Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Seventeen.“Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agreeTo plague her beating heart.”As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the threatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to go away now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to the manse about this time, and Allison’s strength and skill were tried to meet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leave these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do.And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away secretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be said before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as he had said, have “the law on his side.”She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her time to go away.“I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and darkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done right, there’s no turning back now.”As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing to fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of greeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution and counsel which it was “his bounden duty” to let drop for the benefit of all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned.And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then something happened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. “Home,” it must be, thought the neighbours, who saw the big “kist” and the little one lifted from the carrier’s cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help thinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year’s experience had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the decision with regard to her.The minister’s wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about the matter of Kirstin’s coming home long before she came. For as the summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and had appealed to them for help.She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. What she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.“I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?”“We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she came into our house,” said Mrs Hume gravely. “It was a risk our taking her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one.”“But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?”“Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she would be in yours should she go with you.”“There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at an end,” said Mr Hume.“Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her,” said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.“I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare her to me,” said Mrs Esselmont. “But that is only the beginning of my petition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older. Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am certain—at least I have hope—that she might be helped by one who has been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life before her!”A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid herself back on her pillow and waited.“Well?” said she after a little.“Well, mother?” said the minister, sitting down again.“Speak for us both,” said his wife.“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I have only this to say to-night. We thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask counsel.”“Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we can go, the better.”There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they parted. Mrs Esselmont’s last words were these:“It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain. Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take Allison. And remember, my dear,” said she to Mrs Hume, “you have another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child go.”There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being made, there was no time to lose.Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter’s work might be.“Allison,” said her mistress, “I would like you to go to Firhill this afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and put on your bonnet.”Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver’s door sat the weaver’s wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend Mrs Coats, “resting herself” after her work was over.Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to say more than a word or two, “as would have been but ceevil,” Mrs Coats said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.“She has gi’en warning. She was ay above the place,” said Mrs Coats.“Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place weel,” said her friend.“But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with doin’ the bidding o’ anither.”“She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it. What would ye have?” said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear through the open window what was to be said.“That’s true,” said his wife; “but I ken what Mistress Coats means for a’ that.”“Ye may say that! It’s easy seen, though no’ just so easy shown. Is she like the ither lassies o’ the place? Who ever saw her bare feet? It’s hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her.”“And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves are put doon to her hands.”“I should like to ken the folk she belongs to.”“They’re decent folk, if she’s a specimen o’ them. Ye needna be feared about that,” said the weaver.“It’s no’ thatI’mfeared, but ane would think that she was feared herself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who she belongs to.”“Never to the like o’ you and me. But the minister’s satisfied, and Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam’ o’, we hae naething to do wi’ them.”“That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there’s maistly something to be hid.”“And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae the een o’ her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o’ the minister’s lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye’ll do that same,” said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion again.“Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women,” said Mrs Coats, with a look which implied sympathy with the weaver’s wife as well as disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed.“Oh! ay; he’s a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy eneuch wi’ me.”For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, “the last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on with pleasure.”“It’s a bonny place,” said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up quickly. “Do ye no’ ken that it’s ill for a young lass to sigh and sech like that? Is it that this ’minds ye o’ anither bonny place that ye would fain see?” Allison smiled, but shook her head. “I never saw a garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own—”“And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?”“Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice about it,” said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.“Oh! I’ll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin ye are near at hand.” Allison shook her head.“I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the other side of the sea.”“In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go there ye can ask me and I’ll give ye seeds to take wi’ ye, and maybe slips and roots as well. They’ll ’mind you o’ hame in that far land. I once heard o’ a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at the sicht o’ a gowan.”“Thank you,” said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she smiled.“Here’s my lady,” said Delvie, bending to his work again.Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, a woman several years older than herself.“You may leave me here with Allison Bain,” said she; “I will take a turn or two and then I will be in again.”She had the minister’s note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it as they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and the fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs Esselmont said:“You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. I have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. But I have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the house first.”So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together.“Allison,” said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment’s silence, “I have something to say to you.”And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to Marjorie’s father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plan could only be carried out with Allison’s help, because Mrs Hume would never trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thought that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then she added:“I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to care for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is now. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner the better. We have no time to lose.”Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes.“I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go—but—”She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont was lying.“But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not wish me to go when you have heard.”“Allison,” said Mrs Esselmont, “stand where I can see your face.”She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:“I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change my thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of your master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I am willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than they have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman, Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong.”“I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I would not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I could not. I would rather die,” said Allison, speaking low.There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on the floor.“Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and your bonnet. You are too warm in this room.”Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of her black bonnet.“Take it off,” said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated.Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and there—brown, with a touch of gold in them—and without the disguise of the big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very different Allison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont.“A beautiful woman,” she said to herself, “and with something in her face better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need be ashamed.”Aloud she said:“Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me, you should, perhaps, tell me all.”“Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrong to take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would need to tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with their child. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble because of taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spoken of on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all their kindness.”“And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is aware of what has befallen you?”Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that she answered.“It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One night he came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my name on a new headstone, ‘John Bain and Allison his wife’—the names of my father and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me all my life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was trying me, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I would like to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon me since then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. I would rather die,” repeated Allison, and the look that came over her face gave emphasis to her words.“And has he never spoken again?”“Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, but he might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the right way. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would be happiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie.”Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a long time. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand.“Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will not bear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. I trust you. Come with me and the child.”The tears came into Allison’s eyes, and she said quietly:“I thank you, madam. I will serve you well.”

“Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agreeTo plague her beating heart.”

“Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agreeTo plague her beating heart.”

As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the threatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to go away now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to the manse about this time, and Allison’s strength and skill were tried to meet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leave these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do.

And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away secretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be said before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as he had said, have “the law on his side.”

She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her time to go away.

“I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and darkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done right, there’s no turning back now.”

As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing to fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of greeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution and counsel which it was “his bounden duty” to let drop for the benefit of all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned.

And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then something happened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. “Home,” it must be, thought the neighbours, who saw the big “kist” and the little one lifted from the carrier’s cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help thinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year’s experience had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the decision with regard to her.

The minister’s wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about the matter of Kirstin’s coming home long before she came. For as the summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and had appealed to them for help.

She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. What she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.

“I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?”

“We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she came into our house,” said Mrs Hume gravely. “It was a risk our taking her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one.”

“But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?”

“Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she would be in yours should she go with you.”

“There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at an end,” said Mr Hume.

“Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her,” said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.

“I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare her to me,” said Mrs Esselmont. “But that is only the beginning of my petition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older. Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am certain—at least I have hope—that she might be helped by one who has been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life before her!”

A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid herself back on her pillow and waited.

“Well?” said she after a little.

“Well, mother?” said the minister, sitting down again.

“Speak for us both,” said his wife.

“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I have only this to say to-night. We thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask counsel.”

“Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we can go, the better.”

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they parted. Mrs Esselmont’s last words were these:

“It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain. Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take Allison. And remember, my dear,” said she to Mrs Hume, “you have another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child go.”

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being made, there was no time to lose.

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter’s work might be.

“Allison,” said her mistress, “I would like you to go to Firhill this afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and put on your bonnet.”

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver’s door sat the weaver’s wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend Mrs Coats, “resting herself” after her work was over.

Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to say more than a word or two, “as would have been but ceevil,” Mrs Coats said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.

“She has gi’en warning. She was ay above the place,” said Mrs Coats.

“Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place weel,” said her friend.

“But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with doin’ the bidding o’ anither.”

“She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it. What would ye have?” said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear through the open window what was to be said.

“That’s true,” said his wife; “but I ken what Mistress Coats means for a’ that.”

“Ye may say that! It’s easy seen, though no’ just so easy shown. Is she like the ither lassies o’ the place? Who ever saw her bare feet? It’s hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her.”

“And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves are put doon to her hands.”

“I should like to ken the folk she belongs to.”

“They’re decent folk, if she’s a specimen o’ them. Ye needna be feared about that,” said the weaver.

“It’s no’ thatI’mfeared, but ane would think that she was feared herself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who she belongs to.”

“Never to the like o’ you and me. But the minister’s satisfied, and Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam’ o’, we hae naething to do wi’ them.”

“That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there’s maistly something to be hid.”

“And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae the een o’ her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o’ the minister’s lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye’ll do that same,” said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion again.

“Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women,” said Mrs Coats, with a look which implied sympathy with the weaver’s wife as well as disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed.

“Oh! ay; he’s a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy eneuch wi’ me.”

For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, “the last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on with pleasure.”

“It’s a bonny place,” said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up quickly. “Do ye no’ ken that it’s ill for a young lass to sigh and sech like that? Is it that this ’minds ye o’ anither bonny place that ye would fain see?” Allison smiled, but shook her head. “I never saw a garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own—”

“And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?”

“Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice about it,” said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.

“Oh! I’ll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin ye are near at hand.” Allison shook her head.

“I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the other side of the sea.”

