Chapter Twenty One.

A Meeting.

Mr Dawson and Miss Jean were sitting on the terrace by the parlour window as they went in. Jean knew by many signs that her father and Marion had come to be very good friends, and she was prepared to see him give her a warm and kindly welcome. But she was a little surprised at the ease and pleasure with which Marion met him. She did not turn away after a shy brief greeting, as the young people who came there were rather apt to do, but smiled brightly and answered merrily when he asked her whether she had enjoyed all that she had expected to enjoy when she came to Portie. And then she sat down on the grass at Miss Jean’s feet, and looked round with a sigh of satisfaction at “the bonny place.”

“What kept you on the way?” asked Miss Jean. “Oh! we came round by the shore,” said her niece, “and we sat a while at the Tangle Stanes, and then we went in to see Mrs Cairnie—and by the by—we didna see her after all.”

“She was sleeping,” said Marion.

“And we were admiring the fine things that Captain Saugster has been gathering for his bride,” said Jean.

“That would hardly have kept you long,” said Mr Dawson. “A few chairs and a table, and a bed and blankets, and some dishes.”

“But we saw more than that; didna we, Marion?”

“Yes. Even Annie herself wasna thinking of chairs and tables and dishes. It was of the new home that is to be there, we were thinking, and it never might have been, if—Jean, tell them what Annie said.”

“Tell it yourself,” said Jean.

“I canna just mind all,” said Marion with hesitation. “But it was to Mr George Dawson that they owed it all—their happiness, I mean—and that it was a grand thing to have a hand in saving such a lad as Tam.”

“She thinks muckle o’ Tam, it seems,” said Mr Dawson laughing. “And he is a good sailor, if he can only keep hold o’ himsel’ where the drink is concerned.”

“His Master will keep hold of him, I trust,” said Miss Jean.

“And is he to sail the ‘John Seaton,’ papa?” asked Jean.

“That is what George says. There is a risk, but we’ll take it, and Tam will be none the less safe for the responsibility, let us hope.”

“Annie is proud and glad, and so are all the Saugsters,” said Marion.

“But the proudest and gladdest of all must be—George.”

“Ay, even the angels are glad over a sinner repenting,” said Miss Jean.

Mr Dawson looked from one to the other.

“Saved, is he! And George did it? But Tam has hardly been tried yet.”

“Oh! yes. He is surely to be trusted now. Three whole years since he has touched a glass. Yes, nearly three years Annie told me once—and I think she wouldna be vexed at my telling you, because—George belongs to you,” said Marion, turning a soft bright glance on Mr Dawson. She rose in her eagerness, and stood before them, and with softened voice and changing colour told the story of one dark night on board the “John Seaton,” when some kind word of George’s had touched a sore spot in poor Tam Saugster’s remorseful heart, and had opened his lips to utter all his shame and sorrow over a life worse than wasted. The very first thought of hope that had come to Tam since Annie forsook him, came when George laughed at him for saying that his life was nearly over. He was but a lad yet, and his life was before him, and the way was to let the past be past, and begin again with better help than he had asked for yet. And Tam was not ashamed to say that his tears had fallen fast into the sea as he listened, and if he had been his own brother, George could not have been more patient with him, or have done more for him than he had done. “And I think,” added Marion, turning her shining eyes on the old man, “that George must be even happier than his friend.”

She paused suddenly, turning a startled look to Miss Jean, who had gently touched her hand. Jean was looking at her father with a smile upon her lips, but he was looking away to the sea.

“Shouldna I have said it? Was it wrong? Tell me what you are thinking about, Miss Jean,” said Marion in dismay.

“I’m thinking the wind has been making free with your hair, my lassie, and it is near tea-time.”

Jean kissed her laughing.

“Come with me and put your hair in order, as auntie says. No, never mind. There is nothing to look grave about. It was only that my aunt was surprised to hear any body say so many words to my father, and about George too. Oh! yes, he liked it, you may be sure. I’m glad that he heard it anyway.”

“But I’m afraid that Miss Jean must have thought me—forward,” said Marion, hesitating over the hateful word.

“Nonsense, you are not a child any longer. And she was as well pleased as I am that my father should hear it all.”

It was Mr Dawson who broke the silence that fell on them when the girls went away.

“She is an outspoken lassie yon.”

“Ye canna judge her as ye might any o’ the common sort,” said Miss Jean shortly.

“I’m no’ seeking to judge her. She seems a nice lassie enough. I like her frank, free way.”

“She’s but a bairn—though she is the height of our Jean, and coming on to womanhood,” said Miss Jean with a sigh.

“Ay. She is a weel grown lassie,” said Mr Dawson, rising, and then he went away and moved up and down the walks, pausing at shrub or tree, or flower bed, as his manner was when he was at leisure, and he only returned in time to give Miss Jean his arm when they were called into the house.

That evening they were so fortunate as to have the company of James Petrie and his sisters, and several other young people, among whom was Mr Charles Scott, to whom the eldest Miss Petrie was engaged. The young people enjoyed themselves, but Marion was not able to forget the touch of Miss Jean’s fingers upon her arm, and she was rather grave and silent, the others thought. They had music, in which she took her part, singing a song or two, and then Miss Petrie played her masterpiece, a very grand piece indeed, in the midst of which Mr Dawson went out to the little gate to wait for his son.

He had gone there many times since that first night of his son’s coming home. He did not always wait till he came in sight. He moved away sometimes, as his footsteps drew near, slow to acknowledge to himself, or to let his son see how much his home coming meant to him. But to-night he waited.

“There are young folk at the house to-night,” said he, as though giving a reason for being in the garden at that hour.

“The Petries are there, and young Scott, who seems to be one of them. And your aunt is over and her visitor. Will you go and see them?”

“Oh! yes, surely; only I would need to go upstairs first. Jamie Petrie! What brings him here? I thought that was over,” said George with a laugh.

“Is it Jean you mean?” said Mr Dawson gravely. “But it’s no’ Jean the nicht.”

Very evidently it was not Jean, Mr Dawson thought when he went in again. Young Mr Petrie had eyes for only one, and that was Marion, who, sitting at Miss Jean’s side, seemed busy with a piece of worsted work. Mr Petrie was talking eagerly and confidentially, as though he had a right as well as a pleasure in doing so.

“He has put Jean out of his head soon enough,” said Mr Dawson to himself, by way of accounting for the uncomfortable feeling of which he was conscious at the sight.

“Are we to have no more music? Will you not give us another song, Miss Petrie?” said he.

Certainly Miss Petrie would give him more than one, but Marion Calderwood must come with her—not to sing, but to turn her music for her, a task to which Mr Scott was not quite equal. And so it happened that Marion was standing gravely at her side, in the full light of the lamp, when George came to the door of the room. He stood for a moment, with his eyes, full of wonder and pain, on the fair thoughtful face of the girl, and his father saw him grow white as he gazed.

“He hasna forgotten,” thought he with a sudden, sharp pang of regret and anger.

Would the memory of the dead girl ever stand between him and his son? He had not thought Marion like her sister; but as he saw her now, standing so still with a face of unwonted gravity, there came a vivid remembrance of the young girl who in his hearing had said so quietly and firmly to her mother,—

“He will never forget me, and I will never give him up.”

“She should never have been brought here. What could Jean have been thinking about? What could I have been thinking about myself?”

When he looked again George was gone. When, however, he came into the dining-room, where they were all assembled later, he appeared just as usual, and greeted the young people merrily enough. But Mr Dawson forgot to notice him particularly, so startled was he by the sudden brightness of Marion’s face at the sight of him. George did not see her at first—at least he did not seem to see her, and she stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, her smile growing a little wistful as she waited for his coming. Miss Jean looked grave as she watched her.

“George,” said his sister, laying her hand on Marion’s and drawing her forward, “George, who is this? Have you forgotten our wee Maysie?”

