Page 13.

HONEST WULLIE.

BY

LYDIA L. ROUSE,

AUTHOR OF "SANDY'S FAITH," AND "JIM BENTLEY'S RESOLVE."

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

COPYRIGHT, 1884,

BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.

Contents

EFFIE PATTERSON'S STORY.

SEQUEL: BY CHRISTIE SOMERVILLE.

Honest Wullie.

CHAPTER I. WULLIE AND RAB.

Among the hills that divide the county of Ayr from Kirkcudbright, and near the bonny Doon, lived, in the early part of this century, a man named William Murdoch, but who was called by all his neighbors "honest Wullie." He was a farm-laborer, and lived alone in a cottage which he rented. He feared God and regarded man. His word was indeed as good as his bond. He had been called honest Wullie while yet a boy, and by common consent he still retained the name. At the time our story opens he was about thirty-five years of age.

It was the morning of the first of January. The departing year had robed the earth in spotless white, that its successor might behold nothing but beauty and purity, and might begin its course with gladness. The rough places were made smooth and the waste places concealed. The sun shone brightly, and the earth glittered and sparkled as if nature had purposely arrayed herself in jewelled robes to welcome the coming year. But men looked out upon the frozen earth and saw only wastes of snow, and began to cut their way through it that they might look after their cattle and all that belonged to them. While all other hands were busy, Willie Murdoch's were not idle. He was shovelling paths about his door, and, while so employed, his thoughts were running in this manner.

"I suppose I shall hae to look after that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine. A man canna let his ain brither suffer, even if it s'ould be through his ain faut. Rab was aye a careless lad. He s'ouldna hae married withoot changing his ways. Hoo did he suppose he would support a wife and weans! He aye depends o'er muckle on me." While he was thus mentally soliloquizing his brother appeared, struggling through the snow.

"Weel, Wullie, ye are aye warking; ye are o'er industrious."

"A man canna sit in the hoose and be snawed in. Hae ye no made paths aboot your ain door?"

"I didna feel the courage to do it, the snaw is that deep. I am a'maist beat oot wi' coming here."

"What brings ye oot on sic a morning? Are ye no all weel at hame?"

"We are all weel, I am thankful to say, but I am in trouble aboot the rent. Ye ken it is due, and I hae na made oot to save it. I am sair set upon to pay it, and I cam to ask if ye could gie me a helping hand."

It seemed but natural for Robert to ask this help. As his brother had said, he depended on Willie. The two were all that were left of their family, or, rather, of two families; for, though brothers by adoption and affection, they were in reality cousins. Willie's parents had died when he was but a few months old, and his mother's only sister, then lately married to a brother of Willie's father, had taken the orphaned little one and brought him up as her own child. He had repaid her with all the devotion of a loving and thoughtful son; and on her death-bed she had given him, then only fifteen years of age, the charge of Robert, who was six years younger. Her other children had died in infancy, and she had been a widow several years.

"Wullie, ye are a douce lad, for ane o' your years," she had said. "Ye maun aye hae a care o' your brither, and if he doesna get on weel in the warld, dinna spare to lend him a hand. And may the gude God guide you both."

Willie had never forgotten the injunction of his foster-mother, which seemed to him doubly binding from the peculiar character of their relationship. He had had too much care of his brother, in fact, to the manifest detriment of both; for Robert was sadly deficient in self-reliance, and Willie's hard-earned money was too often applied to the support of his brother's family. So when this new demand was made, Willie, with a perplexed look, leaned upon his shovel and remained a moment silent and thoughtful. At length he spoke.

"I dinna see what is to be dune. I am sair straitened for siller mysel'."

"Weel, if ye dinna see a way I canna tell what is to become o' us. I thought I could coont on you to help me out o' my trouble."

"Ye hae coonted on me o'er mony times for the gude o' my purse," said Willie, half in jest and half in earnest; for he had always said to himself, "I can never find it in my heart to be hard upon Rab." "But come into the hoose, Rab," continued he; "we will talk aboot it, and see if there is ony way to mend matters. I hae a few p'un's laid by for ony case o' emergency; but I would be loath to break in upon that just noo. Ye s'ould wark better and plan better. I dinna want to be hard upon you, but ye maunna forget that ye are na longer a laddie, but a man, and a husband and father forbye. I will help you this ance, but I canna be always ready to meet your obligations at a moment's warning. I hae been casting aboot in my ain mind, for some time, whether it wouldna be better to tak ye a' in wi' me, sin' ye are maistly no prepared on rent days. The hoose is sma'; that is ane thing against it; and I hae sa long lived in quiet that it might be hard at first to become accustomed to the prattle o' the bairns; but if you choose to come, you will be welcome."

This generous offer had cost Wullie no little self-sacrifice. He had lived alone since Robert was married, and he liked that way of living. "He could mak his ain parritch, and help himsel' amazin' weel," as his neighbors said. His wants were few and simple. He went to his labor each morning, and returned in the evening. As he left his house, so he found it; but how would it be if he opened his door to his brother's family? This is what he often thought about, and for this reason he had hesitated to propose the subject to Robert. But it was becoming a serious matter to pay so much for rent, for he almost always had it to pay for both cottages. Besides, hardly a week passed that he did not carry or send something to relieve the necessities of Robert's family. Having made the proposition, he watched to see how it would be received.

Robert's face brightened at first; then a shadow overspread it as he thought that, if he were in his brother's house, he could not conceal from him the fact that he was often out at night, and in bad company. So he sat trotting his feet, with his eyes on the floor, and made no reply.

"Hoo would that please you, Rab?" asked Wullie, after a long silence.

"I would be almost ashamed to accept sic a favor. Then, too, I might feel mair bound to think like yoursel' aboot mony things that I hae my ain opeenion aboot."

"Hoo is that, Rab? Ye dinna want to do wrang, I hope; or do you think I hae na sense to judge what s'ould be accounted wrang? If you do what is right, we will hae na difference o' opeenion. It is time ye had your wild oats a' sown. A man s'ould think mair aboot wark and less aboot diversion."

"Ilka ane canna think like yoursel', Wullie."

"Ilka ane s'ould consult duty before pleasure, Rab."

"A' folk dinna see duty in the same light. But we will mak na mair words aboot that. If Jeannie has na objections, we will accept your kindness and be thankful for it."

This he said to cover his own hesitancy, for he well knew that his wife would be glad of any change that would insure for herself more comforts and fewer cares. Her daily life was harassed by the all-absorbing questions, "What shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed?"

Robert for once hastened home to tell Jeannie the good news. As may be supposed, her necessitous circumstances overcame her pride, and she readily consented to a proposition which would lessen her anxieties; for she was a sensible, well-meaning woman, and was much pained at her husband's want of thrift. "Wullie was aye a douce, honest man," said she, as she made hasty preparations to leave her comfortless home. There was little to pack and little to move; and before night closed in upon the short day, Robert and his family were brought by a kind neighbor to his brother's door. Wullie heaved a sigh of regret for past quiet, and hastened to welcome the pale, careworn woman to her new home.

Tears of gratitude stood in Jeannie's eyes as she crossed the threshold. She extended her hand to Wullie, and endeavored to express her thanks; but sobs choked her utterance, and she burst into tears.

"Ye maunna greet, woman; ye are mair than welcome. Sit doun by the fire, and warm yoursel' and the bairns," said Wullie in the kindest tones.

Jeannie sat down and soon regained her composure. Then she arose, and began to place and put in order the few things she had brought with her. This done, she returned to the fire where Wullie was preparing the evening meal. She assisted in arranging the table, and soon they sat down to a frugal but substantial supper.

After the repast was finished, Robert went to pay his rent. Jeannie busied herself about the house for a while; then she put the children to bed, and sat down to her usual evening occupation, knitting.

Wullie did not as usual get his Bible; he sat on the opposite side of the room and watched Jeannie's nimble fingers and listened to the clicking of her needles.

"Jeannie, ye are o'er pale and thin; are ye no weel?" he asked.

"I maistly think I am weel; but whiles I misdoot it. I think laneliness has had muckle to do wi' my ill looks. I was reared in a large family, and I canna but feel the change. Then Rab has a way o' gaen oot in the evening, and I am all alane, savin' my sleepin' bairns; and it is weary waitin', for he is lang a-comin'. I doot if he would like me to tell you, but lately I hae suffered bath laneliness and fear."

"O Jeannie, ye s'ould hae tauld me before. I didna ken he was gaen that gate."

"Weel, I hae tauld ye noo, and I hae a purpose in tellin' ye. I want ye to look after him. He willna heed me, but perhaps he will heed you."

Wullie was about to reply when they heard a footstep, and Robert entered.

"Weel, Rab, ye are square ance mair," said his brother cheerily, though his own small store was much smaller on that account.

"Ay am I, thanks to yoursel', Wullie."

"I am right glad we hae stoppit rent-payin' for ane o' the places. Noo, if ye stick to wark as ye s'ould, ye will get on in the warld better than ye hae been doing. I will seek a gude place for ye the neist year. If ye are wullin' to wark weel, I hae na doot but ye can wark wi' me. Farmer Lindsay will need anither man in the spring, and ye would do better on a farm than wi' your hedging and ditching. With him ye would hae every kind o' wark in its season; and if ye wark as weel as ye ken hoo, ye will hae wark the hail year round, and nae trouble in gien satisfaction. We will hae to look weel to oor affairs, and then I see na reason why we s'ouldna gather comforts aboot us. I will get a coo; it willna cost muckle to keep her, and the milk will be gude for the bairns. And we'll hae to fatten a couple o' swine. I hae had naebody but mysel' to feed, and I hae been sa strang and weel that onything would do me. But your wife and bairns need mair than I hae needed. I dinna like to see them sa thin and pale."

A cry from one of the children attracted Jeannie's attention, and she left the room.

"It canna be, Rab, that they hae na been weel keepit," he continued. "Plenty o' aiten meal would mak them look better than they do."

Rab was confused, and did not reply. He could not look into the clear gray eyes of honest Wullie and tell him that a part of his wages went to the innkeeper, that he often treated a set of idle, jolly fellows with the money that should have given bread to his family. So he only said, "Jeannie has never complained o' her fare."

"Weel, Rab, the pale cheek will sometimes tell o' suffering when the tongue refuses to speak o' it. I dinna say it is so in Jeannie's case; ye ken that best yoursel'."

"Wullie, ye are o'er plain o' speech. Ilka ane wouldna tak it frae ye."

"I am plain-spoken, Rab. I never say yea when I mean nay; neither do I stand aboot tellin' a freend his fauts when ony gude can come o' it. 'Faithful are the wounds o' a freend,' ye ken."

"That may be; but sic talk maistly sits too snug to fit weel. Ye are ca'ed honest Wullie, and ye cam as honestly by the name through your plain, outspoken way as by your fair dealing."

"Weel, I am no ashamed o' the name, however I cam by it."

Jeannie's return changed the conversation to some other subject.

CHAPTER II. THE NEW HOME.

The next morning was the Sabbath. Of course honest Wullie was at home on that morning. It was a strange thing for him to have children in his house. But his face brightened as little Jamie's curly head and happy face appeared, and instinctively he extended his hand. "Come to me, come to your uncle, my wee man," he said in winning tones.

The child approached him rather slowly, and suffered himself to be lifted to his uncle's knee. Soon the broad palm of honest Wullie was stroking Jamie's head, and from that time Uncle Wullie's knee was the child's favorite seat. The other child was a mere babe, a sweet, delicate little girl, named Isabel, whom Wullie always called "the wee lass." This child he did not at first attempt to take, for she was "sic a wee bit thing," he said, he would be "a'maist sure to let her fa'."

There was soon a decided improvement in Rab's family. The children grew plump and rosy, and the mother lost the pale, sad look. Rab seldom went to town, and when he did he returned early. His wife began to breathe more freely; she inwardly felt that Wullie's influence would save her husband.

Spring came, and with it a change of labor for Robert Murdoch. His brother secured employment for him on Mr. Lindsay's farm, as he had proposed. Jeannie now moved about the house with a light step and a lighter heart. The cottage too was undergoing a change; not under the carpenter's hand, but under the skilful, remodelling hand of a woman. The bareness was less apparent. In the best room were a chest of drawers and a clock, the only heirlooms Jeannie possessed. The windows were curtained, some of the rough chairs and unsightly stools were cushioned; here was a small mirror, and there a bright pincushion and housewife. The cradle, too, with its many-colored covering and tiny pillow, and little Isabel's sweet face half hidden in it, made the cottage seem more like a home. True, there was no elegance or beauty, but there was a change; for honest Wullie had considered his home furnished when he had a bed, a table, a few chairs, shovel and tongs, parritch-pot, and bake-kettle. As to time, he could always tell that by the crowing of the cock or the position of the sun. He was so accustomed to these methods of telling time that he seldom needed to look at the noon-mark cut in the south window. But Wullie appreciated the change that had taken place, and smiled approvingly. He even went so far as to say, "It taks a woman's hand to mak hame tidy." He began to perceive that he had received as well as afforded comfort by opening his door to others.

Quickly passed the spring and summer seasons. On warm afternoons Jeannie often sat in the pleasant cottage door sewing on some pretty garments for the little ones who were playing at her feet. She had watched the budding trees with unusual interest, for the new life in nature seemed to harmonize with her own fresh hopes. Her heart was again blithe and hopeful, and as the birds carolled their notes of joy, she too sang old songs of love and happiness. But hers was a happiness founded on the constancy of frail humanity. Alas, that cannot always be trusted.

CHAPTER III. DAFT JAMIE'S.

About two miles from the cottage was a small inn and dramshop familiarly known as Daft Jamie's. The nominal proprietor was James McAllister, but the house was kept by his wife; for, many years before, McAllister had been so badly injured in a drunken brawl that he had never fully recovered his reason, and had ever since borne the name of Daft Jamie. This was a place of resort for all the idlers of the neighborhood, who came here to gossip and drink and empty their pockets into Mrs. McAllister's money-drawer. Rab well knew the road to this place, but since he had brought his family to his brother's house he had kept away from it.

One evening late in autumn Robert Murdoch failed to come home as usual. As the evening advanced Jeannie's fears fast deepened into certainty; but she concealed her anxiety as well as she could and endeavored to appear cheerful.

Wullie had no fears concerning his brother. He sat down near the fire, preparing to doze until Rab should return; but before he was lost in slumber Jeannie broke the silence by remarking that the night was dark, and it was a long way to Daft Jamie's.

"What puts Daft Jamie's into your heid?" said Wullie. "Surely Rab is no there. He is crackin' wi' Donald McPherson or some o' the neebors. Dinna worry yoursel'. Gang to your bed, and I'll wait for Rab."

But Jeannie did not go to bed. She resumed her work and relapsed into silence.

Again Wullie settled himself into an easy posture and succeeded in falling asleep. The unhappy wife still listened for the footsteps of her husband, but all the sound she heard was the heavy breathing of the weary man in the chimney-corner. After another hour had passed she again roused the sleeper.

"I am right sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I am worried about Rab. Would you be sa kind as to gang and look for him?"

"Ay, I will gang, to please you," said he, putting on his bonnet and going out into the darkness. It was now late. As he passed the neighbors' houses one after another, he found only darkness and silence. The inmates were wrapped in slumber. Rab was not there. He kept on till he saw the light of Daft Jamie's. As he approached the house he heard loud laughing. He opened the door and beheld with astonishment his brother, who had always been as lithe as a willow, performing sundry feats for the amusement of the company. Rab was so much engaged that he did not notice the entrance of the new-comer.

"Gude save us!" exclaimed one of the company, "if here isna honest Wullie! I would liefer see the de'il himsel' in this place."

Wullie walked straight to his brother. "It is time all honest folk were at hame," said he.

Robert looked at him a moment, hardly knowing whether to be angry or to yield and feel foolish.

"Can a man no hae a bit o' merriment but ye maun come spierin' aboot after him?" he asked.

"Come hame. Dinna stop here makin' a gowk o' yoursel'," said Wullie in an undertone. "I could hide my face wi' very shame to see your foolish pranks to mak sport for these idle haverals."

Rab went home, but he was much displeased. He did not like the idea of his free moral agency being interfered with. He remained silent and sullen. When the Sabbath came he refused to accompany Wullie to church. Wullie remonstrated, but to no purpose. "Then ye can mind the bairns, and let your wife gang," he added.

"She can gang if she likes," Rab replied.

The day passed wearily to Robert Murdoch. He felt as one always feels when he is wilfully drifting from the right. To Wullie the day and means of grace had not been without profit. Ever since his brother came to live with him he had been debating with his conscience whether he ought to have family worship. That day he made up his mind to act on the side of duty. When the time for rest drew near, the time when so many of those honest, devout sons of Scotland bowed before the King of kings, Wullie took down the Bible he had so often read in private, and read aloud. Then he knelt in prayer, and one more altar was set up for the worship of God. Short and simple, yet touching, was the prayer of honest Wullie. Especially did he pray that they all might be delivered from the power of the tempter. After he arose from his knees he remarked to Robert,

"Ye dinna mind when our faither kept the fire o' devotion burning on sic an altar as I hae this night set up, but I mind it weel; and I mind, mairover, that God's fury is to be poured out on the families that call not on his name; so I hae made up my mind that, come what will, I will daily raise my voice in praise to God, to whom I owe every good thing I possess."

Jeannie, who had often in her hours of trouble turned her thoughts towards God, heartily assented to this arrangement. But Rab said to himself, "What is the need o' sic an ado?" He felt that the breath of piety in his home was a constant rebuke to his wilful course, and it vexed him. Truly, "the way of the transgressor is hard."

But Rab's resentment gradually wore away, and the little household had nearly regained its wonted cheerfulness when, in a few weeks, Rab was again absent.

"I wonder what is keeping Rab," said Jeannie, as they sat down to supper without him. Wullie was as anxious as herself; for when the demon of drink has once entered a household, one never knows at what moment shame, or a worse thing, may come to the door.

As the candle burned low, and the evening was far advanced, Wullie arose and took his bonnet and plaid. "The night is cold, and it is o'er late. I will go and seek Rab. Something has gone wrang, or he would be here."

"He said ye werena to come again," was sobbed out by Jeannie, rather than spoken.

"I canna bide this suspense, and it is my duty to go. We are each our brother's keeper."

It was a still, cold night. The stars shone brightly, and the crusted snow sparkled in the moonlight. Wullie drew his plaid closely about him and strode forth in the direction of Daft Jamie's. He knew by the remark that greeted his ear on the former occasion that his presence was not regarded as desirable, so he slipped in very quietly. There was Mrs. McAllister, who was anxious to shut up for the night, and Rab with his boon companion Donald McPherson. When Wullie entered, Donald was vainly endeavoring to induce Rab to go home.

"Hands off," said Wullie, coming quickly forward; "I'll tak care o' him mysel'. He has had mair o' your care than is gude for him." Then, turning to the landlady and addressing her, he said, "Ye s'ould be mair careful hoo ye deal oot your foul whiskey."

He raised his brother to his feet, put his bonnet on his head, drew him to the door, and turned his face towards home. He took him by the arm and led him along as fast as possible. Jeannie had sat there anxiously waiting their return. They laid the scarcely conscious man in his bed, and then with aching hearts sought their own pillows, where at length tardy sleep came to relieve exhausted nature.

Robert awoke next morning too late to go to his work in time. His head ached; he felt angry with himself and angry with others. His wife bore his ill-humor with patience, and that annoyed him. Little Jamie noticed the change in his father. "What ails ye, faither, that ye dinna smile to wee Jamie?" he asked.

"Faither has a sair heid; rin awa and play by yoursel'," said the father.

Jeannie prepared a nice dinner, and she tried to wear a smile, but failed; for in her heart she felt that thick darkness hung over her future.

When honest Wullie returned from his work that evening his face was very grave. Thought had been active all day. Had he been too lenient with his brother when he was young and under his care? Had he failed to impress his mind with Bible truths? What was the cause of his intemperance? and why his aversion to vital piety? These and similar questions had troubled him all day. So while Rob had a "sair heid," Wullie had a sair heart. He took his Bible and read long to himself. Once, some large tears fell on the book. Rab saw them, and his heart was softened. He had never before seen tears in his brother's eyes. He moved uneasily about the room, and spoke pleasantly to his family. He even felt so nearly penitent as to listen patiently to the reading of the Scriptures, and to a lengthy prayer wherein were some allusions to his own shortcomings, for Wullie carried all his troubles to the throne of grace. So he besought the Lord, who is a present help in trouble, to draw near to his household, and to deliver them from the snare of the fowler; he entreated that, if Satan desired to have any of them, the blessed Master might pray for them as he did for Peter of old, and plead their poor prayers before the throne of mercy, and that delivering power might be felt in all their hearts.

The next day Rab was himself again. He went to his work, and came home at the usual time. He had thought a good deal during the day. He was ashamed of his weakness, and he had resolved to let strong drink alone. He told Wullie that he would never have to go again to Daft Jamie's to bring him home; and he promised Jeannie that he would drink no more. Jeannie rejoiced to hear him say so, although she knew a promise is more easily made than kept.

But Rab kept his resolution. He worked steadily all the next year. He attended church, and seemed anxious to do right. Hope sprang up in the hearts of his wife and brother. Wullie felt sure that God had heard his prayers. And God had heard them. But human strength, at best, is weak; and there was to be one more trial, the hardest and the last.

CHAPTER IV. DEATH IN THE CUP.

The rolling year again brought the winter. During the coldest weather there was little to be done on the farm, and Wullie and Rab spent many days at home. One very cold evening Rab went out "to look after the coo," as he told his wife. While he was at the cow-shed, Donald McPherson, who was passing that way in hope of seeing his old comrade, approached him softly.

"Come awa wi' me to Daft Jamie's, and get a drop to warm you this cauld night."

"I canna gang, Donald. It isna gude for me nor you to gang there."

"Hoot, man! I'll be bound ye are as dry as a fish oot o' water."

"Weel, dry or no dry, I canna gang. I hae na claes on that would keep me frae the cauld to gang that length, and but a puir pair o' auld shoon to my feet; and if I went to the hoose to get better, Jeannie would say, 'Where are ye gaen?' and Wullie would say, 'What are ye after noo?' Sa ye see yoursel' I canna gang."

"I hae it. Ye jist gang in and say ye are but noo tauld to gang for the doctor for a seek neebor."

"Na, na. I canna lee, wi' a' my fauts. I would liefer rin fast eneuch to keep mysel' warm."

"Weel, do that," said the tempter; and Rab consented, though rather reluctantly.

He did run fast enough to keep himself warm while going; but alas for the home-coming! He had, of course, drunk more than was good for him. Mrs. McAllister, who feared another visit from honest Wullie, urged Donald to take him home. Donald took him a part of the way and left him. "We hae had a gude auld-fashioned time tagither," said he; "but noo ye maun hasten hame. Rin, for the life o' ye!" But poor Rab did not comprehend his situation; he could not have hurried if he had. The cold soon benumbed him; his feet refused to carry him, and he soon sank down into the snow.

Meantime he had been missed at home, and search had been made for him. It was a long time before it entered into the minds of his family that he might have gone to Daft Jamie's. But with the thought Wullie quickly seized his brother's plaid and his own, and hurried in the direction of the inn. He had gotten about half the distance when he found the object of his search. He succeeded in arousing him, wrapped him in his plaid, and took him home as fast as his ill condition would permit. Rab was allowed to remain near the fire until he was supposed to be warm. Then Wullie offered to "loose his shoon." To his horror he discovered that his feet had been frozen.

It was a trial to all, but particularly to Rab, that he had to be kept in the house with sore feet. Still, no one at first realized the extent of the injury; and many days had elapsed before a conviction fastened on Rab's mind which found expression in these words:

"I will hae to lose my taes."

