

“Oh! I don’t know: I cannot tell you,” she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. “The very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. I am tired doing nothing, I suppose. I want real earnest work to do, and have it I will.” She rose hastily, but sat down again.

“And so you think you would like to keep a school?” said Mrs Snow, quietly.

“Oh! I don’t know. I only said that, because I did not know what else I could do. It would be work.”

“Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. And I daresay it is no better than it is called. But, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the Lord, and for his people. Have you never thought about working in that way, dear?”

Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. Often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. There were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. This was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for God and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly,—

“It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. I cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. I don’t know how I could make it otherwise. My time is not at my own disposal.”

Mrs Snow assented, and Graeme went on.

“I suppose I might do more of that sort of work—caring for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but I don’t think I am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse. Don’t you mind, Janet, how Mrs Page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings.”

“Yes, I mind,” said Mrs Snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. In a little she said, hesitatingly:

“Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother’s house, and keeping a school. Have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep.”

Graeme laughed.

“Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it. But the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future.”

“And wherefore not?” demanded Mrs Snow.

“Wherefore not?” echoed Graeme. “I can only say, that here I am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don’t usually increase with the years, after that. Fanny’s fears on my account have some foundation. Janet, do you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing?

“‘The lads that cast a glance at me
I dinna care to see,
And the lads that I would look at
Winna look at me.’

“Well, dear, you mustna be angry though I say it, but you may be ower ill to please. I told you that before, you’ll mind.”

“Oh! yes, I mind. But I convinced you of your error. Indeed, I look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for I am going to prove to you and Fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary.”

“But, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman’s lot. It is no’ ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but—”

“But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what I canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. They say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her.”

“But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week—him that Rosie was telling me of?”

“Rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. Nothing particular ailed me at him. I liked him very well till—. But we won’t speak of it.”

“Was he not good enough? He was a Christian man, and well off, and well-looking. What said your brother to your refusal?” persisted Janet.

“Oh! he said nothing. What could he say? He would have known nothing about it if I had had my will. A woman must decide these things for herself. I did what I thought right. I could not have done otherwise.”

“But, my love, you should consider—”

“Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur’s friend, and because it seems to be woman’s lot, and in the common course of things, and because I was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying ‘Yes,’ and going with him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?”

“That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. I canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no’ to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for the like of that.”

“Have I?” said Graeme. “I ought to have at my age.”

It was growing quite dark—too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme’s troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token.

“My dear,” said her friend, earnestly, “the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to ‘thole it,’ as they say.”

She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply.

“Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of God before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken.”

“It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I’ll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken.”

She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,—

“My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinna doubt me, dear?”

“I am not vexed, Janet,” said she. “And who could I trust if I doubted you?”

“And you are not to think that I am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna find you quite content here. And when I think of the home that your mother made so happy, I canna but wish to see you in a home of your own.”

“But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world,” Graeme forced herself to say.

“No, love, nor the chief thing—that is true,” said Mrs Snow.

“And even if it were,” continued Graeme, “there is more than one way to look for happiness. It seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed.”

“You mayna be the best judge of that,” said Mrs Snow, gravely.

“No, I suppose not,” said Graeme, with a laugh. “But I have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. Why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. In this very room I have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for God and man in the world.”

“My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. Why should you be surprised at that?”

“But, Janet, more do it than these people. Don’t you mind, the other day, when Mrs Grove was repeating that absurd story about Miss Lester, and I said to her that I did not believe Miss Lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer.”

“But, Miss Graeme, I meant no reflection on your friend, though I said that. I saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and I thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman.”

“Well,” said Graeme, with a long breath, “you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong.”

“That is but a small matter. And, my dear, I am no’ sure, and you canna be sure either, that Mrs Grove was altogether wrong. If, in her youth, some good man—not to say the best man on the face of the earth—had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?”

“There!—that is just what I dislike so much. That is just what Mrs Grove was hinting with regard to Miss Lester. If a woman lives single, it is from necessity—according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. I know that is not the case with regard to Miss Lester. But even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her—if she were an old maid from dire necessity—does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?—that life has been to her a failure?

“If she has failed in life; so do God’s angels. Janet, if I could only tell you half that she has done! I am not intimate with her, but I have many ways of knowing about her. If you could know all that she has done for her family! She was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. Then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. She helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. Her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. And she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. Half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. And to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! It incenses me!”

“My dear, I thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say.”

“But she is not the only one. Even Arthur sometimes provokes me. Because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. And because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. It is despicable.”

“But, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. She has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. Why should she not marry?”

“Don’t speak of it,” said Graeme, with great impatience; “and yet, as you say, why should she not? But that is not the question. What I declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one—and a happy one too. Who can doubt it? There is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. And the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as Mrs Dale, though she were to marry the Reverend Doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that God has given her in her work as a single woman.”

“I believe you, dear,” said Mrs Snow, warmly.

“And she is not the only one I could name,” continued Graeme. “She is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. But I know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. Some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people’s kitchens or nurseries—women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of ‘old maid,’ who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. Why should such a woman be pitied or despised, I wonder?”

“Miss Graeme, you look as though you thought I was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. Every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. But that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal.”

“It goes far to prove it—the chances of usefulness, at any rate.”

“No, my dear, because I dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. Put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she does fail in life, who falls short of that. In a certain sense, I say.”

“But it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!”

“Whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. That depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. But, my dear, what I say is this: As the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. And though it is a single woman’s duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with God’s help, it is no’ to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. My saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. Was it their own free choice that put them where they are? If they speak the truth, they will say ‘No.’ Either no man asked them—though that is rare—or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. They had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. Or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. Or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. Sometimes a woman’s life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past—that she is an ‘old maid.’ And if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her—so feared is she of the solitary life before her.”

“And,” said Graeme, in a low voice, “God is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon.”

“It is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what I was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman’s free choice that she finds herself alone in life. Sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. It is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. It is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. But does that end the pain? Does it make her strong to say it? May not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? I am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. My dear, folk may say what they like about woman’s sphere and woman’s mission—and great nonsense they have spoken of late—but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. There are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. Though why I should be saying all this to you, Miss Graeme, my dear, is mair than I ken.”

There was a long silence after this. Mrs Snow knew well that Graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. But her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid.

“We were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. It is a great work, and she is a noble woman. God bless her! And, dear, though I dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother’s house, it is not because I dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. I am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for God and man. It is partly that I am shy of new schemes, and partly because I am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because I think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. Whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you.

“I’m no’ saying but you might go away for a wee while. The change would do you good. You will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother Norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. But this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. And, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. But it will pass. Whist! my darling,” for Graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. “Whist, love; I am not asking about its coming or its causes. I am only bidding you have patience till it pass away.”