No, that was not likely, he said; but he could scarcely have been more ceremoniously polite in his greeting had she been a strange young lady from London, and not the Marion whom he had petted and played with as a child. He lingered a moment beside her, asking about her mother, and if there had been any news from her brother, and then he went to his place at the table, and made himself busy with his duty there.

Something was said about the anticipated trip to the continent, and the time of setting out George had intended to leave at once if his sister were ready, but he found he must stay in Portie a few days longer.

“But next week, Jean, we must go, or give it up altogether.”

“The sooner you go now, the better, or the best season will be over,” said Mr Petrie.

“Oh! as to that, any season is good for what we mean to do.”

“Still, the sooner the better. Could not I do what would be necessary to let you go at once?” said his father.

George laughed and shook his head.

“I am afraid not. It seems I stand pledged to be best man at Captain Saugster’s marriage, and he has no idea of putting off the happy day for a month or more—since his time may be short. So he is to hasten it on instead, and I must wait and see him through it.”

“That will hardly be fair on Annie,” said Miss Jean.

“Oh! she is ready, I dare say; and she can finish her preparations afterwards,” said Miss Petrie.

“And it is to be very quiet. Indeed, hardly a wedding at all in the usual sense,” said George.

“But that is rather mean of Tam, I think,” said Mr Petrie. “He ought to give a dance on board the ‘John Seaton,’ if he is to have the command of her.”

His sisters were charmed with the idea. And would not Mr George put the thought into Tam’s head?

“The ‘John Seaton’ is not in yet. He would hardly consent to wait for that,” said Mr Scott.

“Don’t you call it a risk, giving a man like Tam Saugster the command of a vessel like the ‘John Seaton’?”

Mr Petrie asked the question not at George, but at his father.

“There is ay a risk of one kind or another about all seafaring matters,” said Mr Dawson quietly.

“But there ought to be a fine wedding. Tam is quite a credit to the town now. We could all go to the dance,” said Miss Annie Petrie.

“But I am afraid Tam would not long be a credit to the town if the whiskey were to flow as freely as it usually does at sailors’ weddings. That could hardly be dispensed with, the whiskey, I mean. It would test Tam’s principles at any rate, in which I cannot say I have very great faith,” said James with a little sneer.

“I think keeping out of the way of temptation might be a better proof of his wisdom,” said Mr Dawson coldly. “I doubt, Jean, your aunt is getting wearied. She should be allowed to go.”

But Jean had long ago sent word to Nannie that her mistress was to stay at Saughleas for the night. The young people did not linger much longer. George went out with them to the gate, and did not return till the rest had gone upstairs. Nor did they see him in the morning. He had taken an early breakfast and gone away long before any one was down.

On each of the three days that passed before Jean and her brother went away, George went to his aunt’s house as was his daily custom; but he scarcely saw Marion. The first day she had gone out, the next his father was with him, and the third time there were several of Marion’s young companions with her, so that no word passed between them till the day of Tam Saugster’s marriage.

“If marriage it could be called,” said some of Tam’s indignant friends, “going off on the sly as gin he were ashamed o’ himsel’.”

They were by no means ashamed of themselves. Tam and Annie went quietly to the manse with Tam’s father and mother, where Miss Dawson and her brother and Marion Calderwood and Maggie and Robbie Saugster were waiting for them, and they “got it putten ower quaietly,” as Tam’s father rather discontentedly said. His judgment doubtless approved of “a teetotal” marriage in Tam’s case, but neither his taste nor his sense of the fitness of things was satisfied. Who had a better right to feast their friends and “fill them fou” on such an occasion than the Saugsters? And to go back to Tam’s house just to tea and jelly and fushionless sweet cakes!—It might be prudent, but it wasna pleasant, and any thing but creditable, in his father’s opinion.

And while he grumbled secretly the bride’s mother, poor Mrs Cairnie, openly resented and railed at the manner of the marriage as mean, and as a confession of most shameful weakness on Tam’s part. Even shrewd and sensible Mrs Saugster, though joyful over her returned prodigal and thankful to escape the risks attending a marriage as usually ordered in their rank of life, even she did not think it wrong to connive at the brewing of a steaming bowl of “toddy” for the comforting of the old folks when Tam and his wife had set out on their week of pleasure, and all the rest of the young folk were gone away.

It was a “bonny nicht,” Jean said, as they lingered in their walk down the street. Over the soft glow of sunset fading in the west hung the pale new moon, and a star showed here and there among the grey wreaths and flakes of cloud that floated far beneath the blue. The tide was out, and over the sands came the soft “lap, lap” of tiny waves, with a sound more restful than silence. They stood still a minute at the point where they were to turn into the High-street.

“We may as well go home the long way. It is not late yet,” said Jean.

“Going home the long way,” meant turning back, and going over the sands, the mile that lay between the town and the Tangle Stanes, and they turned with one accord.

“It is our last night for a while,” said Jean, and scarcely another word was spoken till they found themselves climbing the broken path that led to the High Rocks. The night air blew cool from the sea, and Jean led the way to the sheltered seat a little further down. The two girls sat down together, and George stood above them with folded arms, looking out upon the sea.

They spoke about “the happy couple,” who had gone away to begin their new life together, about Tam’s long voyage and Annie’s hopeful waiting, and the chances they had of happiness, because they loved one another. And then they went on to other things, some of them glad, and some of them sad, and “do you mind that time?” and “have you forgotten this?” they said, and sometimes they sighed, and sometimes they smiled, and at last they fell into silence. By and by Jean rose and moving upward, paced up and down the narrow ledge, as she had done so many a time before in so many a mood. The two who remained were silent still, busy with their own thoughts, till George, stooping down and speaking softly, said.

“Marion, do you mind one day coming here with—Elsie and me?”

“Ay, George, I mind it well.”

Marion turned, and took in both hers the hand that he held out to her.

“Poor George!” said she, drooping her head till her cheek just touched it. Then she rose and stood beside him still holding his hand. George stood with his face turned away, and neither spoke or moved for a good while.

“George, do I mind you of her? Does it grieve you to see me?”

George turned and met the look in her sweet wistful eyes.

“You mind me of her, but it does not grieve me to see you—my dear little sister.”

And then George did an unwise thing. He clasped and kissed her, and held her to him, “as I might have clasped and kissed my own sister,” he said to himself afterward, trying to still the voice that said it was not wise.

And Marion went home smiling in the darkness, and saying to herself,—

“Now I have two brothers, and which of them I love best; I’m sure I canna say.”

So George and Jean set out on their travels next day, and Miss Jean and her visitor were left to entertain one another, and they did not find it a difficult thing to do. Miss Jean had lived too much alone, to care even for pleasant company continually, and Marion had friends and engagements enough to call her away, so as to leave her to her solitude for a while each day. And whether she was out with her friends, or at home with Miss Jean, she was happy as the day was long.

They had many quiet hours together, when the wisdom which had come to the elder woman out of her sore troubles and solitary days which God had blessed, and out of willing service given to the needy and the suffering for His sake, was spoken for the good of the girl who had all her troubles and her solitary days before her. These were the hours that afterwards Marion liked best to remember.

It seemed a very happy world to her in those days. Nothing evil or sad seemed possible to her in her young strength and hopefulness. And even trouble itself, sickness or pain or disappointment, if it brought to her what had come through all these to Miss Jean—a heart at peace, a heavenly hope, surely even of these things she need not be afraid. When she said something like this to Miss Jean, her old friend smiled and answered,—

“Surely not. Even when you feel the pain you needna fear the evil. And when the pain hurts most—is worst to bear, I mean—it doesna really harm. Why should I fear for you?”

“And do you fear for me more than for the rest?” said Marion gravely.

“I ought to fear less for you than for some, because I hope ye’re one who winna lose the good which is meant to come out of all trouble. But ye’re young and bonny and winsome, and whiles troubles come to such that pass others by; and a heart both strong and tender, such troubles hurt sore. But the sorer the pain the deeper and sweeter the peace, if it sends you to the feet of the Master,” added Miss Jean cheerfully.