"No so bad as that, I hope," said his wife.

"I see nae help for it. Oh, why did I gang oot that unlucky night! I wish I had let the coo gang withoot her supper; then I wouldna hae seen Donald. I am afeared I will be a cripple a' the rest o' my days; and if I am crippled in sic a way, I will never shaw my heid again."

"But, Rab, ye might hae been frozen to death; think o' that!"

"Ay, I hae thought o' that; and I hae thought o' anither thing, and that is just this: Donald McPherson will hae gray hairs on his heid before I forgie him for that night's wark. I would hae been at hame in my warm bed but for him. I was aboot my ain business, and had nae intention o' gaen to Daft Jamie's, when he cam along, and naething would do but I maun gang wi' him. But, as God helps me to keep my promise, I will never be found wi' him again."

"I am glad to hear ye say that," said Jeannie, "and I hope ye will stick to it as lang as he is the same wild, warthless Donald; but if God s'ould change his heart, it would be different, ye ken."

"It is my opeenion that God's grace will never reach Donald."

"Ye maunna say that. Wullie would tell ye no to limit the grace o' God."

"Ay, and Wullie would say there is mercy for me; but I canna feel sure aboot it."

"And why s'ould there not be mercy for you?"

"Because, Jeannie, I hae been, and am still, a great sinner."

"Weel, Rab, it was but yester morn that I read in the gude Book, 'They that are whole need not a physician, but they that are sick;' and I thought to mysel, here Jesus holds oot hope for the warst o' folk."

"It would seem so, Jeannie, but I ken little aboot sic things."

"And I am nae judge o' thae things either, although I would fain learn aboot them. We will ask Wullie."

Accordingly, after Wullie had returned from his work, and had settled in his favorite corner, with Jamie on his knee, Jeannie began to speak upon the subject uppermost in her mind.

"Wullie, doesna the Bible hold forth hope and pardon to the warst o' sinners?"

"Of course it does. Wha says it doesna?"

"Rab says he doesna feel a'thegither sure aboot it."

Wullie smiled a glad smile, not unmingled with surprise, while he answered, "If you will test the promises, Rab, ye will ken better than to doot them. Only turn to the Lord wi' full purpose o' heart. Tak the promises as your ain, and cling to them, and ye shall save your soul; for the Lord is ever ready to hear all that call upon his name."

"I hae only lately begun to think aboot sic things. I had some conversation to-day wi' Jeannie that led her to speak to you aboot it."

"It is the strivings o' the Spirit, Rab. Oh, that ye would 'seek the Lord while he may be found, and call upon him while he is near!' He is near to you noo. He is speaking to your conscience. He has said, 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.'"

"I am sure I would like to have that abundant pardon. But there is are thing I canna mak clear in my ain mind. I canna weel see what maks sic a difference between us. It may be that you are to be saved and I am to be lost. Ye ken the ministers preach that one is sure to go to the gude place, and anither to the bad, according to God's plan."

"I ken, Rab, some say that. But I dinna fash my held aboot election while I can find sic words as these: 'Say unto them, As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live. Turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die, O house of Israel?'"

"But, Wullie, might not that be only for the chosen people, the Israelites?"

"Na, Rab, na. 'The Gentiles shall come to Thy light.' And listen to this: 'Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.' And again: 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' This is eneuch for me; for I ken weel our blessed Maister wouldna call us to him to send us empty awa."

"Weel, Wullie, there be folk wha say ane thing, and folk wha say anither thing. Wha kens wha has the right o' it?"

"I will tell ye, Rab; ye just read the Ward o' God for yoursel. I am sure ye are nae fule; and if ye were, ye could understand eneuch to be saved; for the Bible declares that the wayfaring man, though a fule, needna err therein. Noo read for yoursel, as I said, and tak the plain, simple truths o' the Bible. Dinna gang aside frae the general course to pick at what ye canna understand, for in so doing ye may wrest the Scriptures to your ain destruction. Nane by seeking can find out God; neither can they understand all the wards o' him wha is infinite in wisdom."

"But what wad ye think if ye were in the kirk and ye s'ould hear it sounded in your ears that some were left to eternal death?"

"I would no dispute it; but I would whisper softly to my heart sic passages o' the Holy Ward as these: 'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whasoever believeth in him s'ould not perish, but have eternal life.' 'For God so loved the warld that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whasoever believeth in him s'ould not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'For God sent not his Son into the warld to condemn the warld, but that the warld through him might be saved.'"

"That you would say to yoursel; but if a man was in trouble aboot the doctrine o' election, and s'ould ask ye to comfort him, what would ye tell him?"

"I would say, dinna meddle wi' decrees. Never gang back o' the promises. They are strang eneuch to bear us up, and sweet eneuch to comfort us; and I think a' we hae to do is to lay hand o' them as they are held oot to us. And I will tell ye, Rab, what I honestly think: mair folk catch at the question o' election as an excuse for putting off God's claims upon them, than through fear that they are not o' the elect."

CHAPTER V. A YEAR OF GLOOM.

Spring came, but Robert Murdoch was still in his chair. It was then evident that not only his feet had been injured, but that he had also contracted disease. The physician plainly told Wullie that his brother's working days were over. "It is but right to tell you," said he, "that he has consumption; and though its work may not be swift, it will be sure." Honest Wullie staggered under the weight of this sad intelligence. But he took this trouble where he had long since learned to take all others—to his Father in heaven. He also tried to appear cheerful, though his heart was very heavy.

Rab began to think that his health had been undermined, and he became very despondent. During the day he would sit many hours without speaking; but in the evening he would converse with his brother on indifferent subjects. Wullie soon perceived that he was speaking of that which was least in his thoughts. Therefore, one evening when Jeannie and the children were in another room, he endeavored to lead Rab to talk of that which more nearly concerned his true welfare.

"Hoo is it," said he, "that ye speak aboot sic things? I can see right weel that your heart is no in your talk. It would be better to lay aside sic pretences, for ye hae na deceived me frae the vera first. Ye hae a trouble that is pressing sair upon you. Will ye no tell me at ance what it is? Perhaps I might comfort you."

"Wullie," replied Rab, "ye hae had ane look into my heart, and noo I will mak it bare to you. I am thinking I will never be a sound man again. It isna my feet alane, but I hae a sair pain when I cough; and I hae nae mair strength than wee Jamie; and it is nae wonder, for I sweat sae muckle o' nights. But that is not all: the end of it will be death—death to the body at least; and wha kens but it will be death to the soul as weel! It is this that troubles me. I sit and ponder it o'er and o'er, and Jeannie thinks perhaps that I am ill-tempered; but I canna bring mysel to tell her. It would break her heart if I were to dee without hope. Puir lass! I hae never been gude eneuch for her. Many a time I hae pitied her that she wasna better mated."

Wullie was much moved. As soon as he could trust his voice he replied, "Rab, I hae seen all that ye hae tauld me, and mair than ye hae tauld me. Ye are seeking to find favor in the sight o' God; and ye are looking within yoursel to find something to recommend you to him, but ye canna find onything. Ye hae been vexing yoursel wi' a notion a'thegither wrang. Hae ye never understood that ye are to come with a' your guilt upon you, and fall doun at the feet o' sovereign Mercy, and ask God to accept you as ye are, since naething but the bluid o' the Son of God has power to cleanse you frae your sins? That is the way you are to come to God. Ye shall read it for yoursel." Handing him the Bible, he continued, "Read frae the eleventh to the twenty-fifth verse o' the fifteenth chapter o' St. Luke, and ye will see if the prodigal son did mair than just come to his faither."

Rab read the story carefully.

"Ye are right, Wullie. He went wi' a' his fauts, and was thinking to be coonted as a servant; but he wasna, for the servants were called to put the best robe on him, and a ring on his hand, and shoon on his feet."

"Ye hae missed ane strang point, Rab, if ye didna notice that the mere sight o' the sinfu' son, wi' his face turned hameward, gave the faither sic joy that he ran to meet him while he was yet a lang way off, and fell on his neck and kissed him."

"Sae he did; sae he did. Weel, it was sae full I couldna tak it all in at ance."

Jeannie had returned and sat quietly listening. She had been praying that her husband might be brought to see the promises so clearly as to be led to accept them. Finally she ventured to speak.

"It is plain that a' the young man did, saving his rising and gaen to his faither, was to confess his fauts; and he was met wi' compassion even before he made any confession. So ye see, Rab, God is waiting to forgive if we forsake sin and rise up and go to him. I am sure that I, for ane, need a strang freend to flee to when doots and fears get hold o' me."

"And I feel the need o' sic a freend mair than ye think, Jeannie," said Rab. "Wha will lead me to him?"

"I hae pointed you to the Word o' God, my brither. Ye maun ask to be led by the Holy Spirit. Meantime ye hae my puir prayers that ye may be accepted," said Wullie.

Honest Wullie soon found his hands more than full. Expenses had greatly increased, and were not likely soon to diminish. He now had the entire charge of providing for his brother's family. Besides, there were extra expenses in the way of medicines and occasional visits from the physician. It required all his energy to meet these constantly recurring demands on his resources. The remainder of the small sum he had laid by was spent. Autumn came, and he found that his wages would barely purchase provisions for the winter. There could be no surplus for an emergency. Rab's family now numbered five instead of four, for another little girl had come to be cared for; and the father's illness increased. Wullie felt that he was being sorely tried. He was obliged to apply to his employer to advance him money.

Farmer Lindsay was accompanied by a strange gentleman when honest Wullie met him and preferred his request. The money was immediately put into his hand.

"How is this," said the stranger when Wullie was gone, "that you advance money in that fashion? If he cannot meet his expenses this year, how will he do it next year with this amount deducted?"

"I admit," said Farmer Lindsay, "that I couldna do it wi' a' my men; but wi' honest Wullie it is a' right. He has ta'en his brither's family into his hoose, and there is seckness amang them. The brither himsel is seck, and his wife has a wee bit bairn, and they hae na onything laid by. I am right sorry for Wullie, for a better man never put his hand to a sickle. I would help him though I s'ould never be paid. But there is nae danger o' that. He hasna come to his name withoot gude reason. I ken him weel. He has a generous nature; and he is aye ready to help ithers when he has the means in his hands."

Here the subject dropped. But the gentleman, who was a cousin of Mrs. Lindsay's, had also a generous nature, and he did not forget honest, struggling Wullie. The next day when he left he put a ten-pound note into Mr. Lindsay's hand, saying, "Give this, with my compliments, to the man that has earned the name of honest Wullie."

Wullie went to town, paid the doctor's bill, bought a few delicacies for the sick, and some necessaries, among which was a pair of thick warm shoes for Jeannie. He paid out nearly all the money he had taken, but still more things were needed. When he reached home he gave the shoes to Jeannie. "I hae brought you some shoon," said he. "Noo your feet will no be weet." Jeannie had not expected them. Her happy surprise gave him no small pleasure. But the pleasure suddenly vanished; for no sooner had he taken his seat by the fire than Jamie climbed on his knee and asked,

"Uncle Wullie, did you bring me too ony new shoon?"

"Nae, my wee man, I couldna spare the siller."

"Will ye bring me some when ye gang again? My shoon are fu' o' holes."

"I canna promise, puir laddie," said he, stroking the child's head as he spoke.

Jamie hid his face on his uncle's neck and cried from disappointment.

Wullie felt very sorry for his little nephew. "Dinna greet, laddie, dinna greet," said he. "Ye will hae me keepin' you company if ye dinna stop." In reality he felt perplexed as well as sorry; for he could not help seeing that to keep comfortable would require his utmost efforts.

The signs of perplexity had not left his countenance, when Farmer Lindsay entered. Mr. Lindsay seemed the bearer of good tidings, so happy was his face. He wished them all a good evening, and then inquired particularly after Rab.

"I am nae better," said Rab.

"And hoo are a' the bairns, Mistress Murdoch?"

"They are a' vera weel, I thank ye."

"And hoo hae ye made oot wi' your marketing in the town, Wullie?"

"I found things o'er dear; and I hae na got a' I s'ould hae fetched, for this wee man has but noo been greetin' for new shoon. I brought his mither a pair, and he lookit doun at his ain feet; then he climbed to my knee and spiered at me aboot shoon for himsel. It is nae wonder, as ye see," said Wullie, holding up both the small feet in his capacious hand and displaying the condition of the shoes.

Farmer Lindsay smiled peculiarly. "Come here, my wee man," said he. "So ye hae been greetin' aboot new shoon, hae ye? Weel, your uncle will bring them the next time he gaes to town."

"I dinna ken hoo that will be," interposed Wullie.

"Weel, ye will hae the means to get them, at ony rate," replied Mr. Lindsay; "for the man ye saw wi' me yesterday, when he learned more aboot you, gied me a ten-pound note, saying 'Gie that, wi' my compliments, to the man that has earned the name o' honest Wullie.'"

Wullie was dumb with amazement. But collecting his thoughts he said, "I hae nae suitable words to express my thanks; but if I ever see the gentleman I will do my best to thank him, for I am right thankfu'. But, Mr. Lindsay, I hae seen the time when I wouldna hae taen sic a gift. But God has shawn me that it is pride, and not wisdom, that refuses the help that gude men offer to their struggling fellow-men. Especially would it be wrang for me, sin' I hae the comfort o' ithers to consider."

"That is my ain opeenion, Wullie; and I thought ye would hae the sense to see it in that light. I hae nae sympathy, nor patience either, wi' puir folk that haud their heids sae high, and willna accept help when it is offered to them, and then sink into want or disgrace through their ain fulish pride."

"Ye are right, Mr. Lindsay. If God puts it into the hearts o' gude men to help those wha are in need, and they willna receive that help, they stand in the way o' Providence, sin' they shut up channels through which the Lord would send blessings to them. Every ane can understand that it is mair gratifying to give than to acknowledge ane's needs so far as to accept gifts; but pride maun hae a fa'."

"Just so, Wullie. Now, if ye s'ould find yoursel again in want o' means, come to me. I wish ye a' a good-night."

"Hae ye ever heard o' sic a thing!" exclaimed Wullie when the door had closed behind Farmer Lindsay. "Yesterday I was that discouraged that I hardly kenned what to do nor which way to turn. But I clung to the promise o' God, and I said to mysel, 'The siller and the gowd are his;' but I couldna see in what way he would send it to me in my sair need. My heart wouldna quite trust yet. I thought o' the wee helpless bairns, and I said again to mysel, 'He hears the young ravens when they cry, and he will hear the prayer o' his unworthy servant for those His ain providence has put into his care.' Then I gaed aboot my wark as light o' heart as the birds o' the air. But my faith was o'er weak, for when wee Jamie was disappointed I had a'maist gien o'er again to fear."

"Weel, Wullie, if ye lack faith, what would ye think o' me?" asked Rab.

"Ah, Rab, ye hae na proved what comfort ane gets in just takin' God at his ward. I dinna see hoo folk can endure life withoot the Heavenly Father's smile. It is true they hae the bonny things in nature; but they are far bonnier when ane can not only see their beauty, but can trace in them the gudeness and wisdom o' the Creator, and can feel that he has this all-wise Creator for his freend. Mony a time when I am weary wi' my wark, I see a bonny wee flower, and the sight o' it gladdens me. I hear the blithe sang o' a bit bird, and that cheers me. I see the drooping plant revive, and I say to mysel, 'Though I fa', I shall rise again.' I tell ye, there is naething like having the Bible hidden in your heart when your een are lookin' oot on the face o' nature. The ane makes you think o' the ither. They blend weel thegither, and strengthen ane's faith, for it isna hard to see that He that created the ane inspired the ither."

"Hoo differently you and I hae aye lookit on life, Wullie. Did ye ever think o' it?"

"Ay, I hae thought o' it mony times. Ye hae been fond o' company, while I hae been fond o' quiet. I hae made a companion o' my Bible; and I gie it as my verdict that it is not only a safe, but a profitable ane."

Wullie's heart was full of glad thankfulness. He rose and stirred the fire, and added fuel. There should be no lack of anything now. "Jamie, ye s'all hae new shoon, and wee Belle s'all hae new shoon; and Rab, ye s'all no want for medicines. Jeannie, ye will see till 't that there is plenty o' parritch made, for if the meal gies oot ye can hae mair. Weel, weel, I canna forget it. Is it no wonderfu' that the gentleman s'ould hae left the money for me! I hae nae doot he is a servant of the Lord, sin' he considers the puir. Oh, how I wish that ilka ane would set his heart on serving the Most High!"

CHAPTER VI. A CLEAR SUNSET.

Wullie now felt a great relief with regard to ways and means. Ten pounds seemed quite a sum to those frugal cottagers. But as Rab's illness increased Wullie became very anxious about his brother's future welfare, and earnestly desired that he should experience a good hope through the Saviour of sinners. He missed no opportunity to set before him the love of Christ, and his willingness to save all who come to him with a humble and contrite heart. He proposed to bring the parish minister. But Rab said, "Not yet. I like best to talk wi' yoursel, Wullie. I would be ashamed to talk to onybody aboot my past life."

"Are ye sorry for it as weel as ashamed o' it."

"Ay, I am baith ashamed and sorry."

"There is a godly sorrow that warketh repentance. Hae ye that sorrow?"

"I dinna ken right weel what that s'ould be."

"I will tell you what it is as near as I can come to it. If the remembrance o' sin is painfu' to us because it is hateful in the sight o' God; if our misspent, unprofitable lives grieve us because they hae grieved our Saviour, to whom we owe obedient, faithful service; if we wish to forsake sin, because it is sin, and not from fear o' punishment alane, then I think it is the sorrow that warketh repentance."

"I think I feel something like that. I dinna ken hoo it would be if I were oot again wi' my auld comrades; but noo as I lie here I am seck o' sin, seck o' the things I ance loved. I canna bear to think o' my past life. In the night season I often put oot my hand in the vain attempt to push it far frae me, but it willna gang oot o' my memory. Then I think o' Him wha deed to save us frae oor sins, and I remember that I hae never turned towards him, but awa frae him, and I feel that my condemnation would be just. But at ither times I feel that I will, I must, lay hold o' some promise; that I will lay me doun just outside the door o' mercy, and wait to see if the Maister willna lift the latch and bid me come in."

"Brither, it is yoursel maun lift the latch to the door o' your heart, and bid the Maister come in and possess it. Beyond a doot the Saviour is noo knocking to be admitted. Do ye no remember that passage o' Scripture that reads, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me'? Noo, my brither, in faith bid the Maister enter your heart, and all will be weel. Only believe, Rab. 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"

"Wullie, I am gaen to believe noo." Then closing his eyes, he said aloud, "Lord, I will believe thee. I do believe thee; and if I do not believe aright, wilt thou teach me how to believe?"

Wullie went to the bedside, and, kneeling down, he poured out his soul in prayer that God would bless them all, and bless them then. When he arose from his knees Jeannie was weeping softly, but Rab had a glad light in his eyes. "Wullie," he said, "the darkness is o'erpast, and light is breaking through. Oh, the wondrous condescension o' the Saviour! Jeannie, my puir wife, ye maun find Jesus and hae him for your dearest freend."

"I hae found him, Rab. Ane can greet wi' joy as weel as sorrow."

"That is true," said Wullie, as he wiped away the great joy-born tears from his own cheeks. It was a sight for angels—and angels do know of such scenes, for "There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

"I think I would hae been comforted sooner," said Rab, "if I could hae brought mysel to forgive Donald the wrang he has done me. But I couldna do it, although I aye remembered what oor Saviour himsel said, 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive you your trespasses.' It was only this morning that I forgave him, and noo I am rejoicing in forgiveness mysel. I would like to tell Donald that I forgive him, for perhaps after I am awa he may feel troubled aboot it."

Donald McPherson had always felt very guilty concerning his own part in Rab's illness. He never came near the cottage, and he took care to avoid honest Wullie. But now that Rab had expressed a desire to tell Donald that he had forgiven him, Wullie went to Donald's cottage and told him that Rab would like to see him. Donald looked embarrassed and troubled.

"He wants to upbraid me," said he, "but God knows my ain conscience has upbraided me eneuch for that night's wark."

"Na, naething o' the kind. I could tell you what it is mysel, but he would rather tell it."

"I will come and see him. I hear he isna lang for this warld."

"He willna be here lang," replied Wullie.

"God hae mercy on us a'," said Donald, with emotion.

That night there was a timid knock at honest Wullie's door. "Come in," said Wullie in a loud tone. The latch was lifted, and in walked Donald McPherson. Jeannie set a chair for him, and Wullie spoke pleasantly to him. But Donald was ill at ease. He seemed looking for some one he did not see. A voice from the bed said, "Good evening to ye, Donald." Donald approached the bed, and Rab extended his hand.

"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald, grasping the proffered hand. A shiver ran through him as he saw and felt how emaciated it was.

"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald.

"My hand is o'er thin," said Rab, noticing his emotion.

"Ay is it, and it is a' my ain faut."

"Not a'thegither, Donald, for I s'ould hae been proof against temptation."

"Ye would hae dune weel eneuch if ye had been left alane."

"That is true as to the night I got my seckness; but I might hae fallen some ither time, for I hadna the grace o' God to keep me in the right way. Noo I willna fall into that sin ony mair—I canna. And ye maunna think ye are no forgien your part in that night's wark, for I hae forgien ye, and that is what I wanted to tell you. God has forgien me, but he wouldna do it until I had forgien you. Noo I hope ye will ken what it is to hae God's forgiveness as weel as mine. Ye hae, as ye say, led me in the wrang way; let me noo seek to lead you in the right way. It is a fearsome thing to live withoot God for a freend. I hae found that oot the last year o' my life. To feel, as I hae felt, that life is fast passing awa, and to see nae hope in the darkness beyond, is dreadful, dreadful, Donald. Your life will hae an end too, Donald, though it mayna be for mony years. Then ye will stand alane before your Maker. Do ye no ken that there are robes provided, so that each wha will may wrap himsel around wi' them as he wraps his plaid aboot him? only thae robes cover us entirely. They are robes o' the Saviour's righteousness. Wi' sic a robe aboot us we may stand before the Judge o' all the earth and not fear condemnation. I dinna ken as I mak it plain to you, for I am but a beginner in the scule o' Christ; but I am in his scule, Donald; yes, I am; praised be the gude Lord for that! And what I canna learn here I can learn in the warld above."

"I hope I shall meet you there," said Donald, wiping the tears away with his hand.

"Dinna put off repentance till ye come to your death-bed, Donald. Gie your heart to God noo; and then, whether ye are called sooner or later, ye are aye ready."

Donald was much affected. He remained an hour or more talking with Wullie, and then left, promising to come again, and offering his assistance if it should be needed.

During Rab's illness Jeannie was very quiet in her manner, but her heart was heavy and sad. Slowly but surely proof was added to proof that her husband was soon to die. With many fears and anxieties she had looked forward to the long, weary time that must elapse between the sad event about to befall her and the time when her children would be old enough to seek their own livelihood. But since she had obtained a hope of eternal life she had learned to regard the future with less anxiety, and to cast her cares on One stronger than herself. Still the sadness remained. She could not forget that disease was fast wasting all that was mortal of Robert Murdoch. That which is spiritual within us may assent to God's providences, and we think it to be in the ascendency, and so it is; but sometimes, when the chill and gloom of a starless night settle down upon our spirits, our natural desires assert themselves, and we clutch again our passing friends and comforts. Poor Jeannie! More thorns than roses seemed to grow along her pathway. And now the saddest trial of all was before her. But she had promised in her heart that, if God would save her husband eternally, she would not murmur at the dispensation that was to separate him from her in this life. For this reason she strove to control her feelings; and the quivering of the face was often stayed before the tear-drop started.