Graeme sat down again without a word. They sat a long time quite silent, and when Graeme spoke, it was to wonder that Arthur and the others were not come home.

“They must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. They will be as hungry as hawks. I must go and speak to Sarah.”

And she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need.

“But I must go all the same. I cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. Oh me! And I thought the worst was past, and Janet says it will never be quite past, till I am grown old.”

And Janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. She knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. She knew that Graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her.

“For, what could I say? I couldna bid her go. What good would that do, when she carries her care with her? And it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. I ken her better than she kens herself. Oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort I can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. Well, there is One she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and He can comfort her.”

Chapter Thirty Seven.

If, on the night of the day when Janet went away, Graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. And yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. They had not been eventful years—that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. But Graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked God, for contentment and a quiet heart.

That which outwardly characterised the time to Graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. At first all things had happened as had been planned. They made their preparations for their long talked of visit to Merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. Will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with Janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of Fanny’s illness—an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and Graeme did not need her brother’s agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. The summons came during a brief absence of Rose from Merleville, and was too imperative to admit of Graeme’s waiting for her return, so she was left behind. Afterwards, when Fanny’s danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother Norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over Graeme’s unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. The hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled Graeme to the thought, but when spring came, Fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would Norman consent to the return of Rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last.

The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was rather a dreary one. The restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to Fanny; and Graeme’s courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But all this changed as the hour of Fanny’s trial approached—the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out of the entire trust which Fanny had come to place in her sister Graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. The love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object—a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. And so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. Loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near.

Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother’s happiness was not secure in Fanny’s keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. Through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to Graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. One does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and Fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister’s mind, growing worthier of it every day.

Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much Arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. Life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. The small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. These hours in his wife’s sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! Fanny’s eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. The confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. Listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days.

They helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and Graeme helped them both. These were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. In caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own.

This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. Fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before.

That summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to Merleville, where Arthur joined them. It was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. It did Arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. They spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. Viewed in the light which shone from his father’s life and work, his own could not but seem to Arthur mean and worthless. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him.

Janet never spoke to Graeme of her old troubled thoughts. “It is all coming right with my bairn,” she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. And as the days went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched Fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to Graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,—a Fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. “It is coming right with them all.”

Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to Arthur and Fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. To Graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister’s face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but Arthur’s boy was three months old before she saw her sister. Will was still in Scotland, to stay for another year, at least Harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. A great change had taken place in his affairs. The firm of Elphinstone and Company no longer existed. It was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of Elliott, Millar and Company. Mr Ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. He lived in Scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. He had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father’s brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. Either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to Canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again.

Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. Up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. When he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. He was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. Even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place.

Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. Arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, Mr Elias Green, in more than in success.

“He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a ‘palatial residence’, and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. You seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, Graeme.”

“Discontented!” echoed Graeme. “It is with you, that I am discontented. How can you speak of anything so horrible? You don’t know Harry.”

“I know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as Harry’s. Success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. No, you need not look at Harry’s friend and partner. He is ‘tarred with the same stick,’ as Mrs Snow would say.”

Harry’s friend and partner, laughed.

“Mrs Snow would never say that about Mr Millar,” said Graeme indignantly, “nor about Harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that.”

“They may fail, or they may marry. I was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion.”

“Harry will never grow to be like Mr Green,” said Fanny, gravely. “Graeme will not let him.”

“There is something in that,” said Arthur.

“There is a great deal in that,” said Mr Millar.

“There are a great many to keep Harry from a fate like that, besides me,” said Graeme, “even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature.”

She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for.

“Graeme,” said Fanny, eagerly, “you don’t suppose Arthur is in earnest. He thinks there is no one like Harry.”

Arthur laughed.

“I don’t think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and Graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, I am afraid.”

“If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago,” said Graeme, laughing.

“Oh! that is quite another matter; but as to Harry, it is a good thing that Rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while,” added he, as his brother came into the room. “And you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don’t counteract your influence.”

“What is it all about?” said Harry. “Are you spoiling your son, Fanny? Is that the matter under discussion?”

“No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and I. We admire you quite too much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for Rose.”

“As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it,” said Harry. “If one is to believe what Norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there.”

“So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped,” said Graeme, with a little vexation. It was not Harry’s words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don’t think she tried to help it. Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour—her vocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather.”

“Harry, don’t! I can’t bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way.”

“Oh! my speaking of it can’t make any difference, you know; and if you don’t believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the last bit of news of Rosie.”

Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met Graeme’s eye.

“I don’t understand you, Harry—the least in the world,” said he.

“Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland’s letter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much.”

“Mr Green!” repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath.

“Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?” said Graeme, indignantly.

“The idea of Rose ever looking at him!” said Fanny.

“Oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm,” said Harry. “She might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation—”

“Harry,” said Fanny, solemnly, “if there is a word in the English language that Graeme hates it is that. Don’t say it again, I beg.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed and anxious.

“Miss Elliott,” said Charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, “I hope you don’t think me capable of discussing—or permitting—. I mean, in the letter to which Harry refers, your sister’s name was not mentioned. You have received a wrong impression. I am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way.”

“Charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, Graeme, you are as bad. Of course, Rosie’s name was not mentioned; but I know quite well, and so do you, who ‘La belle Canadienne’ was. But no harm was meant, and none was done.”

“It would be rather a good joke if Rosie were to rule in the ‘Palatial Residence’ after all, wouldn’t it?” said Arthur, laughing.

“Arthur, don’t! It is not nice to have the child’s name coupled with—with any one,” said Graeme.

“It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped,” said Harry. “It is the penalty that very pretty girls, like Rose, have to pay for their beauty—especially when they are aware of it—as Rose has good right to be by this time. Small blame to her.”

“And I don’t see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, Graeme,” said Arthur. “A great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without Rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you.”

“Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it,” said Graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. By and by Harry and his friend and partner rose to go. They lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which Rose had taken such pleasure in watching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly Nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office.

Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and then Mr Millar approached Graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,—

“I ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. I don’t think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. Won’t you just say so to me?”

“Charlie! I know you could not. You are one of ourselves.”

Charlie’s face brightened. Of late it had been “Mr Millar,” mostly—not that Graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. But this time it was, “Charlie,” and he was very much pleased.

“You have been quite a stronger, lately,” she went on; “but now that Mrs Elliott is better and Rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. We cannot bring the old times quite back, even with Harry and Rose, but we shall always be glad to see you.”

She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words.

“I hope there is nothing wrong,” said Graeme, observing his changing look.

“Nothing for which there is any help,” said he. “No there is nothing wrong.”