There was silence for a little while, and Miss Jean looked up with surprise at Marion’s first words.

“Am I bonny, Miss Jean? As bonny as our Elsie was?”

Miss Jean looked at her a moment without speaking. Elsie Calderwood had indeed been a bonny lassie, but looking at her sister, Miss Jean could not but acknowledge that she was far more than that. She was like her sister. She had the same sweet eyes and lovely colour, the same wealth of shining hair. But in the face before her Miss Jean’s discerning eye saw a beauty beyond that of mere form and colouring. It might have come to Elsie too, with cultivation, and a higher intelligence, and the wisdom that experience brings. But Miss Jean, remembering well the girl who was dead, saw in her living sister’s face a beauty that had never been in Elsie’s.

“Does your mother think ye’re like your sister?” said she, evading the question.

“My mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. But once—some one said—that I minded him of her.”

As she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. Her eyes did not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into them a soft, bright gleam, “like a glint o’ sunshine on the sea,” Miss Jean told herself as she gazed.

“Ay, ye’re like her. I think them that mind her weel would say that ye’re like her.”

Marion’s head drooped and rested on her hand.

“Whiles I wonder how it would have seemed if Elsie hadna died.”

“It was a mysterious Providence indeed, her early death. The living should lay it to heart,” said Miss Jean; and then she took up the book that lay at her hand—a sign that no more was to be said at that time.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Danger and Reconciliation.

It had been arranged that Mrs Manners and her children should return with George and Jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that George should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside.

Jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister’s entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. She yielded at last, however, and George went home without her.

He did not go alone. He had spent many words in trying to persuade Willie Calderwood, who had just come to London for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment Willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. It might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one.

In a week he was to sail for Australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. He had been fortunate, during one of his Atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. The offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by Willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen.

They reached Portie only just in time, they were told, for the “John Seaton” was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if Captain Saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. They were hardly in time for speech. The ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board.

They walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship’s company as well as to the skipper, and Mr Dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. George had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all.

“Ye’re no’ to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, Sandy. Miss Dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. Donald, man, be thankful that ye’re leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye’re to sail under the temperance flag this time. Gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. I suppose we must call ye a man now, Jack. Dinna forget the mother and grannie. They winna forget you.”

Mr Dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. George’s way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son’s method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. Even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them.

“It is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board,” said Mr Dawson, as he took his way to Miss Jean’s house in company with the two young men. “Ye might almost take an hour or two’s sail with them and land at F— or C— and be home to-night, or early in the morning.”

Before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. But George and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with Captain Saugster for a few hours’ sail were made. Miss Jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother.

“Ye winna bide awa’ long, and make us anxious,” said she.

They must not stay long, for Willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in Portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. There was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. Willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to Miss Jean, “She has grown a woman now, our wee Maysie.”

And Miss Jean said as softly and a little sadly, “Ay, has she!”

Did George’s eyes follow her too? His father could not but think so.

“For the sake of the girl who is dead,” he said to himself with a pang.

Marion’s eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. They had little time for words. They bade Miss Jean and Marion “good-bye” in the house. By and by, Mr Dawson saw Marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. He was a little disappointed. He thought if they had walked up to his sister’s house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the Petries to the Castle.

He would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. Miss Jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the Calderwoods. She had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. But when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor.

“Marion went over to the Tangle Stanes with the skipper’s wife and Maggie, and I dare say she has gone hame with her. Her troubles are begun, puir body—Annie Saugster’s—I mean.”

“What should ail her? She has just the troubles that ay maun fa’ on sailors’ wives.”

“Ay, just that,” said Miss Jean.

“And she kenned them a’ beforehand. And what gude could a lassie like that do her? She has had small experience o’ trouble anyway.”

“She has a tender heart—and she shows her sympathy without many words. And folk like her,” said Miss Jean. There was a moment’s silence, and then Mr Dawson said hesitating,—

“What ails her this while? Is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? Or has any thing happened to vex her? I have hardly got a word from her since she left Saughleas. Is it James Petrie that’s to blame?” added he with a laugh.

Miss Jean regarded him gravely for a minute.

“Yes, I think it was something he said. I ken it was, for she told me.”

“And did she give him his answer?”

Miss Jean shook her head.

“It’s no’ what ye’re thinkin’. That question hasna been asked yet,” said she. “And I doubt he’ll need to put it off, for a while. He didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. He was telling her about—about George and her sister Elsie.”

Mr Dawson said nothing in the pause which followed.

“Of course she had heard something,—that they cared for one another,—and that George’s heart was nearly broken when Elsie died. But she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. Though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, I canna tell—unless he may be afraid that—But she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and I hope that no ill may come o’ my bringing her here.”

“Nonsense, Jean! What ill should come of it? And why should you take the blame of it? It was her mother’s doing, sending her here. And if it should end in her agreeing with James Petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased.”

“I’m no’ sure. Though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o’ that too.”

“It is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. James Petrie will be a rich man some day. Doubtless she thinks of that.”

“Less than ye would suppose. But she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. She would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the Petries, and in time she might be content enough.”

“But how should he think to help his cause by—by telling that tale? And what kens he about it?”

“He kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, I dare say. He thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when George looked kindly at her it was for her sister’s sake.”

“George!” repeated Mr Dawson in dismay. Miss Jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother’s first thought.

“Yes. She is like her sister—and he hasna forgotten her. But I think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her—as against his own father’s kindness.”

“But George?” repeated Mr Dawson. “Yes. But it is not George I am thinking about, but Marion. And her mother too. Do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see Mrs Calderwood whenever he has been in London, George had never seen her daughter after the time of May’s marriage till he saw her the ither night at Saughleas? That was her mother’s will. What with one thing and another,—his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long—the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of George. And minding on Elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest Marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. So she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew George was going away. She may have had her ain thoughts of young Mr Petrie—as I had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value.”

It was some time before another word was spoken, then Mr Dawson said,—

“I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister.”

“No, it is not that. But ye ha’e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be away now, and whether she’ll come back again with young Mr Petrie—I canna say. He’ll hardly have the courage to ask her this time.”

“I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts—though I canna say I’m of his opinion.”

Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go.

“A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity—” added Miss Jean.

“He’ll get through it. It winna be the first time,” said Mr Dawson angrily.

“Are ye awa’? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. They’ll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht,” said Miss Jean.

“It depends on several things—the light and the tide and the wind. It was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them.”

And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away—sure token that a storm was near.

“They ken the signs better than I do. They’ll lose no time.”

He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.

“It will be a long night, I doubt!”

And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away—with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last—a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things.

It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his sister’s door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.

What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean’s house, and at the door Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked eagerly for tidings.

“No word o’ them yet, but they canna be long now,” said Mr Dawson cheerfully. “I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is really no cause to fear for them as yet.”

He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.

“We maun just ha’e patience,” was all that Miss Jean said.

Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.

“My dear lassie,” said her old friend, “they are safe in God’s hands.”

“Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. But O, Miss Jean!—”

“Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o’ that knowledge. It is no’ in the power o’ evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says.”

“I might licht the lamp, mem,” said Nannie at the door.

“There is no haste,” said Miss Jean.

“Only its e’erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha’e anxious thoughts for company. Though there’s no occasion as yet. What’s a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they’ll be baith cauld and hungry.”

Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.

Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?

How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?

But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.

“I am losing myself, I think,” said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. “I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head.”

No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,—to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean—

Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean’s mind that God had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.

“But as for me—when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It’s like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness.”

That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.

He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,—

“If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they’ll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They’ll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them.”

“What could ha’e keepit them but the fog?” said a woman’s voice. “Ye speak as if ye werena expectin’ them.”

“I’m no’ sayin’. Only if it’s the fog, they’ll soon be in now.”

Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.

As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood’s face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh! the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then. Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.

“I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o’ the blessedness o’ them that rest themselves on God.”

But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being “a changed man,” as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.