Once, when her husband noticed these outward signs of inward grief, he called her to him. She drew her chair to the bedside, and laid her head on the pillow. "My puir wife," said he, while he pressed her pale cheek with his thin hand, "I hae never been as gude to you as I s'ould hae been, and noo I am gaen frae you. I ask your forgiveness. I leave you in the hands o' God, and under him to the care o' Wullie. I couldna leave you in better hands. And, Jeannie, if Wullie would ever wish to mak you his wife, hear till him."

She raised her eyes with a look of surprise and reproof.

He understood her, and continued, "Weel, never mind noo what I hae said. Some time ye may remember it withoot sae muckle pain, and be glad ye kenned my mind aboot it."

The winter passed slowly away. Rab's death was expected from week to week. The neighbors were untiring in their kindness and sympathy. Farmer Lindsay called often, and many a kind word he spoke to the afflicted family. Mrs. Lindsay sent many a dainty to tempt the sick man's appetite. The pastor, too, called, and was satisfied with the dying man's profession of faith.

"I am so thankful," said Rab, "that I had time gien me for repentance. If I had been cut off suddenly I s'ould hae gane to eternal death."

Donald McPherson fulfilled his promise and came often. "I hae seen eneuch o' the evils o' strang drink," he said to Rab, "and I want ye to carry wi' you to heaven my promise that, wi' God's help, I will never taste anither drap."

When the milder days of spring succeeded the rigors of winter, Robert Murdoch's lamp of life flickered and went out. He met death with a calm resignation and a happy trust.

Mrs. Murdoch yielded to sorrow after her husband was dead. No one interfered with her grief until Wullie thought she had wept "o'er lang." "Compose yoursel, sister Jeannie," he said, speaking in a persuasive manner. "I ken it is hard to bear; but neither yoursel nor the bairns will want for a freend while it is in the power o' Wullie Murdoch to help you. He wha has gaen frae us can never return to us, but we can gang to him in the Lord's ain gude time."

A simple funeral service was held at the church, and the body was committed to the earth whence it came.

CHAPTER VII. DONALD MACPHERSON.

No one, not even the widow, wept more at the grave than did Donald McPherson. The once light-hearted, mischief-loving, whiskey-drinking Donald was overcome with sorrow and contrition. He took Rab's death greatly to heart, and, standing by that open grave, he firmly resolved that from that hour he would change his manner of life; that he would fear and serve God, and never again place a stumbling-block in the way of his fellow-creatures. After the funeral he went to honest Wullie's cottage, "to see if there was onything to be dune," as he said.

Wullie thanked him for his kindness, adding, "The little that is to be dune I can do mysel. I would liefer be busy than not. But I am glad to see you, for a' that." Then, laying his hand on McPherson's shoulder, he said, "Ye will no forget the lesson o' this day, Donald!"

"I trust I never shall."

The widow had bowed to Donald as he entered, and then left the room. She went to attend the children; but she was glad of the excuse, for memory was too busy with the past to render the presence of Rab's old comrade desirable on that sad day.

Donald went slowly from the home of mourning to his own cottage. He hung his bonnet on a peg, then went and sat down beside his wife. She was holding a troublesome child and trying to sew at the same time. "Here, gie me the bairn," said he. He took the child in his strong arms and dandled him, much to the satisfaction of wee Donald. Then with much seriousness he addressed his wife.

"Katy, I dinna think I will gie you as muckle trouble as I hae dune. I maun gie up auld habits. They wunna do ony langer. I hae just seen Mistress Murdoch, and I hae been thinkin' what if it had been yoursel, Katy, that this day was clad in garments o' dool instead o' her, where would the soul o' Donald McPherson hae been noo!"

The person addressed was a tall, straight, well-formed woman, whose face showed both thoughtfulness and firmness. She only replied, "It is weel to think."

"I hae thought, and I hae felt as weel. Noo dinna think there is nae gude in me, wifie, but trust me ance mair. I am no gaen to drink any mair whiskey. I hae promised him that they this day laid law that I wouldna, and that I would gang to kirk. Noo I will tell ye my plans. I will gang to Daft Jamie's but ance mair, and that will be to pay fourpence ha'penny, for that is a' I owe them, I am blithe to say; and then never a penny mair will I gie for grog; but I will save a' that I can earn, and we will soon hae decent claes, and gang to the kirk like Christian folk."

"That sounds gude, and I hope ye will do as ye say; and ye may do it if ye look to the Strang for help."

After supper Donald put on his bonnet and went to Daft Jamie's. Mrs. McAllister smiled very blandly as he entered.

"Gude evenin' to ye, Donald. Ye hae keepit yoursel a great stranger o' late. What will ye be wantin'?"

"I am wantin' naething but to pay a bit debt. A man maun pay his debts, I suppose, though what he has bought has dune him no gude."

"Hoot, man! Hae ye taen to preachin'? Ye ken as weel as ony ane that it is gude whiskey we keep; and a drap o' gude whiskey hurts naebody."

"Na, Mistress McAllister, a drap wunna hurt ony ane; but wha stops at a drap, tell me?"

"Weel, Donald, ye ken it is a decent hoose we keep, and we dinna want ony drunken folk around us."

"Ay, I ken it; and that is ane reason why puir Rab went oot i' the cauld the night he got his death."

"Weel, weel, hae your ain opeenion aboot it, but dinna stand quarrellin' wi' me. Sin' ye dinna want onything ye may as weel be gaen."

"I will, Mistress McAllister, and there'll be mony a weet day afore I again cross your doorstane. Gude evenin' to ye."

Donald was soon at home again, much to the joy of his wife; for she thought if he could go to Daft Jamie's and return without the scent of liquor about him, there was indeed some room for hope.

CHAPTER VIII. IMPROVEMENTS.

Widow Murdoch now gave more time and attention to her children. The youngest had not yet been named, but had always been called "the wee lass." Now that more notice was taken of her, she began to smile and play.

"It is time this bairn had a name, Wullie," said Jeannie one evening when the baby was lying on her lap. "What would ye think o' callin' her Annie? It would be for Rab's mither, and it is a bonny name forbye."

"That I would like right weel."

So this important matter was happily decided, and Annie was the little one's name.

Spring brought warm, bright days, Jamie and Belle played at the cottage door, their innocent prattle often beguiling their mother's sad hours.

Honest Wullie was not long in paying by his labor the debt which he had contracted, and he felt glad that his accounts were again even. Farmer Lindsay let him have a small piece of ground near the cottage to be made into a garden. This was to be the joint care of Wullie, Jeannie, and Jamie, for "Jamie is auld eneuch noo to pu' the weeds frae the beds," said his uncle.

But with all the work to do that one could easily accomplish, widow Murdoch often felt lonely. She had been three years in honest Wullie's cottage, but she had made very few acquaintances. Mrs. Lindsay never came into the cottage except in time of sickness. Mrs. McPherson, like herself, had hitherto been kept closely at home by care and poverty, and there had been no intercourse between the two women. At this time, however, they were brought together.

Donald was the first to propose a visit. One pleasant evening in the early summer, when Katy had just finished the first dress that Donald had ever bought for her, he surprised her by saying, "Mak yoursel ready, Katy, and gang wi' me to honest Wullie's; then ye will become acquent wi' widow Murdoch. She is but poor, like yoursel, and I am thinking she maun be lanely. At ony rate, it is but neeborly to call and see her."

Mrs. McPherson readily assented. She put a clean cap and dress on the baby, and arrayed herself in her new gown. Donald combed his hair until it was smooth, and put on his best coat.

"Katy, ye look as fine the night as a leddy," said Donald as they were ready to start; "but ye aye did keep yoursel tidy, though ye hae na had muckle to do wi'. There is muckle difference in folk. Some people's claes fit them, while other people's claes seem to hing on them. Mrs. Murdoch is like yoursel. She has a way o' makin' the maist o' ilka thing. It wasna muckle she brought to Wullie's cottage, but ye s'ould hae seen the difference she made in the looks o' it."

The two soon found themselves at honest Wullie's cottage, where they met a kind reception and spent a pleasant evening. The conversation often turned on moral and religious topics, as would necessarily be the case where honest Wullie took part.

Donald was full of new hopes and courage.

"Wullie, ye s'ould come and see hoo nicely we are getting alang," said he. "We hae eneuch to eat and drink, and some new claes for Sunday forbye. Katy, there, thinks I am quite a man noo."

"I always thought ye would do weel eneuch if ye would let whiskey alane."

"I will let it alane frae this oot, or I dinna ken mysel."

"Donald, ye dinna depend a'thegither on yoursel, I hope," said Wullie.

"Nae, Wullie, I ken better than that; but I hae changed my purpose, and I hae asked help o' the Strang Ane. That is what Katy said I must do. Puir lass! I am sure she has kenned the comfort o' gaen to him mony times when sairly tried wi' me."

"It is gude to go to the Lord in times o' trial," said Wullie; "and it is gude to go to him wi' thankful hearts when the trials are o'erpast. I hae nae doot, Mistress McPherson, but that ye find it baith pleasant and profitable to come wi' your heart full o' gratitude and praise to him wha has heard your prayers."

"Ay, I like weel to acknowledge his gudeness to me in saving Donald frae the evil that threatened him; but it grieves me noo to think I had sae nearly distrusted Him because He didna answer my prayers at ance. Mony a time did I a'maist feel that there is nae gude in prayer, and that God wouldna hear a puir body like me. But I dinna think he has set it doun against me, sin' he has answered my prayer. Besides, he kens I was but a weak woman, and sairly tried forbye."

Tears filled Jeannie's eyes. Katy's experience had been her own. And although it recalled her trials, to which she would not allude, because we instinctively cover the faults and follies of our dear dead, she felt, nevertheless, drawn towards Katy. Both had had trials, but not more than they were able to bear; and the discipline of an all-wise Father had chastened and strengthened them both.

"We a' hae cause for thankfulness ilka day o' oor lives," Wullie hastened to say, as he perceived Jeannie's emotion. "Let nane o' us be remiss in the duty o' prayer and thanksgiving."

This visit proved the precursor of many others, and the two women became good friends. Wullie strengthened Jeannie's good impressions of Katy McPherson.

"She was aye a canny lass," he said. "Folk wondered that she wedded wi' sic a giddy chiel as Donald was; but if he sticks to his ward noo, he will mak a gude living for her, for he can wark weel when he sets himsel to it, and naebody can ootstrip him in the harvest-field."

Donald soon learned to go to honest Wullie for advice, and he was as anxious to meet him as he had been to avoid him. He seemed changed in many ways. His new hope and trust had lifted him above that frivolity which had always been so prominent a characteristic of his. He found the influence of his wife much more elevating than that of his boon companions, and he said to her, "Ye s'all see what a man can be made oot o' me, frolickin' as I hae been. I would na wonder if folk s'ould yet ca' me 'douce Donald.'"

Wullie's garden proved a success, and the fresh, tender vegetables added much to the frugal fare. Then, as Donald had said, Jeannie made the most of everything. Her skill in cooking also added to their comfort. Her neat, orderly ways were everywhere apparent. It was a pretty sight to see the three rosy children, with clean hands and faces, clean pinafores, and carefully combed hair, gathered at the family board, Annie seated on her mother's knee, the others on their stools. They were trained to be obedient and respectful, to keep the Sabbath with due strictness, and, above all, to fear and honor God. Thus not only shadows, but sunshine, too, rested on the little moorland cottage. Peace and harmony reigned in the household, and signs of thrift were also apparent. Wullie could now sometimes allow himself the pleasure of bringing little gifts to the children, and their childish delight hardly surpassed his own.

Jeannie did not forget to thank God for the blessings she enjoyed. And although the recollection of the early death of her husband often brought sorrow to her heart and a shade of sadness to her countenance, the sorrow was softened by the cherished hope of his eternal happiness and a future reunion. Thus passed two years more, but these were years of comparative comfort.

CHAPTER IX. NEW TIES.

One evening, when the McPhersons were spending an hour or two at the cottage, Donald took it into his head to joke Wullie about matrimony.

"Hoot, man, what ails ye, to talk after that fashion?" exclaimed Wullie.

"And what for no? Is it no a gude fashion? I daur ye to say it is no a gude fashion!"

Wullie did not reply, but a smile was on his face.

"Honestly, noo," continued Donald; "Katy and I hae talked it over mair than ance, and we baith think it is the best thing that could be dune. Ye ken there is naething against it, for Rab was no your vera ain brither."

Katy smiled, but Jeannie knitted busily, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure.

Donald's suggestion seemed to have struck Wullie favorably, for after the visitors had gone he ventured to renew the subject.

"Jeannie, what think ye aboot oor neebor's talk?"

"His talk aboot what? He says sae muckle, wha can mind it a'?" she said with that persistent dullness of comprehension that is often assumed by her sex.

Wullie, seeing he would have no help in the matter, came to the point at once, "His talk aboot wedlock, to be sure."

"It is but ane o' his daft notions," she replied, but in a tone less severe than the words.

"It isna sae daft a notion, perhaps," he said, following up his advantage. "It is true I hae neither riches, wit, nor beauty. I hae naught but a hamely living to offer ye, and that ye s'all hae at ony rate if I can win it. I will always do my best to provide for Rab's family, but it might be mair proper to hae the family a' in ane. What do ye say till it?"

"I will say naething against the wish o' him wha is gaen awa. He said, 'If Wullie would ever wish to mak ye his wife, hear till him.'"

"Noo, then," said Wullie, "I will tak the first kiss I hae had o' a woman sin' my mither died. Hoo soon s'all it be?"

"As it suits yoursel. Ye ken my best earthly affections lie in the grave wi' your brither; but if ye can tak respect and esteem instead o' affection, I willna oppose your wishes."

"Weel, I will accept what ye hae to gie me, and perhaps the affection will come after a while."

"Ye are mair than warthy o' it, Wullie; sae I hope it will come. But sin' I didna hae it, I wouldna deceive ye."

"Ye hae been honest aboot it at ony rate, sae it wunna fret me."

A few days later Wullie returned from town with a nice dress-pattern for Jeannie, some tartans for the little girls, cloth to be made up for Jamie, and a new suit for himself. After a few weeks there were gathered in the best room of the cottage Farmer Lindsay and his wife, Donald and Katy McPherson, the children, and the parish minister. Before him stood honest Wullie and the widow, who was then to become Mrs. William Murdoch. After the ceremony and the congratulations were over came a supper such as had never before been seen in the cottage. After this was finished Farmer Lindsay took his seat by the window, and often looked out into the twilight. Presently he saw, as he expected, his herd-boy leading a fine young cow.

"I suppose ye hae room in your byre for anither coo?" he asked, addressing Wullie.

"Ay, I hae room eneuch, if that was a' that stood in the way o' twa being there."

"Weel, then, ye will hae twa, for here comes a lad wi' the heifer we ca' Spot. Did ye think I would forget my auld and tried servant at sic a time as this?"

"Weel, weel, weel! This is wholly unexpectit! Mony thanks to you, Maister Lindsay."

Donald McPherson rejoiced in the good fortune of his neighbor, but he felt somewhat crestfallen that he had brought nothing to give, and he expressed his regret to his host. But Wullie relieved him by saying, with a smile,

"We canna a' gie presents, Donald, but we can a' gie gude wishes, and I am sure ye gie me them, neebor."

The evening passed in pleasant talk, and when these neighbors separated it was with a kindly feeling towards each other that is often wanting in the higher circles of life.

Honest Wullie continued to prosper, though in a small way. The years glided by, bringing nothing but pleasing changes, the most pleasing of which was the birth of a son. Jamie had long since left his uncle's knee to younger claimants. He was a strong, healthy lad, possessing his father's wit and sprightliness, and also uncommon beauty. His mother's eyes often rested on him with maternal fondness, if not with pride. He found plenty to do in collecting fuel, helping with the garden, and doing the work in and around the cow-shed. He attended the little parish school a few months in the year. He was fond of books, too, although there was nothing in his surroundings to foster a love of study. True, Farmer Lindsay once patted him on the head, and said, "If ye could stand a fair chance, Jamie, ye would mak a man no to be ashamed o';" and the schoolmaster sometimes gave him the praise he merited. But the days came and went, bringing him nearer to the time when he must be put to steady employment to help to defray the expenses of the family, with which time we will open the next chapter.

CHAPTER X. JAMIE.

Jamie had now entered upon his thirteenth year, and was to commence life's labor as a shepherd-lad. Farmer Lindsay, knowing that it would pain the family to have the lad leave home, found a place for Jamie by giving other employment to his former shepherd-boy. So Belle and Annie went to school without Jamie, and he took his way to the field. He was faithful, as might have been expected, for honest Wullie had not failed in his duty to his brother's son. He had striven, both by example and precept, to inculcate in him right principles, knowing that right doing would be their legitimate outgrowth.

The summer passed pleasantly enough with Jamie, for he was a favorite with all on the farm. Even Mrs. Lindsay often called after him to add a slice of cheese to the frugal lunch he carried with him. But summer hurried by, and dull, short, foggy days succeeded the long, bright, sunny ones. One evening Jamie was belated in collecting the flock. The darkness was coming on apace, and he was hurrying along where the path, slippery with the dampness, led over some steep, rough rocks; he missed his footing and fell.

Night, black night, settled down upon the earth, but no Jamie came to the cottage. Honest Wullie put on his bonnet and retraced his steps to Farmer Lindsay's. Jamie was not there. Then the other farm-hands, headed by Wullie and Mr. Lindsay himself, set out in search of the shepherd-boy and the flock. They lighted up the darkness with torches, and looked to the right hand and to the left. They found the flock huddled together not far from the steep pass, which all had thought of, but none had dared mention. Vainly did they peer down the steep mountainside. Vainly did honest Wullie shout, "Jamie! Jamie, bairn!" No answer was returned. If the boy had fallen there, he had fainted, or was too badly hurt to answer. Wullie signified his intention of crossing the mountain and coming around at the base; but the air became so thick with mist that the torches would not burn, and loath as the anxious searchers were to turn back, they were forced to do so, for the path was too dangerous to be attempted in the darkness. Weary and heavy-hearted returned Wullie to the sorrowing mother. The night was spent by these sad cottagers in prayer, and with the first streaks of morning light Wullie again started out to renew his search.

Day broke as beautifully as if the preceding evening had not been dull and dismal. Before Wullie reached the pass the sun rose, scattering the mist, and bathing in mellow light moor and crag, mountain and glen. But the anxious father hastened on, not heeding the rich glory of the autumnal morning.

Others, too, in that vicinity had early bestirred themselves, not in search of the missing boy, but in pursuit of game. Laird Erskine, with his kinsman John Cameron from Edinburgh, were first at the foot of the mountain. What was their surprise to see a boy lying as if dead among the rocks! They hastened to him. He was not dead; he was breathing. Erskine lifted him from his rough bed and laid him on the smooth grass. Cameron looked at him with wondering eyes.

"Saw ye ever a finer lad! Who is he, Erskine?"

"That is what I would like to ken mysel," said the other.

They spoke to him; they tried to rouse him; but he only moaned, and murmured, "O mother, I dinna want to tend the sheep ony mair. I want to gang back to the scule."

Before they had succeeded in rousing him they saw the stalwart form of honest Wullie striding towards them. So anxious was he that he forgot the usual courtesies, and did not raise his bonnet, but called out, "Is he dead?"

"No, he is not dead," was the cheering answer.

"Praise the gude Lord!" came reverently from the lips of honest Wullie.

On reaching the boy he lifted his head in his arms, shook him gently, and called his name: "Jamie! rouse up, Jamie!" After much shaking and calling, Jamie opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around, as if trying to identify himself and his surroundings. Then gradually recovering consciousness, he recognized his father.

"Faither, I missed my footing and cam to the bottom. I am no sure but I fainted, for I canna remember what happened after I fell. When I was able to think I felt a pain in my back, and I was so sair that I could hardly stir. I didna dare to move in the darkness for fear I should get another fall, so I just prayed a' by mysel here, and I kenned weel ye would pray for me at hame, so I wasna afeard. But where is the flock?"

"The flock is a' right. Dinna fash your heid aboot the flock," said Wullie, brushing away a tear.

Jamie tried to rise, but the first movement gave him pain. Wullie lifted him tenderly. "I feel," he said, "that I could tak ye in my arms and rin wi' you to your mither, I am that glad to find you alive. It is naught but the care o' God, Jamie, that saved ye frae being dashed to pieces amang the stanes."

Erskine and his friend lingered till Jamie was on his feet again. "I am thankful it is no worse," said Cameron, as he turned to go, "and I will not forget you, my lad."

Jamie, in addition to his bruises, took a severe cold from spending the night on the cold, damp ground. He kept his bed a few days, and two weeks passed before he was able to be about. During this time the sheep had been brought in for the winter, and there was no more herding to be done that year.

While Jamie was confined to the house by his injuries Cameron called at the cottage. He was greatly pleased with Jamie. He thought the boy had capabilities that were worth cultivating. He sounded the parents concerning their plans for their son's future, and ascertained that they indulged no higher hope than that he should be a trusty farm-hand like honest Wullie. But the boy's eyes followed every movement of the stranger with a look of expectancy, and when Cameron asked him if he would like to become a man of learning, Jamie quickly answered in the affirmative.

"He can gang to scule this winter," said Wullie.

"That will do for the winter," replied Cameron, "and when I come next year I will see what arrangement can be made to put him into a better school."

After the gentleman's departure the parents were very grave and thoughtful. They did not know whether the interest the stranger took in Jamie portended good or ill. "If he is no a godly man," said Wullie, "I wouldna like to hae him meddle wi' the bairn; but if he is a gude man, and will tak care to keep him frae evil communications, I would be slow to mak objections or to pit onything i' the way o' the man's wishes."

But Jamie was full of bright anticipations. He talked so often about what Mr. Cameron said, and asked so many questions concerning the probable meaning of his words, that the mother was weary of hearing it. "Jamie, Jamie, will ye never hae dune talking aboot that man?" she asked. "Ye will drive me beside mysel. I wouldna be surprised if he had forgotten all aboot you."

Jamie did stop talking, but he was sad and dispirited for many days.

"What is wrang wi' ye, Jamie? Ye needna think it is a sin to smile," his mother said, noticing his listlessness.

"I dinna think I will ever smile ony mair, sin' ye think Mr. Cameron has forgotten me," said Jamie, turning away his face to hide a starting tear.

"Ye are takin' it harder than I meant. I am no sure but he will be looking after you o'er soon, and I canna bear to think o' it. He will be wanting to tak you frae hame; that is the warst o' it."

"Weel, mither, every laddie canna bide at hame. I have read in books about folk that hae been mair useful for their knowledge, and I think knowledge maun be a grand thing to hae. I read in the sculemaster's books about men that could call the stars by name, and measure the heights o' the mountains; and I read in a history about mony great men, and I like weel to think that Jamie Murdoch may some day be a great man too."

"It would be better to wish to be a gude man."

"But, mither, can a man no be baith gude and great?"

Early in the spring Farmer Lindsay brought a letter for honest Wullie. It bore the Edinburgh postmark. As a letter was a rare thing at that time and place, Mr. Lindsay waited till Wullie spelled it out. It contained a proposition from Mr. Cameron. He would pay Wullie as much as Jamie could earn, and his tuition besides, if the parish minister would undertake to instruct him preparatory to his entering a high school at Edinburgh. This plan pleased them all exceedingly well, and the more so because Mr. Cameron said they must not hesitate to accept his offer, as he was a friend to education, and had means to spare. He further said that he had taken a great fancy to their son, and would be disappointed if they were unwilling to let him receive a liberal education.