“I am ready, Charlie,” said Harry, coming forward. “And Graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about Rose’s conquests. When she goes to her own house—‘palatial’ or otherwise—and the sooner the better for all concerned—you are coming to take care of Charlie and me.”

“There may be two or three words to be said on that subject,” said Arthur, laughing.

“I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object; you have had Graeme all your life—at least for the last seven years. I should like to hear you, just. I am not joking, Graeme.”

Graeme laughed.

“There is no hurry about it, is there? I have heard of people changing their minds; and I won’t set my heart on it, in case I should be disappointed.”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

So Rose came home at last. Not just the Rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. Her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. She was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away.

She would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. But Arthur declared that she had become Americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. Harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for Harry admired the American ladies, and took in good part Rose’s hints and congratulations with regard to a certain Miss Cora Snider, an heiress and a beauty of C—. “A trifle older than Harry,” explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme; “but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things ‘being agreeable.’”

“Of course,” said Harry, with a shrug that set Graeme’s fancy at rest about Miss Cora Snider.

In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. Rose’s dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. With Graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away—a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister’s loving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She was very fond of Norman and Hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like Graeme, and there was no place like home. So she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Rosie of old times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. It was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. Admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, Graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on.

“It amuses me very much to hear Arthur say I am changed,” said Rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. “Why, if I had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which I daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. But what have you being doing to Fanny, Graeme?”

“Rose, my dear,” said Graeme, gravely, “Fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, I am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?”

“Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is concerned. For the better! I should think so. But then I fancied that Fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as Janet would say; and I confess, when I heard of the arrival of young Arthur, I was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with.”

“Now, Rosie, that is not quite kind.”

“But it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and what I said to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but I thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see Fanny’s faults, you know, even at the very first.”

Graeme shook her head.

“I think you must have forgotten about the very first. We were both foolish and faithless, then. It has all come right; Arthur is very happy in his wife, though I never thought it could be in those days.”

There was a long pause after that, and then Rose said,—

“You must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. I ought to have been here to help you, and I should have been, if I had known.”

“I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, or to endure. I am none the worse for it all.”

“No,” said Rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. Graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. Rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,—

“I think you have changed—improved—almost as much as Fanny, though there was not so much need.”

Graeme laughed, too.

“There was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. I am glad you see any.”

“I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, I am sure,” said Rose, as Fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. “I think I see an intention on your part to become stout. I don’t object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided.”

“Graeme too stout! How can you say such things, Rosie?” said Fanny, indignantly.

“She is not so slender as when I went away.”

“No, but she was too slender then. Arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do I.”

“Well, perhaps,” said Rose, moving believe to examine Graeme critically; “still I must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness—and other things.”

“It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny,” said Graeme, laughing; “it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with.”

“Fanny,” said Rose, “don’t contradict her. She says that on purpose to be contradicted. A middle-aged look, is it? I dare say it is!”

“A look of contentment with things as they are,” said Graeme. “There is a look of expectation on most young faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. I mean, of course, with single women. I suppose it is that with me; or, do I look as if I were settling down content with things as they are?”

“Graeme,” said her sister, “if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, I should say it sounded a little like affectation.”

“I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?”

“But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear,” said Fanny.

“How old are you, Graeme?” said Rose. “Middle-aged, indeed!”

“Rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? Shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?”

“Certainly not; by no means; I have no such intention, unless, indeed—. But we won’t speak about such unpleasant things. Fanny, shan’t I take the baby while you do that?”

“If you would like to take him,” said Fanny, with some hesitation.

Baby was a subject on which Rose and Fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. Rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as Fanny thought she ought to be. Even Graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. But Rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after Hilda’s strong, beautiful boys, Fanny’s little, delicate three months’ baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of Graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. But now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. Fanny was delighted. Happily Graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,—

“Well done, Rosie! If only Harry could hear you!”

“I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. You should see Hilda. Does not she preserve her equanimity? Fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission.”

“I thought—I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda as a model mother,” said Fanny, doubtfully.

“And a fond mother,” said Graeme.

“She is a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise,” said Rose, nodding her head. “I say no more.”

“Fanny dear, we shall have to learn of Rose. We are very inexperienced people, I fear,” said Graeme, smiling.

“Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should see Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?”

And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his Aunt Graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious.

“Rose,” said she, “tell me about Hilda’s way. I want to have the very best way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learn and to do right!”

Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the Fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child’s clasping fingers.

“She thinks I will never be like Hilda,” said Fanny, dolefully, to Graeme.

Rose shook her head.

“There are not many like Hilda; but I don’t see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. You have as good a teacher. No, don’t look at Graeme. I know what you mean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are more of us who could say the same—except for making her vain. It is this young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you.”

And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graeme and Fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense.

“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” said she, looking up in a little. “It is the mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to do with it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Think of my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself.”

“But, Rosie, dear,” said Graeme, still laughing, “Solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one.”

“Has he not? Well, that is Hilda’s mistake, then. She is responsible for my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it.”

“I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply.”

“Yes, it is wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, will you? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. I mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements Norman may have made.”

“I don’t think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn’t, and Fanny,” said Graeme, smiling.

“Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper,” said Rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,—

“I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville, to Emily’s wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for you and me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness.”

“Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine.”

“Graeme,” said Fanny, earnestly, “I don’t think Rose is spoiled in the least.”

Fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other.

“I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?” said Rose, laughing.

“No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and—”

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman’s. You must not mind what Harry says about me, Fanny, dear.”

“But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was not nice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there was something said about Mr Green. And he thought—one of them thought that you—that he—I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme? You were here as well as I.”

“I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice,” said Graeme. “I don’t quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering or repeating.”

“I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once,” said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.

“Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure.”

“And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about Mr Green,” said Fanny, “and about the ‘palatial residence,’ and how Rose, if she liked, might—”

Rose moved about impatiently.

“I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger,” said she, angrily.

“My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?”

Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes’ silence, Rose said, with an effort,—

“Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about.”

“Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in Mr Millar’s presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear.”

“It seems it was he who had most to say.”

“No. You are mistaken. Fanny did not remember correctly. It was either Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. I don’t think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don’t see why you should be angry about it, dear Rosie.”

“I am not angry. Why should I be angry?” But she reddened as she met Graeme’s eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise.

“Harry is—is unbearable sometimes,” said Rose. “Fancy his taking me to task about—about his friend— Oh! there is no use talking about it. Graeme, are you going out?”

“Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. There must be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. You must not be vain when I say so.”

“That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don’t let us speak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either.”

But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning Harry with regard to Rose’s cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again to Rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends.

How exactly like the old time before Arthur’s marriage, and before Will or Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness—the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the content that comes to us from God, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is God-given, and we need fear no evil.