That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, “it had answered well.” George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.

George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?

Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.

“O! Geordie! Oh! my son!”

He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.

“Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet,” said Marion Calderwood. “Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson? And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C— Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?”

He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.

“Ay. We’ll gang in to Jean,” said he.

He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,—

“All’s weel, Mr Dawson. They’re coming hame safe enough.”

“Glad tidings of great joy.” That was what came into Marion’s mind when she heard the words.

They had come already. At Miss Jean’s door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father’s hand and brought him in to the light.

“The Lord is ay kind, George,” said Miss Jean.

But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.

Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.

They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of George’s coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.

“And I canna say that I am proud o’ mysel’ on this occasion,” said Willie laughing.

“But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep,” he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend.

The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean’s, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion’s friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.

And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.

But George got the last touch of Marion’s hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before—

“My dear little sister.”

Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.

“How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!” thought the old man with a sigh. “But so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me—a good son. And it’s no’ for what I have to give him,” added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. “Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his portion—that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him.”

The old man’s heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when George came in. “Ye’re late the nicht.”

“Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be tired, I suppose.”

“And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their coming back to Portie again?”

“No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off—the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others.”

“Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise.”

To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. But his father’s first words went back to the same subject.

“It is no’ so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because—”

“His wisdom has to be proved,” said George gravely. And then he held out a letter to his father.

“I don’t believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I thought it as well to let you see this to-night.”

His father took it and read it. It was a business letter—important, but still it might have waited till morning.

“It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes. It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking,” said his father with a sigh. “His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I could do him a pleasure.” Suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting.

“There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give now.”

And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still.

In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her.

For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home.

But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt which said,—

“The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them.

“I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads Jean’s letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to hear it. And as for Marion—I do not wonder that she has stolen my father’s heart in spite of him.”

Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. In one way it was very little.

Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see George.

“I have come to say, ‘let by-ganes be by-ganes’ between us. If you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand.”

He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven.

“I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson,” said she.

“No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser. But—I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son—and—I had lost his mother—”

He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again.

“The least said the soonest mended,” said he; “if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I—well this while—and the other night when they were in danger together—your son and mine—I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also.”

Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.

And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name Marion till he put the little packet in her mother’s hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.

But even before their sister’s letter came, both George and Jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. When one day they were together in their aunt’s house and she gave them their sister’s letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt’s presence, and she never spoke of it to them.

But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father’s company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness George’s face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness fell.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Suspense.

And so the summer wore over, and May went home with all her children, though Jean would fain have kept one boy with her. But her mother feared the bleak east winds for the rather delicate Georgie who was the favourite at Saughleas, and she had reasons that satisfied herself for taking little Keith home also, but she promised to send them both back again as soon as the winter was over.

The summer ended, and autumn days grew short, and a quiet time came that reminded Jean of the days when May had gone to London “to meet her fate,” and she was waiting for the coming home of the “John Seaton.” There was the same long dreaming in the gloaming, before her father came in, the same listening to the woeful voices of the winds and the sea, and the same shadow on Jean’s face and in her wistful eyes that her father had seen in those days—now so long ago. He sometimes surprised it now, but, if this happened, it went hard with Jean if she did not make him forget it before he slept.

About the new year Mrs Calderwood’s old friend died, and when her will was read, to her surprise Mrs Calderwood found that she had left her money enough to enable her to live henceforth free from the cares which accompany the task of making too little do the work of enough, as had been her lot during the greater part of her life of widowhood.

George, who had gone to London to be with her at that time, insisted on bringing her back to Scotland with him. She had exhausted herself in attendance on her old friend, and she needed a change. Later she was to return and make all necessary arrangements, but in the mean time it would have been neither wise nor kind he thought to leave her there alone.

For this George had a better reason than he gave to her. News had come of terrible storms that had passed over Southern seas. Already rumours of disaster and loss had reached England, and the owners of Captain Calderwood’s ship, the “Ben Nevis,” were beginning to feel some anxiety with regard to her.

Another ship, the “Swallow,” had arrived from Melbourne, bringing word that the “Ben Nevis” was to have sailed three days after the time she had put to sea. The voyage had been a long one, though happily the “Swallow” had passed beyond the latitudes where the storms had raged most fiercely before the danger had arisen. The “Ben Nevis” was the swifter vessel of the two, and by rights, she ought to have reached England before her. And when ten days passed, and then ten more, there was good reason for fear for her safety.

Happily Captain Calderwood’s outward voyage and his stay in Melbourne had been shorter than his mother had calculated upon, so that as yet no thought of anxiety had come to disturb her, and she was glad to go with George, believing that she could pay a few weeks in Scotland with her daughter, and still be in London in time to receive her son when he should return.

It was Mrs Calderwood’s first visit after an absence of several years, to a place which had been her home during the greater part of her life. There were many to welcome her, and there was much to see and hear, and she was greatly occupied. But George wondered sometimes that she should live on from day to day, showing no misgivings, even no surprise, at the continued absence of her son.

He need not have wondered. She had been a sailor’s daughter, and a sailor’s wife, and she had lived the greater part of her life among sailors’ wives and widows, and had learned the necessity of giving no unwise indulgence to fancies and fears, and to keep quiet and face them when fears and fancies had to give place at last to a knowledge of disaster and loss.

She had had anxious thoughts doubtless while she awaited the expected summons to meet her son, when the ship should be heard from, but outwardly she was calm and even cheerful. It was wise for her own sake not to dwell on her fears—which indeed were hardly fears as yet, but only a vague movement of surprise and impatience that she should have to wait so long. And it was wise also for the sake of her daughter, who was not so strong as usual. So she kept herself cheerful and seemed to be taking so little thought of what might be awaiting her, that George questioned at last whether it might not be both kind and wise to prepare her for the shock which he began to fear must come soon. This painful task did not fall to him however, and Mrs Calderwood was already better prepared for it than he knew.

It was drawing near the end of February by this time, and it was a milder season than Portie often sees. There were weeks of bleak weather to come yet, for this eastern coast rarely escapes a full share of that sooner or later. But in the mean time the days were fair and calm, and looking over a pale grey sea, bright now and then with a blink of sunshine, thoughts of storm and danger did not come so readily, as with a wild and angry sea they might have done. But even Marion was beginning to wonder that her mother said nothing of what might be keeping the “Ben Nevis” so long.

And then a single word came to break the silence between them, and they knew that the mother’s quietness had cost her something. But she was quiet still when doubts and fears and even despair were busy at her heart.

They were still sitting at breakfast one fair morning when Jean came in. She was just as usual, they all thought at the moment, but afterwards each remembered the look on her face as she opened the door. The air had brought a colour to her cheeks, so she was not pale, but there was a startled look in her eyes as she turned them from one to another before she uttered a word. It changed as she marked the unmoved face of each.

She kissed Marion, and then, strangely enough, she kissed Mrs Calderwood, and laid two pale primroses, the first of the season, on a book which she held in her hand.

They were friendly, these two, and even more than friendly, but there was always a touch of shyness and reserve between them, even when they were most friendly. Marion, who so dearly loved them both, saw it and wondered at it often, but she smiled now as Jean stooped and touched her lips to her mother’s cheek. Mrs Calderwood grew a shade paler, and a question came into her eyes as she met Jean’s look. But Jean had no answer for it.

“I found them in a sheltered nook in the wood when I was out this morning. They are come earlier than usual, and there will soon be more of them.”

Jean did not meet her look as she thanked her, but turned to George who was preparing to go out, nor would she sit down.

“I only looked in as I passed, to see if all was well with you. I have many things to do, but I will come in again before I go home, unless I should be detained longer than I expect in the town.” So in a little she and her brother went out together. “Are you taking the paper with you, George?” said Mrs Calderwood following them to the door.

“Not if you wish to see it. I will send for it by and by when I want it.”