The minister readily undertook the charge, and was glad of the opportunity to eke out his small salary. Jamie did not disappoint his friends. He proved an apt pupil. His parents soon became reconciled to his treading a path in life different from their own. The minister not only approved of the plan, but congratulated Jamie on his prospects. Little by little Jamie came to receive more deference in his own family, and also in the neighborhood. Donald McPherson met him one day, and after a cordial greeting said to him,

"So ye are to be the man o' the parish, are ye, Jamie? We will a' hae to lift oor bonnets to you. Weel, ye will hae a grand chance, for Laird Erskine says that whatever John Cameron taks intil his heid has to gang through. He tells me Cameron lost a son aboot your ain age, and that is why he taks sic an interest in laddies."

Autumn brought John Cameron again to Laird Erskine's. This time he saw more of Jamie, and he told his kinsman that he would be glad to adopt him as a son. But the warm-hearted, simple-minded parents would not consent to this.

The time came when Jamie was to go to Edinburgh. Mrs. Murdoch took leave of her son with many tears. Honest Wullie had no tears, though he felt the pain of separation scarcely less than did the mother. He repeated his admonitions to virtue, and again warned him to shun every appearance of evil. "Warldly wisdom is gude in its place," he said in conclusion, "but ye maunna forget to seek anither kind, for 'the wisdom that is frae aboon is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated, full o' mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.'"

CHAPTER XI. HOME LIFE.

We will now leave Jamie in school and turn to the other children. Belle was now as old as Jamie was when he was put to work, and Jeannie feared that Wullie would soon speak about putting her to service. This would have seemed well enough, quite in keeping with the circumstances of the family, had it not been for Jamie's good fortune, which made it appear rather out of place. So the mother and daughter knitted for Mrs. Lindsay and others as they had opportunity, and the mother was always sure to buy Belle's clothes with the proceeds of the knitting. Annie was a bright little girl ten years old. She too was busy, for none were allowed to eat idle bread in honest Wullie's cottage. Wullie's own son David, or Davie as he was called, was also taught to save steps. But the most stir and activity was in the morning. No one was allowed to lie in bed after the sun was up. The mother called to any one who was likely to transgress this rule, "Come, dinna let the sun beat you up the morn." The girls attended school quite regularly in summer, but in winter they often did not attempt to walk the long distance. Then, when there were neither lessons nor out-of-door work, the balls of yarn fast disappeared and took other shapes. Annie, young as she was, did most of the knitting for the family.

Honest Wullie thought himself a happy man; and so he was. In the evening, when he put labor and care alike aside, and looked around at the industrious, cheerful inmates of his well-kept home, he often thought, "Surely the lines hae fallen to me in pleasant places." Every day brought its work. In the morning the poultry was to be fed and the cows must be milked, besides the work indoors. In summer the garden was to be kept free from weeds, and the berries and wild fruits were to be gathered in their season. When there was no work to be done, the children were sometimes sent out with the order to "gang and play themselves;" but very often they were told to learn a Psalm first.

One thing they looked forward to, whether at work or at play, and that was a letter from Jamie. They had little else to break the monotonous days and the long winter evenings. True, Archie Lindsay came in sometimes, bringing his little sister with him; but that soon passed, and then nothing was heard but the click of the knitting-needles. Many times when the children were alone they told over threadbare riddles, simple rhymes learned at school, and the marvellous tales that tradition handed down to every new generation. They had no story books. They were always glad when Donald McPherson came in for an hour, for he never failed to have some news to tell. So passed the time until the early summer, when the children began to count the days that must elapse before Jamie should be at home again. All were anxious for his coming, but no one looked forward with so much longing as did the mother.

CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST VACATION.

"Jamie will be home the day!" the happy children shouted, as the wished-for morning at last arrived. He was expected to walk from the town where the stage-coach left him; but Mr. Lindsay remembered the lad that was coming from Edinburgh, and he made it convenient to have business in town that day. He brought Jamie home earlier in the day than he was expected.

Mrs. Murdoch was busy preparing some unusual delicacies to do honor to her returning son, and she did not notice his arrival. Jamie entered the open door, and, seeing that his mother did not turn to observe who came in, he thought he would surprise her. He walked softly, and she supposed him to be one of the other children. Jamie shook a warning finger at his sisters, and approaching his mother, he suddenly threw his arms about her neck and kissed her. She started, looked around, and joyfully exclaimed,

"O Jamie! hoo ye hae frightened me!" Then she kissed and embraced him in return. "Hoo are ye, my bairn? My! but ye are a'maist grawn a man! Ye are as tall as your mither!"

The children then came forward and gave him a happy greeting. Belle, who had also changed, blushed as her brother complimented her on her improved appearance. Annie placed herself in front of him, with her arms akimbo, and with face brimful of happiness asked, "What think ye o' me?"

"Think of you! I think you are the same sunny-faced little Annie, and I doubt not you are as good at a race as ever. I will try you to-morrow. Come here, Davie. Do you mind me?"

"Ay, I mind Jamie," said he, climbing on his knee.

"And Jamie minds that you like sugarplums."

"I like them oftener than I can get them."

"Well, let me see what I can find," said Jamie, putting his hand into his pocket and giving him a handful of candies. Then, tossing some to his sisters, he remarked, "You are looking very well, mother."

"I feel weel, and I hae plenty to eat and plenty to do; why s'ouldna I look weel?"

There was no lack of talk and no end of questions. As the afternoon advanced Annie was reminded that she must go and bring the cows from the pasture.

"Jamie, will ye gang wi' me for the coos?"

"Yes, Annie, I will."

"Noo for a race," said Annie.

Long before they reached the pasture-lands Jamie was left in the rear. Annie, speeding on, came face to face with honest Wullie, who was working near the path. "Hoot, lassie! Why are ye rinnin' in sic a fashion?" he called out. "What would Jamie say if he s'ould see you gaen at sic a gate?"

"It is Jamie that is rinnin' wi' me," she replied, laughing.

Just then Jamie appeared, and Wullie's face relaxed. He hastened to meet him. "Welcome hame, Jamie! welcome hame!" he said, grasping his hand. "Hoo ye hae changed! but ye look weel."

"I am well. How are you, father?"

"I am vera weel. Thanks to the gude Lord, we are a' weel."

Then followed mutual inquiries and answers. Annie went after the cows, and Jamie remained with his father, whose day's work was not quite finished.

There was a happy family in honest Wullie's cottage that evening. The supper was the best the cottage could afford, for what company was so grand as Jamie!

Jamie had improved very much in appearance, in manner, and in knowledge. His conversation interested both parents and children. His accounts of the city, of its buildings, and bits of history connected with them, were highly entertaining to the family whose horizon was so limited. All listened while he was talking. The conversation was prolonged to a late hour, and the children were allowed to sit up much after their usual bedtime.

In the morning all again paid homage to Jamie. He was the hero of the house and of the neighborhood. The neighbors all found opportunity to call at the cottage to see the lad who had been away at school. Archie Lindsay frequently spent the evening there, listening with wonder to all that Jamie had to tell.

The children were allowed more liberty for Jamie's sake, and the whole summer was a long gala day. Very little time was lost, however, for the girls were taught to use their fingers and ears at the same time. Even Jamie had not forgotten how to work. He spent many a day in the garden, the children at his side; for to them work was pleasure, if they could only be with brother Jamie.

The time for the return to Edinburgh came full soon for the children, and indeed for all. They had never tired of hearing the wonders of the outside world. Their narrow horizon had been widened. But Jamie was gone, and their lives slipped back into the old grooves.

"Come, lassies, buckle to noo, and mak up time. I liked weel to see ye hae pleasant times wi' Jamie; but if ye are sensible lassies ye will see it wunna do to spend mair time in sic an easy way. There maun be nae lack o' the knitting-siller: ye ken weel what maun be dune wi' it."

Notwithstanding the mother's vigilance in preventing any approach to idleness, or even leisure, the children were well and happy.

CHAPTER XIII. BELLE.

Belle Murdoch had now reached her sixteenth year. She was tall, well-formed, fair, and a picture of perfect health. No allusion to her going out to service had yet been made. But the family expenses becoming each year heavier, the proposal so much dreaded by Mrs. Murdoch at length came.

Wullie had been ailing for a month, and he felt somewhat despondent. So one evening when the children were in bed, and husband and wife were sitting by the cheerful fire, Jeannie busied with mending little Davie's clothes, Wullie broached the subject as gently as he could.

"Ye are aye warking, Jeannie," he said, "and I am no idle when I am weel, and still I hae muckle to do to gie my family a' the comforts that I would like to gie them. I misdoot the judgment we use in keeping Belle at hame. She is a strang healthy lass noo, and I dinna see hoo I am to keep my heid aboon water unless the lassies as they get age and strength gang to service as ithers do, or find a better way to earn honest pennies."

"Weel, Wullie, I wouldna mind the lass gaen to service but for the way it has turned oot wi' Jamie. He will, nae doot, hae the sculing o' a born gentleman, and so be fitted to win his bread like ither gentlemen; and it looks no quite right to hae ane o' the same family oot at service, and that ane a lass, forbye."

"I see, wifie, I see. And I hae thought o' the same thing. But right is right, and wrang is wrang; and rather than we s'ould gang beyond oor means and mak debts, we might better let her gang to a gude place."

"That is o'er true," said Jeannie, "and if things get muckle waur we'll hae to sacrifice oor wishes to oor necessities."

A few days after this conversation Farmer Lindsay came to honest Wullie's cottage. "Mistress Murdoch, I hae come to ask a favor," he began. "The gude-wife is taen ill, and we are pressed wi' the wark; will ye be sae kind as to let Belle come and stop wi' us a wee while till the wife is on her feet again?"

"Oh, ay, she can gang, and we are glad to oblige ye. Ye will find her no afraid o' wark; and she kens hoo to tak hold o' things as well as maist lassies o' her age."

Accordingly Belle made a few hasty preparations, and went immediately to Farmer Lindsay's. Mr. Lindsay conducted her to his wife's room. "Noo ye needna fash your heid aboot the wark," said he. "I hae brought ye a strang lass wi' willing hands, and a cheerfu' face that it will do your een gude to look at."

"Ay, lass, it does a body gude to see ye the morn, ye are sae fresh and rosy," said Mrs. Lindsay. "I ken naebody that I would like better than yoursel to come into the hoose and help till I am able to tak my place again. Betty is a gude strang lass, but she canna do the wark o' twa, and sae we will be muckle obliged to ye if ye will stay wi' us and help her."

Belle proved the truth of her mother's statement concerning her. After Mrs. Lindsay recovered she still kept Belle with her. "She minds me o' the sang-birds, she is sae blithe and cheerfu'," said Mrs. Lindsay to her husband.

"Ay, she is a winsome lass, and I would like weel to hae ye keep her. Ye can keep baith lassies if ye like. Ye are no strang yoursel, and there is wark eneuch for baith. But I dinna ken whether Wullie means to let her gang oot to service; I asked her to come only to do us a favor."

"Weel, if she will stop here she will be treated mair like a daughter than a servant."

"I wouldna wonder to see her a daughter some day, wifie. Archie thinks there is nae lass like Belle."

"He is welcome to think sae. I would liefer ken wha comes into the family. I dinna want a lass frae the toun, wha wouldna ken, perhaps, whether the dairy was clean or no, and that couldna mak butter nor cheese fit to gang to the market. Fine parritch and bannocks would then be made in this hoose; and wha kens whether the totties" (potatoes) "would come to the board cauld or het!"

"Ye are looking a lang way aheid, and coonting withoot your host," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing. "It would be weel to find oot first if they will let the lass stop wi' us."

Mrs. Murdoch had noticed the friendship between her daughter and Archie Lindsay, and she secretly hoped it would ripen into love. Now that Belle was so well liked by both the farmer and his wife, she thought circumstances were shaping towards the fulfilment of her desires, and, therefore, when asked whether Belle might remain at the farmhouse, she readily assented. So it was arranged that Belle should remain with Mrs. Lindsay.

Honest Wullie felt relieved. "When the burden is o'er heavy it is aye lightened," thought he; and he remarked to his wife, "Noo that we hae but twa to provide for, it may be that we s'all be able to lay by a wee bit for a weet day."

It was not long before Belle began to be accompanied by Archie when she came in the evening to see her parents. No opposition was manifested, and very little comment was made; their association was regarded as a thing of course. Donald McPherson, who always saw at least all that was to be seen in the neighborhood, and was not diffident in giving voice to his thoughts, ventured to rally the mother on her prospective good fortune.

"I think, Mistress Murdoch," said Donald, "that your daughter will be staying her lifetime at the farmhouse. Weel, Archie is a clever lad, and Belle is a clever lass; I doot if they could be better mated. Hoo differently it has turned oot wi' Nellie McAllister!"

"What is wrang wi' Nellie?"

"Hae ye no heard aboot it? Why, she has rin awa wi' that gude-for-naught Langley that has been hinging aboot there sae lang."

"Ye dinna tell me that!"

"Ay, but I do tell ye; and that is nae the whole o' it. The lass has stolen a' the gear she could pit her hands on. Mrs. McAllister is a'maist as daft as Jamie himsel."

"Weel, weel, weel! That is waur than I expected," exclaimed honest Wullie; "but ane never kens when trouble may come under his ain roof."

"It is a sair trouble, neebor, a sair trouble; and yet they couldna expect a blessing on their ill-gotten gain."

"That is vera true, vera true, Donald. I am mair and mair convinced that there is but ane way to do, and that is to do right. I am puir, and I expect to stay sae, but it is a peaceful pillow I put my heid on when night comes around."

"Weel, I dinna think Mrs. McAllister will ever ken sic a pillow under her heid. Punishment comes slowly sometimes; but it comes, for a' that. I maun say I am thankfu' I got oot o' the clutches o' the de'il as soon as I did; and yet he held me lang eneuch to gar me tak shame to mysel whenever I think o' it. Ay, I am angry as weel as ashamed when I think how I fuled awa my siller till Katy had but ane gown till her back. It is a sin and a shame for a man to mak sic a beast o' himsel!"

"That it is," said Wullie, pressing his lips tightly together, and nodding more than once in an affirmative manner. "I wish ilka stoup that is filled wi' grog would snap in twain before it reached the lips o' ony ane."

"Weel, if that s'ould be, there is mony a tongue would lap it frae the floor but they would hae it," said Donald.

"Hoo is that lad o' Daft Jamie's likely to turn oot?" asked Wullie.

"Bad eneuch. What but a miracle would save him? He is aye standin' in the bar-room. His mither brought him there when he couldna mair than toddle; and he has aye been sippin' and lickin' at the stoups folk set doun. Noo he does mair: he taks his dram like ony ither ne'er-do-weel, so I am tauld. I dinna gang there to see it, ye ken."

"Weel, by the look o' it, they will a' gang to ruin thegither."

"I had a'maist said, 'The de'il may care,' but I wunna. I wunna wish evil on ony ane; neither will I think sae lightly o' the ills which befa' ony o' the human family."

"That last is weel said. We maun not only wish nae ill to ony ane, but if we can, we maun help up the fallen and lead to firm groun' those that stand in slippery places."

Donald, who could not long be silent, turned to Annie and asked, "Hoo like ye the new sculemaister?"

"I like him vera weel," said little Annie, blushing to find herself addressed.

"That lad o' mine thinks he is o'er strict; but I think Donald doesna mind his books as he s'ould."

"Donald is o'er fond o' fun," said Annie, smiling, for she was thinking of his many pranks and grimaces behind the teacher's back.

"He is like his faither before him. I had aye mair nonsense than sense in my heid when I went to scule, and what wi' ane trick and anither my lessons cam oot slim. Ane auld maister got angry wi' me, and I will tell ye hoo it cam aboot. As I said, I was up to mony pranks, and he would aye wink at them when he could wi' ony decency; but I went too far: I tried a trick on the maister himsel; I put a bee in his bonnet. I was a'maist sorry as soon as I had done it; but a wheen o' the lads thought it was fine fun, so I didna shake it oot as I had a mind to do mair than ance. As may be supposed, the bee stung the maister on the tap o' his heid. My! but was he no ravin'! When the scule was called for the afternoon he set himsel to find oot wha had pit the bee in his bonnet. I felt my face graw red, but I took wonderfully to my books. I warrant I hadna minded them sae weel for mony a day. Weel, the maister eyed every lad in the sculeroom. After a bit he said,

"'Donald McPherson, ye arena wont to mind your book sae weel. Your conduct looks suspicious.'

"Noo I wasna a bold, hardened lad, sae I lookit mair and mair guilty.

"'Donald, ken ye hoo that bit beastie cam in my bonnet?' asked the maister.

"I didna answer him. Ane o' the lads spoke up: 'Maister, the bee could easily get in the bonnet withoot being pit there.'

"'Whist! Ye needna pit him up to lee aboot it. I ken by the look o' him that he has dune it, but he will fare better if I hae the truth frae his own mou'. Donald, I will ask ye ance mair, did ye pit that bee in my bonnet?'

"'I canna deny it, maister,' I stammered oot.

"'It is weel for you that ye didna; but ye s'all feel the tips o' the taws for a' that.'

"And did I no? My certie, but that taws was het! Weel, I didna play ony mair tricks on the maister, I can assure you."

"Nor s'ould you," said Wullie. "It is a' wrang. But mony laddies hae thoughtless heids."

"Ay hae they; but lassies hae na, hae they, Annie? I hear ye stand at the heid o' your class; hoo is that?"

"Whiles I am there, and whiles Maggie Lindsay is there."

"Weel, it is a pleasant thing to see bairns fond o' books. But I am staying o'er lang. I will be gaen noo. Gude-night to ye a'."

"Wifie, we hae muckle reason to be thankfu'," said Wullie, after Donald was gone. "Surely His banner over us is love." Thus did honest Wullie acknowledge the goodness of God. And though his was a life of unremitting toil and care, he daily found cause to say, "Praise the gude Lord!"

Both the children now attended school, and, as has been intimated, Annie made rapid progress. She was not as pretty as Belle, but she was even more interesting. She resembled her father somewhat. She had the same large, dark, lustrous eyes; she was lively, witty, and fond of company. The mother, who was reminded of the father through his child, often said to herself, "I am glad that bairn is a lass." Annie received many pretty presents from Belle. Indeed, she seldom went to see her at the farmhouse without bringing away a knot of ribbon, or some proof of sisterly affection, trifling though it was. Farmer Lindsay was always glad to have Annie come to his house. He was unlike honest Wullie, and he often joked with the child in order to draw out her powers of repartee. Mrs. Lindsay also enjoyed the fun. But thoughtful Belle would sometimes shake her head, as if to say, "Ye maunna, Annie." Sometimes Annie took Davie with her. He always returned with his pockets crammed with cream-cakes and apples. When they would hold no more, Mrs. Lindsay would say to the child, "Tell your mither no to mak your pockets sae sma'."

CHAPTER XIV. ARCHIE AND BELLE.

More than two years passed pleasantly by, and Belle was still at the farmhouse. She had indeed been treated like a daughter of the house, and Archie had been more than brotherly. He never went from home to find amusement. After the day of toil he spent the evening in Belle's society—in winter in the cheerful living-room, in summer they sat on a rustic seat under the trees that sheltered the house from the winter's wind and the summer's sun; or they strolled together in the gloaming, frequently extending their walk to honest Wullie's cottage. Many expressions of tenderness had fallen from Archie's lips, and many a look of love had not escaped Belle's notice; so when, one evening as they were returning from her father's house, he addressed her on the subject nearest to his heart, she was not surprised. Let us not attempt to repeat their words. To those who love each other such words are too sacred to reach the ear or meet the eye of the great world; they belong exclusively to the little world of which they two are the only inhabitants. Let it suffice to say that thereafter they worked with still lighter hearts, happy in the present, and with a happy future in anticipation.

When Belle reached her nineteenth birthday they were married.

Great was the joy of Mrs. Murdoch to see her daughter so well settled in life. She would probably never know the want of anything essential to her comfort. A busy life of honest toil was before her; but toil is what these simple people expected, what they desired. To them idleness, not labor, was a disgrace.

Belle returned to her mother's cottage a month before the marriage. It was a busy month. All that hands could do to put the little house in order was joyfully done. Then there were new clothes to be made for all, for all must look their best on Belle's wedding-day. Jamie was at home. It was the time of his vacation.

The time passed too quickly for all that was to be done. When the wedding-morning came, and all the happy family appeared in festive attire, Mrs. Murdoch herself becomingly dressed, her face beaming from the soft lace of her new cap-frill, no wonder that the heart of this once lonely, suffering woman swelled with maternal pride and with gratitude to God that so much good had fallen to her lot. Here were her two children who once had been the only sharers of her nightly vigils, the son nearly educated, and about to move in a sphere far above the loftiest flights of her early thoughts, and the daughter the happy bride of a prosperous young farmer.

The minister arrived, and the happy pair were united according to God's ordinance. Many and cordial were the congratulations of the guests; and many compliments to the bride's beauty were whispered among the simple-hearted neighbors. Even Donald McPherson remarked to his wife that he had never seen a bonnier bride. "Ay," said Katy, "she is bonny, and she has the grace o' a born leddy."

After an hour spent in conversation the guests were seated at the table, which, for the second time, was spread with a bountiful wedding-feast.

When the guests had dispersed, Mrs. Murdoch busied herself with restoring things somewhat to their wonted order; her thoughts were no less busy than her hands. "Oor life is unco checkered, Wullie," she said; "but still God has never gien us sae mony sorrows as to overwhelm us, nor sae mony joys as to turn oor heids. When we are a'maist fainting for fear o' the darkness, he sends light; and when we are o'er muckle exalted in oor feelings, he gars us through some turn o' his providence to come doun."

"That is weel said, wifie. Ane canna fail to see the Faither's gudeness in sic management o' us. But I think we wouldna need the bit and bridle sae often if we would tak God's gifts without forgetting wha sent them. God's children a' hae their chastisements; the Book says they maun hae them; but I trow the humble get far less than the proud and rebellious. I hope oor bairns will no hae to be sae muckle buffeted before they seek the rest that is provided for them aneath the sheltering wing of the Almighty. Annie is like Rab; hae ye never noticed it?"

"I hae seen it; but sin' she is a lass, I hae nae fears for her. Rab had nae fauts forbye drinking, ye ken."

"He was a'maist too heidstrang; but I wouldna mak mention o' it, savin' for Annie's sake. She would hae her ain way too if she wasna held wi' a strang hand. But we will gie her wi' the rest o' oor dear anes to the keeping o' the gude Lord. He kens best the way each maun be led."

CHAPTER XV. ANNIE.

Time passed and brought the usual changes to the family of honest Wullie. Jamie had finished his college course with honor, and was now a teacher in one of the high schools of Edinburgh. Davie could no longer be called "the wee lad." He took his place beside his father, and with his youthful vigor performed as much labor as Wullie with his declining strength. Annie was now in the full flush of early womanhood. Her dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and bewitching manner had already won the admiration of many "neebor lads," who did not fail to get a sight of her every Sunday in the kirk. But she had completely captured the heart of Donald McPherson, Jr. To his great annoyance she did not seem to reciprocate his affection. But knowing her to be lively and wilful, he hoped she only feigned indifference and did not mean to allow herself to be lightly won.

It was at this time that a nephew of John Cameron came to spend a few weeks at Laird Erskine's. He had been educated with Jamie, and, as was quite natural, he called at the cottage to deliver a message and some presents from Jamie. In one of his rambles he took occasion to call a second time. He chatted pleasantly with Annie, and was pleased with her artless simplicity. When he was about to return to Edinburgh he called again to say good-by. He gave his hand to Annie as he took leave, and with a pleasant smile remarked, "I hope I shall see you again."

Poor Annie! It was the first time a fine gentleman had talked with her. She could not but observe the refinement of his manner and conversation. She contrasted him with the rustic lads of the neighborhood, and they sank into insignificance. She remembered his looks and his words, and pondered them in her heart. How she wished she had been born a lady, or had been educated like her brother Jamie! Her sunny face lost some of its color. She moved about her work mechanically, her thoughts wandering in the cloud-land of her imagination.