So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to be returned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during Rose’s absence, and Fanny’s illness, took pleasure in going with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rose came out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in her intercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister’s amusement or its cause was best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthur that Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not that there were very many of these. Fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and Graeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal.

For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother’s household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on Arthur’s wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were Fanny’s. These could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. For Fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching:

It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother’s sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother’s duties. And every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem.

Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. Mr Millar did not quite fall into the place which Harry’s friend Charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. He had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. His brother’s determination not to return to Canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. Circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had hoped for a long time that Allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. He was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, Charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. But Will, who had visited Allan lately, assured Charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit Canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again.

“I should think not, indeed,” said Arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with Will’s last letter. “You don’t display your usual good judgment, Charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. Why should he return? He is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour—a competency in society congenial to him. Why should he wait for this longer than he need?”

“Twenty or thirty years!” said Harry. “Not if I know it. You are thinking of old times. But I must say I agree with Charlie. It is strange that Mr Ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. And to tell you the truth, I never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man—a great merchant.”

“It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, Harry,” said Rose, “but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects.”

“I don’t think Allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman—in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. His place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors.”

“Oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. It is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, Rose thinks,” said Arthur.

“His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. It was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by Allan’s uncle within ten years.”

“Yes, with the good money of a good merchant,” said Harry.

“And did he make it a condition that he should live on it?” said Arthur.

“No, I think not. Allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother.”

“Still he may think it his duty to live there.”

“I don’t know. It is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. I think the life suits him. My mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. He did not object decidedly. There seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. So he came to Canada.”

“I daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. I wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, Charlie.”

“I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don’t think it is so altogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. He might always have the going home to look forward to.”

“I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there,” said Harry.

“But I think you are hard on yourself, Mr Millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you,” said Graeme, smiling. “I could find a much nicer name for it than that.”

“I would like him to come for his own sake,” said Charlie. “As for me, I was just beginning to know him—to know how superior he is to most men, and then I lost him.” He paused a moment—

“I mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. I shall see him if I go home next summer, and I don’t despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least.”

“Will says he means to come some time. Perhaps he will come back with you, or with Will himself, when he comes,” said Rose.

“Oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less,” said Arthur. “It is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. Of course he may come any month. I don’t understand your desolation, Charlie.”

Charlie laughed. “When is Will coming?”

“It does not seem to be decided yet,” said Graeme. “He may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. It seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly.”

“What if Will should think like Mr Ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? How would you like that, girls?” said Harry.

“Oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. There is no family estate in his case,” said Rose, laughing.

“Who knows?” said Arthur. “There may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. That would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father’s youngest son. What would you say to that Graeme?”

“I would rather say nothing—think nothing about it,” said Graeme, hastily. “It is not likely that could ever happen. It will all be arranged for us, doubtless.”

“It was very stupid of you, Harry, to say anything of that sort to Graeme,” said Rose. “Now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. He never will, I know.”

“I shall not vex myself, indeed, Rosie—at least I shall not until I have some better reason for doing so, than Harry’s foolish speeches. Mr Millar, you said you might go home next summer. Is that something new? Or is it only new to us?”

“It is possible that I may go. Indeed, it is very likely. I shall know soon.”

“It depends on circumstances over which he has no control,” said Harry, impressively. “He has my best wishes, and he would have yours, Graeme, I think, if you knew about it.”

“He has them, though I don’t know about it,” said Graeme. “I have confidence in him that he deserves success.”

“Yes, it is safe to wish him success—if not in one thing, in another. I am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but I think I know what is good for him.”

“Rosie,” said Fanny, suddenly, “Mr Millar can set us right now. I am glad I thought of it. Mr Millar, is Mrs Roxbury your aunt, or only your brother’s?”

“I am afraid it is only Allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. I don’t think I can claim any relationship at all. I should have to consider, before I could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected.”

“It is much better not to consider the subject, then,” said Arthur, “as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go.”

“But at any rate she is not your aunt, and Amy Roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over Rose and me the other day. I told you so, Rosie.”

“Did you?” said Rose, languidly. “I don’t remember.”

“It was Mrs Gridley, I think, and she said—no, it must have been some one else—she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances.”

“Very true, too, eh, Charlie,” said Arthur, laughing.

“I should scarcely venture to call Miss Roxbury cousin,” said Charlie.

“She is very nice, indeed,” pursued Fanny. “Rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, I think.”

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

“That is, perhaps, a little strong, Fanny, dear. She is very charming, I have no doubt, but I am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as I used to be.”

“But you admired her very much. And you said she was very like Lily Elphinstone, when you first saw her. I am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did Graeme.”

“Did I?” said Rose.

“She is very like her,” said Mr Millar. “I did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. She is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. She is stronger than Lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady.”

“Fast, a little, perhaps,” said Arthur.

“Oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. She is self-reliant. She has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma’s. But she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. Such a number there are of them, too.”

Charlie spoke eagerly, looking at Graeme. “You seem deeply interested in her,” said Arthur, laughing.

Harry rose impatiently.

“We should have Mrs Gridley here. I never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. Your cousin would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, I have no doubt, Charlie.”

“But she is not his cousin,” said Fanny. “And Harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of Mr Millar. Of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross.” And Rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke.

Harry did look cross, and Charlie looked astonished. Graeme did not understand it.

“Was that young Roxbury I saw you driving with the other day?” asked Arthur. “He is going into business, I hear.”

“It was he,” said Charlie. “As to his going into business, I cannot say. He is quite young yet. He is not of age. Are you going, Harry? It is not very late yet.”

They did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. He was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate Harry, Graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. Then they had some music. Rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still.

“What put Harry out of sorts to-night?” asked Arthur.

“Was he out of sorts?” asked Graeme, a little anxiously.

Rose laughed.

“I shall have to give Harry some good advice,” said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said “good-night.”

“There is something wrong,” said Graeme to herself, “though I am sure I cannot tell what it is. In old times, Rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. But it is nothing that can trouble her, I am sure. I hope it is nothing that will trouble her. I will not fret about it beforehand. We do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. It ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. But, oh! Rosie, I am afraid I have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again.”

Chapter Forty One.

September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on Mrs Snow’s pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour—dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands.

It showed in Mr Snow’s face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of The Puritan, but the look that was coming and going on his wife’s face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand.

“Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?” said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence.

Mr Snow smiled.

“Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess,” said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window.

“It is a bonny day,” said Mrs Snow, softly.

“Yes, it is kind of pleasant.”

There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not needed between these two by this time. They had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world—so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day.

But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy.

“I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it.”

“It is good to see you sitting there,” said Mr Snow, for answer.

“Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do little else for the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, I’m afraid,” added she, with a sigh.

Mr Snow smiled.