“You have seen it, George?” said Jean as they went on. “If you mean the paragraph about the ‘Ben Nevis,’ yes, I have seen it. It does not say much beyond the usual, ‘Fears are entertained for the safety, etc.’”

“And now she will see it.”

“Yes, I think it is as well. It will help to prepare her for what she may have to hear later.”

“George,” said Jean in a little, “does that mean that you are afraid?”

“There is cause for anxiety. There was that before we left London. I only wonder that Mrs Calderwood has said so little about it.”

“And you left London more than six weeks ago.” George told her of the succession of terrible storms that had swept over the Southern seas about the close of the year, in latitudes where possibly the “Ben Nevis” had been at that time, acknowledging that there would be reason to fear for the fate of the ship unless she were heard from soon. His anxiety had been greater than he knew, and he had kept it to himself so long that to speak was a relief, which led him to say more to his sister than he would otherwise have done. His words were less hopeful than he meant them to be, until Jean said, “Do you mean that you give them up?”

“By no means. I do not even give up the ship. I know Willie Calderwood and what he can do too well to do that yet a white. And even if they had to forsake the ship, the chances are in favour of safety for the men. All that depends on circumstances of which we can know nothing. But I by no means give up the ship even yet.”

“But, George, should you not have stayed to tell Mrs Calderwood so?”

“No, I think not. There will be time enough for that, and she is of a nature to meet the first pain best alone.”

“But Marion?”

“She will not speak to Marion at once. And, Jean, it is as well that the awful possibility of loss should be admitted. But my hopes are stronger than my fears.”

“The awful possibility of loss?” Jean repeated the words with white lips, not knowing that she did so. They had lengthened their walk, passing Miss Jean’s house and going on to the pier. They turned now and came back in silence. At Miss Jean’s door they paused.

“It will be as well to say nothing as yet,” said George.

“Not to Aunt Jean?”

“Oh! yes. I have spoken to her already. I mean to people generally. And, Jean, go and see Marion and her mother again before you go home.”

But Jean said nothing to her aunt about what she had heard. She stayed her usual time, and discussed certain purchases that were to be made of material for the summer outfit of some of her aunt’s “puir bodies,” and went into matters of detail as to quantity, and needles and thread, and as to the help that each would need in the making of her gown. And then she went away and did all else that she meant to do when she left home, and lingered over it, till it was too late, she told herself, to go to the High-street again.

Three days passed before she went there, and the like had seldom happened since Marion came home. She did not know how she could speak to the mother of the anguish and suspense that lay before her, and she shrank from a betrayal of her own pain.

But when she went in on the fourth day it struck her with surprise to see that they were just the same as usual. No change of grief or terror had passed upon them. Mrs Calderwood was grave and pale, but she spoke about various matters cheerfully enough, though she made no allusion to the fears for her son.

Marion spoke of her brother, and said how hopeful George was about him, and how the old sailors about the pier were saying to one another, that Captain Calderwood was not the man to be caught unprepared for a storm, and being prepared, with plenty of sea room, what was there to fear? He would bring his ship home all right. There was no fear of that.

But the next news that came made even the old sailors shake their heads when the ship was spoken of. A boat had been picked up by a South American vessel, filled with men from the wreck of the “Ben Nevis” and from the Southern port to which these had been carried came the tidings.

They had encountered a succession of storms, which had so strained and shattered the good ship “Ben Nevis,” that there seemed a fairer chance of escaping with life by betaking themselves to the boats than by remaining with the ship. There were not many passengers on board, only seventeen all told. Nine of these, with four sailors, were in the boat which the American had saved when they had been five days away from the wreck.

They could say nothing of those whom they had left on board, though they had still seen the ship afloat in the distance on the second day. There was no familiar name in the list of the rescued, but it was said that the weather had moderated while they were in the vicinity of the ship, and there seemed no reason to doubt that the rest of the passengers and crew had been able to save themselves.

Captain Calderwood’s name was mentioned in terms that brought tears of pride and sorrow to the eyes of those who loved him. His courage and kindness and patience had never failed through all the terrible days of storm. Discipline had been maintained through all, as perfectly as during the summer calm that preceded those awful days; and the last sight which the rescued saw as they drew off from the ship, to await the manning of the other boats, was their captain standing on the deck encouraging them with hand and voice.

And that was all. But that was much, and now they could wait for further tidings with patience. On the whole they kept in good heart for a while. But as time went on, the suspense and anxiety of the days that went before, seemed to pass into each new day as it came. For they knew that each passing day without tidings mocked the hope they had so long cherished.

Through all the mother waited quietly. Never quite without hope that she would see her son again, but after a while the poor pretence of cheerfulness for which she had striven, because of Marion, failed beyond her power to help it. The silent patience which had been the habit of her life under other troubles, stood her in good stead now. And when this failed her, and the restlessness, of a slowly dying hope came upon her, she would go away by herself till she could hide all tokens of her pain again.

Sometimes she went to Miss Jean’s for comfort, but often when her daughter believed her to be there, she was walking up and down the wet sands, or sitting in some sheltered nook among the rocks, striving for calmness to bear to the end. She had gone through it all before, and now she seemed to be waiting again and longing and fearing for his father, while she waited for her only son. When other eyes were upon her she was calm enough, and troubled no one with her trouble, but she needed the rest which solitude gave her to carry her through the lengthening days.

Marion bore the long suspense well, they all said. She was young, and it was her nature to look for brightness rather than gloom, and no such trouble had come upon her as had darkened the life of her mother. There were only hopeful views expressed in her presence, and though she knew that cheerfulness was encouraged and often assumed for her sake, she had the sense and courage to respond to the efforts of those who loved her, and to keep herself quiet and patient for their sakes.

One good came to Mrs Calderwood out of the trouble of those days. She had forgiven Mr Dawson the hard words and unreasonable anger of the old days, or she believed that she had, but even to herself she could not say that she had forgotten them. She was never quite at her ease in his presence. It was not so much that she disliked him, as that she could not convince herself that he did not dislike her. The sight of her could only, she thought, recall to him much that he could not but wish to forget; and if she could do so, without remark, she generally chose to be out of the way during his frequent visits to the house.

But whatever he might feel towards her, there could be no doubt as to the esteem in which he held her son, or as to the anxiety which he shared with them all. He was not, as a general thing, ready with words of sympathy, but she had seen tears in his eyes more than once as he spoke her son’s name, and her heart could not but soften towards him, and a real friendliness, which in other circumstances might have come but slowly, grew up in this troubled time between them.

There was no lack of sympathy. Not a man or woman in Portie, but felt deeply for the trouble of Willie Calderwood’s mother and sister, though they were for the most part shy as to any expression of it. Indeed Mrs Calderwood kept out of the way of words. George guarded his wife from the hearing of any thing that would move her out of her usual quiet, and when he was not at hand, Jean guarded her as carefully for his sake.

To Jean, as to the rest, the days passed slowly and heavily. To the eyes of even her aunt she was just as usual, no graver nor sadder than was natural since a friend, and one who was more than a friend to those she loved, was in danger. But no one ever heard her speak of the anxiety that oppressed them all. She listened in silence when, as is the way at such times, the causes for hope or fear were gone over, and over, and over again, or she went away and did not listen, but she never put in her word with the rest.

It was only as a friend that she had a right to grieve for Willie Calderwood, she told herself. They had never been lovers. They had cared for one another long ago—oh! so long ago now. But they had not seen one another for years, because he had not cared to see her, and it was all past now. She had been angry at first, and then sorry. Yes, she had suffered sharply for a while, she acknowledged. But she was neither sorry nor angry now. She was anxious for his safety, and she longed for his return, as all his friends did. And her heart ached for his mother and his sister, and for George, to whom he was both brother and friend. And that was all.

But a day came when her heart spoke, nay, cried out as the heart of no mere friend could cry. She was sitting one day in Miss Jean’s parlour, when her brother came in. There were tears in his eyes and a strange, uncertain smile on his lips, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as she stood by the window, pausing a moment before he spoke, as if he were not sure of his voice.