Mrs. Murdoch noticed the change in her daughter's manner. "What ails ye, lass, that ye dinna talk ony mair? Are ye no weel?" she asked.

"I am quite weel," said Annie, "but I dinna feel like talking."

Donald McPherson had been steadily gaining property ever since he stopped drinking. He now had sufficient means to stock a farm which he rented. He had also gained respectability by honest dealing with his neighbors and by a strict attendance at church. He had merited and gained the coveted name of douce Donald, which was not misapplied. Donald, Jr., being the only child, and of steady habits, Mrs. Murdoch placed no obstacle in the way of an intimate friendship between him and her daughter. In fact, she considered him a very suitable person to sue for Annie's hand. He was warmly received by all at the cottage; but Annie never showed him any preference above the other lads of the neighborhood. Her mother had long since realized that Wullie was right when he intimated that she was "heidstrang." Mrs. Murdoch was at a loss to know how to approach her daughter, for fear of driving her in the wrong direction; therefore she wisely concluded to let the matter alone. But young McPherson, who saw nothing in the way of settling in life, offered her his hand. She declined the offer. He was loath to accept a refusal. He pressed his suit, telling her that he had always thought of her as his future wife.

"Ye hae taen far too muckle for granted," she replied, "for I canna wed wi' you."

Donald's visits were discontinued. The mother, ascertaining the cause of his prolonged absence, remonstrated with her daughter.

"Annie, lass, what hae ye dune to young Donald?"

"I hae refused him, as was my privilege," she replied, with an independent toss of her head.

"Can ye no see where your interest lies? Donald is a clever lad, and would gie you a gude hame; and a' would be your ain when his faither and mither are gane."

"I dinna want a better hame than I have noo," retorted Annie; "and it is lang waiting for dead folks' shoon."

"Ye will drive the lad a'maist daft wi' your stubborn ways."

"Little danger o' that; but I canna help it if I do. Auld Muckle Geordie might tak it in his heid to gang daft aboot me; would I hae to marry him?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her mischievous eyes.

The mother laughed despite her efforts to the contrary, for Auld Muckle Geordie was an old lame piper supported by charity.

"Noo be a canny lass," she continued, resuming the stern expression of her countenance. "Auld Muckle Geordie has naething to do wi' Donald, who isna quite twa years older than yoursel, and naething can be said against him."

"I didna say onything against him. I only meant to shaw that a lass canna always wed ony ane that sets his heart on her."

"Ay, ony ane, to be sure! But where would ye find a better lad than Donald? Dinna pit your dish tapside doun when it rains parritch."

"Weel, mither, it will hae to rain parritch frae anither quarter before I set my dish to catch it."

"Annie, ye can never be tauld onything. But I hae kenned folk wha decided sae speedily that they had to repent at leisure."

Donald took the matter more to heart than Annie had anticipated. Wishing to get away from scenes that were constant reminders of his chagrin and unhappiness, he left home and took passage in a vessel bound to the West Indies. Annie then received cold looks from more than one pair of eyes. Mr. and Mrs. McPherson regarded her as the disturber of their peace and the desolater of their home. They could see no reason why their son should be refused by Annie Murdoch or any other lass. Even Annie's mother was reserved in manner towards her. But her native wit and vivacity often served her a good turn when the subject was broached, and she generally parried their censure with a counterstroke that made her victorious. So things remained till Jamie came again.

Jamie, though so learned and so well received in Edinburgh society, did not forget his parents in their humble home. Every year he spent with them at least a part of the summer, and they were none the poorer for his visit. From the time he first received a salary he had every year sent them a generous remittance; and when he visited them he did not come empty-handed. His coming was always anticipated with eager pleasure; and now when he arrived all were delighted. He took an interest in all their simple home affairs, and always inquired about the welfare of the neighbors. He liked to sit and talk with his mother. During a conversation with her he chanced to ask her how she liked young Mr. Cameron. Annie turned away her face at the mention of his name. She felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks; but it soon receded, for Jamie followed his question with the statement that Cameron was soon to be married to his cousin.

Annie, pale and trembling, sought the door.

"What ails thee, Annie?" asked the anxious mother; but receiving no answer, the truth flashed on her mind. "Puir lass!" said she; but Annie, refusing sympathy, withdrew from her mother, and hurried out to conceal her emotion.

"What ails Annie?" asked Jamie.

"I see it a' noo," replied his mother. "I ken why she refused young Donald McPherson. The puir lass maun hae lo'ed young Cameron."

Jamie was astonished. He questioned his mother, and learned that Cameron had been at the cottage but three times. "He is a kind-hearted, noble young man. I do not wonder that my little sister admired him; but it was folly to fall in love with him. Let us deal gently with the girl, and turn her thoughts in other directions."

The day passed; night wrapped the earth in darkness; bird, beast, and human creatures rested in sleep, save where the solitary lamp burned dimly in the sick-room or the aching heart forbade the eyes to slumber. Annie retired to her bed, but sleep came not. She had been rudely wakened from her young life's happy dream; could she ever sleep again! In vain she tried to dismiss her thoughts and find rest.

Finally she rose from her bed and stole softly to the window. Looking out of its narrow casement, she saw in the distance the outline of a clump of silver birches; then catching the scent of the clover from the meadow and the wild rose from the hedgerow, she said mentally, "This world is too bonny for tears. And why should I grieve for one who perhaps never gave me a second thought, and whom I had no right to love? It was but a childish fancy. I am no longer a child. From this hour I am a woman. I will tear his image from my heart, and be content with the lot that God has given me."

The midnight air cooled her brow and quieted her throbbing brain and aching heart. She again sought her couch, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber. The next morning she was calm, but not sad. Reason had prevailed.

Her mother was surprised at her self-control; but she said not a word to Annie upon the subject that was most in both their thoughts. Neither did Annie ever mention to any one her struggle and her victory. If she had supposed that any one possessed her secret, her mortification would have been as great as her grief.

Jamie felt sorry for his sister, but he did not dare tell her so. He only gave her his parting presents, bade her a cheerful good-by, and returned to his post.

CHAPTER XVI. RECONSIDERED.

More years passed, bringing two sweet bairns into the home of Archie Lindsay. Still Annie Murdoch would neither be wooed nor wedded. Whether the ever alert Donald McPherson suspected that she had changed her mind and was waiting for his son, and communicated his suspicions to the one most concerned, is not known; but at length there came a letter saying that young Donald was coming home; and it was reported that he would bring a heavy purse.

Great was the joy of his parents, for they were growing old and longed to lay their cares on younger shoulders. Soon a sun-browned man knocked at their door. Katy McPherson cast on him a long, searching glance, and exclaimed, "Donald, my bairn! Donald, my bairn! Ye are welcome hame!"

As to the father, he was very happy and very proud. He spoke the praises of his son into every listening ear.

Donald was glad to be at home again. He inquired about all the neighbors, and particularly after honest Wullie's family.

"Annie is no married. I think she is waiting for you, Donald," said his mother.

On the evening of the third day after his return he dressed himself with great care, and announced that he was going to honest Wullie's to see how the folk looked.

Annie had been early apprised of Donald's arrival. She kept her thoughts to herself; but she was unusually particular about her personal appearance, and wore the knot of ribbon that was most becoming to her. But as the days passed and Donald did not appear, she began to think he was in no haste to see her. However, at last he came. He was most cordially received by all the family, Annie not excepted.

Donald was much improved by his residence abroad. He chatted pleasantly and interestingly of scenes and things he had observed during his absence, and all were sorry when the lateness of the hour warned him that it was time to leave.

"Ye hae gien us a pleasant evening, Donald," said Mrs. Murdoch. "I hope it will no be long till ye come again."

"That will be as Annie says."

"I will promise no to keep ony bloodhounds about," said Annie, laughing.

"Ye will have to promise mair than that."

"Weel, I will promise no to keep ony doggies o' a savage nature."

"Mair than that," said he, shaking his head.

"Weel, then, I will promise to bid you a pleasant gude evening as often as ye choose to come."

"That will do. On the strength of that promise I shall be right neeborly."

Bidding them good night, he went home with fresh hopes kindled in his bosom.

The purse Donald brought home with him did much towards improving the farm stock and utensils, besides furnishing the house more comfortably. After this outlay there was still left a small sum, which Donald put at interest. "It would be gude for a rainy day," he said.

It would seem that Donald's second attempt at courtship was more successful than the first, for six months after his return he was married to Annie Murdoch.

"That is noo as it s'ould be," said honest Wullie. "It aye lookit to me that it maun come to that yet; but some folk are lang in seeing what is for their gude."

Douce Donald, as he was now always called, to distinguish him from his son, could not quite forget his son's former trouble. He said to Annie, half jestingly, "Ye s'ouldna hae taen sae lang a time to mak up your mind, ye wilfu' puss."

"Never mind that now, faither," said Donald. "Ye wouldna have had sae saft an auld age without the gear that came of my disappointment."

When Donald and Annie had been married a twelvemonth a daughter was born to them. Great was the joy in the household. The grandfather was hardly less pleased than the father. He went to honest Wullie's to communicate his gladness and to congratulate him.

"We hae a fine granddaughter, neebor Murdoch. The sight o' her will be gude for oor auld een. If the gude Lord spares her till us, she will beguile the lang weary hours o' auld age."

"Ay, it is gude to see young faces when we are auld; but I think ye will find your hours nane too lang, neebor McPherson. God gies to nane o' us mair time than we need."

"Weel, then, she s'all help me to graw young again."

"Ay, that will do. Keep a young heart in your auld body, and ye will weary naebody."

"Hoo comes it that ye are sae wise, neebor Murdoch?"

"I dinna think mysel wise."

"But ye aye gie gude advice."

"Weel, we hae this promise in the gude Book, 'They s'all a' be taught of God.' It may be that I hae been taught o' the Spirit. Warldly wisdom I hae nane, or next to nane; but I ken weel that the wisdom that God gies to those that ask it will be better to haud to when passing frae this to the untried warld than a' the wisdom o' the wisest men."

CHAPTER XVII. DAVIE.

We have now seen Robert Murdoch's children all happily settled in life. God's promises to the fatherless had not failed. Only Wullie's own son Davie is left at home, and the years have rolled by till he is now nearly as old as his father was when we first made his acquaintance.

School never had any charms for Davie. He could read and write, and he possessed some knowledge of arithmetic. Beyond this he did not care to go. But he did love hard work, and the harder the better. He loved to drive the plough and put in the sickle. "He is honest Wullie over again," was the unanimous verdict of the whole neighborhood.

Meanwhile the father's strength was failing. It often happened that when Wullie was going to his work in the noonday heat Farmer Lindsay called to him from the cool porch where he was sitting, "Come, sit ye doun and crack a while wi' me, Wullie, and let younger men lead in the wark noo."

Davie, too, urged his father to take life more easily. "Ye hae lang borne the burden and heat o' the day; sit doun noo and rest. I hae the strength and the will to provide for a' the wants o' those wha hae provided for me when I couldna do it for mysel."

Jamie with his annual remittance sent this message: "Make yourself and mother comfortable, and do not go to your work on bad days. Save your strength when you can; it will please me better if you do not work at all. You have labored enough for a lifetime. I hope to supply many of your wants myself; but you have also Davie to look after you."

"Ay, we hae Davie, and we hae mony freends and mony comforts. Truly, the Lord is gude to all that put their trust in him," said Wullie to his wife.

"Ay, Wullie; and yet I canna but wish that Davie was mair like Jamie. He wouldna hae to wark sae hard," said the mother.

"Leave Davie to his ain choice, wifie. He canna be as Jamie is. Jamie likes to gang oot in the warld, and muckle can be said in his praise, for he is as gude a mon as I could wish, forbye his learning. But Davie taks after his faither. He lo'es best the wild moorlands and crags, the green hillocks, the scent o' the newly-turned sod, the lowing o' the herds, the crawing o' the cocks, and the voice of the sang-birds. He is a' that is left to us noo. How could we get on withoot Davie?"

Mrs. Murdoch, too, began to feel the approach of age. The noon of her life was long past, and she had toiled unremittingly. She desired to sit down now and rest a while in the evening shade. She thought it time that Davie should bring a wife to the cottage.

But Davie seemed never seriously to think of such a thing, notwithstanding various hints from his mother. Every year she felt less able to do the work of the cottage; she was lonely also, for she liked to have some one to talk to; but since Annie went away she spent most of the day in solitude. She therefore made a direct appeal to Davie.

"Davie, I canna live always; why do ye no tak a wife to yoursel? I am sure there is room eneuch here; and there is nae lack o' gear. Ye s'ould hae a wife as weel as ony other man."

"I dinna see ony lass that I would care to tak to the parson wi' me. A' the gude lassies hae been taen."

"There is aye gude fish in the sea!"

"But I canna hae the luck to catch them."

Weary of waiting for Davie to bring a wife, she sent to Wigtown for her niece and namesake, Jeannie Craig, to come and live with her.

Whether this was a plot on the part of the mother is not known; but certain it is that David married his cousin; and the neighbors said the mother had done the courting. If this be so she did her son a very great favor, for no one could have filled the place better or made him a better wife.

"She minds me of oor Belle," Davie said aside to his mother the first day she came to the cottage. And she was like Belle in her cheerful, gentle ways.

CHAPTER XVIII. A REST BY THE WAYSIDE.

Honest Wullie and his wife could now spend the evening of life in quiet, peaceful comfort. Their cup of happiness was full. All their children were married and lived comfortably. Jamie had married in Edinburgh, and he had a beautiful home, with children to gladden it. There was no happier wife than Belle Lindsay, and Archie thought there could be no better one. Archie's family lived in one part of the farmhouse. There his sweet-tempered wife still warbled tender home melodies while busy with her work, and at nightfall sang soft, sweet lullabies to the fair-haired babe. Annie and Donald were never sorry that they had waited for each other. Several children blessed them with hope and claimed their care and labor. The marriage of Davie had brought no innovation to Wullie's home. His daughter-in-law stepped quietly and aptly into the place his wife had filled as mistress and manager. Mrs. Murdoch, unencumbered with care, could now sit by her husband at the hearthstone, or in summer on a rustic seat on the shady side of the house. Her knitting was usually in her hand; so accustomed was she to this kind of work that she could almost have done it sleeping, and she would have felt lost without it.

Farmer Lindsay also divested himself of many of the cares of life. He had no anxiety about the management of the farm; Archie was as good a farmer as himself. Mrs. Lindsay had gradually given the care of household affairs to her daughter-in-law, and now Belle had entire control. "I ken noo that Archie's parritch is weel made and his bannocks weel baked; and a' the wark is weel dune and naething wasted," she said to her husband.

Their daughter, still unmarried, was with them to anticipate their wishes. Thus this ageing pair were resting from their labors and gliding gently down the slope of life.

The vine-hung porch was often the resort of Farmer Lindsay. He loved to sit there in the dreamy afternoons, enlivening the hours with tales of olden time. His wife often sat beside him. Here a goodly view was spread out before them. To one side lay the out-buildings, the orchard, and the meadows that extended far beyond honest Wullie's cottage. On the other side rose the hills covered with mountain-ash and dwarf-oaks. The birds sang in the shade-trees, and the timid hares gambolled in the hedgerow, or gazed at them with soft eyes when no danger threatened. Among the hills were the pasture-lands; and the tinkle of the herd-bell was often borne to their ears by the balmy breath of the south wind.

Occasionally honest Wullie, accompanied by his wife, slowly climbed the little rise of ground that lay between the cottage and the farmhouse. There was always a kindly welcome and inquiries after the health of each other. The bairns, too, must be called and told "no to be shy, but to gang up and speak to their grandparents." Honest Wullie always asked many questions about the farm-work, for he loved to hear the praises of Davie. When he stayed to break bread with his daughter they all ate together, and spent a social hour at table. Wullie was listened to with the greatest respect, for he always had something good and sensible to say.

When they went home some of the Lindsays accompanied them a part of the way, as not to have done so would have been considered discourteous.

To Annie's home Wullie no longer attempted to walk; but Donald brought her parents twice a year to pay her a visit. These visits were always enjoyable, for Annie spared no pains to please her parents. "Annie behaves doucely," was honest Wullie's comment after returning home.

Jamie still came once a year to the cottage.

"Now that Davie is married," he said to his father, "I would like to have you and mother come and spend some time with me."

"I am too auld to leave hame, Jamie; but if I could gang, what would I do in Edinburgh? I would a'maist as soon be buried alive. Na, na, Jamie, I couldna do that; I couldna leave my auld hame. Here I hae lived, and here let me dee. I a'maist feel I couldna lo'e God as weel where I couldna see him in his warks. Na, na, Jamie, leave me where I can hear the sang o' the laverock,[A] the mavis,[B] and the cushat;[C] where the burn wimples and the daisy and the heather bloom; where the darkness fa's softly and the stars blink bonnily; where the sun wunna rise far before I can see the face o' it. Na, Jamie, Edinburgh is nae place for auld Wullie Murdoch."

Jamie knew that his father was right.

"I suppose no other place would seem to you like home," he replied; "but I would like to manifest the filial regard I feel for my parents."

Jamie then resolved to coax Davie to Edinburgh. He thought it would give his brother some idea of the world around him. Besides, he was a little curious to see the amazement with which his unsophisticated brother would view the wonders of the Scottish capital. It was, however, a long time before he succeeded in getting him there; but several summers after he had first proposed the journey Davie returned with him to Edinburgh. On their way they stopped at Glasgow. As Davie had so little desire for sight-seeing, he was more than satisfied with his short stay in that city, and wished then to return home; but Jamie persuaded him to go on to Edinburgh and Linlithgow. He pointed out to his brother the places of historic interest, the ancient fortresses, palaces, and ruins. None of these stirred his heart like old Grayfriars' Church, where, on the first of March, 1638, the first signatures were set to the National Covenant that bound Scotland to resist the civil and ecclesiastical tyranny of Charles I.; Grayfriars' churchyard, with its memories of martyr Covenanters; and the old national fortress, the Castle Rock. The sight of these stirs the heart of every true Scotchman, for all are associated with Scottish struggles for liberty. There was little else he could appreciate, although the magnificent churches impressed him with their grandeur, and recalled to his mind the description of the only one with which he was familiar, that grander temple reared by Solomon. The bells, too, with their solemn, sonorous call, filled him with reverential awe. Everything else wearied him. The handsome dwellings, the public buildings, the long rows of shops and markets, were tiresome to him; and the sound of the town-crier he would gladly have exchanged for the tinkle of the bell from the sheepfold. He did not feel at ease even in his brother's house. He considered everything too bonny to touch, and he failed to divest himself of the feeling of restraint until he again beheld the simple cottages, the moors and glens of Ayrshire. However, after he reached home he remembered that he had seen many fine sights, and he was really glad that he had made the journey; but he was equally glad that there was no prospect of having to repeat it.

In the city he had remembered his nephews and nieces, and he brought them each a present, small though it was. But for his wife he brought a "braw new gown," to which he often afterwards referred with a good deal of complacency as "the gown I brought frae Edinburgh." His wife usually smiled secretly, saying to herself, "I will hae to tak gude care o' it, for it will be mony a lang day before he brings me anither frae there."

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Lark.

[B] Thrush.

[C] Wood-pigeon.

CHAPTER XIX. LENGTHENING SHADOWS.

Let us now look at our friends ten years later. We find some of them at life's sunset. But no storms of adversity have marred the serenity of the declining day of these simple people. Honest Wullie's years have already numbered more than fourscore. The locks that adorn his temples are no longer gray, but white. His frame is bent with labor and years.

Gradually he had left the heavier work to younger hands, and after a few years he had ceased to take his place among the laborers. In summer, however, he still planted and cultivated his little garden, and in winter he took care of the cows and kept the fires burning. But the time came when spade, mattock, and hoe were laid aside, and honest Wullie occupied his easy-chair. This was sorely against his will, as he said, for he liked to be of use to his family; but the infirmities of age left him no choice.

Then it was that the beauty of his soul shone forth in a clearer light, proving that "they also serve who only stand and wait." Always cheerful himself, he encouraged the despondent, mildly reproved those who were unduly elated, arrogant, or unyielding, and meted out to each the counsel most needed.

He looked patriarchal among his children and grandchildren, who vied with each other in manifesting their regard for him. He loved to have his grandchildren near him, and he often smiled at their innocent amusements. His wife, several years younger than himself, was still in good health. She was most attentive to the comfort of her aged husband, who for so many years had been her stay and support. Both were mindful of the many mercies that had attended them during their long life.

"When I look at you, Wullie, wi' sae mony comforts and sae few cares, and at a' our children sae weel provided for, I am reminded o' David of auld when he said, 'I have been young, and now am auld; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' Ay, Wullie, the blessings o' the righteous man hae been gien to you."

"Ay, Jeannie, we hae had a lang life, and mony joys as weel as sorrows. The Lord aye gies his children what is best for them. He remembereth our frame; he knoweth we are but dust, and he doesna pit upon us what we are no able to bear."

In the very evening of his days he had the pleasure of seeing his benefactor, the donor of the ten-pound note, whom he not only thanked and blessed, but whose bounty he offered to repay. "No, no, honest Wullie," said the good man, "I have never been the poorer for that gift, nor for any other given in like manner."

And now we come to the close of the good man's earthly pilgrimage. The chair in the chimney nook is vacant, and on the bed lies the once strong and active William Murdoch. The helplessness of age and exhaustion is upon him. He has no malady; he is simply passing away. The silver cord is being loosed, the golden bowl is being broken.

The sun was slowly sinking. The soft summer breeze came in at the cottage window and puffed the snowy curtains at either side. Order and quiet prevailed. Near the bed sat the faithful wife. Her knitting was not in her hands, neither was it in her lap. She sat with a sad yet composed expression on her face, thinking of the past, the present, and the future, all of which seemed now to be brought together. Near the ingle sat a younger, matronly woman, hushing an infant to rest. In her we recognize Annie McPherson, the same Annie, but ripened and softened by added years. From the farmhouse came tripping down the path a sprightly blooming girl, who reminded one of Belle. This was Alice Lindsay, Isabel's oldest child, come to say that her mother would be over to spend the night. She stooped and kissed her sleeping grandfather, and after asking her grandmother if there was anything she could do, she went out to her aunt Jeannie, who was milking the cows.

"Aunt Jeannie," she began, "are ye no weary? Let me milk ane o' the coos."

"Na, Alice, I am a'maist dune. Gang and talk wi' your cousins yonder; they are greetin' aboot their grandfaither. I hae but noo tauld them that he must soon dee."

Alice went to the rear of the cottage: there on a pile of sticks sat two fine little lads, whom Davie had quite naturally named Wullie and Jamie. They saw their cousin approaching, and tried to dry their tears on the back of their hands. She sat down between them and put her arm around Jamie, while Wullie dropped his head in her lap and sobbed out,

"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice. He is gaen awa frae us, and they will pit him in a box and nail him doun, and pit him in the groun', and he wunna win oot till the resurrection morn, mither says, and we canna mak oot when that will be. Then there will be naebody to pat oor heids when we come to the ingle. Grandmither aye knits, and she never pats oor heids, and says, 'Puir wee lads! puir wee lads!'"

"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice."

"My puir wee lads," said Alice, "ye will hae freends left to you still. Do ye no ken that grandfaither wearies to be awa wi' his Faither in heaven? Ye canna understand all aboot it noo, Wullie, but ye will some time. Grandfaither is an auld man, and he canna get the pleasure oot o' the warld that you can. He canna rin aboot the green fields here; but yonder where he is gaen he will be made young again, and then he will walk in the green fields o' the heavenly warld, and never graw auld ony more. Sae dry your tears, that is a wee man; grandfaither wouldna like ye to greet sae sairly."

