Janet's Love and Service

Margaret M Robertson

"Janet's Love and Service"

Chapter One.

The longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of Clayton. There were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square—it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. Now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. But these soon ceased. The wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night.

In the primitive village of Clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. But to-night there was light in the manse—in the minister’s study, and in other parts of the house as well. Lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman’s anxious face looked out.

“What can be keeping him?” she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. “It’s no’ like him to linger at a time like this. God send he was at home.”

Another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. Soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister’s house, and the door was again opened.

“Well, Janet?” said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse’s neck and pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relieved face.

“They’ll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister’s no’ long home.”

She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers.

“Has my father come, Janet?” said a voice out of the darkness.

“Yes, he’s come. He’s gone up the stairs. I’ll put on the kettle. I dare say he’ll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride.”

Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of Janet’s candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet’s sight. But she need not have feared a rebuke for “blindin’ herself” this time, for Janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her.

The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that “Janet had’na sent her to her bed.”

“It’s quite time I dare say,” she added, in a little, “and I’m tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. I’ll go whenever papa comes down.”

She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to other things—to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things—of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause—and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again.

“I might see by the fire,” she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page.

“Miss Graeme,” said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, “your mamma’s no’ weel, and here’s wee Rosie wakened, and wantin’ her. You’ll need to take her, for I maun awa’.”

The book fell from the girl’s hand, as she started up with a frightened face.

“What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?”

“What should ail her but the one thing?” said Janet, impatiently. “She’ll be better the morn I hae nae doubt.”

Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her.

“I must go to her, Janet.”

“Indeed, Miss Graeme, you’ll do nothing o’ the kind. Mrs Burns is with her, and the doctor, and it’s little good you could do her just now. Bide still where you are, and take care o’ wee Rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o’ the ither bairns, for none o’ you can see your mamma the night.”

Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father’s voice in the passage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. Then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to Graeme a long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Graeme’s heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound.

“Janet!—tell me!—my mother.”

“Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. You munna go there,” for Graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. “Your mamma’s no waur than she’s been afore. It’s only me that doesna ken about the like o’ you. The minister keeps up a gude heart. Gude forgie him and a’ mankind.”

Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet’s unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door.

“No’ ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; ’gin the lassie had been but in her bed. No, I’ll no’ take the bairn, sit down there, you’ll be sent for if you’re needed. I’ll be back again soon; and you’ll promise me that you’ll no leave this till I bid you. Miss Graeme, I wouldna deceive you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promise me that you’ll bide still.”

Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother’s mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she sat down again to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The lids fell down over the baby’s wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still.

The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher’s will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. Graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till Janet’s voice aroused her. There were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed.

“Miss Graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she’s wantin’ you. But mind you are to be quiet, and think o’ your father.”

Taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. Chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, Graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at Janet’s arm.

“Mamma is better Janet,” she asked eagerly. Janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,—

“Ay, she’ll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. But, mind, you are to be quiet, Miss Graeme.”

Chilled and trembling, Graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother’s room. The curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. But the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. There were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. They moved away as she drew near. Then Graeme saw her mother’s white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. Even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly,—

“Mother.”

The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling’s face, and the white lips opened with a smile.

“Graeme—my own love—I am going away—and they will have no one but you. And I have so much to say to you.”

So much to say! With only strength to ask, “God guide my darling ever!” and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. Her father and his motherless children had none but her to care for them now.

Chapter Two.

“It’s a’ ye ken! Gotten ower it, indeed!” and Janet turned her back on her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: “The minister no’ being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? It’s a’ they ken!”

“Janet, woman,” said her visitor, “I canna but think you are unreasonable in your anger. I said nothing derogatory to the minister; far be it from me! But we can a’ see that the house needs a head, and the bairns need a mother. The minister’s growing gey cheerful like, and the year is mair than out; and—”

“Whisht, woman. Dinna say it. Speak sense if ye maun speak,” said Janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger.

“Wherefore should I no’ say it?” demanded her visitor. “And as to speaking sense—. But I’ll no’ trouble you. It seems you have friends in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your pleasure. Good-day to you,” and she rose to go.

But Janet had already repented her hot words.

“Bide still, woman! Friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. And what with ae thing and anither I dinna weel ken what I’m saying or doing whiles. Sit down: it’s you that’s unreasonable now.”

This was Mistress Elspat Smith, the wife of a farmer—“no’ that ill aff,” as he cautiously expressed it—a far more important person in the parish than Janet, the minister’s maid-of-all-work. It was a condescension on her part to come into Janet’s kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. But they had been friends all their lives; and Janet “kenned hersel’ as gude a woman as Elspat Smith, weel aff or no’ weel aff;” so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying:

“Hoot, woman! What would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? And I want to consult you.”

“But you should speak sense yourself, Janet,” said her friend.

“Folk maun speak as it’s given them to speak,” said Janet; “and we’ll say nae mair about it. No’ but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. She wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, I can tell you. No that they’re ill bairns—”

“We’ll say no more about it, since that is your will,” said Mrs Smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,—

“You have a full handfu’ with the eight of them, I’m sure.”

“Seven only,” said Janet, under her breath. “She got one of them safe home with her, thank God. No’ that there’s one ower many,” added she quickly; “and they’re no’ ill bairns.”

“You have your ain troubles among them, I dare say, and are muckle to be pitied—”

“Me to be pitied!” said Janet scornfully, “there’s no fear o’ me. But what can the like o’ me do? For ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o’ doctrine, he’s a verra bairn about some things. She aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang—having something to lay by at the year’s end as well. Now, if we make the twa ends meet, it’s mair than I expect.”

“But Miss Graeme ought to have some sense about these things. Surely she takes heed to the bairns?”

“Miss Graeme’s but a bairn herself, with little thought and less experience; and its no’ to be supposed that the rest will take heed to her. The little anes are no’ so ill to do with; but these twa laddies are just spirits o’ mischief, for as quiet as Norman looks; and they come home from the school with torn clothes, till Miss Graeme is just dazed with mending at them. And Miss Marian is near as ill as the laddies; and poor, wee Rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till you would think the wind would blow her awa. Master Arthur is awa at his eddication: the best thing for a’ concerned. I wish they were a’ safe unto man’s estate,” and Janet sighed.

“And is Miss Graeme good at her seam?” asked Mistress Elspat.

“Oh ay; she’s no’ that ill. She’s better at her sampler and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. But there’s no fear but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but hae patience with herself. Miss Graeme is none of the common kind.”

“And has there been no word from her friends since? They say her brother has no bairns of his own. He might well do something for hers.”

Janet shook her head.

“The minister doesna think that I ken; but when Mr Ross was here at the burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, Norman or Harry, and wee Marian. She’s likest her mamma. But such a thing wasna to be thought of; and he went awa’ no’ weel pleased. Whether he’ll do onything for them in ony ither way is more than I ken. He might keep Master Arthur at the college and no’ miss it. How the minister is ever to school the rest o’ them is no’ easy to be seen, unless he should go to America after all.”

Mistress Smith lifted her hands.

“He’ll never surely think o’ taking these motherless bairns to yon savage place! What could ail him at Mr Ross’s offer? My patience! but folk whiles stand in their ain light.”

“Mr Ross is not a God-fearing man,” replied Janet, solemnly. “It’s no’ what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by him. The minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. And besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them behind.”

“But what need to cross the sea?” cried Mrs Smith; “It’s a pity but folk should ken when they’re weel aff. What could the like o’ him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?”

“It’s for the bairns’ sake he’s thinking of it. They say there’s fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin’ rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. And there’s room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. I’m no’ sure but it’s just the best thing the minister can do. They had near made up their minds afore, ye ken.”

“Hoot, woman, speak sense,” entreated her friend. “Is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the Indians? That’s what they do in yon country, as I’ve read in a book myself. Whatna like way is that to bring up a family?”

“Losh, woman, there’s other folk there beside red Indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in Britain, no’ less. You should read the newspapers, woman. There’s one John Caldwell there, a friend o’ the minister’s, that’s something in a college, and he’s aye writing him to come. He says it’s a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca’ institutions, that he seems to think muckle o’, though what they may be I couldna weel make out. The minister read a bit out o’ a letter the ither night to Miss Graeme and me.”

“Janet,” said her friend, “say the truth at once. The minister is bent on this fule’s errand, and you’re encouraging in it.”

“Na, na! He needs na encouragement from the like o’ me. I would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it’s easy seen he’ll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o’er their heads. And they say yon’s a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. I’m no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. I ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought,” and Janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. Her friend shook her head gravely.

“It might have done, with her to guide them; but it’s very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than I can tell you. It would be little else than a temptin’ o’ Providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o’ the sea, and then to those o’ a strange country. He’ll never do it. He’s restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he’ll think better of it, and bide where he is.”

Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. She knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. These might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. They might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the New World than in the Old. The decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. It was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone.

For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. That very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,—

“Janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?”

And she had vowed to God, and to him, that she would never leave them while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. But the after thought had come. She had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his motherless children.

A mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a long time been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. More than half required for their maintenance Janet provided. Could she forsake them? Could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right for her to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? True, her mother was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpful lad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. Her mother had another daughter too, but Janet knew that her sister could never supply her place to her mother. Though kind and well-intentioned, she was easy minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at her fireside, should its shelter come to be needed.