“Jean,” he said, “there is news at last.”

Jean grew very white.

“Well?” said she sitting down.

“Is it good news, George, man?” said his aunt hastily.

“It is just such news as one would expect to hear from Willie Calderwood. Yes, I call it good news, whatever may come next.”

And then he told them how another of the “Ben Nevis’” boats had been heard from. After much suffering from anxiety and exhaustion, they who left the ship in it had landed somewhere on the West African coast, and had, after some delay, been taken from thence in a Portuguese vessel to Lisbon. And now some of them at least had reached England. And this was the news they brought.

When those who were to go in the second boat were about to take their places in it, Captain Calderwood had, to their utter amazement, declared his intention of remaining with the ship for that night at least. The vessel was new and strongly built, and within the hour he had seen some tokens that led him to believe that, during the storm, it had not gone so hardly with her as had been at first feared.

The cargo was a valuable one, and his duty to his employers demanded that, while there was a chance of saving it and the ship, he should remain on board. At the same time he acknowledged, that as far as could now be judged, there was but a chance in ten, that he could do this, while by taking to the boats at once, there was a fair prospect of their being picked up by one of the many homeward bound vessels which at that season followed the course which they had taken.

Then he called for volunteers to remain with him. Not a man among the sailors but would have stayed at his bidding. But an able crew was placed in the departing boat, and he was left with just men enough to work the ship, among them three passengers, should all go well. Should they find when the night was over, that chances were against saving the ship, they also were to take to the boat and do what might be done to escape with the rest.

They who were in the second boat had stayed in the vicinity of the ship that night and the next day and night, but when the second morning dawned she was no longer to be seen. Whether she had sunk or whether she had sailed away out of their sight they had no means of knowing, nor could they form any conjecture as to the fate of those who remained on board. They might have betaken themselves to the boat at the last moment, or they might have gone down with the ship.

But whatever had happened this was sure—No braver man or better sailor than Captain Calderwood had ever commanded a ship. This was all that was to be told about the “Ben Nevis.”

“And what do you gather from it all?” said Miss Jean in a little. “Ye dinna give up all hope?”

“We can only wait patiently a little longer. If the bringing home of the disabled ship was a thing to be done, Captain Calderwood was the man to do it. No, I by no means give up hope. He may come any day now.”

They had said this many times before, and now none of them had the courage to say that he should have been home long ago if all had been well.

“I fear it was an unwise courage that led him to undertake an impossible work,” said Miss Jean sadly.

“No, aunt. You must not say that. He must have seen more than a possibility, or he would never have risked life. It was his simple duty as he saw it, neither more nor less. We may be sure of that, knowing him as we do.”

“But, oh! George, what is a ship’s cargo, or even the ship itself, in comparison with a young strong life like his?”

“Ay, aunt. But duty is the first thought with a true man like Captain Calderwood. And he has all the resources that strength and patience and skill and courage can give to a man, and I cannot but hope that he’ll come safe home yet.”

“He is in God’s hands,” said Miss Jean.

“Ay, is he. And God bless him wherever he is,” said George with a break in his voice.

Jean had sat in silence, turning her eyes from one to the other as each had spoken.

“Have you told his mother?” said Miss Jean.

“Yes, she has heard all. It seems two of the sailors have reported themselves to the owners in London, and she thinks she must see them, though I fear it will do little good.”

“It will give her something to do anyway,” said Miss Jean. “But she is quite worn out with anxiety, though she has said so little about it, and I doubt she ought not to go alone.”

“No, I shall go with her,” said George. “It would make Marion miserable to think of her mother with her sore heart solitary in London. We need not stay long.”

“And after a day or two she will think of her daughter’s need of her, and come home. If only the suspense were over one way or another—”

“No, aunt, don’t say that. We have hope yet—strong hope of seeing him again. If you only heard the tales I hear on the pier about the wonderful escapes that skill and courage have won. Hope! Yes, I have hope.”

“My dear, I have heard all that could be told before you were born. But all the same there has many a ship gone down since then, and many a sore heart has waited and hoped in vain. But I’m no’ goin’ to say all that to Willie Calderwood’s mother, true though it be.”

“And, George,” said Jean speaking for the first time, “you may be quite at peace about Marion.”

“Yes. I leave her with you. She will keep herself quiet.”

“We will take her to Saughleas. That will please my father.”

And so it was settled, and the long days went on. Jean busied herself with her father and her sister, and went out and in just as usual, giving no time when other eyes were upon her to her own thoughts. But she welcomed the night. Sitting in the darkness, with only the grey gleam of the sea for her eyes to rest upon, she gave herself up to thoughts of her friend.

She called him her friend, but she knew that he was more than a friend to her; and she had at least this comfort now, that she was no longer angry or ashamed to care for him still, although he had forgotten her. He would always be her friend now, whether he lived or died. She might grieve for those who loved him, and whom he loved, and for the young strong life lost to the world which needed such as he to do its best work, but he would still be hers in memory, and more in death than in life.

And yet she had a vague dread of the dreariness and emptiness of a world in which he no longer lived and moved, and doubted her power to adapt herself to its strangeness. She knew, or she tried to believe, that good would come out of it all even to her, and when she came to this she always remembered her aunt.

It had been by “kissing the rod” under such discipline as this that her aunt, after long, patient years, had grown to be the best, the most unselfish woman that she knew; yes, and the wisest with the highest wisdom.

Sometimes she had said to herself and to others, that she meant to grow to be such a woman as her aunt, and so take up her work in the world when it should be time for her to lay it down. And now, perhaps, the Lord was taking her at her word, and was about to prepare her for His own work, in His own way, which must be best; and she tried to be glad that it should be so. But when she looked on to the life that lay before her, her heart sank at the length of the way.

“I am not like Aunt Jean. I am not good enough to get her work to do, and to take pleasure in it. Maybe after long years I might be able to do it. If I only had the heart to care for any thing any more!

“But I must be patient. The pain is new and sore yet, but time heals most wounds, and as auntie says, ‘The Lord is ay kind.’”

This was her last thought most nights; but there were times when she could not get beyond the darkness, and lay lost and helpless till the morning. Then she put aside her own pain, and grew cheerful and hopeful for the sake of others. If she came to the task with white cheeks and heavy eyes, as happened now and then, no one wondered, or indeed noticed it much, for she was none the less ready with cheerful words and kindly deeds for the comfort of them all.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

At Last!

“Grandpapa,” whispered Marion, as her husband and her brother drew near, “do you think there ever was so glad and proud a woman as I am to-night?”

He had not time to answer her, but he shook her brother’s hand cordially.

“God bless ye, Willie, man. Welcome home.” And for the moment he quite forgot the shock which the first sight of the young man had given him. It was only for a moment, however, and the remembrance of it brought a cloud to his brow, and sharpened his voice as he said,—

“George, man, I think ye have been forgetting your wife with your speech-making.”

George laughed.

“She will forgive the first offence in that way, for the sake of the occasion.”

“Weel, weel! haste ye home now for it’s mair than time baith for her and the bairn. No, ye’ll go with her yourself I have sent Robbie Saugster with the inn fly to your aunt’s, and they’ll all come out in it. And I’m going to walk. I have a word to say to Captain Calderwood. Not go?” added the old man sharply as a look of hesitation and doubt passed over Willie’s face. “Where on earth should you go but to your ain sister’s house? It’s hers while she’s in it, and so it’s yours, to say nothing o’ George there, who surely is your friend and brother, whatever ye may ca’ me.”

And as Captain Calderwood had something to say to him also, they set off together. But they walked half the distance before either uttered a word. Willie waited for Mr Dawson to speak, and he, remembering that no one bad seen him at his sister’s house, was at a loss how to begin. But when they came in sight of Saughleas, Captain Calderwood paused.

“Mr Dawson, I must say a word to you now, or I shall be taking a welcome from you under false pretences. I love your daughter. I have loved her all my life.”