“You know better than that,” said he. “I don’t suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at.”

“I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as God wills,” said his wife, gravely:

“I was willing you should go—yes, I do think I was willing you should go. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me,” said he, with a shudder. “It makes me kind of sick to think about it,” added he, rising and moving about. “I believe I was willing, but I am dreadful glad to see you sitting there.”

“I am glad to be here, since it is God’s will. It is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. I think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. But I am content to be here, and to serve Him, whether it be by working or by waiting.”

“On the very brink,” repeated Mr Snow, musingly. “Well, it did look like that, one while. I wonder if I was really willing to have you go. It don’t seem now as if I could have been—being so glad as I am that you did not go, and so thankful.”

“I don’t think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as I do, and myself as well, I wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness.”

This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr Snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till Mrs Snow spoke again.

“I thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, I feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and I am more glad to live than I have been any day yet.”

Mr Snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. It was not easy for him to speak at the moment.

“If it were only May, now, instead of September! You always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. I do dread the winter for you.”

“Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the best of it anyway. I am thankful for ease from pain. That is much.”

“Yes,” said Mr Snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife’s sufferings, “thank God for that. I ain’t a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if I can help it. I am going to live, if I can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if I could fix it so that Graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I expect.”

“But she has said nothing about going away yet,” said Mrs Snow, smiling at his way of putting it. “You must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure.”

“We never can tell how things are going to turn,” said Mr Snow, musingly. “There is that good come out of your sickness. They are both here, and, as far as I see, they are content to be here. If we could prevail on Will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, I don’t doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always—right here in this house, I mean—only it would be ’most too good a thing to have in this world, I’m afraid.”

“We must wait for the leadings of Providence,” said his wife. “This field, as you call it, is no’ at Will’s taking yet. What would your friend, Mr Perry, think if he heard you? And as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. But, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than I can put in words; and I know you are as pleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me,” added Mrs Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. “It might have been so different.”

“Oh! come, now. It ain’t worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. I don’t know as you’d allow it exactly; but I do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. I really do.”

“That’s saying much, but I’ll no’ gainsay it,” said Mrs Snow, smiling. “They are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. But I doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us.”

“It is amazing to me. I can’t seem to understand it, or reconcile it to—.”

Mr Snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added:

“However, she don’t worry about it. She is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and I rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last.”

“About Miss Graeme, was it?” said Mrs Snow, with a smile; “maybe I did. I was as good at that as at most things. Yes, she is content with life, now. God’s peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. I need not have been afraid.”

“Rosie’s sobered down some, don’t you think?” said Mr Snow, with some hesitation. “She used to be as lively as a cricket. Maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different.”

“She’s older and wiser, and she’ll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do,” said Mrs Snow. “I have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. But I have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, I may not have taken notice. Her sister is not anxious about her; I would have seen that. The bairn is gathering sense—that is all, I think.”

“Well! yes. It will be all right. I don’t suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and I might have known better than to vex you with it.”

“Indeed, you have not vexed me, and I am not going to vex myself with any such thought. It will all come right, as you say. I have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. ‘And hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,’” added Mrs Snow, softly. “That is the way with my bairn, I believe. Thank God. And they’ll both be the better for this quiet time, and we’ll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. See, they are coming down the brae together. It is good to see them.”

The first weeks of their stay in Merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. Long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, Mrs Snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. To Mr Snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and Janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds.

By a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. Not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide God’s time.

After that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. To Graeme it was a very peaceful time. Watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. Graeme was, in Janet’s eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. If she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. She was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own—the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love.

“And yet who knows?” said she to herself. “One can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that God has not given her. ‘A contented mind is a continual feast,’ says the Book. She has that. And ‘Blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.’ What would I have? I’ll make no plans, and I’ll make no wishes. It is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, I am sure of that. As for her sister—. Well, I suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. And it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest.”

Still, after her husband’s words, Mrs Snow regarded Rose’s movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. It was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. She was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. It was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. It was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. She was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house.

She was cheerful and busy too, Mrs Snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of Hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. She took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented Mr Snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all.

By and by Mrs Snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. More than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in Graeme’s eyes as they followed her sister’s movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both.

They were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. Rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and Mrs Snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to Graeme about her sister. Before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by Hannah’s voice coming round the corner—

“Rose,” it said, “hadn’t you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? ’Cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to Emily’s and borrow some yeast. I don’t calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat’s been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and I want a little to set some more to rising.”

“Hannah,” said Rose, with a penitent face, “I am afraid it was my fault. I left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as I ought. I am very sorry.”

“Well, I thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn’t me,” said Hannah, grimly. “That jug has held the yeast in this house since Grandma Snow’s time, and now it’s broke to forty pieces.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Rose.

“Well, I guess it don’t matter a great sight. Nobody will worry about it, if I don’t, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk. But I guess you’d better tell Emily how it happened. I’d a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t’other side. I wouldn’t have asked you, only I thought you’d rather go than not. That walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. But don’t you go if you don’t want to.”

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh! I’ll go, and I’ll tell Mrs Nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat’s. Mrs Snow,” said she, presenting herself at the window, “did you hear what Hannah has been saying? I have broken Grandma Snow’s yeast jug into forty pieces, and I am to go and confess to Emily, and get some yeast.”

“I thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. However, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to Hannah.”

“And let Emily know that it is my fault and not Hannah’s that more yeast is needed. Graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?”

“You can go and do Hannah’s errand, now, and I will stay with Mrs Snow, and we will walk together later,” said Graeme.

“And you might bring wee Rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. But there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you.”

“Is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e’en?” asked Mrs Snow, after a moment’s silence.

“Troubled e’en!” repeated Graeme. “No, I don’t think there is anything the matter with her. Do you? Why should you think there is anything the matter with her, Janet?”

“My dear, I was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her—a look that contradicts your words—a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said.”

“Did I look troubled? I don’t think there is any reason for it on Rosie’s account—any that can be told. I mean I can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. Just for a minute, now and then, I have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because I think there is anything seriously wrong with Rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. But oh, Janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love.”

“I canna agree with you, my dear. It would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. But well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful.”

“But I do not, indeed. Just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. I am foolish, I suppose, but it always does.”

“I daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles,” said Mrs Snow, gravely. “I mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. But if you don’t like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner.”

“Hannah has done it for me this time—I am not sure, however.” For Rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, “thinking her own thoughts, doubtless,” Graeme said to herself.

“She’s waiting for some one, maybe. I daresay Sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come.”

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” continued Mrs Snow, in a little, “it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you’ll be expected to do, now that I am better. It will be a while, before you’ll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Graeme. “It is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. And we have seen almost everybody already. And I like this quiet time much best.”