Day after day Janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind. “If it were not so far,” she thought, or “if her mother could go with her.” But this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if her mother could be brought to consent to such a plan. And Janet asked herself, “What would my mother do if Sandy were to die? And what would Sandy do if my mother were to die? And what would both do if sickness were to overtake them, and me far-away?” till she quite hated herself for ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her.

There had been few pleasures scattered over Janet’s rough path to womanhood. Not more than two or three mornings since she could remember had she risen to other than a life of labour. Even during the bright brief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil, for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before her son was born. With few words spoken, and few tears shed, save what fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother’s care, and gone back again to a servant’s place in the minister’s household. There she had been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend and mistress, “working the work of two,” as they told her, who would have made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year’s end to year’s end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in which God had placed her.

But far-away into the future—it might be years and years hence—she looked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herself entirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. In this hope she was content to strive and toil through the best years of her life, living poorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to the good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patient labour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call her most striking characteristics by less honourable names. She had never, during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, but their fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none the less dear to her because of that. Could she give this up? Could she go away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be content to see no respite from her labour till the end? Yes, she could. The love that had all these years been growing for the children she had tended with almost a mother’s care, would make the sacrifice possible—even easy to her. But her mother? How could she find courage to tell her that she must leave her alone in her old age? The thought of parting from her son, her “bonny Sandy,” loved with all the deeper fervour that the love was seldom spoken—even this gave her no such pang as did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. He was young, and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring, she could at least hope to see him again. But her mother, already verging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when once the broad Atlantic rolled between them.

And so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, Janet’s words grew fewer and sharper as the days wore on. With strange inconsistency she blamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered no one else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise than what was wisest and best for all. It was a sore subject, this anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in Clayton besides her, and much was it discussed by all. But it was a subject on which Janet would not be approached. She gave short answers to those who offered their services in the way of advice. She preserved a scornful silence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsake her master and his children in their time of need, nor was she better pleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes. And so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till she dazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think and plan no more.

“I’ll leave it to my mother herself to decide,” she said, at last; “though, poor body, what can she say, but that I maun do what I think is my duty, and please myself. The Lord above kens I hae little thought o’ pleasin’ myself in this matter.” And in her perplexity Janet was ready to think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to all experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once.

Chapter Three.

The time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. The minister was away from home, and before his return it would be made known formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after that the sooner his departure took place it would be the better for all concerned, and so Janet must brace herself for the task.

So out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into the pleasant light of May, knowing that before she entered it again, she would have made her mother’s heart as sore as her own. All day, and for many days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt that it must be farewell.

“If you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will be the right one,” said she to herself. “I read that in a book once, but it’s ill choosing when both are rough, and I know not what to do.”

Out into the brightness of the Spring day she came, with many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand.

“It’s a bonny day, bairns,” said she, and her eye wandered wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills that rose dimly in the distance. The mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden from her.

“I mun hae it ower,” she muttered to herself as she went on. In each hand she held firmly the hand of a child. Marian and little Will were to go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in her absence Graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little Rose.

“Oh, Janet!” she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them; “I wish I were going with you, it’s such a bonny day.”

But Janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said without her presence, so she shook her head.

“You know Miss Graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we would weary carrying wee Rosie, and she could never go half the distance on her feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short and ceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o’ my bonny wee lily,” added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. “But I needna tell you that, and we’ll soon be back again.”

The children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her own thoughts, Janet answered them without knowing what she said. Down the lane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossed their path again they went, “the near way,” and soon the solitary cottage in the glen was in sight. It was a very humble home, but very pleasant in its loneliness, Janet thought, as her eye fell on it. The cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came the hum of the mother’s busy wheel. Drawing a long breath, Janet entered.

“Weel, mother,” said she.

“Weel, Janet, is this you, and the bairns? I doubt you hadna weel leavin’ hame the day,” said her mother.

“I had to come, and this day’s as good as another. It’s a bonny day, mother.”

“Ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank God. Come in by, bairns, I sent Sandy over to Fernie a while syne. It’s near time he were hame again. I’ll give you a piece, and you’ll go down the glen to meet him,” and, well pleased, away they went.

“I dare say you’ll be none the waur of your tea, Janet, woman,” said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal into her preparations. Janet strove to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still listening to her mother’s talk, asking and answering questions on indifferent subjects. There was no pause. Janet had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself her mother’s need of her.

“The thought ought to give me pleasure,” she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believed claimed her. In the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother at random. Had she been less occupied, she might have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed for many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter’s face, and now and then a sigh escaped her.

They were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. The mother had been “bonnier in her youth, than ever Janet had,” she used to say herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. She was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many a woman of half her years. She was smaller than Janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strength of body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still striking. She had seen many trials, as who that has lived for sixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. When they were fairly seated, with the little table between them, she startled Janet, by coming to the point at once.

“And so they say the minister is for awa’ to America after all. Is that true?”

“Oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is,” said Janet, gravely. “He spoke to me about it before he went away. It’s all settled, or will be before he comes hame the morn.”

“Ay, as you say, it’s ill news to them that he’s leaving. But I hope it may be for the good o’ his young family. There’s many a one going that road now.”

“Ay, there’s more going than will better themselves by the change, I doubt. It’s no like that all the fine tales, we hear o’ yon country can be true.”

“As you say. But, it’s like the minister has some other dependence, than what’s ca’ed about the country for news. What’s this I hear about a friend o’ his that’s done weel there?”

Janet made a movement of impatience.

“Wha’ should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in a college there awa’. I dare say there would be weel pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o’ books, and a house to hold them in. But what can the like o’ him ken o’ a young family and what’s needed for them. If he had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, I’m sure.”

Janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrong side of the question. Her mother said nothing, and in a minute she added,—

“There’s one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o’ the plan. Oh! if she had been but spared to them,” and she sighed heavily.

“You may weel say that,” said her mother, echoing her sigh. “But I’m no sure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. And Janet, woman, there’s aye a kind Providence. He that said, ‘Leave thy fatherless children to me,’ winna forsake the motherless. There’s no fear but they’ll be brought through.”

“I hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and I believe it surely. But oh, mother,” Janet’s voice failed her. She could say no more.

“I ken weel, Janet,” continued her mother, gravely, “it will be a great charge and responsibility to you, and I dare say whiles you are ready to run away from it. But you’ll do better for them than any living woman could do. The love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there’s no fear but you’ll get it. The back is aye fitted for the burden. Let them gang or let them bide, you canna leave them now.”

She turned her face away from her mother, and for her life Janet could not have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. There was to be no struggle between her and her mother. That was well; but with the feeling of relief the knowledge brought, there came a pang—a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. By a strong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say,—

“I shall never leave them while they need me. I could be content to toil for them always. But, ah! mother, the going awa’ over the sea—”

Her voice failed her for a minute, then she added,—

“I hae wakened every mornin’ with this verse of Jeremiah on my mind: ‘Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.’” Janet made no secret of her tears now.

“Hoot fie, Janet, woman,” said her mother, affecting anger to hide far other feelings. “You are misapplyin’ Scripture altogether. That was spoken o’ them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, and no’ o’ honest folk, followin’ the leadings o’ Providence. If there’s ony application it’s to me, I’m thinkin’. It’s them that bide at hame that are bidden weep sore;” and she seemed much inclined to follow the injunction. She recovered in a minute, however, and added,—

“But I’m no’ going to add to your trouble. You dinna need me to tell you I’ll have little left when you’re awa’. But, if it’s your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. You winna lose your reward striving in behalf o’ these motherless bairns, and the Lord will hae me and Sandy in his keeping, I dinna doubt.”

There was a long silence after this. Each knew what the other suffered. There was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word; Janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; her mother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. Each shrunk, for the other’s sake, from putting their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. The mother’s heart ached for the great wrench that must sever Janet from her child and her home, and Janet’s heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter’s hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace.

The mother spoke first. “When will it be?”

“It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once it’s really settled. There are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go.”

“It’s for none to say what’s right, and what’s wrang, in the matter,” said the mother, gravely. “I hae nae doubt the Lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me.”

“He’s bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for the best,” but Janet sighed drearily.

“And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?” asked her mother.

“Ah! they’re weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o’ a change. Miss Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She’s ower like her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother’s cheerful spirit.”

“Her mother’s death was an awfu’ loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing,” said the mother.

“Aye, that it was—her that had never kent a trouble but by readin’ o’ them in printed books. It was an awfu’ wakening to her. She has never been the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. She tries to fill her mother’s place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. But I hae great hope o’ her. She has the ‘single eye,’ and God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme.”

And then they spoke of many things—settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; for Janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother’s use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy over the sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that Janet’s voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother’s eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. But there was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much.

At length the children’s voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet’s heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang.

“Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you,” said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother’s bidding. He was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered,—

“Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for us all.”

“I’ve been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie,” said Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. “You’ll hae Norman and Harry, and them a’, but grannie has none but me.”

“And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?” asked his mother, with a pang.

“To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?” said Sandy, with sparkling eyes. “That I would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she’s ower old to go so far-away—and over the great sea too.”

“Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you’ll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you.”

“And are you goin’ mother?” asked Sandy, gravely.

“I doubt I’ll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think less of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I’m sure I needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when—”

It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart.

“And will you never come back again, mother?”

“I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that’s no’ for us to consider. It is present duty we maun think o’. The rest is in the Lord’s hands.”

What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lord would take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and “grat as if she would never greet mair.” And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it.

Chapter Four.

It was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father’s coming. It was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. It was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. They were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to America.

Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He was sitting with the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. He could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in Scotland till his studies were finished at the college.

“But there’s no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night,” he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. The thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. But he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming.

There was one sad face among them; for even Arthur’s home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on Graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. It was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. She was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. And yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed her, Arthur thought, as he sat watching her. The change had come to her through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to Graeme. He had suffered too more than words could ever tell. Many a time his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead mother’s loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground.

Graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing of her mother’s counsel and care. Not one day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she had striven to fill her mother’s place to her father and them all, and her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. “As how could it be otherwise than vain,” she said often to herself, “so weak, so foolish, so impatient.” And yet through all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her mother’s place still.

Some thought of all this came into Arthur’s mind, as she sat there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time the cradle at her side. Never before had he realised how sad it was for them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been all the year.

“Poor Graeme! and poor wee Rosie!” he says to himself, stooping over the cradle.

“How old is Rosie?” asked he, suddenly.

“Near three years old,” said Janet.

“She winna be three till August,” said Graeme in the same breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on Janet. For this was becoming a vexed question between them—the guiding of poor wee Rosie. Janet was a disciplinarian, and ever declared that Rosie “should go to her bed like ither folk;” but Graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for Rosie’s benefit, and it was the elder sister’s nightly task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers.

But Graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. Janet’s mind was full of other thoughts. One cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no sign; and Janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the Bible in her hand. On common occasions the bairns would not have let Janet’s silence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, “Whist, bairns! your father will be here!” she sat without a word.

There was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. It was not fear that quieted them. There was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. His was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and mild. In his children’s hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. The calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. His words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in “that life which is the heritage of the few—that true life of God in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness,” whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb.

“The minister is changed—greatly changed.” Janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. But with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into Janet’s mind the promise, “All things shall work together for good to them that love God.” Her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. If that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her?

“It will work for good, this pain and separation,” murmured she. “I’m no’ like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but I humbly hope that I am one of those who love the Lord.”

“Well, bairns!” said the father. There was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for Graeme had already set her father’s chair and opened the Bible at the place. She pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them.

“We’ll take a Psalm, to-night,” said he, after a minute’s turning of the leaves from a “namey chapter” in Chronicles, the usual place. He chose the forty-sixth.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

“Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea.”

And thus on through the next.

“He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob, whom he loved.”

And still on through the next till the last verse,—

“This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto death,” seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise.

Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never since the mother’s voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship time. They had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. But Janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur’s side. In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked from him to them, but Arthur shook his head. He was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still—

There was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but when Arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. Graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. He was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter’s heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet “good-night, papa,” she took her little sister in her arms. Up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her “wee birdie,” her “bonny lammie,” her “little gentle dove,” more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother’s than a sister’s, made the burden light.

The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. This had been one of Rosie’s “weary nights.” The voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and Graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just as Janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, Graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. The red embers still glowed on the hearth, but Janet was in the very act of “resting the fire” for the night.

“Oh! Janet,” said Graeme, “put on another peat. I’m cold, and I want to speak to you.”

“Miss Graeme! You up at this time o’ the night! What ails yon cankered fairy now?”

“Oh, Janet! She’s asleep long ago, and I want to speak to you.” And before Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. Graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over Janet’s knee.

“Janet, what did your mother say? And oh! Janet, Arthur says my father—” Turning with a sudden movement, Graeme let her head fall on Janet’s lap, and burst into tears. Janet tried to lift her face.

“Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the lassie? It’s no’ the thought of going awa’, surely? You hae kenned this was to be a while syne. You hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it—you, who are going altogether.”

“Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland.”

“Well, it winna be for long. Just till he’s done at the college. I dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who told you?”

“Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! what will I ever do without him?”

“Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to do without him still. He could na’ be here and at the college too. And when he’s done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna aye bide together. Bairns maun part.”

“But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost like death.”

“But, lassie it’s no’ death. There’s a great difference. And as for seeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father’s judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. Do you no’ think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?”

“But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur is almost a man.”

“Na, lass. He’ll no’ hae a man’s sense this while yet. And as for his goin’ or bidin’, it’s no’ for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o’ the matter. It might be better—more cheery—for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o’ that.”

There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. Janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again.

“Miss Graeme, my dear, if it’s a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o’ your elder brother can make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o’ this. If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and—ither things, the more he’ll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no’ to disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for—you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. There’s nae fear o’ your growin’ out o’ acquaintance, and he’ll soon follow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!”

Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet’s lap.

“Janet, what did your mother say?”

Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,—

“Oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. I told your father I would go, and I will. My mother doesna object.”

“And Sandy?” said Graeme, softly, for there was something working in Janet’s face, which she did not like to see.

“Sandy will aye hae my mother, and she’ll hae Sandy. But, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. Gang awa’ to your bed.”

Graeme rose; but did not go.

“But couldna Sandy go with us? It would only be one more. Surely, Janet—”

Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme did not know which, but it stopped her.

“Na, na! Sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. There’s no more to be said about that.” And in spite of herself, Janet’s tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. Graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, Janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron.

“You see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, I’m weary, and vexed to-night, and no’ just myself. Matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. There’s one thing certain. Both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin’ at what canna be helped. What with the bairns’ clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa’ to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn.”

Graeme still lingered.

“Oh, Janet! if my mother were only here! How easy it all would be.”

“Ay, lass! I hae said that to myself many a time this while. But He that took her canna do wrong. There was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. You maun aye strive to fill her place to them all.”

Graeme’s tears flowed forth afresh.

“Oh, Janet! I think you’re mocking me when you say that. How could I ever fill her place?”

“No’ by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. But it would be limiting His grace to say He canna make you all you should be—all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. But now gang awa’ to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. There’s no fear but you will be in God’s keeping wherever you go.”

Janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. When Janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. But she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and Graeme was little better. Many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose.

But, with the aid of Mrs Smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. Purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction.

The minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. But it was the fairest of summer mornings—the mist just lifting from the hills—and the sweet air filled with the laverock’s song, when Janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home.

Chapter Five.

They found themselves on board the “Steadfast” at last. The day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance.

“Oh! how dismal!” murmured Graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. All the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting Janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even Norman and Harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. Another hour in the close cabin, and Graeme felt she must yield too—and then what would become of Rose? So into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. For a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. Rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister’s lap. Soon the cheerful voice of the Captain, startled Graeme.

“Touch and go with you I see, Miss Elliott. I am afraid you will have to give in like the rest.”

Graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough.

“Not if I can help it,” said she.

“Well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. Come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. It will do you good. Set down the bairn,” for Graeme was rising with Rose in her arms. “No harm will come to her, and you don’t look fit to carry yourself. Sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. Here, Ruthven,” he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, “come and try your hand at baby tending. That may be among the work required of you in the backwoods of Canada, who knows?”

The young man came forward laughing, and Graeme submitted to be led away. The little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she was always made to feel herself to be. But she took a look into the face of her new friend and thought better of it. His face was a good one, frank and kindly, and Rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed upon his knee, and when Graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and “ill to do with,” laughing merrily in the stranger’s arms. She would have taken her, but Rose was pleased to stay.

“You are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to,” said she, gratefully. Looking up, she did not wonder at Rosie’s fancy for the face that smiled down upon her.

“I ought to feel myself highly honoured,” said he.

“I think we’ll give him the benefit of little Missy’s preference,” said Captain Armstrong, who had been watching Graeme with a little amused anxiety since her walk was ended. The colour that the exercise had given her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew white with the deadly sickness that was coming over her.

“You had best go to the cabin a wee while. You must give up, I think,” said he.

Graeme rose languidly.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Come Rosie.”

“Leave the little one with me,” said Mr Ruthven. And that was the last Graeme saw of Rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. It passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. They came with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea air soon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began.

But alas! for Janet. The third day, and the tenth found her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that held her. In vain she struggled against it. The “Steadfast’s” slightest motion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. On the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helped up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabin below.

“It was just a judgment upon her,” she said, “to let her see what a poor conceited body she was. She, that had been making muckle o’ herself, as though the Lord couldna take care o’ the bairns without her help.”

It was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. This aggravated her trouble. “Useless body that I am.” And Janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again.

The lads and Marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. Graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. It would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. “And, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads,” their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last.

Before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by Arthur for the purpose. A full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but I forbear. Norman or Harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. There are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. There are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. The history of each sailor in the ship is given, from “handsome Frank, the first Yankee, and the best-singer” the boys ever saw, to Father Abraham, the Dutchman, “with short legs and shorter temper.”

Graeme writes often, and daily bewails Janet’s continued illness, and rejoices over “wee Rosie’s” improved health and temper. With her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes “that they had more sense,” but on the whole they are satisfactory. She has much to say of the books she has been reading—“a good many of Sir Walter Scott’s that papa does not object to,” lent by Allan Ruthven. There are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and Graeme declares she “has no patience” with Allan. For his favourites in Sir Walter’s books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the Old Puritans—men whom Graeme delights to honour. But on the whole it is to be seen, that Allan is a favourite with her and with them all.

The beautiful Bay of Boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party—including the restored Janet—regarded the city to which they were drawing near. Their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. Far more familiar with the early history of New England—with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of Roger Williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. But they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay.

“And this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all,” said Allan.

“They have left unstained what there they found.
Freedom to worship God,”

murmured Graeme, softly. “I’m sure I shall like the American people.”

But Allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time.

“You must write and tell me about your new home,” said he.

“Yes—the boys will write; we will all write. I can hardly believe that six weeks ago we had never seen you. Oh! I wish you were going with us,” said Graeme.

“Allan will see Arthur when he comes. Arthur will want to see all the country,” said Norman.

“And maybe he will like the Queen’s dominions best, and wish to settle there,” said Allan.

“Oh! but we shall see you long before Arthur comes,” said Graeme. “Is it very far to Canada?”

“I don’t know—not very far, I suppose. I don’t feel half so hopeful now that I am about to know what my fate is to be. I have a great dread on me. I have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here.”

“But your mother wouldna be pleased,” said Graeme, gravely.

“No. She has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. But it would be more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. I should like to look about me a little, before I get fairly into the treadmill of business.”

In her heart Graeme thought it an excellent thing for Allan that he had his uncle to go to. She had her own ideas about young people’s looking about them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with Janet and Dr Watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. But she thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off at once for Canada, Allan might have gone with them for a little while. Before she could say this, however, Janet spoke.

“Ay, that’s bairn-like, though you hae a man’s stature. I dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody’s bidding; but, my lad, it’s ae’ thing to hae a friend’s house, and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it’s anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain will. If you’re like the lads that I ken’ maist about, you’ll be none the worse of a little wholesome restraint. Be thankful for your mercies.”

Allan laughed good-humouredly.

“But really, Mrs Nasmyth, you are too hard on me. Just think what a country this is. Think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and prairies that Norman reads about, and is it strange that I should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these things to enjoy? It is not the thought of the restraint that troubles me. I only fear I shall become too soon content with the routine, till I forget how to enjoy anything but the making and counting of money. I am sure anything would be better than to come to that.”

“You’ll hae many things between you and the like o’ that, if you do your duty. You have them you are going to, and them you hae left—your mother and brother. And though you had none o’ them, you could aye find some poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. Are you to bide in your uncle’s house?”

“I don’t know. Mrs Peter Stone, that was home last year, told us that my uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywhere they like. I shall do as the rest do I suppose. All the better—I shall be the more able to do what I like with my leisure.”

“Ay, it’s aye liberty that the like o’ you delight in. Weel, see that you make a good use of it, that’s the chief thing. Read your Bible and gang to the kirk, and there’s no fear o’ you. And dinna forget to write to your mother. She’s had many a weary thought about you ’ere this time, I’ll warrant.”

“I daresay I shall be content enough. But it seems like parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. My bonnie wee Rosie, what shall I ever do without you?” said Allan, caressing the little one who had clambered on his knee.

“And what shall we do without you?” exclaimed a chorus of voices; and Norman added,—

“What is the use of your going all the way to Canada, when there’s enough for you to do here. Come with us, Allan, man, and never mind your uncle.”

“And what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up for you?” demanded Janet, sharply.

“Oh! he’ll get just what we’ll get ourselves, a chance to make his own way, and I doubt whether he’ll get more where he’s going. I’ve no faith in rich uncles.” Allan laughed.

“Thank you, Norman, lad. I must go to Canada first, however, whether I stay there or not. Maybe you will see me again, sooner than I think now. Surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me.”

Far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. In another day they would be among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. What awaited them there? Not that they feared the future, or doubted a welcome. Indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. A new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. Graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made her excited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend made her sad.

As for Janet, she was herself again. Her courage returned when the sea-sickness departed, and now she was ready “to put a stout heart to a stiff brae” as of old. “Disjaskit looking” she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able to keep her feet again. “She had been busy all the morning,” overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. All the morning Graeme had submitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the “guiding” of this and that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision to family matters. Thankful to see her at her post again, Graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. There were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than Janet considered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were missing, after due search made. In vain Graeme begged her never to mind just now. They were in the big blue chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, but of course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened.

“Maybe no,” said Janet. “There are some long fingers, I doubt, in the steerage yonder. Miss Graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu’. If I’m no’ mistaken, I saw one o’ Norman’s spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o’ yon lang Johnny Heeman, and yon little Irish lassie ga’ed past me the day, with a pinafore very like one o’ Menie’s. I maun ha’ a look at it again.”

“Oh, Janet! never mind. I gave wee Norah the pinafore, and the old brown frock besides. She had much need of them. And poor Johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and Norman gave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa’s,—and—”

Janet’s hands were uplifted in consternation.

“Keep’s and guide’s lassie—that I should say such a word. Your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. What for did you do the like o’ that? The like o’ Norman or Menie might be excused, but you that I thought had some sense and discretion. Your father’s waistcoat! Heard anybody ever the like? You may be thankful that you hae somebody that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them—”

“Oh! I’m thankful as you could wish,” said Graeme, laughing. “I would rather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to see the Queen on her throne. I confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, I’m responsible no longer. I resign my office of general caretaker to you. Success to you,” and Graeme made for the cabin stairs. She turned again, however.

“Never heed, Janet, about the things. Think what it must be to have no change, and we had so many. Poor wee Norah, too. Her mother’s dead you ken, and she looked so miserable.”

Janet was pacified.

“Weel, Miss Graeme, I’ll no’ heed. But my dear, it’s no’ like we’ll find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. And we had need to be careful. I wonder where a’ the strippet pillow slips can be? I see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them.”

But Graeme was out of hearing before she came to this.

They landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. They had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the ship. Eager and excited, the whole party were, but not after the anticipated fashion. Graeme was surprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the Puritans had rendered sacred. Indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had too much trouble to keep the umbrella over Marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the sufferings of the Pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. Mr Elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms for them in a quiet street, and thither Allan Ruthven, carrying little Rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the proper bestowment of their baggage.

This duty Janet fain would have shared with him. Her reverence for the minister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. Indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she expressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, “yon sharp-looking lad could carry it off from beneath the minister’s nose.”

Dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts by present necessities. The din and bustle of the crowded wharf, would have been sufficient to “daze” the sober-minded country-woman, without the charge of little Will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two “daft laddies forby.” On their part, Norman and Harry scorned the idea of being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewildered Janet.

“Bide a wee, Norman, man. Harry, you daft laddie, where are you going? Now dinna throw awa’ good pennies for such green trash.” For Harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling.

“Saw ever anybody such cheatry,” exclaimed Janet, as the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. “Harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. And look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister’s bed gowns will be all wet. Man! hae you no sense?”

“Nae muckle, I doubt, Janet,” said Harry, with an exaggerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. “It’s awfu’ like Scotch dubs, now isn’t it? Never mind, I’ll give it a wash at the next pump, and it ’ill he none the worse. Give me Will’s hand, and I’ll take care of him.”

“Take care o’ yourself, and leave Will with me. But, dear me, where’s Mr Allan?” For their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys in the rainy street. Before her consternation had reached a climax, however, Ruthven reappeared, having safely bestowed the others in their lodgings. Like a discreet lad, as Janet was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of Will, and some of the bundles, and led the way. At the door stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them.

If their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her new lodgers, there was little wonder. Such a confusion of tongues her American ears had not heard before. Graeme condoled with Will, who was both wet and weary. Janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general. Marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and Allan was tossing Rosie up to the ceiling, while Norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary Scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the “brave new world” which was to be the scene of his wonderful achievements and triumphs.

The next day rose bright and beautiful. Mr Elliott had gone to stay with his friend Mr Caldwell, and Janet was over head and ears in a general “sorting” of things, and made no objections when it was proposed that the boys and Graeme should go out with Allan Ruthven to see the town. It is doubtful whether there was ever so much of Boston seen in one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. It was a day never to be forgotten by the children. The enjoyment was not quite unmixed to Graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. Harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures at his finger ends for their amusement.

The crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by Allan Ruthven on their way home. They were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. There was never such fruit—there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. As for the ice cream, it was—inexpressible. In describing the feast afterwards, Marian could never get beyond the ice cream. She was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. It was like the manna that the Children of Israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it.

Graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. She had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in Allan’s purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance.

“Never mind, Graeme, dear,” said Norman; “Allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when I am Mayor of Boston, I’ll give him manna and quails too.”

They came home tired, but they had a merry evening. Even Graeme “unbent,” as Harry said, and joined in the mirth; and Janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came.

“One would think when Mr Allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while’s peace,” said she.

If the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of Allan Ruthven.

Chapter Six.

“But where’s the town?”

The bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. The meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay Merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. Beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, “the trees under which the red Indians used to wander,” Graeme whispered. There were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. Over all the great Magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land.

There were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. Above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the October sunshine. They could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in Harry’s voice as he asked,—

“Where’s the town?”

They had been greatly impressed by the description given them of Merleville by Mr Sampson Snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home.

“I was the first white child born in the town,” said Sampson. “I know every foot of it as well as I do my own barn, and I don’t want no better place to live in than Merleville. It don’t lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. Right in the centre, perhaps a leetle south, there’s about the prettiest pond you ever saw. There are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. I shouldn’t wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they’ve used up all the other water privileges in the State. There’s quite a fall in the Merle river, just before it runs into the pond. We’ve got a fullin’-mill and a grist-mill on it now. They’d think everything of it in your country.”

“There’s just one meetin’-house in it. That’s where your pa’ll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. The land’s about all taken up, though it hain’t reached the highest point of cultivation yet. The town is set off into nine school-districts, and I consider that our privileges are first-rate. And if it’s nutting and squirrel-hunting you’re after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to Uncle Sampson, and he’ll arrange your business for you.”