Here was an opening with a vengeance!

“And what says she to that?” asked Mr Dawson grimly.

“I have never spoken a word to her. May I speak to her now?”

“And how was that—since it’s been all your life?” said Mr Dawson ignoring the question.

“There were reasons enough. I was only the mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and she was the young lady of Saughleas. And I had promised my mother that I would never even look my love without your sanction. Afterwards there were other reasons as well.”

“I dare say ye may have a guess as to what her answer might be?”

“Mr Dawson, give me your leave to ask her. I have not seen her for years. Yes, I have seen her—but she has not seen me, and we have not spoken a word to each other, since the day before May’s marriage.”

“And I mind ye left in a hurry. Did she send ye awa’?”

“No. I did not speak to her; but if I had stayed I must have spoken. And what would you have thought of my pretensions beside those of Captain Harefield? And indeed, I knew well that, except for my love of her, I wasna her equal. So I said, I will forget her and I went away?”

“That’s a long time since. And ye have never seen her again?”

“Yes. I have seen her. I saw her once in the Park riding with her brother and Captain Harefield, and I saw her looking at the pictures among all the great folk, and I used to see her whiles, playing in the garden with her sister’s bairns.”

“And that was the way ye took to forget her?” said Mr Dawson dryly.

“No. I had given that up as impossible. That was the way I took to teach myself the folly of remembering her.”

“And what has happened to make it less like folly now?”

“Well,” said Captain Calderwood after a pause, “the first gleam of hope I got was when Sir Percy Harefield proposed to take ship with me on the ‘Ben Nevis.’ He has gotten his answer, I thought. And I vowed that if ever I came home again I would speak to you—”

“Jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. She could do as she pleased, even if I were to refuse you.”

“I shall never speak to her unless I have your full and free consent.”

It was queer, Mr Dawson thought George had said the same to him about Marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. He cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. It had grown white through all its healthy brown.

“Curious!” thought Mr Dawson. “Now, I dare say that didna happen in the very face o’ the tempest. Surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have.”

But all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. Not that he had any special fear of Jean. She would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to Willie Calderwood. But he had returned a hero—“in a small way,” as Mr Dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. And the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied.

“I ken well she might look higher. Who is worthy of her?” said Willie humbly.

“It teems to me ye can ken little about her,” said Mr Dawson irritably. “There’s George now, what says he? He kens all this, doubtless?”

“He kens, doubtless,” repeated Willie gravely. “But his sister’s name has never been named between us—in that way.”

So the father had not even that excuse for vexation. He had no excuse. The young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about Jean’s answer. And yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. They had come to the gate by this time.

“Mr Dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what I have told you?”

“Bid ye come in! And your sister waiting for you at the door, and your friend and brother as weel! I would hardly venture in myself without you. And indeed I welcome you heartily to my house, for your own sake as well as theirs. And as to—that other matter—we’ll say nae mair about that the nicht.”

With this the young man was obliged to content himself George’s eyes were full of questions, but his lips uttered not one as he took him to his room, to supply all that had been left in the bag forgotten in the town. Before they came down again the fly had crept up to the door, but there was no one waiting for them in the hall except Miss Jean, and she was ready with a second welcome.

“It is good to see ye here, Willie,” said she as they went into the parlour together.

Jean had gone straight to the dining-room, and her father heard her there giving orders to Phemie in her usual voice. By and by she came out, carrying her head high—“the young lady of Saughleas” indeed; and Mr Dawson smiled at his fears as she came slowly toward him. She went up the long room in the same stately way, holding out her hand and saying gravely,—

“You are welcome home, Captain Calderwood.”

But when they looked into each other’s faces—these two who had been strangers so long—how it all happened cannot be told. Did he clasp her to him? or did she lay her head upon his breast?

It was only amazement that the father felt at first. No one knew less than he did himself whether he was glad or sorry at the sight. And then Miss Jean came over to him with slow soft steps, and they went out together.

“George,” said she gently, “I think I might say that I have nothing else to wish for here, if I were sure that this didna trouble you.”

“It canna be helpit, it seems, whether or no,” said he, but he let her take his hand, and his eyes looked soft and kindly.

George and Marion came in at the moment and made a diversion.

“Are ye no’ ower weary to be down again, my dear?” said Mr Dawson. “Ye ha’e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha’e anither dependin’ on ye now.”

“Tired! Do I look tired?” said Marion.

Certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him.

“Weel, then, George, ye’ll bring in your aunt and Mrs Calderwood. The dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer.” And he gave his arm to Marion as he spoke.

“My dear,” said he, leading her to Jean’s place at the head of the table, “sit ye here, for I doubt Jean will want little dinner the day.” And it was Marion’s seat ever after.

“Has any thing happened to Jean?” said Marion. “Nothing is wrong, I hope.”

“Nothing that can be helpit, I doubt. Ye’ll hear in time, I dare say.” And then he nodded to Mrs Calderwood who had grown very white.

“Ay, it’s the old way. I doubt your Willie is thinking as little of you as my Jean is of me at this moment. But we’ll take our dinner anyway.”

Mrs Calderwood sat down without a word. It was an awkward hour for every one of them, though Miss Jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. It was all the more so for Mr Dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. He sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,—

“If any one had said to me four years since that the widow Calderwood’s daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that I should be glad to see her there, would I have believed it? And her mother too, the very sight o’ whose widow’s cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. As for Jean, my sister, I ay ken when she’s pleased, though she says nothing. And George too, though I dare say he’s sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till I give him leave—as I maun do now, I suppose, whether I’m pleased or no’.”

But Mr Dawson was less displeased than he supposed himself to be. He had been taken utterly by surprise, which was never agreeable to him, even when the surprise was a pleasant one. And it came to him with a feeling of comfort that neither his sister nor his son was likely to make a mistake, and be glad for the wrong thing where Jean was concerned. But it was a long hour to him, and when it was over he went away as his custom was for a while’s peace to his own peculiar domain.

And here after a little Jean found him. She went in, feeling very much as she used to feel long ago, when some piece of girlish mischief more than usually serious, made her conscious of meriting a rebuke from her father.

She had been upstairs since she came home, and now wore one of her prettiest gowns, as befitted the occasion, and she had put a rose in her hair, which had not happened for a long time; and when her father turned at the sound of her voice, he saw as fair and sweet a daughter as ever gladdened a father’s heart.

She had always been fair and sweet, but there was a new look in her face to-day. Her eyes fell before his; but he knew it was rather to veil the happiness that shone in them, than to hide the shyness which made it not easy for her to look up. His heart could not but grow soft as he looked.

“Were you wanting me, papa?” said Jean, feeling more and more like the childish culprit that was to be chidden first and then forgiven. Mr Dawson himself thought of those days, when his hardest words to Jean were sure to end gently, as he bade her be a good lassie and go to her mother. But he did not let the softness pass into his look or his voice as he said,—

“What is this that I have been hearing of you, Jean?”

“Are ye very angry, papa? I couldna help it.”

“Dinna ye think I have a right to be angry, hearing such a tale after all these years?”

“But, papa, I didna ken. I thought he had forgotten me, and whiles I wasna sore that he had ever cared; and, papa, nothing has been said even yet.” Mr Dawson laughed.

“And ye wouldna have broken your heart, even if this confident sailor had never come home?”

“No, papa. I don’t think it. There is always plenty of work in the world, and I would have tried to do my share, as Auntie Jean has done. I should not have broken my heart, but—you are not very angry, papa?”

“My dear, my anger is neither here nor there. Ye are your ain mistress now, and can do as you please without asking my leave.”

Jean went white as she listened, and sat suddenly down, gazing at him with wide, startled eyes. She had expected her father to be disappointed, perhaps angry, but she had expected nothing so terrible as this.