Now they heard footsteps, and, looking up, the lads saw their father coming down the home-path with quickened steps, for he was anxious to know how his father was. As he neared the door he slackened his pace and entered the cottage as noiselessly as possible. He stepped to the bedside and gazed on his father; as he turned away a heavy sigh escaped him.

After Alice had comforted her little cousins she hastened home, and her mother came. The twilight had deepened into night; the cottage door was closed and the candle lighted. In the room were now gathered all the children except Jamie, and of him all were thinking.

"I think your faither is nearer his end than we thought," said the mother. "I ken weel Jamie would like to be here."

"I think we should have sent for him," said Belle.

"I think sae myself," said Davie.

"Annie, ye gang and write a letter till him right awa," said the mother.

Annie promptly obeyed, going into another room, and the conversation continued. They talked without restraint, for if their father should wake he was too deaf to understand ordinary conversation.

"I fear it isna possible for Jamie to come in time to see his faither alive," said Belle.

"I think he willna live the week oot," said Davie.

The mother sat with closed eyes and folded hands. "Jamie was aye fond o' his faither; he was aye a gude lad," she said, thinking aloud.

"Ay, he was that, and his gude fortune hasna spoiled him, either," replied Isabel.

"It would be hard to spoil Jamie, I think," said Davie. "I often thought o' that when I was wi' him in Edinburgh; for he introduced me to a' his grand freends. To be sure, I made my best boo; but ye ken weel I am no like Jamie."

"Weel, ye needna be. The warld maun hae pleughmen as weel as scholars," said his wife.

"Ye are right there. Jamie would hae dune wrang if he hadna treated Davie wi' respect," said Belle.

"Some folk might think his wife is a bit proud, but she didna shaw her pride to me. She is right fond o' Jamie, I could see that, and she would treat me weel for his sake," said Davie.

Thus in conversation pertaining to family affairs the evening passed. Annie had finished her letter, and the time for prayers drew nigh. Davie, on whom this duty then devolved, read and prayed; but his voice was unsteady, and all knew that his heart was too full for a lengthy prayer. They remained on their knees for many moments, each heart silently beseeching the Heavenly Father to give needed grace and strength. As they arose a slight movement attracted their attention towards the aged man. A single gasp, and all was over. Honest Wullie had yielded up his spirit to his Maker.

"He is awa," said the mother.

"Ay, he is gone," said Davie.

There was no violent outburst of grief. Even sadness was, for the time, almost chased away by the near approach of heaven. Only the solemnity that followed the passing of the death-angel pervaded the cottage.

CHAPTER XX. ANOTHER SHEAF GATHERED.

The heather had bloomed but seven years on the grave of honest Wullie when the children were again assembled around the bed of death: their aged mother was about to leave them. Jamie had been summoned from Edinburgh, and he with the others silently awaited the inevitable parting.

In looking into the room where the sick mother lay one would notice few changes. The invalid lay just where her husband had lain. The same small stand stood beside the bed; over the sufferer were bending the same forms, or nearly the same, for some changes were noticeable in them. Time had left traces on the once smooth brows of youth, and lines of silver had crept alike into dark or auburn hair. Jamie, already past fifty, was still in his prime. His long residence in the capital had polished his manners, and he appeared the refined cultured gentleman that he was. His fine intellectual brow was furrowed by thought rather than by years. Isabel and Annie had passed the meridian of life, and their afternoon was crowded with duties, and sometimes shadowed by disappointments. They had reached that time when the parental heart knows scarcely more of hope than of fear; when the children, eager to begin the battle of life, rush out into the world, or, staying, are as likely to be vexed as pleased with home restraints. Davie was less changed in appearance than the others. His step, never light nor swift, was neither heavier nor slower than formerly; his broad shoulders showed no inclination to stoop; no shade of disappointment rested on his face; he had merely grown seven years older. Davie's wife moved quietly about, mindful of the comfort of all. Her sensible face, overcast with sadness, gave evidence that she felt the approaching separation no less than the sons and daughters: for this family was one of the few in which mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived in harmony and succeeded in pleasing each other. Now this beautiful relationship and companionship was to be dissolved. Jeannie had ever been most careful of the comfort of the aged woman, and now in the last sad days her hand most tenderly ministered to her wants.

But the time came when no human hand could help, when life was fast ebbing, and the shadow of death darkened the household and filled every heart with solemn sadness. For several hours the dying woman had lain in a stupor, and no one expected her to speak again; but she opened her eyes, recovered consciousness, and, seeing the sorrowful faces around her, she spoke.

"Dinna grieve that I maun leave you. I hae stayed with you till ye can a' care for yoursels better than I can care for you: ye s'ould ask nae mair. Ye are aye in the hands of God; and he will guide you safely through this warld, and bring you to me in the better warld above. I shall greet my bairns on the other shore."

These were her last words. She fell asleep, and waked no more.

They buried her beside her husband and returned to their homes, feeling, as never before, that one generation had passed away and that theirs was the next to follow.

There is, perhaps, no relation in life the dissolution of which sunders so tender a tie as that of child and mother. Memory is so stirred that long-forgotten scenes pass before our mind's eye like a broad panorama. In the foreground stand acts of disobedience and our lack of filial affection, or rather our failure to manifest it as we should have done. Beside these stand the many proofs of maternal love, patience, and self-sacrifice. Happy the children who can recall other and pleasanter memories of their conduct when in the presence of the dead, cold clay of her who has done and suffered so much for them! And such was the case in this family. On the evening after their mother's burial the tone of their conversation was not wholly sad and regretful. Each son and daughter knew that the mother had indeed exercised much forbearance towards them all; but there came to them the assurance that they had in many ways, both in early and later years, given proofs of their love and respect. Annie, whose waywardness had perhaps given more trouble than all the rest, sincerely repented her faults, and grieved that she had ever been undutiful to so kind a mother.

"Nane o' the children," said she, speaking to her sister, "hae gien mother the trouble that I hae gien her. Alas, why doesna a bairn ken there is nae pleasure in wrang-doing!"

"O Annie," replied Isabel, "ye needna reproach yoursel; ye werena a troublesome bairn, only a little heidstrang; and I am sure naebody could hae been mair kind or respectful than yoursel these mony years past."

"I ken that," said Annie, "but I canna forget that I grieved her mony times when I kenned weel eneuch I was doing wrang; that isna pleasant to remember."

Jamie, now Professor Murdoch, remained long enough to visit his sisters in their own homes. He spent the evening after the funeral under the roof that had sheltered him in his boyhood; the sisters were there also. After speaking of the dead mother, her virtues, her faith in God, and the eternal happiness with the redeemed upon which she had now entered, the conversation became more general, running in various channels. Jamie had much to ask about the other families, but he took a special interest in Davie's little twin daughters. They looked so much alike that he declared he could not tell which was Maggie and which Nannie. They had large blue eyes and curly flaxen hair. It was their father's delight to sit with one on each knee, trotting them in his clumsy fashion, singing to them the rhymes that were sung to all babies, turning his face from side to side meantime, and gazing fondly at one or the other.

"Well, Davie, you look about as proud and pleased as a parent can be," remarked Jamie.

"Why should I no look proud? I will leave it to yoursel, Jamie; saw ye ever bonnier bit lassies?"

Jamie smiled good-naturedly. "I think not," he replied.

"Davie," interposed Jeannie, "ye are aye praisin' the bairns. Dinna be makin' ither folk praise them too. Do ye no ken that all parents see their bairns in the same way? Jamie has bairns o' his ain."

"Ay," replied Davie, "but Jamie has nae lassies in his family."

"No, I have no lassies, and my sons are as tall as I am; so I quite enjoy the novelty of seeing your wee daughters." Then, addressing his sisters, he continued, "I must see more of my nephews and nieces before I return. Some of them I saw only at the funeral, and I hardly recognized them, so much have they grown."

"Dear knows," said Annie, "my bairns do naething but graw. Jennie is half a heid taller than I am, and Robin is as tall as she is. The wee lad, my seven-year auld Donald, is weel grawn for his years."

"Let me see—how many bairns have we among us?" asked Jamie.

"A'thegither," said Davie, "we have fourteen: yoursel twa, Belle four, Annie three, and mysel five."

"We dinna number very many," said Isabel, "but for a' that I hae my hands full; and they will be mair than full when Alice gaes awa, for she is to be married at Hallowmas, and it will be a lang time before wee Annie graws strang eneuch to be ony help. And what wi' Sandy's notions about books and Robert's notions about waterwheels and mills, I needna look for muckle help frae them."

"Sandy must soon come to me, sister Belle," said Jamie.

"Has the lad been talking to you about going to school?"

Jamie was about to reply when the door opened, and Sandy, who had come to accompany his mother home, walked in. As he entered his mother looked at him half-threateningly, half-playfully, and shook her finger at him. He darted an inquiring look at his uncle, and the latter shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"I understand it all," said Isabel, who had been watching the two. "Sandy will leave home too, perhaps close upon the heels of Alice. Well, it is often sae. I think sometimes, What do parents rear bairns for? They arena mair than grawn before the flittin' begins."

"It is aye so," said Annie; "leastways in some families. There is my Robin; he takes a deal too muckle interest in information about America. I fear he will take it into his heid to gang there before mony years."

Davie with a startled look glanced towards his sons, who had been listening to all that had been said, as if he feared they might become infected with a desire to leave home too. But Wullie, already sixteen years old, was a home-loving lad; no fear for him. Jamie had always said, "I want to be a shepherd-lad, and rove amang green fields." The third son was a namesake of Archie Lindsay, with whom he was a great favorite, and he had said, "I will work for Uncle Archie when I'm a man." Davie recalled all this, and his fears subsided.

Soon Belle and Sandy arose to go home. Annie was to remain to break the lonely feeling of the household from which a dear one had just been carried.

Jamie and Annie talked a little longer with Davie and his wife, and then the little cottage was darkened and all within sought rest and sleep.

CHAPTER XXI. THE PROFESSOR VISITS HIS SISTERS.

The next morning was bright and sunny, and at an early hour Donald McPherson came to take his wife home. Jamie was to accompany her. The ride in the fresh morning air was delightful as Donald's stout farm-horses plodded easily along over the two miles that lay between the homes of the brother and sister. The conversation ran mostly on farm-work, for that was Donald's province; beyond that his knowledge was limited. The few neighbors that they met or passed raised their bonnets, for all had a profound respect for the man who had risen from their ranks to become a professor in a college. Some of the more inquisitive detained them to ask questions.

An interesting picture presented itself when they reached Annie's door. Douce Donald, leaning on his staff, stood at the gate to welcome them. His form was bowed with many years, but his face was pleasant and his greeting cordial. Behind him stood his grandson and constant companion, wee Donald, or Donald the third. In the door was Jennie, smiling, and looking a very picture of healthy and blooming girlhood. Robin left his hoe in the garden and hastened to welcome Uncle Jamie. Only the aged Katy McPherson remained within, and she was not less pleased than the rest.

Everything in and about the house gave evidence of thrift. The McPhersons had long since outgrown every look of poverty. Not only was there no lack of articles essential to comfort, but tokens of taste were not entirely wanting, for Jennie's nimble fingers fashioned and arranged many little things, which, though costing but a trifle, beautified the home and rendered it more cheerful and attractive.

After Jamie had conversed some time with the others he took a seat near Katy, whose hearing was "no vera gude," as she said, and entered into conversation with her. She spoke of his excellent mother and of honest Wullie, and her words fell not on indifferent ears.

"The warld has few men like your faither, Mr. Murdoch. Though he is dead and gane, the gude he has dune hasna gane wi' him. Ye may be a wiser man than he was, but ye canna be a better ane," said Katy, speaking with earnestness.

"You are right," said Jamie slowly and with evident emotion.

"I maun say," continued Katy, "that I hae great reason to be thankful that his influence was ever felt in my family."

Jamie, sad from his recent loss, replied with much feeling, "I see more and more clearly, as I grow older, that the good one does lives after him. My step-father was but a simple cottager, and yet I hear him spoken of almost with reverence. Goodness is better than greatness, and the memory of the just does not perish. We think of our friends, dead or living, and we find that nothing draws our affections towards them like sterling worth; wealth or beauty, wit or wisdom, cannot give permanence to our esteem for them."

"Ye are right, Mr. Murdoch. I hae had sic thoughts mysel, but I couldna hae worded them as weel as yoursel did."

Donald the first, or douce Donald, followed by Donald the third, now joined them. They had been with the lad's father and a neighbor to the stable, where the latter was negotiating for a fine young horse. Douce Donald could not think of letting the colt be sold without having something to say in regard to his merits. He was sure, he said, that his son would forget to tell "how strong o' limb the beastie was, how high he carried his heid, and how canny he was in the harness." The bargain had been satisfactorily concluded before he returned to the house.

Jamie soon perceived that the aged man had lost none of his ancient garrulity. He gave the history of several men who had played with Jamie when they were lads together; he asked questions about the improvements and inventions of the day; and could not sufficiently admire the railroad and the telegraph.

"The warld has grawn too wonderful for auld Donald McPherson," he said meditatively, shaking his head. "While the warld is changing men canna stand still. I'm muckle changed mysel frae the Donald I once was, and I owe the gude that is in me to your faither. I could a'maist as soon forget my ain name as to forget honest Wullie. I hae him as plainly before me as though he died but yesterday, and it is seven years agone. There will be mair o' us gane soon, or auld age will no hae dune its wark. God grant that when the angel o' death puts in the sickle we may a' be as ripe for the heavenly garner as your gude faither was."

He sighed and remained silent a few moments; then, regaining the buoyancy of spirits that was natural to him, he led his little grandson to his uncle, saying,

"What think ye o' this bairn? Is he na a fine lad?"

James Murdoch extended his hand and drew his nephew to his side. He told him stories of his own sons when they were small. "They are in school and at their books by this time; but no doubt they have had a long tramp before the school hour came."

"Robert and William are very unlike in some respects," he said, addressing his conversation to Annie, "but in one thing they do not differ: they love to seek out all the historical places in and around Edinburgh. They know more about the old castles and fortresses than I do myself. I do not know what they will accomplish in the world, but they are bright, active lads now."

The dinner hour arrived. There was no hurrying through this meal, for Uncle James had much to say to all, but particularly to Robin, whom he found intelligent, considering his opportunities. Jennie seemed to her uncle her mother's second self. She was staid enough then; but in her black eyes the vivacity of her nature could not wholly be concealed.

The dinner being over, Robin harnessed a horse and took his uncle to Archie Lindsay's, where he was to spend the afternoon. Robin chatted all the way, glad of an opportunity to satisfy his inquiring mind. The drift of his questions was towards America. "I would like to live in that country," said he.

"Why is that?" asked his uncle. "Is not Scotland a bonny country?"

"Scotland is well enough—leastways it is bonny enough; but I would like to live where one man is as gude as another; where one can buy land and settle as he pleases. Awa wi' the landlords! Mony of them are all right, but some of them are bad enough; and it often happens that an honest man maun work for a scoundrel, and maun dance to his piping whether he pipes right or wrang."

"Robin," said his uncle, "are you not indulging in unprofitable thoughts? Scotland rears many eminent men. Surely her sons have a chance to become both good and great. Emulate those who have become so, and do not vex yourself with that which is beyond your control. You certainly have nothing to complain of."

"No, I havena; but I see them that have. I see the poor far down, and there is nae way to help them up."

"You take a one-sided view of the matter. Do you suppose there are no poor in America?"

"Na, I dinna suppose that; but if they are puir, there is naebody to lord it over them. Uncle Jamie, ye mind auld Sawny McKay? Well, he is dead, but the auld wife lives. She is weak and seck, and she had a notion for some broth. Geordie, her youngest lad, took a hare frae the wood to mak a sup for his auld mither. Somebody told o' it, and a muckle ado was made aboot it, and the lad had to pay a heavy fine that was hard upon him, for he has but sma' wages. Noo, I dinna say it was right in Geordie—maybe it wasna—but I like him a' the better for it. He is a right gude lad, and he never would hae dune it for himsel; he tauld me sae. Weel, I was that angry I said, 'Geordie, let us gang to the United States of America. There ye may tak not only hares, but better game.' Ye s'ould hae seen the light glint in his eye! But it went frae them in a moment. 'Na, I canna; I wunna leave my mither,' said he."

Robin paused, expecting his uncle to approve of the indignation he had felt. But James Murdoch said nothing. Taking from his pocket a sovereign he put it into Robin's hand.

"Give this to Mistress McKay," said he. "I remember her well. She has patted my head many a time."

By this time they had reached Archie Lindsay's. Uncle and nephew shook hands at parting.

"I hope you will soon lose your discontent, Robin, and convince yourself that Scotland is still a land good enough for all her sons."

"No, Uncle Jamie, my heart is set on America; and it will not be many years before I will put the sea between me and Scotland."

At the home of the Lindsays, no less than at Donald McPherson's, was James Murdoch a welcome and honored guest. Since his arrival his time and attention had been so much occupied with his mother's sufferings and death, and afterwards with the preparation for the funeral, that he had spent very little time with Belle, although she lived so near. But on this afternoon he had come for a visit. Isabel met him at the door and showed him into the cool, pleasant best-room. Sandy and Robert had been excused from performing any labor in the field that they might be with their uncle. Alice laid aside her work, although so much had to be accomplished before Hallowmas, and entertained her uncle in a manner so easy and womanly that he was greatly pleased with her. Only little Annie was missing. During occasional intervals in the conversation low tones were heard in an adjoining room.

"It is wee Annie," said Alice, observing that her uncle listened. "She aye reads to her grandmither till she falls asleep. Puir lass, I think she will find it hard to bide her time the day."

Presently the sound ceased, and a fair, slight child entered, softly closing the door behind her, thus indicating that the aged woman slept, and no longer needed her services. She approached her uncle and offered her hand. He took it, and stooping, kissed the gentle little one, wishing in his heart that he had just such a sweet flower to brighten and gladden his own home.

As the afternoon drew near its close, Belle invited her brother to go and see the aged couple in the other part of the house. Mrs. Lindsay was feeble, and evidently near the end of her pilgrimage. Though younger than her husband, she was more infirm. Mr. Lindsay, now very aged, was in good health; but he was like the sere, brown leaf in autumn, ready to fall at the wind's first blast. He was glad to see James Murdoch. He spoke of many things that had occurred in the distant past, and mentioned with kindest feelings the friends and acquaintances of his early manhood. He spoke of Mrs. Murdoch's death, and cast a significant glance towards the room where his wife lay.

"She will soon be awa too," he said, "and I maun follow at no distant day. Weel, that is the way in this warld; in the ither warld there will be nae mair removes. We shall meet and ken our freends there, Jamie. Do ye think our freends will be the first to greet us on the ither shore?"

"Perhaps so," said Jamie, speaking guardedly.

"Maybe it is a queer fancy, but I hae been thinking aboot your mither: how when she came to that blest land we read of she would, perhaps, feel strange; and then she might see Wullie beckoning to her; and she would gang to him, and he would lead her to the dear Lord he lo'ed sae weel while on earth; and the Lord himsel would put a crown on her head. You see," said he, by way of apology or explanation, "whiles my mind taks to thinking o' sic things now. The warld isna lang for me, and yet it is pleasant to my auld een. The spring is bonny, and simmer-time is bonnier still; but autumn minds me o' auld age, and hard by are the frosts o' winter and death. Your faither had no fear o' death. I hae had mony a talk wi' him, and they hae dune me gude. Lang may Scotland hae sic men reared amang her sons o' toil, for even there they hae an influence that maun be felt."

Jamie went to Mrs. Lindsay's bedside to speak to her.

"I am right glad to see ye ance mair, Jamie. Sit ye doun, and speak a wee to your auld freend."

But Jamie could say but little: the scene recalled his mother's sick-bed. Mrs. Lindsay understood his feelings.

"Ay, your mither is awa," said she, "and I am gaen soon. This life maun come to an end wi' us a'. Nae doot it is weel wi' your mither; and I trust in the mercy o' God, through Jesus Christ, that it will be weel wi' me. It was honest Wullie wha helped me to lose the fear o' death. He often spoke to the gude-man and mysel o' spiritual things."

The next day, as James Murdoch was speeding on towards his own home, many thoughts filled his mind, but uppermost was this one: "Will my life be as fruitful in good works as my step-father's was? After all of me that is mortal has turned to dust, will any say of me as they say of him, 'He helped me on in the way to heaven'?"

CHAPTER XXII. CHANGES.

There were hurried footsteps and coming and going one rainy night at the home of the Lindsays. It was not the evening of Alice's marriage, for Hallowmas was long past, and Alice was far away. There had been a quiet wedding, for all had thought merriment out of place in a house so soon to become a house of mourning. The grandmother was feeble still, and would be so until the mortal should put on immortality; but it was the grandfather about whom all were anxious on that gloomy night. He had been seized with sudden illness, and lay speechless and unconscious. Not one of the household had retired to rest. Davie and Jeannie were there. Robert had gone for the doctor, and all were anxiously waiting for his arrival.

"It is a lang way," said Davie, "and the roads are heavy wi' the rain. Ye maun hae patience."

But it was not easy to be patient. Again and again did one and another look out into the darkness and listen, but heard only the fast-falling rain.

"If only Sandy had been here to go," said Belle. "Robert is but a young lad to be out this dark night."

But Sandy was in Edinburgh.

"Robert will do as weel as onybody," said Davie. "I might hae gane mysel, if had kenned ye would be worried about the lad; but hae nae fears for Robert; he'll come hame safe and sound."

Archie Lindsay sat by his father's bedside. Margaret, his sister, was constantly passing from one sick-room to the other. Mrs. Lindsay suspected that something had happened to her husband. "What is wrang wi' your faither?" she asked.

Margaret vainly endeavored to quiet her apprehensions.

"Ye needna say your faither isna muckle seck, Maggie. What else would keep ye a' out o' your beds? I maun see him for mysel."

Finding that she could not be quieted, her two children carried her to her husband's bedside. She gazed on the face to which the light of reason would never more return.

"Wae is me! Wae is me!" she exclaimed. "He is gaen, and gaen as his faither did before him. Oh, that I, wha hae been sae long on the brink o' the grave, s'ould live to see him taen awa!"

Her children persuaded her to return to her own room, promising to inform her if any change should take place.

The doctor came, but his remedies were of no avail. Mr. Lindsay passed away at dawn.

Margaret, true to her promise, communicated the sad intelligence to her mother as soon as she awoke.

Mrs. Lindsay spoke not a word. She raised her eyes and stretched her hands upward; then the hands fell and the eyes closed; her heart had ceased to beat.

Margaret Lindsay had been a most dutiful daughter. As long as her parents lived she had devoted herself to their care and comfort. Now that they were gone, she became a member of her brother's family.

Little Annie shared her aunt's room, for the child had been very lonely since Alice went away. She sometimes relieved the hours of their tediousness by going to her uncle Davie's to play with the twins. Many an hour did she amuse both herself and them, much to the satisfaction of her aunt Jeannie, whose duties were neither few nor light.

Annie was fond of books and study, like her brother Sandy. Since he had been in Edinburgh he had written to his little sister, telling her how much he desired her to study, and how pleasant it was to read and gain knowledge. Very proud was she when she had written a letter to him in a neat, legible hand. "Alexander looks nicer than Sandy," she said, looking at the address, "but I like the sound of Sandy better."

While Alexander was in Edinburgh, studying under his uncle's direction, Robert Lindsay was fast attaining a man's stature. He had no taste for farm-work, but he liked to handle tools, and was never tired of machinery.