“But, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. And it will be good for Rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your Merleville friends, dear! That would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you.”

“No, indeed! I have not lost interest in my Merleville friends. There will never be any place just like Merleville to me. Our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. I can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, Janet—till the very end.”

“My dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. There was the going away of the lads, for one thing. I mind well you thought those partings hard to bear.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Graeme, gravely, “but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid.”

“My dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. If you mean for Rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, you have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. And looking at you, love, and knowing that the ‘great peace,’ the Book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, I have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you.”

Graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,—

“I am not afraid. I cannot think what I have said, Janet, to make you think I am afraid for Rosie.”

“My dear, you have said nothing. It was the wistful look in your e’en that made me speak to you about her. And besides, I have noticed Rosie myself. She is not so light of heart as she used to be. It may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. But whatever it is, I am not afraid for Rose. I am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. There can be no good in that, you know well.”

“But I am not vexing myself, Janet, indeed. I will tell you what I know about it. Do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that I must go away? Well, Rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. It has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, I suppose, and I hope it may pass away. For, oh! Janet, I shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and I have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one’s hand to do, seeing they are sent by God, as well as nobler work. But it is not so with Rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, Janet, that I follow her with anxious eyes.”

There was no more said for a moment. They were both watching Rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill.

“She doesna look like one that has much the matter with her,” said Mrs Snow. “Miss Graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? Why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that I ought to ask?”

“Janet, I cannot tell you. I do not know. I can but guess at it myself, and I may be all wrong. And I think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. Sometimes I have thought it might all be set right, if Rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and I think, Janet, we can only wait and see. I don’t believe there is much cause for fear, if only Rose will have patience.”

“Then, wherefore should you look so troubled? Nothing but wrong-doing on your sister’s part should make you look like that.” For there were tears in Graeme’s eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid.

“Wrong-doing,” repeated she, with a start. Then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. Was it “wrong-doing” in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? If this was indeed the thing that had happened to Rose? Or was it “wrong-doing” to come to the knowledge of one’s heart too late, as Harry had once hinted might be the end of Rosie’s foolish love of admiration?

“Wrong-doing,” she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. “No, that must never be said of Rose. It must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself Janet, a little ago. And it won’t do to discuss it, anyway. See, Rose has opened the gate for some one. Who is coming in?”

“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely, “it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that I should not. It is Sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee Rosie. He has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well.”

“But, Janet,” said Graeme, eagerly, “you know I could not mean that I could not tell you if I were ever so willing. I do not know. I can only guess; but as for ‘wrong-doing’—”

“My dear, you needna tell me that. Sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you—you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. Is it safe for the bairn, think you? Do you like that way of riding, my wee Rosie?”

“Yes, gamma, I ’ike it,” lisped the two years old Rosie, smiling brightly.

“It is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. And as for what the village folk may think, that’s a new thing for you to ask. It is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both Rosie and me.” And looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted.

“It must be delightful,” said Rose, laughing. “I should like a ride myself, wee Rosie.”

“And why not?” said Mrs Snow. “Sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. Have you your habit here, my dear? Why should you no’ bring young Major or Dandy over, saddled for Miss Rose? It would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this.”

“There is no reason in the world why I should not, if Miss Rose, would like it.”

“I would like it very much. Not that I need the good of it especially, but I shall enjoy the pleasure of it. And will you let wee Rosie come with me.”

“If grandma has no objections,” said Sandy, laughing. “But it must be old Major, if you take her.”

“Did ever anybody hear such nonsense?” said Mrs Snow, impatiently. “But you’ll need to haste, Sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away.”

“Yes, I should not wonder. I saw Mr Perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. But I could bring young Major and Dandy too, and Miss Rose needn’t be kept at home then.”

Rose laughed merrily.

“Who? The minister? Oh! fie, Sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. Wee Rosie, are you no’ going to stay the day with Miss Graeme and me?” said Mrs Snow.

Graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move.

“Will you bide with grannie, wee Rosie?” asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face.

“Tum adain Grannie,” said the little girl, gravely. She was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. Her father laughed.

“She shall come when I bring over Dandy for Miss Rose. In the meantime, I have something for some one here.”

“Letters,” said Graeme and Rose, in a breath.

“One a piece. Good news, I hope. I shall soon be back again, Miss Rose, with Dandy.”

Graeme’s letter was from Will, written after having heard of his sisters being in Merleville, before he had heard of Mrs Snow’s recovery. He had thought once of coming home with Mr Millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. He was staying at present with Mrs Millar, who was “one of a thousand,” wrote Will, with enthusiasm, “and, indeed, so is, her son, Mr Ruthven, but you know Allan, of old.” And then he went on to other things.

Graeme read the letter first herself, and then to Mrs Snow and Rose. In the midst of it Mr Snow came in. Rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss Will’s.

“It is from Fanny,” said she, at last. “You can read it to Mrs Snow, if you like, Graeme. It is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. I will go and put on my habit for my ride. Uncle Sampson come with me, won’t you? Have you anything particular to do to-day?”

“To ride?” said Mr Snow. “I’d as lieve go as not, and a little rather—if you’ll promise to take it moderate. I should like the chaise full better than the saddle, I guess, though.”

Rose laughed.

“I will promise to let you take it moderate. I am not afraid to go alone, if you don’t want to ride. But I shouldn’t fancy the chaise to-day. A good gallop is just what I want, I think.”

She went to prepare for her ride, and Graeme read Fanny’s letter. It was, as Rose had said, a record of her darling’s pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. Then there were a few words at the end.

“Harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see Norman and Hilda, before you see home again. Harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. I hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. He has been quite too much taken up with his little Amy, to think of us. However, I promised Mr Millar I would say nothing of that bit of news. He must tell you about it himself. He has a great deal of Scottish news, but I should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and I think it is quite possible that Harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. But I suppose he will give you fair warning,” and so on.

Graeme closed the letter, saying nothing.

“It is not just very clear, I think,” said Mrs Snow.

“Is it not?” said Graeme. “I did not notice. Of course, it is all nonsense about Harry coming to take us home.”

“And who is little Miss Amy, that she speaks of? Is she a friend of your brother Harry? Or is she Mr Millar’s friend? Mrs Arthur doesna seem to make it clear?”

“Miss Amy Roxbury,” said Graeme, opening her letter again. “Does she not make it plain? Oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. I suppose Harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if Mr Millar goes elsewhere. Indeed, I don’t understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon I daresay. Ah! here is Rosie.”

“And here is Dandy,” said Rose, coming in with her habit on. “And here is wee Rosie come to keep you company while I am away. And here is Mr Snow, on old Major. Don’t expect us home till night. We shall have a day of it, shall we not?”