“Ten miles square and nine school-districts!” Boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. The inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined Merleville to be, did not strike them. This was literally their first glimpse of Merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves.

“But Norman! Harry! I think this is far better than a town,” said Marian, eagerly. “Eh, Graeme, isna yon a bonny water?”

“Ay, it’s grand,” said Graeme. “Norman, this is far better than a town.”

The people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. With an interest that was half wonder, half delight, Graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. It might be the “bonny day”—the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of Marian’s hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of Will’s golden hair. She did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most.

“Yon’s Merle river, I suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees.”

“And yonder is the kirkyard,” said Marian, gravely. “It’s no’ a bonny place.”

“It’s bare and lonely looking,” said Harry.

“They should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is,” said Marian.

“But this is a new country; things are different here,” said Norman.

“But surely they might have trees.”

“And look, there are cows in it. The gate is broken. It’s a pity.”

“Look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. That’s bonny, I’m sure.”

“And there’s a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. I would like to live there.”

“Yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side.”

And so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. Their friend Mr Snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. He had been watching them for some time.

“Well how do you like the looks of things?”

“It’s bonny here,” said Marian.

“Where’s the town?” asked Harry, promptly.

Mr Snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them.

“Lacks a fraction of being ten miles square.”

“It’s all trees,” said little Will.

“Wooden country, eh, my little man?”

“Country! yes, it’s more like the country than like a town,” said Harry.

“Well, yes. On this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks’ countries,” said Mr Snow, gravely.

“But it’s like no town I ever saw,” said Norman. “There are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town.”

“There’s freedom on them hills,” said Mr Snow, waving his hand with an air.

During the journey the other day, Mr Snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and Mr Snow had, as he expressed it, “Set their British blood to bilin’,” by hints about “aristocracy,” “despotism,” and so on. “He never had had such a good time,” he said, afterwards. They were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. He meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. The boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of Graeme.

“Whist, Norman. Harry, mind it is the Sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with Judge Merle,” and turning smilingly to Mr Snow, she added, “We like the place very much. It’s beautiful everywhere. It’s far bonnier than a town. I’m glad there’s no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first.”

“No town?” repeated Mr Snow.

But there was no time for explanations. Their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the Judge. Judge Merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in Merleville, if not in the country. The children had made his acquaintance on Saturday. He had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. Janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. The children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when Mr Snow gave him a familiar nod, and a “Morning Judge,” Graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. The Judge did not resent it, however. On the contrary, when Mr Snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, “He guessed the folks would get about fitted this time,” he nodded as familiarly back, and said, “He shouldn’t wonder if they did.”

There are no such churches built in New England now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the Judge. It was very large and high, and full of windows. It was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the Sabbath worship, the dimness of their father’s little chapel in Clayton. Norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised Graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin.

How many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. So many, that Graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. Keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal.

Afterwards—years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father’s face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in Merleville. There was a charm in the Scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. It was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by God’s grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. He spoke as one whom God had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. He spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. So earnestly that Deacon Fish forgot to hear for Deacon Slowcome, and Deacon Slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. Deacon Sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister’s lips, as the very word of God.

“He means just as he says,” said Mr Snow to young Mr Greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. “He wasn’t talking just because it was his business to. When he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of God can do, he believed it himself, I guess.”

“They all do, don’t they?” said Mr Greenleaf.

“Well, I don’t know. They all say they do. But there’s Deacon Fish now,” said Mr Snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, “he don’t begin to think that grace or anything else, could make me such a good man as he is.”

Mr Greenleaf laughed.

“If the vote of the town was taken, I guess it would be decided that grace wouldn’t have a great deal to do.”

“Well, the town would make a mistake. Deacon Fish ain’t to brag of for goodness, I don’t think; but he’s a sight better than I be. But see here, Squire, don’t you think the new minister’ll about fit?”

“He’ll fit me,” said the Squire. “It is easy to see that he is not a common man. But he won’t fit the folks here, or they won’t fit him. It would be too good luck if he were to stay here.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. There are folks enough in the town that know what’s good when they hear it, and I guess they’ll keep him if they can. And I guess he’ll stay. He seems to like the look of things. He is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and I guess he won’t want much in the way of pay. I guess you had better shell out some yourself, Squire. I mean to.”

“You are a rich man, Mr Snow. You can afford it.”

“Come now, Squire, that’s good. I’ve worked harder for every dollar I’ve got, than you’ve done for any ten you ever earned.”

The Squire shook his head.

“You don’t understand my kind of work, or you wouldn’t say so. But about the minister? If I were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, I should feel just as though I were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. Anything I have to do with, I want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless Merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won’t be so in this matter.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if there would be a hitch before long. But I guess you’d better think before you say no. I guess it’ll pay in the long run.”

“Thank you, Mr Snow. I’ll take your advice and think of it,” said Mr Greenleaf, as Sampson stopped at his own gate. He watched him going up the hill.

“He’s goin’ along up to the widow Jones’ now, I’ll bet. I shouldn’t wonder if he was a goin’ to lose me my chance of getting her place. It kind o’ seems as though I ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. And they say old Skinflint is going to foreclose right off. I’ll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if I have to raise the cash. But it does seem as if I ought to have it. Maybe it’s Celestia the Squire wants, and not the farm.”

He came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it.

“Well, now, it does beat all. Here have I been forgetting all about what I have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. Deacon Sterne needn’t waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. I’ve got to know it pretty well by this time;” and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house.

Chapter Seven.

The next week was a busy one to all. Mr Elliott, during that time, took up his residence at Judge Merle’s, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where Janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. There was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. The lads broke sticks and carried water, and Janet’s mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home.

A great deal besides was accomplished this week. It was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. Norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and Harry shot as many with Mr Snow’s wonderful rifle. They and Marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. They came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that Graeme and Janet had not been with them. It was Saturday night, after a very busy week, and Janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for “their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon.” But the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. For to tell the truth, Janet’s patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of “torn clothes and ruined shoon.”

The next week was hardly so successful. It was cold and rainy. The gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. The inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place it looked. The windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which Janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and Graeme. A very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house occupied by Mr Elliott’s predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. When winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it.

The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. Orrin Green spent two days in banking up the house. Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people.

There were some drawbacks. The wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and Janet mortally offended Mr Green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year’s salary, at prices which made Janet’s indignation overflow. This latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind.

In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. With warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all.

The rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of November was a long and lovely Indian-summer. Then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. Graeme and Rosie and Will went with the rest, and even Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. It was a fine country, nobody could deny; but Janet’s eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart.

In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. And a happy month it was for them all. One night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold “the beauty and mystery of the snow.” Far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. How strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes.

“It ’minds me of white grave-clothes,” said Marian, with a shudder.

“Whist, Menie,” said her sister. “It makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. Just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air.”

“But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and—”

“Well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. They mind me of beautiful and peaceful things.”

“But, Graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark.”

“Menie! There are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. And, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again,” and Graeme sighed.

But it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was “perfect ruination to their clothes;” and yet Janet had not the heart to forbid it. It was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr Snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. There was room for them all, and for Mr Snow’s little Emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road.

“The bonnie creatures!” she exclaimed; and Mr Snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. Away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white “like brides.” Marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the other way, past Judge Merle’s and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith’s shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except Mr Snow’s little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little Emily.

“Isna she a queer little creature?” whispered Harry to Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder.

“She’s a bonnie little creature,” said Graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, “and good, too, I’m sure.”

“Grandma don’t think so,” said the child, gravely.

“No!” exclaimed Harry. “What bad things do you do?”

“I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick over beans.”

Harry whistled.

“What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Does she whip you?”

The child’s black eyes flashed.

“She daren’t. Father wouldn’t let her. She gives me stints, and sends me to bed.”

“The Turk!” exclaimed Harry. “Run away from her, and come and bide with us.”

“Hush, Harry,” said Graeme, softly, “grandma is Mr Snow’s mother.”

There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of her own accord.

“There are no children at our house,” said she.

“Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes,” said Graeme.

“Yes; when father’s gone and mother’s sick. Then there’s nobody but grandma.”

“Have you a doll?” asked Menie.

“No: I have a kitten, though.”

“Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald.”

Menie’s doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls.

“Will you come? Mr Snow,” she said, climbing upon the front seat which Norman shared with the driver, “won’t you let your little girl come and see my doll?”

“Well, yes; I guess so. If she’s half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing.”

Menie was down again in a minute.

“Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we’ll play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like to come?”

“Yes,” said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever.

They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh.

“Is this your little girl, Mr Snow?” said Mr Elliott, taking the child’s hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon.

“Yes; she’s your Marian’s age, and looks a little like her, too. Don’t you think so Mrs Nasmyth?”

Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child.

“She might, if she had any flesh on her bones,” said she.

“Well, she don’t look ragged, that’s a fact,” said her father.

The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father’s heart ache to see.

“The bairn’s cold. Let her come in and warm herself,” said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children.

“Well, I don’t know as I ought to wait. My horses don’t like to stand much,” said Mr Snow.

“Never mind waiting. If it’s too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening.”

Emily looked at her father wistfully.

“Would you like to stay, dear?” asked he.

“Yes, sir.” And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.

“I’ll be along down after dark, sometime,” said Mr Snow, as he drove away.

Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.

“And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?” said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. “What is your name, little one?”