"He'll no make a farmer, that is plain to be seen," said his father, "and he might as well do what he likes best."

But his mother, loath to spare another child from home, managed to hold the matter in check for a short time. Finally he became so restless that his parents consented to let him go to Glasgow, where his sister Alice lived, that he might gratify his inclination in some of the many mills and machine-shops of that busy city.

The house seemed lonely when he was gone; and well it might, for in no very long time five had left the home circle. So dull was it that Isabel prevailed on Davie to let his son Jamie, who had for some time been employed on the farm, live with her altogether, so that the evenings might not seem quite so long. Annie did not at first like him in Robert's place, for he teased her slyly in many ways. If she laid down her knitting he would manage to tangle the yarn or draw out some of the needles. He misplaced her bookmarks, and pretended to rub out her sums. But that was only his way of noticing her, for, after all, he loved to please her, and he brought her all the queer or pretty things he found in the woods or fields. She reproved him one day when he brought her some bird's eggs.

"O Jamie!" she exclaimed, "how could you do sic a thing? You hae robbed a bird's nest."

"Nae, I didna," he replied. "The auld bird is dead. A sportsman maun hae shot her. I kenned long ago where the nest was, and the mother-bird hasna been there these mony days. Nae, I wouldna rob a bird's nest even for you, Annie."

The twins often came to see Annie as soon as they were old enough, and they were always welcome at Aunt Belle's. They bid fair to have the good sense of their parents, with more beauty. Davie was never too busy to stop and speak to his little daughters as they passed him at his work.

Archie had grown to be a big boy, and was a great help to his mother. But he had a great aversion to in-door work, and he longed for the day when Maggie and Nannie should take his place, and he work in the fields like other lads.

Time soon granted the boy's wish. Davie Murdoch had no more bairns to trot upon his knee; and Jeannie was heard to remark, "It taks mair cloth to mak gowns for baith lassies than to mak ane for mysel."

CHAPTER XXIII. ROBIN IN AMERICA.

While these changes were taking place in the other families, Annie McPherson's children were not standing still. Thomas MacDuff had long sought the hand of Jennie, but she had kept him alternating between hope and fear. "He is nae better than ither folk," said she, "if he is a minister's son. If I wanted a sweetheart I could find mony a laddie as good as himsel any day in the week."

"She is a chip of the old block," said Donald to his wife.

But finally she concluded that he was better than other laddies, and consented to become his wife. The light-hearted, fun-loving McPhersons had a merry wedding. Jokes and laughter were not wanting on that day, and these were not frowned upon even by the good minister, the bridegroom's father. "The Bible tells us there is a time to be merry," said he, "and what time is more fitting than a wedding-day?"

Thomas MacDuff taught a village school in a neighboring town, and thither he took his wife.

Robin still remained at home, but every passing year had added strength to his desire to go to America. He read of its boundless extent, its fertile soil, its sources of wealth, and the facility with which a home and competence could be acquired, and nothing would satisfy him but to go there. Scotland was well enough for those who wished to live and die in the same cottage, he said; but he wanted a better chance.

His parents looked with disapprobation on his plans and wishes, but he could not be turned from his purpose.

"I will make a man that you will not be ashamed of," said he. "Some day you will think I hae as muckle sense as ither folk."

Dame McKay having been laid in her last resting-place, her son was free to carry into effect his long-cherished desire to emigrate to America. He and Robin would go together. He had saved enough money to pay his passage. Robin also had some money; and when his father became convinced that nothing could keep him at home, he generously supplied him with as much more as he needed to pay his passage and defray his expenses until he should earn a support in the new country, or bring him back to Scotland if his anticipations should not be realized.

As the time for departure drew near, serious faces and sad hearts were in the home of the McPhersons. Robin tried to dissipate their sadness.

"Ye needna wear sic lang faces," said he. "America is nae longer thought to be the end o' the earth. Wha kens but I may graw rich there, and come back and mak a' the lairds lift their bonnets to me?"

"Oh, my puir bairn," said his mother, "mair likely ye willna ken what a hame is in that farawa land. Ye will be gaen aboot frae place to place, and naebody will think o' your comfort."

"Hoot, mither! As for a hame, I will get ane for mysel, and a Yankee wife will think of my comfort."

But when the tender-hearted Robin came to say adieu to father, mother, brother, and sister, it was all he could do to control his feelings. And there were his aged grandparents whom he could not expect to see again; he must say to them a last good-by. He thought it would be easier to speak his farewells hurriedly and hasten away. But they detained him to give their last words of counsel. Douce Donald looked very grave. Taking the young man's hand, he said,

"Robin, I hae been young, and I am noo auld. I hae learned mony things by experience, sae hear a ward frae your grandfaither. Dinna sow any wild oats; ye wunna want to reap them. Dinna meddle wi' the wine-cup; it will bring ye doun below the beasties that perish. Never gang at sic a gait as I hae dune in my younger days, for ye may never rin against ony honest Wullie wha will help ye back to the right way. God bless thee, Robin! May he keep thy foot frae falling and thine ee frae tears!"

The grandmother then approached, her strong face quivering with emotion.

"Your grandfaither has said what was in my mind to say. I will add only one thing. Pray to the great and gude Father that he will guide your feet in wisdom's ways, which are ways of pleasantness, and in her paths, which are paths of peace. Then shall we meet in that bonny warld, the shores o' which your grandparents are now nearing. Fare ye weel."

Robin was quite overcome; he could hardly trust his voice to reply. He stepped quickly from the door, said a last good-by, and drove away, not venturing to look back.

Separation from friends is often less felt by those who go out into the world than by those who remain at home. It was so in this case. Robin met Geordie McKay, as had been arranged, and the two young men set out together. Their minds were diverted by new scenes and bright anticipations; but it was not so at home. Annie McPherson gathered up every article that had been her son's, and laid them all away with tender touches, as if handling the relics of the dead. Many a sigh escaped her motherly bosom, and the very things he had often left in her way, and on account of which she had found fault with him, were now gently lifted, and invested almost with sacredness. All missed him as well as the mother. The father was unusually busy in order to divert his mind; the grandfather took his cane and walked far beyond the out-buildings—a thing he had not done for many a day; the grandmother lay down for her accustomed nap, but soon returned unrefreshed to her chair. "I canna sleep the day," she said. When evening came and all the household gathered around the hearth, Robin was their theme, and day after day the missing link of the family chain was held in remembrance and mentioned with tenderness.

When, however, there came a letter stating that he had arrived safely in New York, they felt relieved and comforted. He had written that he should start immediately for the broad West, to secure a home amid its fertile lands. And when he wrote that he and Geordie had each taken a homestead for almost nothing, and were living alone in a little log-cabin, and reported how easily they turned the soil, that there were no stones, that the climate was delightful, and that abundance of game could be had for the taking—those left at home began to think better of the venture. "Maybe," said they, "it wasna a fulish notion after a'."

Robin had indeed, in good earnest, set about making a home; but the second part of his vaunt, a wife to keep it, seemed less likely to be accomplished.

"Lassies are but few here," said Geordie. "I doot if ye find ane to suit your notion for a lang while, Robin."

"I wouldna want ane to come to this place just now," replied Robin. "I must first get my farm in good condition, and save my siller and build a house; then I would have a better chance wi' the lassies."

Geordie McKay was no whit behind Robin in industry and thrift. Both worked early and late. In a few years they had well-cultivated farms, horses and cattle, and each a very good house. Having prepared their cages, they were not long in finding birds to occupy them. A neighboring farmer who had two grown daughters soon became father-in-law to the two thrifty Scotchmen. Thus in the midst of abundance such as they had never seen in the old world did these two young men pass their days in cheerful labor, looking forward to the possibilities of the future, and glad that they had left a narrow world, too old to change its ways. Many a time, when venison, prairie-chicken, or a rabbit steamed on their well-supplied tables, did the circumstance of the stolen hare present itself to their memory, and Geordie thought of his pale, pinched mother, whose wants could not always be supplied.

Often did they talk of home, of bonny Scotland, and the friends they left behind them. Robin dearly loved his kindred across the water; and when he received tidings of the death of his grandfather, and afterwards of his grandmother, he sighed that he should have no more kindly messages from these aged relatives. He often wondered what his parents would say if they could see the great country in which he had chosen a home.

In his letters he pictured his surroundings in glowing colors. These letters were eagerly read and their contents told over. They fell on the ears of one more interested than the others, and that one was Davie Murdoch's Jamie. He knew that his parents would not care to have him feel any special interest in that subject, so he concealed his thoughts for a time, but they were like a smouldering fire in his bosom.

CHAPTER XXIV. OVER LAND AND SEA.

Four years after Robert Lindsay left home he returned for a visit. He was now a millwright. He had not only mastered his trade, but he had surprised his employers by his originality and inventive genius. Satisfied with what he had accomplished, he thought himself entitled to a holiday. There was joy in the old farmhouse when Robert arrived. After all the others had greeted him Annie came forward, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

"Now that is what I call a bit partial," said her cousin James, her warm friend and her unceasing tormentor. "Here I hae been gaen in and out o' this house for three years and mair, and Annie has never gien me a kiss."

"Ye will gang in and out three years mair and I winna do it," said she, laughing, while a blush mantled her cheek at Jamie's unexpected complaint.

"Na, Annie, I willna be here three years mair, kiss or no kiss. I will be awa to Robin in America."

"Ye are joking now," said Aunt Belle.

"Not a bit of it. There is nae need o' three strang lads hanging about one small hame. Wullie does the ploughing, Archie can take my place, and I can very well be spared. Ye should hear, Robert, how Robin writes about that country."

"Now, dinna put it into his heid next," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"If there is gude fortune to be had for the taking, I might as weel hae it as ither people," said Robert, casting a wistful glance at the supper table. Travelling had made him hungry, and a whiff from one of the steaming dishes sharpened his appetite.

The mother announced supper, and all gathered at the table. Robert was the hero of the evening: he talked while others listened. He told them how pleasantly Alice was situated, and spoke well of her husband.

"Alice deserves to do weel," said the mother. "She was aye a dutiful daughter, and I mak no doubt she is a gude wife as weel."

Robert's holidays passed so quickly that when they were gone all wished he had but just come.

"I am not done thinking about America," said he, as he was about to leave. "Here I may work for ither people all the days of my life; there I might build a mill, and own it myself in the bargain. If Jamie Murdoch goes he will not go alone."

Davie Murdoch soon became aware that his son was making plans to leave home and kindred and follow Robin to America. He was heavy-hearted, for he knew that Jamie would sooner or later accomplish what he had made up his mind to do.

"It has a' come o' Robin's roving notions," said he to his wife. "Hoo can I let Jamie gang? He is the cleverest lad I hae; and he is o'er young to gang that far."

"I would be muckle grieved to part wi' him," said Jeannie, "but I canna blame the lad. What would he do here but herd sheep, or haud the pleugh for ither people? while in America he could shear his ain sheep, and guide his ain pleugh on his ain land. If I was young I would gang mysel."

"Hoot, woman!" said Davie, "dinna let the lad hear ye talk in that fashion. I am glad I hae nae sic notions. I am content to live and dee as my faither did before me. If I am as muckle respeckit as he was, I shall hae honor eneuch, and I am sure we dinna suffer for ony o' the necessaries o' life."

"That is true, Davie, but young people canna be content wi' auld ways. If our sons could do better for themselves than we can do for them, I wouldna haud them back."

Davie heaved a sigh, put on his bonnet, and went out to his accustomed toil.

The subject of America was never long undiscussed in the little cottage circle. Every time Jamie came home he was sure to introduce it.

"Do ye not fare weel eneuch wi' Archie Lindsay?" asked his father.

"Ay, I fare weel eneuch," said Jamie, "but I can never make a step forward. Nothing but America will satisfy me. I am twa-and-twenty years of age, and I can make my way now if ever I can. Wages are good there—twa or three dollars a day in harvest, Robin says—and I could soon earn enough to buy a farm, and stock it too. There is but ane thing would keep me at hame, and that is if ye should say, 'Ye shallna gang.' In that case I think I would grieve mair than you would to let me hae my way."

"Ye will leave us wi' sair hearts if ye gang, Jamie," said his mother, "but I wouldna want a mither's feelings to stand in the way o' your success. If ye maun gang, ye hae my consent and my blessing," said she, wiping her eyes with her apron as she spoke.

Jamie caught the first shadow of consent, and resolved to go the following spring. Before that time his cousin, Robert Lindsay, the millwright, had decided to go with him. The young emigrants wrote to Robin that they were coming, and gained the necessary information in regard to the journey.

With dim eyes and trembling fingers Davie Murdoch counted from his little hoard a sum which, added to his son's earnings, made the amount sufficient to defray the expenses of the journey. "And take this besides," said he as, parent-like, he laid five pounds more on the pile. "Seckness may overtake you, my bairn."

On the day appointed for the departure Archie Lindsay, who was to take Jamie as well as his own son to a railway station, came to Davie's cottage, accompanied by his wife and daughter; they had come to take leave of Jamie. They had become much attached to him in the three years he had lived under their roof.

There were no dry eyes in the cottage that morning. Davie took his son's hand, held it some moments, shook his head sadly, then turned away; he could say nothing. The mother could scarcely do more. She spoke a few words of counsel; then her voice was choked with sobs. The sisters were in tears, and Jamie's own eyes began to fill. He kissed his mother, his sisters, and his aunt Belle. When he came to Annie she proffered a kiss likewise.

"Weel, I hae gained this muckle, at ony rate, by gaen awa. A kiss frae Annie is a thing to remember," said he, trying to make light of his sadness.

Time and railroad trains do not wait, and the two young men with Mr. Lindsay drove rapidly away. Davie and his remaining sons went to their work—one to follow the plough, the other to tend the sheep on the hillside.

In less than two weeks our travellers had landed in New York, purchased tickets for the West, and were speeding towards the setting sun as fast as steam could carry them. Across the Alleghanies, across rivers in comparison with which those of Scotland were mere brooks, across States as large as kingdoms, through flourishing towns and busy cities, over far-reaching, level prairies, they hurried forward day and night, till they reached the Father of Waters, and crossed it. Still westward pursuing their course a day's journey, they reached at last their destination.

If the parting with home and friends was sad, the meeting with their cousin in America was very joyful. Robin, with a fine pair of horses, was at the station awaiting their arrival. Taking them and their trunks into his wagon, he drove away across the level prairie towards his own home. To the new-comers the country seemed a paradise. Far as their sight could reach a vast expanse of living green met their delighted eyes. Fields of waving grain, miles in extent, gave varied tints to the verdant landscape. Herds of sleek-haired cattle grazed on the unfenced fields of luxuriant prairie-grass. All around them flowers of scarlet, purple, gold, pure white, and delicate intermediate tints dotted the green enamel, glowed in the sunlight, nodded a welcome, or bowed their graceful stems in the breeze that undulated the ocean of green. Never had they conceived that earth in her primeval garb was so magnificent. Beyond answering a few simple questions about the friends at home, they could talk and think of nothing but the beauties of nature spread out before them. Many miles they rode across this varying and yet uniform garden; and when at length they reached the homestead a warm Western welcome awaited them.

"It is a braw hame ye hae," said Jamie, "and I am muckle pleased wi' all I see. But how is it that ye dinna speak your ain language? Hae ye grawn ashamed of your mither-tongue? Naebody would ken ye were a Scotchman at a'."

"No, I am not ashamed of it," said Robin, with a smile; "but it wears away after a while, where no one speaks that way. You will lose your Scotch too, Jamie; but it has done me good to hear you talk. It seems like a bit of Scotland, and I like you better for it."

Geordie McKay was not slow to visit and welcome his fellow-countrymen. He, too, thought of his old home across the waves, and his heart warmed towards it as he heard the familiar speech of his boyhood.

The new-comers went to work with a will, and at the end of three years James Murdoch had a farm of his own. He had bought improved land near his cousin Robin's. Robert Lindsay had built or helped to build two mills, and then he had gone to a fine wheat-producing region, where he was building a mill for himself.

When Jamie had the deed of his farm in his hands he went to spend the evening at Robin's. "I have made the last payment to-day," said he. "I own a hundred and sixty acres of land, and I am a happy man."

"That is more than you would ever have called your own in the old country," said Robin.

"You are right in that. I have succeeded even beyond my expectation; nevertheless I long for a sight of the faces I left in the far-away cottage."

"And do you not think I too have such a longing?"

"I suppose you have; but you have a wife and bairns. You can scarcely miss the old friends as I do."

"You must take a wife too, Jamie."

"If I could find a lass as good and as bonny as my cousin Annie, I might try to win her hand."

"Cousin Annie—ay, she was but young when I left the old country; but I mind she was fair to look at, and a pleasant child too. I wonder how they all look there now."

Jamie was not very long in finding a lass who would have compared not unfavorably with his cousin Annie. She was a cousin of Robin's wife, and the beautiful affection cherished for each other by these two families of cousins could scarcely have been equalled by any two brothers in the land. The grass was not suffered to grow upon the path between their pleasant homes. They loved to meet and talk of their old homes across the waters—of their dead as well as of their living friends. Robin could well remember his grandfather, honest Wullie, but Jamie could recall him only in his last days. He remembered how Alice Lindsay had tried to comfort his brother Wullie and himself when they first knew they were to lose their grandfather. Often, when thinking and talking of such things, they formed plans to go and see their relatives and the dear familiar scenes so far away. The prospect was still in the distance; but when they should become sufficiently prosperous they expected to make the journey.

CHAPTER XXV. SUNDAY; THE LAST DAY WITH OUR FRIENDS.

It was Sunday in the early summer, and Sunday in Scotland means more than it does in some countries. Children go to church with their parents through summer's heat and winter's cold; and in many families the greater portion of the time after service is spent with Bibles or Psalm-books in hand.

Davie Murdoch had been to church with his family. As they returned home he and his wife walked together; Maggie and Nannie were some distance in advance of their parents, and still farther on were Wullie and Archie.

"I canna help feeling a bit proud o' the lassies," said Davie, "they look sae fresh and weel the day. Are they not as bonny and as sonsie as ony parent could wish?"

"Oh, ay, Davie, they are that. But it is strange ye arena thinking o' what the minister said, as is your wont."

"I mind weel what he said, wifie; but I hae been thinking a good deal o' late o' the time not far awa when the lassies will nae longer be ours as they hae been; when we shall walk withoot them to the kirk, and they will gang anither road, and nae mair ca' the auld cot hame. So I maun enjoy their stay wi' us while I may."

"They winna gang for some months yet; dinna fash yoursel aboot that the day. Ye couldna expect them to bide always wi' us. Wullie will soon bring a wife hame; and it is weel that the lassies hae sic gude prospects o' hames o' their ain."

"Ay, it is weel; but they hae always been a bit nearer my heart than the laddies. Jamie comes next; but he is awa. Jamie is doing weel, by what we hear."

"Noo, Davie, I am nae like that. Of course ane feels mair tender o' lassies than o' laddies. Then wi' Jamie bein' awa, I hae times when I feel a bit tenderer for him too; but I couldna wish better sons than Wullie and Archie. And gin onything happened to them, I think ye would find oot they are as dear to your heart as ony o' your bairns."

"Nae doot, nae doot. It is but a notion, after a'. Archie says he willna marry—leastways, while his parents live. He says he wants to be aye free to help us, s'ould there be ony need o' 't. Saw ye ever mair thoughtfulness than that, Jeannie?"

"May the Lord bless him for his dutiful regard for his auld faither and mither!" said Jeannie.

They had now reached the cottage. The daughters had spread the table, and as soon as all were rested a little they sat down to their frugal meal. Let us look in at the open cottage-door. As Davie doffs his bonnet we can see that time has not passed him by, although it has dealt him no heavy blows. The crown of his head is bald, and his locks are flecked with the frosts of age. His brow is furrowed, but not deeply.

Beside him sits Jeannie, her silver hair peeping from beneath her cap-border. Her cheerful face wears now a seriousness befitting the Sabbath day. She sits as erect as in her prime, save when grace is said; then all heads are bowed. The sons sit on one side of the table and the daughters on the other. Wullie is not remarkable for good looks, unless we take the adjective in its moral sense; then it certainly would apply to him, for his countenance indicates a good and upright character. Archie's form and features are more pleasing than his brother's. He is naturally cheerful and talkative; but every semblance of mirth is now under proper restraint through respect for the day, and he appears as sedate as though he never cracked a joke or teased his sisters in all his life.

Maggie, tall and well formed, is fair, with bluish gray eyes and wavy brown hair. She is less ruddy than her sister, whose red lips and rosy cheeks would give her the advantage in regard to beauty but for the plainly perceptible national mark—high cheek-bones. Otherwise there is a close resemblance between the two. "It is well there is some difference," Archie had remarked, "or your sweethearts would make funny mistakes sometimes."

Sunday was strictly observed by the Lindsays also; but only one of their children was at home on that day, or indeed on any day; that one was Annie. But the others had not forgotten their early training; and, scattered as they were, and charged with the cares and responsibilities of active life, they had all been in God's house. Alice, happy in her family, and satisfied with the allotments of Providence, is training up her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Alexander has finished his course of study, and is following his uncle's profession in the capital.

And where is Jennie MacDuff? She too has been at the old church with her husband to hear his aged father expound the Word of God. So Donald McPherson's pew was filled, although his father and mother had ceased to worship here below, and had joined the general assembly and church of the firstborn in heaven. Donald the third was the staff and stay of his parents, being all that they wished him to be.

Professor James Murdoch, with his wife, his nephew, and his two sons—one a barrister, the other a physician—worshipped in a costly edifice, very unlike the homely stone structure of his early recollections. But not less devout were his feelings, for he remembered all the way the Lord had led him and his kinsfolk, and he bowed in grateful acknowledgment of His goodness.

Across the sea were hearts that longed for a sight of the dear old kirk and of the familiar faces which on that day had turned towards the aged man of God, Rev. John MacDuff. Robin McPherson, Robert Lindsay, and James Murdoch had each joined God's worshippers in the land of their adoption on that Sabbath morning. In the afternoon Robin and James walked out "to meditate in the field at the eventide" and contemplate the goodness of Him who sends seedtime and harvest; and, meeting as if by mutual consent at the fence which separated their little domains, they talked of the day and its observance in Scotland, of their far-away friends, and of a future meeting with them, perhaps in this world; but if not, they hoped to spend with them a never-ending Sabbath.

And here I close my story. In tracing the life of this Scottish peasant I have endeavored to show that a righteous man, even in a humble sphere, exerts an influence for good which remains to bless those who come after him; and that not only is he blessed in his day and generation, but the blessing extends to children's children.

Effie Patterson's Story.

BY LYDIA L. ROUSE.

INTRODUCTION.

This book has been written with a view of helping to perpetuate the memory of those zealous and courageous sons of Scotland who in the seventeenth century, through the long period of fifty years, struggled for their inalienable rights and privileges—their civil and religious liberty. Although every reader of history is more or less familiar with the events which transpired during this struggle, it may be well, for the sake of our younger readers, to give something of an outline of their course, as well as of the causes which led to them.

The persecuted people of Scotland were Presbyterians, having embraced the doctrines of the great reformer John Knox. But they are widely known by the name of Covenanters, because on several distinct occasions they signed a solemn agreement, or covenant, to adhere to their religious principles and to defend them against all opposition. Successive kings endeavored to force them to admit the royal claim to supreme authority in matters of religion and to adopt the Episcopal form of church government and worship; but the Scotch were faithful to their conscience and their Covenant, and the attempted interference with their religion engendered bitter animosity which ripened into open hostility.

The kings under whose reigns the Covenanters suffered were Charles I., Charles II., and James II.; but as early as the reign of James I. the royal power was unfriendly to Presbyterianism as offering too formidable a check to kingly despotism.