They had a very quiet day at home. Wee Rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and Graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. She was a bonny little creature, with her father’s blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that Graeme remembered in her mother as a child.

In the afternoon, Emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. At least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. But, when Graeme read the letters again to Emily, Mrs Snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going West, or about little Amy, or about Harry’s coming to take them home. But her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child’s play with the little ones. But never a word was spoken about anything sad. And, by and by, visitors came, and Mrs Snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. But when Rose and Mr Snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them.

Chapter Forty Three.

“Eh, bairns! is it no’ a bonny day!” said Mrs Snow, breaking into Scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a little moved. “I ay mind the first look I got o’ the hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. We all came round the water on a Saturday afternoon like this; and Norman and Harry took turns in carrying wee Rosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. Eh, bairns! if I could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all the ‘goodness and mercy’ that has passed before us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been rebuked!”

They were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at Mr Nasmyth’s, and Mr Millar was with them. Nothing more had been said about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, “his looks belied him,” as Miss Lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched them, all going up the hill together. They were going very slowly, because of Mrs Snow’s lingering weakness. One of the few of the “Scotch prejudices!” that remained with her after all these years, was the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of Mr Snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon.

“It is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the bairns,” said she, and she got her own way.

It was a “bonny day,” mild, bright, and still. The autumnal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though October was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. They had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing over the pond to the hills beyond, as Mrs Snow spoke.

“Yes, I mind,” said Graeme.

“And I mind, too,” said Rose, softly.

“It’s a bonny place,” said Mrs Snow, in a little, “and it has changed but little in all those years. The woods have gone back a little on some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes.”

“The old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used,” said Rose, regretfully.

“Ay, it has that. I mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when I first saw it from the side of the water. That was before I had been in it, or very near it. But I learnt to love it for better things than stateliness, before very long. I was ill-pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better.”

“Yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with wallflowers and ivy growing over it,” said Graeme.

“Yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful things. The old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now.”

“Yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering shingles. But I wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. We shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red brick affair that the Merleville people are so proud of.”

And so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly old meeting-house—things that had happened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. Those happy, happy days!

“Oh! well,” said Mrs Snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, “it’s a bonny place, and I have learnt to love it well. But if any one had told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in my ears.”

“Ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, Janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me,” said Graeme. “It would have comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you now, and with Sandy.”

“I am not so sure of that, my dear. We are untoward creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like brightness then. No love, the changes that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have dismayed me, could I have seen them before me. It is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings.”

“Ah! if we could always do that!” said Graeme, sighing.

“My bairn, we can. Though I mind, even in those old happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow’s burden to the burden of to-day. But that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the Lord’s goodness, to you and yours. What would you wish changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we looked on the bonny hills and valleys of Merleville?”

“Janet,” said Graeme, speaking low, “death has come to us since that day.”

“Ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be grieved for least of all. Think of them all these years, among the hills of Heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. And think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his having speech with David, and Paul, and with our Lord himself—”

Janet’s voice faltered, and Graeme clasped softly the withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered Sandy and Emily’s joyful greeting at the door.

Rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves beneath the elms. Graeme came down again, there, and Mr Nasmyth came to speak to them, and so did Emily, but they did not stay long; and by and by Rose was left alone with Mr Millar, for the very first time during his visit. Not that she was really alone with him, for all the rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright October sunshine. She could join them in a moment, she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. All this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen leaves toward the gate on which Mr Millar was leaning; and then she saw that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him to let her pass. But, of course, there could be no occasion for that.

“How clearly we can see the shadows in the water,” said she, for the sake of saying something. “Look over yonder, at the point where the cedar trees grow low. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see,” said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. “Rose, do you know why I came here?”

Rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all sitting so quietly.

“It was to bring us news of Will, wasn’t it? And to see Merleville?” said she.

Did she say it? Or had she only thought of it? She was not sure, a minute after, for Mr Millar went on as if he had heard nothing.

“I came to ask you to be my wife.”

Did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the time? She did not know. She was not sure; but she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word.

“You know I have loved you always—since the night that Harry took me home with him. My fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. Rose, you must know I love you, dearly. I have only that to plead. I know I am not worthy of you, except for the love I bear you.”

He had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated,—

“I know I am not worthy.”

“Oh! Charlie, don’t say such foolish words to me.” And Rose gave him a single glimpse of her face. It was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which separated them trembled, though Rose did not look up to see it.

“Rosie,” he whispered, “come down to the brook and show me Harry’s waterfall.”

Rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in it; and when Charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did not withdraw it, and they went over the field together.

Graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward Mrs Snow, with a long breath.

“It has come at last, Janet,” said she.

“I shouldna wonder, dear. But it is no’ a thing to grieve over, if it has come.”

“No. And I am not going to grieve. I am glad, even though I have to seek my fortune, all alone. But I have Will, yet,” added she, in a little. “There is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. I am sure of Will, at least.”

Mrs Snow smiled and shook her head.

“Will’s time will come, doubtless. You are not to build a castle for yourself and Will, unless you make room for more than just you two in it, dear.”

Emily listened, smiling.

“It would be as well to leave the building of Will’s castle to himself,” said she.

“Ah! yes, I suppose so,” said Graeme, with a sigh. “One must build for one’s self. But, Emily, dear, I built Rosie’s castle. I have wished for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long long time. I have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble down about my ears, but Charlie has put his hand to the work, now, in right good earnest, and I think my castle will stand.”

“See here, Emily,” said Mr Snow, coming in an hour or two later, “if Mr Millar thinks of catching the cars for Boston, this evening, you’ll have to hurry up your tea.”

“But he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing,” said Mrs Snow. “Dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for Boston.”

“Why no, mother, I ain’t. He spoke about it this morning, himself, or I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t. I’ll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad.”

“He is going to stay and hear the minister preach,” said Graeme. “You know you asked him, and I’m sure he will enjoy it.”

“He is a good preacher,” said Mr Snow, gravely.

“And he’s a good practiser, which is far better,” said his wife. “But I doubt, deacon, you’ll need to put him out of your head now. Look down yonder, and tell me if you think Rosie is likely to bide in Merleville.”

And the deacon, looking, saw Mr Millar and Rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than Mr Snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. Mr Millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for Rose, Mr Snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment.

“Well,” said his wife, softly.

“Well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see,” said Mr Snow. He nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on Graeme.

His wife smiled.

“No, I am afraid not. Every one must build his own castle, as I heard her saying—or was it Emily? this very afternoon. But we needna trouble ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. It is all in good hands.”

“And, Rosie dear, all this might have happened at Norman’s last year, if only Charlie had been bolder, and Harry not so wise.”