“Papa,” she said, rising and coming a step nearer, “nothing can happen without your full and free consent. If you cannot give it, you must send—Captain Calderwood away—”

“They have all said that,” said Mr Dawson to himself. Aloud he said with a dubious smile, “And ye’ll promise no’ to break your heart about him yet?” But his eyes softened wonderfully as he looked at her. “Papa,” said Jean laying her hand on his shoulder as she stood a little behind him, “we love one another dearly. And you ay liked Willie, papa, and so did—mamma.”

“My dear, I like him well. But have you thought of all you will have to bear as a sailor’s wife?—the anxiety and suspense, the long, long waiting, and—”

“But, papa, I should have that anyway. I have had it, though—”

“My dear, ye little ken. And it might have been so different with you?”

“No, papa. It never could have been different. I wouldna have broken my heart, but I could never have cared for any one else.”

A knock at the door prevented any thing more, and in answer to Mr Dawson’s voice Captain Calderwood entered.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Dawson. I thought you were alone,” said he in some embarrassment.

“Come awa’ in,” said Mr Dawson. “I thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?”

“And so did I. And indeed there has been little said as yet.”

Mr Dawson laughed uneasily. No one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. But he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair.

“I doubt there is little more that need be said.”

“Only a single word from you, sir. I know as well as you that I am not worthy of her, but man and boy I have loved her all my life.”

Mr Dawson had risen and Jean’s face was hidden on his shoulder. He raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,—

“I doubt the word is with Jean now.”

It is possible that even now Mr Dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of Jean on her lover’s part. But he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. And then he sent them away to be congratulated by Aunt Jean and the rest.

“And if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than I am myself, it will be strange,” said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. But by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough.

She did not use many words; for she had an intuitive knowledge that some of her brother’s thoughts about this matter had better not be uttered. But there was no mistaking the grave gladness of her face, and it came into her brother’s mind that his sister’s thoughts about most things were such as usually commended themselves to him in the end.

As for the others to whom Captain Calderwood after a little conducted his promised wife, none of them except Marion confessed to surprise, and none of them seemed to share the old man’s doubt as to whether it was matter for rejoicing or no. Jean’s first glance at Mrs Calderwood was a little wistful and beseeching, as though she were not quite sure of a daughter’s welcome. But two or three low spoken words set that at rest forever. Captain Calderwood’s doubtful looks were cast on Miss Jean.

“I ken weel I’m no worthy of her, auntie,” he said.

“Ah! weel!—if she thinks it—that is the main thing,” said Miss Jean.

“My friend, and twice my brother,” was all George said to him. And to Jean he said softly, “Happy woman?” and that was all.

Not a soul in Portie but had something to say about them on the occasion. Every body was surprised at the first announcement of the news, though afterwards there were two or three who had had, they said, an inkling of it all along. There was a whisper among the fine folk in the High-street which implied that Miss Dawson might have laid herself open to the suspicion of having “passed through the wood to find a crooked stick at the last.” But even in the High-street no one ventured to say it aloud. For the handsome sailor, though he was not a rich man, was as good as the best of them, even in their own partial opinion.

It was a grand ending to Captain Calderwood’s romance of the sea in the opinion of all the seafaring folk of the town. The hand of the best and bonniest lass in Portie was a suitable reward for the hero. And when it was whispered that they “had ay cared for one another since they were bairns together” the tokens of the general approbation were given with enthusiasm.

“And that is an end o’ the twa Miss Jeans. But it’s o’ George Dawson himsel’ that I’m ay thinkin’,” said Mrs Cairnie to all who would listen to her. “As for auld Miss Jean—her consent was what ye would expect. She was ay soft-hearted, and she has had an experience o’ her ain. But as for auld George!—”

But even Mrs Cairnie owned that if he was not satisfied with the prospects of his daughter, “ye wouldna ken it by him.” And Mr James Petrie, who watched him closely, and had better opportunities, said the same, and so did Portie generally.

One token of his satisfaction was of a kind that all Portie could appreciate, though those chiefly concerned would gladly have dispensed with it. He insisted on a grand wedding, and as Captain Calderwood’s time was limited, the wedding had to be hastened, and there was some dismay at Saughleas at the thought of it. But May, who agreed with her father heartily on this point, came down, and took the matter into her own hands, and distinguished herself on the occasion.

It was a grand wedding. There were many guests and many gifts, and it must be confessed many opinions entertained, though not expressed, as to the wisdom of the marriage. But no one ventured to hint that the wedding itself was not a splendid success.

Strangely enough, Sir Percy Harefield was there and his sister. They were visitors at Blackford again. Mrs Eastwood looked with silent and rather scornful amazement on the girl who had slighted all that her brother had to offer, and who was now giving herself to this—sailor.

Even Mrs Eastwood could not look at Captain Calderwood on his wedding morning and join any contemptuous term to his name. He was like a young sea king among them all, she acknowledged; and he was a hero, it seemed, to these quaint northern folk that made his world. With a dim remembrance of her own youthful dreams, she acknowledged that perhaps, after all, Miss Dawson’s choice was not so surprising; and even her love and admiration for her brother could not make her blind to the contrast which the two men made. But she was scornful of Jean’s choice all the same.

Sir Percy was scornful of no one, but friendly and admiring, though a little heavy and dull, among so many gay folk. But he presented the bride with an elegant bracelet and bore no malice. He offered his congratulations to both bridegroom and bride with sufficient heartiness, and not even his sister could tell whether any painful sense of regret touched his heart that day.

One good thing came out of the grand wedding. There were guests from far and near, and among the rest—as one of the bridesmaids—came pretty Emily Corbett. Not the slip of a lassie who had clambered over the rocks and run about the sands with her little brother and sister and the rest of the bairns that happy summer long ago, but a stately young Englishwoman, tall and fair and wise.

In her presence Mr James Petrie forgot several things, and among the rest, his father’s pawky hints about Miss Langrigs and her tocher, which were to be had for the asking, as he thought. And despite many prophecies to the contrary, James married for love a portionless bride, and was made a man of by the doing it.

The “young sea king” and his bride had a few days among the Highland hills, and a few days more among the English lakes. But the real “wedding journey” was made in the “Ben Nevis.” They sailed away together into a new summer beneath Southern skies, and Jean got a glimpse of a new world full of wonders to her untravelled eyes.

Happily both voyages were as peaceful and pleasant as the last had been tempestuous, and nothing happened to darken a single hour of that happy time. Through the quiet of the soft sunny days, and the glory of nights made beautiful by the light of unfamiliar stars, these two young people, who had been for the last five years almost as strangers to each other, renewed their acquaintance, and indeed grew into a truer and deeper knowledge of each other than years of common life might have brought them, and before the happy outward voyage was over, there mingled with Jean’s love for her husband the reverence which no true heart can withhold from the man “who is good before God.”

It was not a full experience of sea life which his wife had got, Captain Calderwood owned, but this was less to be regretted, that she looked forward to many another voyage in the years that were before them. In the mean time she came home to her own house in the High-street where Miss Jean and Mrs Calderwood had been living together all this time. It was her home and theirs for many a happy year, and other homes in Portie were made happier through the happiness of theirs.

Jean had much work laid to her hand in her own home as the years went on, and she found also something to do beyond it. She was her father’s almoner to many a widow and orphan child in Portie; and she helped her brother with higher work than her father’s almsgiving.

Through her Miss Jean enjoyed in her last days, that which had made the happiness of her life for many years—the ministry of love to the “stranger,” the “naked,” the “sick, and in prison,” for His sake who said, “Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto me.”

And her experience as a sailor’s wife and the mother of children, did not make her less fit for this work, but more. It made her wise to understand, and strong to help other sailors’ wives in their time of need, and firm as well as tender in her dealings with many a child whom the cruel sea made fatherless.

And to many “puir auld bodies,” who had forgotten the events of yesterday, and last year, and of many a long year besides; and had come in their second childhood to live over the days of their youth again, the help and comfort which made their days of waiting a quiet rest, before the last “flitting,” still came to their belief as help and comfort used to come through “The Twa Miss Jeans.”

The End.