“In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go there ye can ask me and I’ll give ye seeds to take wi’ ye, and maybe slips and roots as well. They’ll ’mind you o’ hame in that far land. I once heard o’ a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at the sicht o’ a gowan.”

“Thank you,” said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she smiled.

“Here’s my lady,” said Delvie, bending to his work again.

Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, a woman several years older than herself.

“You may leave me here with Allison Bain,” said she; “I will take a turn or two and then I will be in again.”

She had the minister’s note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it as they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and the fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs Esselmont said:

“You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. I have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. But I have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the house first.”

So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together.

“Allison,” said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment’s silence, “I have something to say to you.”

And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to Marjorie’s father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plan could only be carried out with Allison’s help, because Mrs Hume would never trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thought that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then she added:

“I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to care for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is now. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner the better. We have no time to lose.”

Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes.

“I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go—but—”

She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont was lying.

“But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not wish me to go when you have heard.”

“Allison,” said Mrs Esselmont, “stand where I can see your face.”

She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:

“I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change my thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of your master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I am willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than they have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman, Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong.”

“I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I would not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I could not. I would rather die,” said Allison, speaking low.

There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and your bonnet. You are too warm in this room.”

Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of her black bonnet.

“Take it off,” said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated.

Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and there—brown, with a touch of gold in them—and without the disguise of the big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very different Allison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont.

“A beautiful woman,” she said to herself, “and with something in her face better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need be ashamed.”

Aloud she said:

“Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me, you should, perhaps, tell me all.”

“Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrong to take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would need to tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with their child. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble because of taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spoken of on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all their kindness.”

“And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is aware of what has befallen you?”

Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that she answered.

“It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One night he came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my name on a new headstone, ‘John Bain and Allison his wife’—the names of my father and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me all my life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was trying me, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I would like to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon me since then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. I would rather die,” repeated Allison, and the look that came over her face gave emphasis to her words.

“And has he never spoken again?”

“Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, but he might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the right way. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would be happiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie.”

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a long time. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand.

“Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will not bear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. I trust you. Come with me and the child.”

The tears came into Allison’s eyes, and she said quietly:

“I thank you, madam. I will serve you well.”