The sisters were in their own room together. A good deal had been said before this time that need not be repeated. Graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about Charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, Rose was as happy, as happy could be. But when Graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face.

“I don’t know, Graeme. Perhaps it might; but I am not sure. I did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is.”

“Harry will be glad,” said Graeme. Indeed, she had said that before.

Rose laughed.

“Dear, wise Harry! He always said Charlie was pure gold.”

“And so he is,” said Graeme.

“I know it, Graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me.” And Rose laid down her cheek upon her sister’s lap, with a little sob. “Ah! if he only knew, I am afraid—”

“Dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about Harry. You love one another, and you need not be afraid.”

They were silent for a long time after that, and then Rose said, flushing a little,—

“And, Graeme, dear, Charlie says—but I promised not to tell—”

“Well, you must not, then,” said Graeme, smiling, with just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, Rose, and her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to her.

“Not that it is a secret, Graeme,” said her sister, eagerly.

“It is something that Charlie has very much at heart, but I am not so sure myself. But it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. Graeme, Charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you.”

Graeme laughed.

“Except you, Rosie.”

“I am not good, Graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you know. But I will try and be good, now, indeed I will.”

“My darling,” murmured Graeme, “I am so glad for you—so glad and thankful. We ought to be good. God has been very good to us all.”

Of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters to their old friend. Mr Millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the Winter had quite set in before they went home. Mrs Snow was well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again.

“But, whether or not,” said she, cheerfully, “I shall ay be glad and thankful for the quiet time we have had together. There are few who can say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or their lot; but I do say that of all your father’s bairns. No’ but that there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that I canna see, and maybe some that I can see; but when the face is set in the right airt (direction) all winds waft onward, and that, I trust, is true of you all. And, Rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full cup, as I have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, ‘Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,’ and, ‘the foundation of God standeth sure.’ Miss Graeme, my dear, ‘They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,’ as you have learnt yourself long syne. God bless you both, and farewell.”

They had a very quiet and happy winter. They had to make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, Harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little Amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made plain to him by Mrs Roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought of. Her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted at least one season to see something of society before her marriage. She was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a gentleman, and she had other daughters growing up. Still it was right that Amy should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the irrevocable step was taken. If Mrs Roxbury could have had her way about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding.

And so the pretty Amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. As for Harry, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which Amy’s constancy was exposed. But they were not afraid for her. Every visit she made them—and many quiet mornings she passed with them—they became more assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, and so they thought Harry unreasonable in his impatience, and told him so, sometimes.

“A little vexation and suspense will do Harry no harm,” said Arthur. “Events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. In he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to Miss Roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every particular. A little suspense will do him good.”

Which was very hard-hearted on Arthur’s part, as his wife told him.

“And, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling Harry,” said Rose. “He knows quite well how it is to end. It is only a momentary vexation. And I don’t say, myself, it will do Harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. One values what it costs one some trouble to have and to hold.”

“Rose, you are as bad as Arthur,” said Fanny.

“Am I? Oh! I do not mean that Harry doesn’t value little Amy enough; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much.”

“It is you who are foolish, now, Rose,” said her sister. “Harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and Amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. No wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. But it will soon be over now.”

“Who knows? ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,’ you know,” said Arthur. “Who knows but Harry may be the victim among us? Our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. Witness Rosie’s success. It would make a little variety to have an interruption.”

But Harry was not destined to be a victim. As the winter wore over, Mrs Roxbury relented, and “listened to reason on the subject,” Harry said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual occupation in the Roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to throw Rosie’s modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. But Rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of Harry’s bride. As for little Amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very coolly. Mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little bride than she.

At first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. It would be inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be shortened. And besides, the magnificence of the Roxbury plans, would involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient; and Rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the home Charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that Harry’s marriage should take place in the latter part of April, and the other early in the summer.

But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from Mr Ruthven to Graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing.

The next letter and the next, brought no better news. It was a time of great anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of all. As the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. It was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself “she might, at least, have been with him at the last.”

He would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. If she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful Graeme thought. Her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days.

She did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from Mrs Snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her.

“My bairn,” she said, “are you not among those whom nothing can harm? Absolutely nothing! Whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for him, and nothing for yourself. I think he will be spared to do God’s work for a while yet. But dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor I would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our Father’s part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass.”

Their suspense did not last very long after this. Mr Ruthven’s weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon Will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where Mrs Millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. There was no hope of his being able to be home to Harry’s marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of Rosie Elliott, and the first of his new brother Charlie.

There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, “Brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. I am glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme, and for the sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do.”

After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. It was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. Amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. There were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and Saint Andrew’s was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. The breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride’s travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself.

Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked God in her heart, for the happiness of her brother Harry. Yes, and for the happiness of her brother Arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised Fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. They were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but Arthur.

“Graeme’s heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion,” said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased.

After this they had a few happy weeks. Rosie’s preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly from Will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. They were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another’s expense, generally given by Will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified Mr Ruthven, whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. But before that time, great news had come from another quarter. Norman and his family were coming East. A succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the Gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. Graeme was to go with them. As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but Graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the West, when their summer holiday should be over.

This was Norman’s view of the matter. Graeme’s plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. In the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and Graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding.

“And if only Will comes, we shall all be together again once more,” said she, with a long breath.

“To say nothing of Norman’s boys, and his wonderful daughter, and Fanny’s young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, I think,” said Rose.

“We will have a house full and a merry wedding,” said Arthur. “Though it won’t be as grand as the other one, Rosie, I’m afraid. If we only could have Mrs Snow here, Graeme?”

Graeme shook her head.

“I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. Not that she is ill, but Mr Snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. I am afraid it is not to be thought of?”

“Never mind—Charlie and Rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. That will be the next best thing to having her here. And by the time you are ready for the altar, Graeme, Janet will come, you may be sure of that.”

June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at Harry’s house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again in Rosie’s case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time—Norman’s coming, and Will’s. They might come any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that Will’s last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed.

“There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least there will be none for me,” she said to herself, but added, impatiently, “What would I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safe and well at home again.”

But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. She laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn as she had done for the pain. And then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme—the coming of Norman and Hilda and their boys.

“I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blame Charlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were only safe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house is full. My boy!—who is really more mine than any of the others—all that I have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my going home with Norman and Hilda—that must be decided later, as Will shall make his plans. My boy!—how can I ever wait for his coming?”

It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone.

“I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don’t feel as though I could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wish Sarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonder who they are!”

Sarah’s face was illuminated.

“You have come at last, Miss Elliott,” said she.

“Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? You are expected elsewhere.”

It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,—

“Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you;” and her hand was clasped in that of Allan Ruthven.