“Emily Snow Arnold,” answered she, promptly.

“Emily Arnold Snow,” said Menie, laughing.

“No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father’s own little girl. My father is dead.”

She looked grave, and so did the rest.

“But it is just the same. He loves you.”

“Oh, yes!” There was a bright look in the eyes for once.

“And you love him all the same?”

“Oh, yes.”

So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have “good times” up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme.

“Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn’t for father, I don’t know what we should do.”

Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs Snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of “nerves,” and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son’s sickly wife. She had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. So old Mrs Snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son’s wife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son’s warm affection for his little step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when she was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and “good times” were few and far between at their house.

Her acquaintance with the minister’s children was the beginning of a new life to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into Janet’s bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and Mrs Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr Snow.

Chapter Eight.

From the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excited great curiosity and interest among the good people of Merleville. The minister himself, as Mr Snow told Mrs Nasmyth, was “popular.” Not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless Mr Snow himself did. Every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. Indeed, they were more unanimous, with regard to the minister’s faults, than old ladies generally are on important subjects. The matter was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewing-circles, and when Mrs Page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, “that though the minister was a good man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man a good pastor,” there was scarcely a dissenting voice.

Mrs Merle had ventured to hint that, “they could not expect everything in one man,” but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister’s offences was, having been several times in at the Judge’s, while he sinfully neglected others of his flock.

“It’s handy by,” ventured Mrs Merle, again. But the Judge’s wife was no match for the blacksmith’s lady, and it was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might be, he was “no hand at visiting.” True he had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. But that of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like the affectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and his people. “He might preach like Paul,” said Mrs Page, “but unless on week days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would never be gathered in. The minister’s face ought to be a familiar sight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into the fold,” and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of Merleville. The minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in this respect.

“And what did he say?” asked some one.

“Oh! he didn’t say much, but I could see that his conscience wasn’t easy. However, there has been no improvement yet,” she added, with grave severity.

“He hain’t got a horse, and I’ve heard say, that deacon Fish charges him six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. He couldn’t afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year.”

This bold speech was ventured by Miss Rebecca Pettimore, Mrs Captain Liscome’s help, who took turns with that lady, in attending the sewing-circle. But it was well known, that she was always “on the off side,” and Mrs Page deigned no reply. There was a moment’s silence.

“Eli heard Mr Snow say so, in Page’s shop yesterday,” added Rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. Mrs Fish took her up sharply.

“Sampson Snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it for nothing. Mr Fish can’t.”

“My goodness, Mis’ Fish, I wouldn’t have said a word, if I’d thought you were here,” said Rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh.

“Mr Snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, just to have a talk with him,” said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to cover Rebecca’s retreat. But Rebecca wouldn’t retreat.

“I didn’t mean any offence, Mis’ Fish, and if it ain’t so about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther.”

But it was not to be contradicted, and that Mrs Fish well knew, though what business it was of anybody’s, and why the minister, who seemed to be well off, shouldn’t pay for the use of a horse and cutter, she couldn’t understand. The subject was changed by Mrs Slowcome.

“He must have piles and piles of old sermons. It don’t seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, as Mrs Nasmyth tells about.”

Here there was a murmur of dissent. Would sermons made for the British, be such as to suit free-born American citizens? the children of the Puritans? The prevailing feeling was against such a supposition.

“Old or new, I like them,” said Celestia Jones, the pretty black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. “And so do others, who are better judges than I.”

“Squire Greenleaf, I suppose,” said Ruby Fox, in a loud whisper. “He was up there last Sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all the afternoon.”

Celestia’s black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly Ruby said no more. Indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for that they were something for the Merleville people to be proud of, all agreed. Mr Elliott’s preaching had filled the old meeting-house. People who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out of the town, even. Young Squire Greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospect of succeeding Judge Merle, as the great man of Merleville, had brought over the judges from Rixford, and they had dined at the minister’s, and had come to church on Sunday. Young Squire Greenleaf was a triumph of himself. He had never been at meeting “much, if any,” since he had completed his legal studies. If he ever did go, it was to the Episcopal church at Rixford, which, to the liberal Mrs Page, looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. Now, he hardly ever lost a Sunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and making frequent visits to the minister’s house. Having put all these things together, and considered the matter, Mrs Page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wont to suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity of rejoicing over. The rest rejoiced too. There was a murmur of dissent from Miss Pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. There was a gleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of Miss Celestia, which said more plainly than Miss Pettimore’s words could have done, that the squire was better now, than the most in Merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing.

The minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the other members of the family were discussed, with equal interest. Upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. But Mrs Page and her friends were not quite satisfied with Graeme. As the minister’s eldest daughter, and “serious,” they were disposed to overlook her youthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. But Graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour to herself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. But she was kindly dealt with, even by Mrs Page, for her loving care of the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherly heart among these kind people. And she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen.

There were numberless stories afloat about the boys,—their mirth, their mischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. The boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won for themselves a welcome. It is true, there had been one or two rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other lads of the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner than the mirth, and Norman and Harry were very popular among old and young.

But the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomaly in Merleville society was Janet, or Mrs Nasmyth, as she was generally called. In refusing one of the many invitations which she had shared with the minister and Graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece of her mind. She was, she said, the minister’s servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him in any strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same.

“Servant!” echoed Mrs Sterne’s help, who was staying to pass the evening, while her mistress went home, “to see about supper.”

And, “servant!” echoed the young lady who assisted Mrs Merle in her household affairs.

“I’ll let them see that I think myself just as good as Queen Victoria, if I do live out,” said another dignified auxiliary.

“She must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature.”

“Why, they do say she’ll brush them great boys’ shoes. I saw her myself, through the study-door, pull off Mr Elliott’s boots as humble as could be.”

“To see that little girl pouring tea when there’s company, and Mrs Nasmyth not sitting down. It’s ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t do so for the President!”

“Well, they seem to think everything of her,” said Miss Pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection.

“Why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. And the way them children hang about her, and fuss over her, I never see. They tell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father.”

“And if any one comes to pay his minister’s tax, it’s always, ‘ask Mrs Nasmyth,’ or, ‘Mrs Nasmyth will tell you.’”

“They couldn’t get along without her. If I was her I’d show them that I was as good as them, and no servant.”

“She’s used to it. She’s been brought up so. But now that she’s got here, I should think she’d be sick of it.”

“I suppose ‘servant’ there, means pretty much what ‘help’ does here. There don’t seem to be difference enough to talk about,” said Rebecca.

“I see considerable difference,” said Mrs Merle’s young lady.

“It beats all,” said another.

Yes, it did beat all. It was incomprehensible to these dignified people, how Janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. And that “Mrs Nasmyth thought considerable of herself,” many of the curious ladies of Merleville had occasion to know. The relations existing between her and “the bairns,” could not easily be understood. She acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. She enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking to dispute her right. They went to her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, or consoled them, as the case might need. That they were as the very apple of her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see.

There were stories going about in the village to prove that she had a sharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek to deny. Of course, it was the duty of all the female part of the congregation to visit at the minister’s house, and to give such advice and assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to be required of them. It is possible they took more interest in the matter than if there had been a mistress in the house. “More liberties,” Janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the answering of impertinent questions. According to her own confession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed without due discretion, a “downsetting,” and Graeme and the boys, and even Mr Elliott, had an idea that a downsetting from Janet must be something serious. It is true her victims’ ignorance of the Scottish tongue must have taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding “upsettin’ bodies,” and “meddlesome bodies,” that bestowed too much time on their neighbours’ affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on the subject.

But she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and soft came very naturally to Janet’s lips when her heart was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willing hands relieved. For every sharp word brought up against her, there could be told a kindly deed, and Janet’s friends were the most numerous at the sewing-circle that night.

Merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, it seemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. But between the hills lay many a fertile valley. Except toward the west, where the hills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of which were occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. The village was not large enough to have a society within itself independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even to the borders of the “ten miles square,” considered themselves neighbours. They were very socially inclined, for the most part, and Merleville was a very pleasant place to live in.

Winter was the time for visiting. There was very little formality in their entertainments. Nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, was usually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal invitations were given. Then, it must be confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass all others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. But for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they dropped in on one another in a friendly way.

The minister’s family were not overlooked. Scarcely an evening passed but some of their neighbours came in. Indeed, this happened too frequently for Janet’s patience, for she sorely begrudged the time taken from the minister’s books, to the entertainment of “ilka idle body that took leave to come in.” It gave her great delight to see him really interested with visitors, but she set her face against his being troubled at all hours on every day in the week.

“If it’s anything particular I’ll tell the minister you’re here,” she used to say; “but he bade the bairns be quiet, and I doubt he wouldna like to be disturbed. Sit down a minute, and I’ll speak to Miss Graeme, and I dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly.”

Generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her bright kitchen for a chat with her and the children. It was partly these evening visits that won for Mrs Nasmyth her popularity. Even in her gloomy days—and she had some days gloomy enough about this time—she would exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young people the visitor was generally well entertained. Such singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in the pleasant firelight! There was no such thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o’clock worship came before the visitor was aware.

Even Judge Merle and young Squire Greenleaf were sometimes detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the minister was more than usually engaged.

“For you see, sir,” said she, on one occasion, “what with ae thing and what with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this week already, that I dinna like to disturb him. But if you’ll sit down here for a minute or two, I daresay he’ll be ben and I’ll speak to Miss Graeme.”