Chapter Eighteen.“God be with thee,Else alone thou goest forth,Thy face unto the north.”Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story which Crombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother:“If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way of letting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He will say nothing to harm her.”But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison’s marriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering the matter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would not be well for Allison’s peace of mind to know that the sad story of her life had been told to them.And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to find a chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, and went no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done of late, and was not at ease with her when they met.For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspect that her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one of whom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beaton might still blame her for her son’s folly.Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had so startled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to be reasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to the door, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words that might be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into the kirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentary terror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent in search of her.She had said to herself many times, “I will wait quietly. I will stay where I am, and I will not yield to my fears.”But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, she knew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long have borne the strain which had been upon her.“Six days!” she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill that night, in the darkness. “Only six days and nights, and I shall be away, and safe for a year at least; and then!—but I will not look beyond the year. I will care for the child, and be at peace.”As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent north on business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell where he was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that. When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, as he was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about coming home. His mother’s heart was sore for her son. No word concerning Allison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart had gone from him and that he must suffer for a time.“But he’ll win through,” she said, hopefully, to herself, “as other men have won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, since ever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for the pain! He will be sorry not to see her again,” added she, with a sigh.So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjorie was to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; that she was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful words as to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: “It is Allison Bain who is to have the care of her.” Of Allison herself she only said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would be happy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply.On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack, that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, and the neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that if there should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be no lingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie took it all very quietly.“Yes, I’m going away. Yes, I’m sorry, and I’m glad, but I’m not afraid, because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I’m glad. I’m going to see new things and places—me that was never ten miles away from home in all my life! And I’m going to come home strong and well, like the other bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now to take my place. It’s my father that I’m sorriest for. But I’ll come home strong and well, and then he’ll be glad that he let me go.”She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the school to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again well and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid.Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her.“Allison,” said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, “I think it would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?”“I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now,” said Allison.So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own. She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight.“Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you,” said she.Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume’s message.“I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of the child?”“Yes, I am glad to be going.”“But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?”“No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here. Everybody at the manse has been kind.”“And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned you, Allison Bain,” but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it.What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken.“It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us,” thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: “His mother would be grieved, if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am gone away.”And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said “good-bye” to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend.“Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?”But Allison shook her head. “Nothing that it would please you to hear; and it is all over now, and I am going away.”“Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and bring you safe through all trouble ‘into a large place.’ Kiss me, my dear.”Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:“Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi’ ye. I’ll no’ keep ye lang.”Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.“Sit ye doon, Allison,” said the schoolmistress. “I saw ye when ye gaed into Mistress Beaton’s, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. And ye’re going farawa’? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin’ back again?”“I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home the child to her father and her mother,” said Allison, gravely.“Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may naething but gude befall ye. I’ll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great divert to me, you and the minister’s bairn thegither—especially since the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak’ heart again. Do ye mind the ‘Stanin Stanes’ yon day, and a’ the bairns, and John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I’ll miss ye mair than ye ken.”The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she said:“Eh! woman! It’s weel to be the like o’ you! Ye’re young, and ye’re strong, and ye’re bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like ye. It’s nae ance in a thousand times that a’ these things come to a woman thegither. Ye mind me o’ mysel’ when I was young. I had a’ that ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that’s neither here nor there, at this late day,” added she, rising.Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, and had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in the light as she held it up to the lamp.“Look ye at it,” said the mistress. “Until this day I have never, for forty years and mair, set e’en upon it. I hae been twice marriet—though folk here ken naething about that—and this was my first marriage ring. It was my mother’s before me, and her mother’s before her. It held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to me—he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was a wilfu’ lassie—an undutifu’ daughter. But it may work again wi’ you. Take it, and put it on your finger.”But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her.“And what for no’? It’s my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna be feared,” said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. “But why should ye wish to give it to me?”“Because I hae naebody else to gi’e it to. There’s not, to my knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand.”Allison looked anxiously into the old woman’s eager face. What did she mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she did not resist.“There is the charm written on the inside of it, ‘Let love abyde till death devyde.’ Ye’ll see it by the daylicht.”But the ring was far too large for Allison’s finger. It slipped from it and fell to the ground.“Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?” said the mistress.“It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me,” said Allison with an uncertain smile. “It is very kind of you, Mistress Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but—”“It’s a pity. But it’s yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa’ evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun’ ye’re neck, and it may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel’, if it minds naebody else.”Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the old woman did not mean her harm.“Why should you be so kind to me—a stranger?” said she gently.“I hardly ken mysel’, except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me o’ my ain youth, partly that ye’re sae like what I once was, and partly that ye are sae different. I can seenowwhere I gaed wrang. And ye hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye may.”“I’ll try,” said Allison humbly. And so they parted.Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed of her life before she came to the manse.There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. Marjorie was in the “gig” with her father and mother, who were to take her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what might be before her.The same might be said of her father and mother—with a difference. They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the Good Hand which had “led them all their life long until now,” and they had confidence in Allison Bain.Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said gravely:“I think if you had known me all my days,—if you had seen all my life till now,—I think you would still be willing to trust me with your Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason—it is better to say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all.”“We can wait till then,” said the minister heartily. The child’s mother said the same.They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal.Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there.

“God be with thee,Else alone thou goest forth,Thy face unto the north.”

“God be with thee,Else alone thou goest forth,Thy face unto the north.”

Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story which Crombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother:

“If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way of letting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He will say nothing to harm her.”

But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison’s marriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering the matter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would not be well for Allison’s peace of mind to know that the sad story of her life had been told to them.

And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to find a chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, and went no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done of late, and was not at ease with her when they met.

For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspect that her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one of whom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beaton might still blame her for her son’s folly.

Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had so startled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to be reasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to the door, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words that might be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into the kirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentary terror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent in search of her.

She had said to herself many times, “I will wait quietly. I will stay where I am, and I will not yield to my fears.”

But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, she knew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long have borne the strain which had been upon her.

“Six days!” she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill that night, in the darkness. “Only six days and nights, and I shall be away, and safe for a year at least; and then!—but I will not look beyond the year. I will care for the child, and be at peace.”

As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent north on business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell where he was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that. When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, as he was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about coming home. His mother’s heart was sore for her son. No word concerning Allison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart had gone from him and that he must suffer for a time.

“But he’ll win through,” she said, hopefully, to herself, “as other men have won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, since ever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for the pain! He will be sorry not to see her again,” added she, with a sigh.

So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjorie was to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; that she was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful words as to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: “It is Allison Bain who is to have the care of her.” Of Allison herself she only said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would be happy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply.

On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack, that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, and the neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that if there should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be no lingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie took it all very quietly.

“Yes, I’m going away. Yes, I’m sorry, and I’m glad, but I’m not afraid, because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I’m glad. I’m going to see new things and places—me that was never ten miles away from home in all my life! And I’m going to come home strong and well, like the other bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now to take my place. It’s my father that I’m sorriest for. But I’ll come home strong and well, and then he’ll be glad that he let me go.”