The history of this time, as regards the treatment of the dissenting Scots, is the history of a succession of tyrannies and cruelties that culminated in the reigns of Charles II. and James II. Edicts having failed to accomplish the wish of the king and his advisers, armed men were sent into Scotland to enforce conformity with the sword. Some battles were fought, in which the persecutors were generally victorious.

The dissenting pastors were driven from the parish churches, and Episcopalian ministers, or curates, many of whom were ignorant and vicious, were placed in their pulpits. But the Scots had no mind to hear them, and rather than adopt doctrines and modes of worship which in any degree savored of popery, they followed their spiritual guides into the fields, and there heard the Word of God expounded as they had been wont. These field-meetings, called "conventicles," were contrary to the wishes of the king, and ministration or attendance at them was prohibited by law, and declared punishable by fine, imprisonment, or exile, and even in some cases death. But the liberty-loving, conscience-obeying Covenanters continued to hold them whenever opportunity offered, sometimes in remote districts, sometimes in almost inaccessible places.

The Covenanters suffered great loss of property through fines and taxations. Robberies and barbarities almost unparalleled were perpetrated by the Highland hordes that were quartered on the southwestern part of Scotland for three months in the beginning of 1678. Still, however, the brave hearts of the heaven-trusting Covenanters were unbroken and their spirit unsubdued. They were hunted like criminals; but they either evaded their pursuers or met death with composure and willingness, esteeming it preferable to apostasy. They have left us many striking proofs of God's sustaining grace.

Living in dens and caves of the earth, suffering from cold and hunger, cut off from intercourse with their families, and even with their fellow-beings, many of them became zealots, and advocated measures which the more prudent could not approve; and thus dissensions arose in their midst and increased the difficulties of their situation. We can scarcely be surprised at this state of things when we remember their privations, their solitude, and their sufferings; their ideas took color and shape from their surroundings. No wonder that some of them were extremists. The husband and father was no longer soothed by the music of the wife's soft lullaby to the infant resting on her knee, and the constant youth heard only in imagination the sweet sound of the voice he most loved. But their ears were assailed by the ungentle sound of the wintry wind as it roared in the tossing tree-tops or moaned over the dreary moors. With sad hearts they pictured their firesides as they had been in other days, and wondered if they should outlive the storm and again find rest in the peace of home.

We cannot read of these worthy people, who suffered so much for conscience' sake, without feeling thankful for the religious liberty which their struggles helped to secure for us, and rejoicing that the day of religious persecution is past. And when we consider the vast number that perished rather than barter the favor of God for that of an earthly sovereign, we are filled with admiration as well as sympathy.

EFFIE PATTERSON'S STORY.

CHAPTER I. THE HOME CIRCLE.

Long have I been called by my neighbors "Auld Effie," and yet I am but threescore and seven years old. But I have lived in troublous times, and am older than my years. And although the Kirk of Scotland has had rest these many years, Auld Effie's heart is still sore. My kinsfolk need not now lay down their lives for conscience' sake; but, alas! few of them were left to me when those years of bloodshed were overpast. It is for those dear friends who were cut down in the bloom of youth, in manhood's prime, and even in old age, that I often make moan. And I hold it to be a sacred duty to keep in remembrance our martyred kindred and countrymen. It is with the wish and hope that the tales I have to tell may help to keep before the minds of Scotland's sons and daughters the value of their religious privileges that I have in this the evening of my days taken upon myself the task to write as best I can, with my poor wit, my own experience and the sufferings of my family and friends during those terrible years.

I was born in 1646 in the county of Ayr; here have I lived, and here, may it please God, I will die. My father, John Patterson, was the schoolmaster in our village. My mother was one Christie Henderson, from Dumfries. Her parents came to our town when she was a grown lass; two years later she wedded my father. I was the youngest bairn born to them. Three sons and a daughter besides myself completed our family. My sister's name was Mary, and my brothers were named James, Richard and Stephen; but to us they were Jamie, Richie, and Steenie.

My father was a man of strictest integrity, firm and stern. Perhaps the habit of ruling his little school made him more stern than he naturally was; at any rate, he seldom smiled, and he never indulged in frivolous conversation. Our noisy play was instantly checked when our father entered the house; not so much from fear as from respect, for my father was a man to command respect. After the lapse of so many years I still think of him as the embodiment of all that is good, true, and noble. But we look at our friends with partial eyes, and I doubt not many have thought as well of their own father.

My mother was truly a fit companion for him, although she thought him far superior to herself. She had a profound respect for him at all times; almost every important question concerning the management of domestic affairs she brought to him for his opinion or decision. "Use your own judgment, Christie," he would often say; "it will never lead you far astray."

It is surprising what cheerfulness and comfort my mother diffused throughout our household. She was constantly employed; and I may say without exaggeration that, owing to her tact and taste, no family of our means made so decent an appearance in the kirk as did ours. Nothing could be more serene than her own face as with her whole family she sat in the kirk listening to the Word of God as it was read and expounded by our spiritual leader. I could not but steal looks at her sometimes when she thought my eyes were where hers were—on the face of the speaker. She was not what one would call bonnie, but it was a right motherly face she had.

The children were early sent to school, for my father sought to impress our minds with the idea that we were in the world to be useful workers, and not idlers; and to fit us for usefulness he held education to be the chief means. When not in school we were always busy in the house or in the garden, for all the work of the family was done by its own members. Our home was well out of the village; we owned a house and garden, and rented some land forbye, for we aye kept cows and sheep. My mother had been reared in the country. She made butter and cheese; she spun and wove the wool of our flocks into cloth, and made the garments for our family with her own hands until her daughters were old enough to help her. My father worked in the garden; and he early taught his sons to handle the spade and the hoe. All worked from dawn to dark; and when the evening lamp was lighted my father or one of the lads read, while my mother sewed and Mary and I were busy with the family knitting.

We were kept in school longer than most children were, for my father thought it a shame for any one to be ignorant, and would not be satisfied till all his children could write their mother-tongue as it should be written.

Ours was a well-ordered home, and a happy one, till the troubles of the times brought sorrow into almost all the homes of Scotland.

CHAPTER II. THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS.

While I was yet young I often heard people talk about the troubles that had beset, and were likely still to befall, the Kirk of Scotland. As I grew older I comprehended what was meant by the troubles of the kirk, for it was my lot to live through one period of her persecution, and to see her deliverance in the Lord's own good time. Troubles assailed the kirk during the greater part of the long reign of James VI. of Scotland and I. of England. He had no love for Presbyterianism, and endeavored to establish Episcopacy among us; and many a faithful minister bore imprisonment or banishment for the truth and conscience' sake. Charles I. was even more self-willed than his father. He could not endure that we should have a church different from his own, or that the king's will should not rule in all things. In 1637 he ordered a new and popish Service-Book to be used in the Scottish churches instead of the liturgy of John Knox, which had been in use for many years. Our people could not accept it. They humbly petitioned the king that they might be allowed to worship God in their own way; but he paid no heed to their petition, except to strive the more to force Episcopacy upon us.

Seeing that our religious liberty was threatened, the Scottish people signed a solemn agreement, called "the National Covenant," pledging themselves before God to adhere to the pure doctrine of his Word as confessed by the Scottish Kirk, and to defend it and each other against all attacks. This Covenant was first signed in Grayfriars Kirk and kirkyard in Edinburgh on February 28 of the year 1638.

My father was in the prime of life at the time of the signing of the Covenant. He did not go to Edinburgh with the vast throng that came from far and near to sign it—and folk say that many of them wrote their names with their own blood—but that did not prevent him from putting his name to it, for copies of it were carried through the whole country. Gentle and simple signed it, and he was not slow to set his name with those of so many of his fellow-countrymen. From this time a cloud of war began to form and gather blackness.

When it appeared that the king was resolved to enforce obedience to himself by the sword, our people, convinced of their duty to obey God rather than man, made preparations to insure their liberty of conscience.

My father's occupation prevented him from enrolling his name as a soldier. But he was no disinterested spectator of his country's troubles. Many were the consultations held under our own roof at the time of the first uprising of the Covenanters; many a "God-speed" did he bid those who went, and many a prayer did he put up for those who should stand in battle.

The first army was soon disbanded, as you will remember; for King Charles, seeing our forces so strong, made concessions to meet the demands of our people, though that these were made in good faith it would be difficult to believe. Peace, indeed, lasted but a short time. The king, displeased with the decision of the General Assembly condemning Episcopacy in Scotland, gathered another army; and again the Covenanters took the field. This time they advanced into England, and their success prepared the way for a treaty with the king, which was concluded in 1641.

Meanwhile the great conflict ending in civil war broke out between Charles and the English Parliament, and gave him something to do nearer home; and the spread of Presbyterianism in England, together with the "Solemn League and Covenant" for its defence and for the protection of the liberties of the kingdoms which the English Parliament and its adherents made with our Scotch nobles and people in 1643, freed our kirk from molestation during a period of several years.

On the civil struggles of that period, and on the dissensions within the kirk itself, between the stricter and the laxer Covenanters, which followed the lamented execution of King Charles, the coronation of his son in Scotland, his defeat and flight, and the establishment of Cromwell in power over Scotland as over England, I will not dwell. With the welcome period of civil peace between 1652 and 1660 begin my recollections.

Between these peaceful years my brothers Jamie and Richie married. Jamie was a stonemason. He bought a lot in the village and built a comfortable house for himself, so that he took his bonnie bride to a home of her own. Richie followed his father's profession. He and his wife lived seven miles away from us. Mary was betrothed to our own parish minister, Alexander Ramsay by name; and in June, 1659, a year before Charles II. was restored to his father's throne, they two were married.

Steenie and I were then left to each other, and well were we satisfied with each other's companionship. At the time of my sister's marriage I was a strong, well-grown lass of thirteen, and Steenie was nearly two years older. Oh, when I think of those early years, and remember all that Steenie and others were to me, I feel that my heart has long lain low with them in the darkness of the grave. No days now are like those days; no sunshine so bright, no air so soft and balmy. Even the flowers seem changed. I think of those dear friends as I sit alone in the gloaming, and my tears often fall fast, although I feel sure that theirs are dried for ever. But human nature is weak, you know, and God knows it too; this is my comfort, for he will not think that my tears are rebellious.

I cannot pass over that pleasant period of our lives without again speaking in detail of our family as it then was. My father was slightly bent, though more with a scholar's stoop than under the weight of years. His locks were silvered, but his eye was bright and his judgment sound. He still taught the lads and lassies of the village, and he ruled them well.

My mother showed age less than my father. I remember well how all our family looked when Jamie's firstborn was first taken to the kirk. My mother appeared saintly in her peacefulness. Margaret, the bairn's mother, was much affected with the solemnity of the occasion—bringing her young bairn for the first time up to the house of God. Her heart was full of prayer that grace might be given her to bring him at last to the home of the blest above. Margaret and my mother were much alike, and were drawn together sympathetically.

Richie and Ellen, his bride, were also there. She wore a white dress and a knot of wild roses at her throat. She looked very sweet and innocent.

Sister Mary had dressed with unusual care. She wore blue; it suited her well. She could see that in the wee mirror that hung in our own tidy room. Besides, had not Alexander Ramsay told her so? and was not that enough for Mary? Dear Mary! Hers was a winsome smile, and her step was like the fall of the snowflake, as my mother well said. I can see her now with my mental vision, as by the side of Alexander she walked that day from the kirk to Margaret's door. Poor gentle one! she was a sweet blossom tenderly nourished, only to be rudely crushed in the freshness of her bloom.

In summer we sometimes spent the time between the morning and afternoon service in the kirkyard. Many a time have Steenie and I strayed side by side to its farthest limits deciphering the quaint epitaphs on the rough, weather-beaten stones, only recalled from our ramble by a sight of the blue bonnet of the tall bell-ringer as he passed to his duty. Ay, ay, those Sabbaths, how they throng in my memory! Peacefully they began, peacefully they ended, the busy weeks intervening—busy, but not wearisome, for willing hands make labor light.

Often when our work was done Steenie and I rambled far away at the sunset hour, for we loved to watch the setting from the brae on the farther side of the great hill that rises to the west of us. Sometimes, in returning, we went to David McDougal's. His was a good and happy family, and none better knew their Bibles. But after our sister was married we oftener turned our steps towards the manse, the abode of peace, love, and contentment. I often think Eden is most nearly restored to us in the homes of well-ordered families, where industry and unity of purpose prevail, where God is feared, and mankind regarded as a brotherhood.

I would fain linger amid these pleasant scenes, but I cannot. The peaceful years sped on far too fast for what was to follow.

CHAPTER III. THE SWORD UNSHEATHED.

Soon after Charles II. was seated on the throne troubles began to thicken around us. Our kirk was early made to feel that it must either come under the yoke of a king as faithless and despotic and as determined to enforce the royal supremacy and Episcopacy as his father and grandfather, or struggle for its independence, or rather, its liberty to regard and obey our Lord Jesus Christ as the true and only Head of the church.

The Marquis of Argyle, one of the noblest supporters of our cause, was arrested, condemned, and beheaded on the 27th of May, 1661. The excellent minister, James Guthrie, was executed a few days later. This was the commencement of deeds so foul that even the stoutest of heart must ever sicken at their rehearsal.

Most of our ministers were ejected from their churches and driven from their parishes, Alexander Ramsay with the rest. He and Mary and his father and mother took refuge at our house. Curates were placed in the vacant churches, and a tax was soon imposed on all who did not go to hear them. Absences were not uncommon, for we all felt as did Bessie McDougal, who said she "couldna thole sic preaching as thae curates gie us." Accordingly we went to hear our own ministers in the field. The royal bloodhounds, as they have been well called, were for some time kept at bay by the payment of fines; but there came a time when nothing would satisfy them but the slaughter of the Lord's chosen ones.

We knew that gangs of men were scouring the country, imprisoning, and sometimes even slaying, those who would not renounce the Covenant, now declared treasonable; and we knew not how soon we might fall into their hands.

My father was one day returning from school, leading Jamie's wee lad by the hand, when five of his countrymen, who had been bribed to do evil deeds, rode past him. Suddenly they wheeled about, faced him, and eyed him sharply.

"By my faith," said one of their number, "we hae lighted on rare game the day. Now we hae the auld deil himsel," mistaking father for Donald Ramsay, who had been a bearer of the blessed tidings of the gospel for more than forty years in our kirk.

It was vain for father to tell them that he was the village schoolmaster. They would not believe him. He had a learned look, and piety was stamped on every lineament of his face. The persecutors were not slow to discern between the true and the false. Those who counted the cause of Christ dearer than life showed in their countenances something of the holy zeal that lifted them above fear.

"Ye say ye are nae auld Ramsay; then where is he? for it is hereabouts he bides," said the same ruffian.

Father was silent.

"If ye canna tell where he is, we will hae to think ye are auld Ramsay yoursel. Ye may as weel gang to prayer, for if ye dinna gie up your obstinacy ye may soon measure your length here on the heath."

Wee Jamie did not fully comprehend; but thinking that evil was about to befall his grandfather because he was taken for another, he called out, "Auld minister Ramsay bides wi' us, down at grandfather's."

"Do ye tell us fause, ye young whelp?" said one, and he shook the bairn roughly.

"Alas! Jamie, you should have held your peace," said my father.

"Ye needna chide the bairn, for we will hunt out a' the ranting Covenanters in Ayrshire, that I can pledge ye," said another.

"That is, if you will be allowed," said father.

"Haud your auld tongue!" he retorted.

Father had a mind to turn in another direction, and so lead the soldiers away from his own house. He stood a moment irresolute. But Jamie, anxious to escape, ran forward, calling out, "Are ye nae coming home, grandfather?"

"Follow the lad," said the leader, "and we will hae to sharpen the auld man's wits wi' the prick o' a lance, since he doesna ken the raud hame."

Suiting the action to the word, he wounded father's right arm. All this was told us afterwards.

Mother saw them in the distance, and comprehended that the king's soldiers were abroad doing deeds of violence; but she did not know that her husband was a prisoner, and that they were coming directly to our house.

"What shall we do if they come here!" she exclaimed.

But we could do nothing but commend ourselves to the care of the heavenly Keeper.

Alexander was studying against the field-meeting on the Sabbath; his father was straining his feeble sight to read the Psalms of David, and his mother sat knitting long, warm stockings against the winter's cold. Mary's deft fingers were fast plying the needle, and I was seated at the wheel, the buzzing of which mingled with the sounds that came from the reapers in a neighboring field. This scene of industrious, peaceful home-life was at once changed to one of anxiety and alarm.

My own mind was distracted with gloomy apprehensions. What was about to take place I knew not; but I had every reason to fear the worst. There too was my good, gentle sister, in regard to whose health we were already anxious. And there was Steenie, impetuous and bold, and most likely to anger the soldiers against himself. For myself I did not think to fear.

I begged Mary that she would hide herself, so that, if they invaded our home, she might escape the scene of disturbance and excitement; and we all joined in entreating the aged man of God to seek safety also. But he refused. I have never forgotten his look at that time. He rose and made a gesture that we should cease pleading with him.

"Wherefore should I flee?" said he. "Have I not bided safely under the shadow of the Almighty more than threescore and ten years? No, I will not leave this roof. With the help of God, Donald Ramsay will not fear to face these workers of iniquity. Besides, it may be that I shall have a word given to me to speak in season to even these, the enemies of our church and Covenant. In the meantime let none be fearful. Oh, who of us, think you, is worthy to suffer for Christ's sake? Who would not, if need be, lay down his life to win a 'well done' from the Master?"

We all gazed at him. It seemed to me that he looked like one of the old prophets. His hoary head was raised; his eyes were bright with enthusiasm; no, it was not that: it was holy zeal, it was holy fire. His usually pale cheek glowed; his tongue was loosed; his burning words went to our souls as he continued:

"Oh, shall any of us this day be glorified? Shall any of us for this day's work wear a martyr's crown throughout eternity? Is any one among us faint-hearted? God is with us and for us; therefore lift up the hands that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees. God never sends his children to do his work without giving them strength sufficient for their needs; and offences must come. Ah, when shall the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms of our God!"

Assuming the attitude of prayer, he raised his hand towards heaven, and with solemn voice he said, "Let us call upon the Lord in our time of trouble.

"'Our Father who art in heaven,' in these, the words of thy holy Son, we come to thee, for it was he who taught us to call thee Father. And since thou art our Father, and art more willing to give good gifts unto us than earthly parents are to give them to their children, help us, at this time, to feel assured that thou hast our best interests lying on thy fatherly heart. O thou who canst control the hearts of all men, thou who canst even be a wall of fire about thy children, look in compassion upon us this day. We are come into deep waters. The enemies of thine own church are even now at the thresholds of our homes. But we know well that thou art still nearer, even in the heart of every believing child of thine. And should there be any one here that fears them that can kill the body only, let such a one prove steadfast to Him whose power extends to both body and soul. Oh, fill us all with power from on high, so that we may, if called upon, even desire to suffer for Christ's sake, that we may be glorified with him. And oh, thou Holy One, who didst of thine own free will lay down thy life for the sins of the world, help us that we, thy followers, may none of us shame thee this day. So fill us with thy strength that we may be lifted far above all mortal fear. And should we have to seal our testimony with our blood, let us do it joyfully. O thou Blessed One, open thine arms to receive us as we come to the vale of shadows, and let all the mist and darkness flee away, that thou mayest stand revealed to us in all thy beauty; for thou wilt be there, according to thy word. Then, leaning on thee, we shall go to our heavenly inheritance; so shall we be for ever with the Lord. Amen."

When the prayer was ended we hastened to the window. They were very near, and what was our surprise and alarm to see father and wee Jamie driven before them. My courage seemed for a moment to fail me. "O Steenie, what will they do with father?" I asked.

"God only knows, Effie," replied he.

Pale and dumb we waited for the end.

"It is useless to contend with them," said Alexander. "Any act of self-defence would be deemed open rebellion. One must either take flight like a guilty wretch, or stand at his post a target for bullets, for aught he knows. But we have the promise of eternal life beyond, and that more than compensates for any ill that can befall us here."

Mary, who had been standing motionless with amazement, now uttered a cry of anguish as she saw her bleeding father led up the walk. Alexander put his arm protectingly about her.

They opened the door and entered. I sprang towards my father. "Are you much hurt?" I asked.

"Awa wi' ye!" said a soldier. "He will hae mony a waur scratch before we are dune wi' him."

Notwithstanding, as no further opposition was offered, I remained near my father. He stooped and kissed my forehead. Then I gave way to tears.

"Do not weep, my bairn," said he; "some good will come from all this seeming evil, since God allows it to be so."

"Little good, I am thinking. But I, for ane, hae nae mind for this kind o' work; and if ye will recant, ye can be set free," said one, less fierce than his fellows.

"It would not be wise to barter the favor of God for that of an earthly king," replied my father.

My mother, overcoming her fears, came forward and stood beside us. Father pressed a kiss on her pale cheek, and she leaned her head on his breast. "Alas! alas! the evil hour has come!" she exclaimed. "God help us!"

"Let the gudeman go," she said, addressing the ruffians. "What harm has he ever done to living mortal?"

"We will think twice before we grant your request, gudewife. But, if I dinna mistake, I see anither that we want still mair than him," and the speaker sharply eyed Donald Ramsay.

The aged man advanced to meet them. "Whom are you seeking?" he asked with fearless dignity.

"We seek auld Ramsay," they replied.

"I am he," he answered. "If your business is with me, let these go their way."

"You are the king's prisoner," said one of the gang, as he laid hands on him.

Then, to our great surprise, the aged wife rose and stood beside her husband.

"Forty-and-five years have we bided happily together," said she. "Let not death divide us. Where he goes I will go."

"Take the auld wife awa; we dinna want her," said the leader.

But she refused to leave her husband's side.

"Harl her awa!" said the same voice.

Her son advanced and entreated her.

"Be it so," said she. "It will be only for a wee while. Fare ye weel, Donald, till we meet in the kingdom of our God."

"Hae ye onything to settle wi' your Maker, Ramsay?" asked the leading voice. "If ye hae, ye maun be aboot it, for we'll mak quick wark wi' ye."

"Trusting in the merits of Christ, I am ready. I have lived these many years in daily communion with him. But how is it with you? Think of that. Take heed to your ways lest ye die in your sins. You go about seeking to slay the Lord's chosen. What will you say when their blood is required at your hands? Let me entreat you to turn from your evil ways and seek forgiveness; for no sins are so great that the blood of Christ cannot atone for them."

"Haud your ranting tongue!" shouted the leader.

But lest the words of the man of God should unnerve his men, he turned to them and gave his orders.

"Ye hae listened to this fulishness long enough. Gang to your wark."

But not one of the men moved.

"Ye ken weel what ye came here for," he continued. "Wha will lay low the enemy of his country and his king?"

On hearing this the aged man made his defence.

"Why should I be accounted an enemy of the king? He who is not true to the King of kings cannot be true to an earthly king. I hold that you are not true to him yourselves, since you encourage him to foul his hands with the blood of the saints."

"Shoot him!" cried the leader.

The order was not obeyed, and he who gave it shot him down with his own hand.

"Father, lay not this sin to their charge," said the dying man.

Alexander was at his side in a moment.

"Let me go to my old friend," entreated my father.

"Ye needna be in haste; ye will go to him soon enough," said the leader.

"Rejoice, O my friend, that you have been accounted worthy to suffer for Christ's sake," said my father.

The wounded man turned his eyes towards his wife, who had fallen into her chair. A faint smile mingled with his look of mortal agony as he whispered, "She is going too."

And so it proved. The shock had been too much for her feeble constitution; and though she still breathed, she never recovered consciousness, but passed away at set of sun.

So it indeed happened that Donald and Grisell Ramsay were not divided even in death.