“Mr Elliott seems a close student,” said the Judge, as he took the offered seat by the fire.

“Ay, is he. Though if you are like the lave o’ the folk, you’ll think no more o’ him for that. Folk o’ my country judge o’ a minister by the time he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of his duty, unless he’s ca’ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife’s tale.”

“But,” said the Judge, much amused, “the minister has been studying all his life. It seems as though he might draw on old stores now.”

“Ay, but out o’ the old stores he must bring new matter. The minister’s no one that puts his people off with ‘cauld kail het again,’ and he canna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time.”

“And he can’t attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. That would be to the point at present,” said the Judge, laughing, “I think I’ll be going.”

“’Deed, no, sir,” said Janet, earnestly, “I didna mean you. I’m aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. It cheers him. But this week it’s been worse than ever. He has hardly had an unbroken hour. But sit still, sir. He would be ill-pleased if you went away without seeing him.”

“I’ll speak to papa, Judge Merle,” said Graeme.

“Never mind, my dear. Come and speak to me yourself. I think Mrs Nasmyth is right. The minister ought not to be disturbed. I have nothing particular to say to him. I came because it’s a pleasure to come, and I did not think about its being so near the end of the week.”

Graeme looked rather anxiously from him to Janet.

“My dear, you needna trouble yourself. It’s no’ folk like the Judge and young Mr Greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while here. It’s folk like the ’smith yonder, or Orrin Green, the upsettin’ body. But you can go in now and see if your papa’s at leisure, and tell him the Judge is here.”

“We had Mr Greenleaf here awhile the ither night,” she continued, as Graeme disappeared. “A nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no’ ae bit o’ a Yankee.”

The Judge opened his eyes. It was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. But he was not one of the kind to take offence, as Janet justly said.

Chapter Nine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Norman is right, anyway,” pronounced Menie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was about to say that—that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Yankee!” repeated her brothers.

“A Yankee,” echoed Menie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who else?” asked Mr Greenleaf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Ten.

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

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

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

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

“The winter’s near over now, Janet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet gave a startled look into her face.

“What is what, my dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My dear, I hae naething to tell.”

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

Janet put her fingers over the girl’s lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We couldna, Janet.”

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

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

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

Graeme’s face was fall of dismay.

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

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

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

Janet shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eleven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Read it,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“When will they go?”

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

“To her uncle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Elliott smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause, and then Mr Greenleaf continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How does it seem to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve.

The time of settlement came at last. The members of the church and congregation were requested to bring to Deacon Sterne and his coadjutors an account of money and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister’s support during the ensuing half year. After a delay which, considering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and the different accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval.

This was done by Deacons Fish and Slowcome alone. Deacon Sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to Mrs Nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. Deacon Fish “expected” that brother Sterne had got into trouble. It had been coming on for some time. His son, the only boy he had left, had been over to Rixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. Deacon Sterne was Janet’s favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regret that he should not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly concerned for him on his own account.

“Dear me!” said she, “I saw him at the kirk on the Sabbath-day, looking just as usual.”

“Well, yes, I expect so,” said Mr Fish. “Brother Sterne looks always pretty much so. He ain’t apt to show his feelin’s, if he’s got any. He’ll have something to suffer with his son William, I guess, whether he shows it or not.”

Janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the town that there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. The minister awaited them, and business began. First was displayed the list of subscriptions for the coming half-year. This was quite encouraging. Three hundred and fifty and odd dollars. This looked well. There had never been so much subscribed in Merleville before. The deacons were elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, too. He would be well off now, said they. But the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year’s settlement was turned to.

There were several sheets of it. The minister in danger of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. “Two hundred and seventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents.” He was a little mystified still, and looked so.

“If there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be put right,” said Deacon Slowcome.

Deacon Fish presumed, “that when Mr Elliott should have compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be all right.”

Mr Elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. He supposed it was all it should be. He really could say nothing with regard to it. He left the management of household affairs entirely to his daughter and Mrs Nasmyth. It was suggested that Mrs Nasmyth should be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her.

“If there’s anything you don’t seem to understand or remember,” prefaced the accommodating Deacon Slowcome, “don’t feel troubled about saying so. I expect we’ll make things pretty straight after a while.”

Mrs Nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look at her, and the reading began. After the name of each person, came the days’ work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. Deacon Fish’s subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. The former had carried the minister on two or three of his most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. It was overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of.

“There ain’t no matter about it. It can go right on to the next half year. It ain’t no matter about it anyhow,” said he, in liberal mood.

He had an attentive listener. Mrs Nasmyth listened with vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when Mr Slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say interrogatively,—

“You remember?”

It dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up the subscription for the half year that was over; but except that her face changed a little, she gave no sign. It is possible the deacon had had some slight misgiving as to how Mrs Nasmyth might receive the statement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at last read the sum total: “Two hundred and seventy-two dollars sixty-two and a-half cents.”

Again Janet’s eye sought the minister’s, and this time he did not avoid her look. The rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. Intense amusement at Janet’s changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for a moment, every other feeling. But that passed, and by the look that followed Janet knew that she must keep back the words that were rising to her lips. It required an effort, however, and a rather awkward silence followed. Deacon Slowcome spoke first:

“Well, I suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. And I, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things.”

“I doubt, sirs,” said Janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, “there are some things that haena been put down on yon paper. There was a cum apples, and a bit o’ unco spare rib, and—”

“Well, it’s possible there are some folks ain’t sent in their accounts yet. That can be seen to another time.”

Janet paid no attention to the interruption.

“There were some eggs from Mrs Sterne—a dozen and three, I think—and a goose at the New Year from somebody else; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that Judge Merle brought over when first we came here—”

“Ah! the pie was a present from my wife,” said Deacon Fish, on whom Mrs Nasmyth’s awful irony was quite lost.

“And I presume Judge Merle didn’t mean to charge for the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was,” said Deacon Slowcome.

“And what for no’?” demanded Janet, turning on him sharply. “I’m sure we got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o’ your bloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. Things should stand on your papers at their true value.”

Deacon Slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreak than he had been when his “fore-quarter of bloody beef” had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed Janet’s remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the impropriety of “looking a gift horse in the mouth” to pass unanswered.

“You were at liberty to return the beef if you didn’t want it,” said he, with an injured air.

“Weel, I’ll mind that next time,” said she in a milder tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. Deacon Fish made a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the new subscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that “didn’t look well.”

“Ay, on paper,” said Janet, dryly. “Figures are no’ dollars. And if your folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae been living only on the bits o’ things written down on your paper you are mistaken. The gude money that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o’ that, as I ken weel, who hae had the spending o’ it; but I daresay you’re no’ needing me longer, sir,” she added, addressing the minister, and she left the room.

This matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did Janet a deal of good to think about it. She had no time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. She “was nettled at herself beyond all patience” that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many of the things on the paper had been tokens of the people’s good-will.

“Two hundred and seventy dollars and more,” she repeated. “Things mount up, I ken weel; but I maun take another look at it. And I’ll hae more sense anither time, I’m thinking.”

She did not speak to Graeme. There would be no use to vex her; but she would fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce the subject. A circumstance soon occurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed.

March was nearly over. The nights were cold still, but the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of her children. “And time for her,” sighed Janet, taking a retrospective view of all that had happened since she saw her face.

The boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposal made to them by their friend Mr Snow. He had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. They were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see the ground and make a beginning. Graeme and the other girls went with them as far as Mr Snow’s house, and Janet was left alone. The minister was in his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. She had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, however. A sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare street, and its occupant, Mr Silas Spears, not one of her favourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in “hitching” his horse to the post. Janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him.

“The body has some sense and discretion,” said Janet to herself, as he announced instead that he “wa’ant a going to stay but a minute, and it wouldn’t be worth while troubling the minister.” He did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which was tolerable to Janet in her solitude. He rose to go at last.

“I’ve got a bucket of sugar out here,” said he. “Our folks didn’t seem to want it, and I thought I’d fetch it along down. I took it to Cook’s store, but they didn’t want it, and they didn’t care enough about it at Sheldon’s to want to pay for it, so I thought I might as well turn it in to pay my minister’s tax.”

So in he came within a minute.

“There’s just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. Sugar’s been sellin’ for twelve and a-half this winter, and I guess I ought to have that for it, then we’ll be about even, according to my calculation.”

“Sugar!” ejaculated Janet, touching the solid black mass with her finger. “Call you that sugar?”

“Why, yes, I call it sugar. Not the best, maybe, but it’s better than it looks. It’ll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, I expect.”

“And weigh considerable lighter, I expect,” said Mrs Nasmyth, unconsciously imitating Mr Spears’ tone and manner in her rising wrath. “I’m very much obliged to you, but we’re in no especial need o’ sugar at this time, and we’ll do without a while before we spend good siller on staff like that.”

“Well I’ll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin’ time is ’most here. It ain’t first-rate,” he added, candidly. “It mightn’t just do for tea, but it’s as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes.”

“Many thanks to you. But we’re no’ given to the makin’ o’ pies and cakes in this house. Plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does for us, and it’s mair than we’re like to get, if things dinna mend with us. So you’ll just take it with you again.”

“Well,” said Mr Spears, slightly at a loss, “I guess I’ll leave it. I ain’t particular about the price. Mr Elliott can allow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. I’ll leave it anyhow.”

“But you’ll no’ leave it with my consent. Deacon Slowcome said the minister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o’ that we could make no use of.”

“The deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but I rather guess he didn’t mean you to take him up so. I’ve been calculating to pay my minister’s tax with that sugar, and I don’t know as I’ve got anything else handy. I’ll leave it, and if you don’t conclude to keep it, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he’ll give you the money for it. I’ll leave it anyhow.”

“But you’ll no leave it here,” exclaimed Mrs Nasmyth, whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished Mr Spears quite realised her intention.

“You’ll no’ find me failing in my duty to the minister, as I hae done before,” exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. “If the minister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been used wi’, he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. So dinna bring here again what ither folk winna hae from you, for I’ll hae none o’ it.”

“I should like to see the minister a minute,” said Mr Spears, seating himself with dignity. “I don’t consider that you are the one to settle this business.”

“There’s many a thing that you dinna consider that there’s sense in, notwithstanding. It’s just me that is to decide this business, and a’ business where the minister’s welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. So dinna fash yourself and me mair about it.”

“I’d like to see him, anyhow,” said he, taking a step towards the study-door.

“But you’ll no’ see him about any such matter,” and Janet placed herself before him. “I’m no’ to hae the minister vexed with the like o’ that nonsense to-night, or any night. I wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your face to me, forby the minister. What kens the minister about the like o’ that? He has other things to think about. It’s weel that there’s aye me to stand between him and the like o’ your ‘glegs and corbies’.”—And Janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated into Scotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonishment, and listened in silence. Janet was successful. Mr Spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no means sure that he hadn’t been abused! “Considerable beat, anyhow.”

Scarcely had he taken his departure, when Mr Elliott made his appearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been going on. Though loth to do so, Janet thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken place. He laughed heartily at her success and Mr Spears’ discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his ease about the matter.

“I am at a loss to know how all this will end,” he said, gravely, after a minute.

“Indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. It will end in a ‘toom pantry’ for us, and that before very long.”

This was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. Much earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, when most of the members of the church were present, the result of his meditations was given to the public. He did not use many words, but they were to the point.

He told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for the future. He told them that the value to his family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, as named in the subscription-lists, their real value he supposed. They could not live in comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. He had a proposal to make to them. The deacon had estimated that an annual amount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. Let each subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. This would be the means of avoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would think it wise to remain in Merleville.

He alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his having money invested in Scotland. In the hand of a friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his education should be completed. He had no more. The comfort of his family must depend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to be paid, must be decided without loss of time.

He said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. He had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to live and die among them. But no real union or confidence could be maintained between them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. He added, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them.

There was quite a gathering that night. Judge Merle was there, and the deacons, and the Pages, and Mr Spears, and a great many besides. Behind the door, in a corner seat, sat Mr Snow, and near him, Mr Greenleaf. He evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, but Sampson laid his hand on his arm.

“Hold on, Squire,” he whispered; “as like as not they’d spare us, but I’m bound to see this through.”

There was a long pause. Then Deacon Fish got up and cleared his throat, and “felt as though he felt,” and went over much ground, without accomplishing much. Deacon Slowcome did pretty much the same. Judge Merle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a movement behind the door, and Sampson Snow rose, and stepped out. He laid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened his lips.

“I expect you’ll all think it ain’t my place to speak in meetin’, and I ain’t goin’ to say a great deal. It’s no more than two hours or so since I got home from Rixford, and Squire Stone, he told me that their minister had given notice that he was goin’ to quit. Goin’ to Boston, I guess. And the Squire, says he to me, ‘We’ve a notion of talking a little to your Mr Elliott,’ and says he, ‘We wouldn’t begrudge him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.’ So now don’t worry any about the minister. He’s all right, and worth his pay any day. That’s all I’ve got to say,” and Mr Snow opened the door and walked out.

Sampson’s speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, and told. That night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested by Mr Elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. And the good people of Merleville did not regret their promptitude, when the very next week there came a deputation from Rixford, to ascertain whether Mr Elliott was to remain in Merleville, and if not, whether he would accept an invitation to settle in the larger town.

Mr Elliott’s answer was brief and decided. He had no wish to leave Merleville while the people wished him to remain. He hoped never to leave them while he lived. And he never did.

Chapter Thirteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet repeated her kindly welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet looked at him in some surprise.

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

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

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

Janet looked grave.

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

“You ought to be,” said she, gravely.

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

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

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

Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sampson opened his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Fourteen.

Even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and Merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister’s children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. But the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the Merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant.

The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. The tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill.

The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing her nearer to her hope’s fulfilment.

Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful William’s little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband’s face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By the deacon’s fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will’s bride that was, Will’s sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet.

Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, “yearning for the privileges he left behind,”—or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to “come over and help us.” But on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, Deacon Fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper.

Mr Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. His nephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, Mr Page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. Mrs Page enjoys it well, and goes often to Rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young Mrs Merle, and young Mrs Greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends—which are audible enough, too—whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace.

Becky Pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. And so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. But it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in Becky’s home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring Becky’s enjoyment of it. It may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but Becky’s own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home’s enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give.

Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. It is neat without and neat within, though often there are children’s toys and little shoes upon the floor. At this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits Arthur Elliott Greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. And no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. Beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits Celestia with her needle in her hand—a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is “ambitious,” in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home.

The squire’s newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of “appeals” and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. “He is growing old while he is young,” as Mrs Nasmyth says, “Yankees have a knack of doing—standing still at middle age and never changing more.” But despite the wrinkles, the squire’s face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him.

As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant’s gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says:

“See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says,” and then goes on to read.

“Now, what do you think of that?” he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that “the cars have got to Boston.”

“See here, Elliott, my son. Ain’t you tired riding?” asks papa, gently.

“Ain’t you afraid you’ll wake sister?” says mamma. “I wouldn’t make quite so much noise, dear.”

“Why, mother, I’m the cars,” says Elliott.

“But hadn’t you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where’s Carlo? I haven’t seen Carlo for a long time. Where’s Carlo?”

It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. They do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king’s medicine; and if mother’s love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little Elliott.

It is a happy home, the Greenleaf’s. There are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. There are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow’s declaration, that “the Greenleafs take their comfort as they go along.”

But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the change that has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwelling once—twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now.

But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world’s petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, “a refuge whereunto he may continually resort,” a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him.

“He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come and make our abode with him.”

That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny—the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. He has learned of the “meek and lowly.” He is a Christian at last. He has “experienced religion,” the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be.

Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He “stood it” through “a season of interest,” when Deacons Fish and Slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold “a series of meetings.” Good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some were gathered into the Church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow never flagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He heard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, “within a few rods of the line of demarcation.” He was formally given up as a hopeless case, and “left to himself”, by all the tender-hearted old ladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville.

After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Different from other folks before, he was different from them still. He did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sunday evening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helping them.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,” were words that Sampson seemed to believe.

“He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not,” said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know.

As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens God had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, God took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more.

If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son’s happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. She must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for.

“Sampson seemed kind o’ lost,” she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with a tender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing every day more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson’s youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him.

But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather’s love for Emily. It cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. For he could not but see that Emily’s happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. She could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother’s room. She was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old Mrs Snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. To be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady’s “notions” not to be able “to endure folks around her.” And, besides, “what was the use of Emily Arnold?” And so, what with one thing and another, little Emily’s cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father’s home-coming, came back to her eyes again.

“There is no kind o’ use for Emily’s being kept at work,” said her father. “She ain’t strong; and there’s Hannah Lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and I’d be glad to pay her for it. Emily may have a good time as well as not.”

But his mother was not to be moved.

“Girls used to have a good time and work too, when I was young. Emily Arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put notions in her head. And as for Hannah, I’ll have none of her.”

So Mr Snow saw that if Emily was to have a good time it must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have done for her. He fitted her out, and sent her to Mount Holyoke seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions New England girls. And a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. There were the first inevitable pangs of home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his darling after all. But, in a little, her letters were merry and healthful enough. One would never have found out from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on recreation day. Pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home at the close of the year, Mrs Snow had gone, where the household work is done without weariness. Her father would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of Hannah Lovejoy in the deserted home again.

By the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the departure of Deacons Fish and Slowcome, elected to fill the place of one of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. He was “lonesome, awful lonesome,” at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister’s house, and at many another house, than he.

There have been changes in the minister’s household, too. When his course in college was over, Arthur came out to the rest. He lingered one delightful summer in Merleville, and then betook himself to Canada, to study his profession of the law. For Arthur, wise as the Merleville people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. He could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a Yankee; so, for the sake of living in the Queen’s dominions, he went to Canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as a place of residence than Greenland or Kamtschatka.

That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a struggle since then. By sometimes teaching dull boys Latin, sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt; and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. He has visited Merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy.

Norman and Harry have both left home, too. Mr Snow did his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. To college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. Norman writes hopefully from the far West. He is an engineer, and will be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe him with a difference.

“He will make money enough,” Janet says, “but as to his keeping it, that’s another matter.”

Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Arthur’s example and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the merchant’s counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to Janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that he is very rich indeed.

Those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their share in the world’s work, and certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home.

Chapter Fifteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mrs Nasmyth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet expressed no curiosity.

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

Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Janet! A sticket minister!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.

“You can manage far best,” said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How lovely she is!” whispered she.

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

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

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

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

No, Graeme could not.

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

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

Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m here, papa. Did you want me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mrs Greenleaf told me something—and—”

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

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

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

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

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