She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the school to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again well and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid.

Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her.

“Allison,” said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, “I think it would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?”

“I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now,” said Allison.

So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own. She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight.

“Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you,” said she.

Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume’s message.

“I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of the child?”

“Yes, I am glad to be going.”

“But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?”

“No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here. Everybody at the manse has been kind.”

“And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned you, Allison Bain,” but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it.

What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken.

“It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us,” thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: “His mother would be grieved, if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am gone away.”

And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said “good-bye” to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend.

“Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?”

But Allison shook her head. “Nothing that it would please you to hear; and it is all over now, and I am going away.”

“Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and bring you safe through all trouble ‘into a large place.’ Kiss me, my dear.”

Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:

“Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi’ ye. I’ll no’ keep ye lang.”

Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.

“Sit ye doon, Allison,” said the schoolmistress. “I saw ye when ye gaed into Mistress Beaton’s, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. And ye’re going farawa’? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin’ back again?”

“I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home the child to her father and her mother,” said Allison, gravely.

“Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may naething but gude befall ye. I’ll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great divert to me, you and the minister’s bairn thegither—especially since the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak’ heart again. Do ye mind the ‘Stanin Stanes’ yon day, and a’ the bairns, and John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I’ll miss ye mair than ye ken.”

The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she said:

“Eh! woman! It’s weel to be the like o’ you! Ye’re young, and ye’re strong, and ye’re bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like ye. It’s nae ance in a thousand times that a’ these things come to a woman thegither. Ye mind me o’ mysel’ when I was young. I had a’ that ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that’s neither here nor there, at this late day,” added she, rising.

Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, and had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in the light as she held it up to the lamp.

“Look ye at it,” said the mistress. “Until this day I have never, for forty years and mair, set e’en upon it. I hae been twice marriet—though folk here ken naething about that—and this was my first marriage ring. It was my mother’s before me, and her mother’s before her. It held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to me—he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was a wilfu’ lassie—an undutifu’ daughter. But it may work again wi’ you. Take it, and put it on your finger.”

But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her.

“And what for no’? It’s my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna be feared,” said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. “But why should ye wish to give it to me?”

“Because I hae naebody else to gi’e it to. There’s not, to my knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand.”

Allison looked anxiously into the old woman’s eager face. What did she mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she did not resist.

“There is the charm written on the inside of it, ‘Let love abyde till death devyde.’ Ye’ll see it by the daylicht.”

But the ring was far too large for Allison’s finger. It slipped from it and fell to the ground.

“Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?” said the mistress.

“It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me,” said Allison with an uncertain smile. “It is very kind of you, Mistress Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but—”

“It’s a pity. But it’s yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa’ evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun’ ye’re neck, and it may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel’, if it minds naebody else.”

Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the old woman did not mean her harm.

“Why should you be so kind to me—a stranger?” said she gently.

“I hardly ken mysel’, except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me o’ my ain youth, partly that ye’re sae like what I once was, and partly that ye are sae different. I can seenowwhere I gaed wrang. And ye hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye may.”

“I’ll try,” said Allison humbly. And so they parted.

Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed of her life before she came to the manse.

There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. Marjorie was in the “gig” with her father and mother, who were to take her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what might be before her.

The same might be said of her father and mother—with a difference. They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the Good Hand which had “led them all their life long until now,” and they had confidence in Allison Bain.

Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said gravely:

“I think if you had known me all my days,—if you had seen all my life till now,—I think you would still be willing to trust me with your Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason—it is better to say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all.”

“We can wait till then,” said the minister heartily. The child’s mother said the same.

They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal.

Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there.

Chapter Nineteen.“Unless you can swear for life or for deathOh! fear to call it loving.”Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day in Aberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found a place prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in the university, had taken up his abode.It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that he could not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, and Marjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad of the rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For how could she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or of those who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten the dull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward with hope.Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father had asked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes.“You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder,” said he.“And so do we,” said Robin.“It was a good day for me,” said Allison, and her eyes said more than that.“Yes, better than you know,” said the doctor. “And for you, too, my wee pale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carry you away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she? May God grant it,” added the doctor reverently.“I will try to take good care of her,” said Allison.“I am sure of that.”When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door.“I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named over yonder,” said she, casting down her eyes.“Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has come to inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heard his voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of his sight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be others who would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you.” And then he went away.“I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfully wedded wife, but I cannot—I have not the heart to betray her into his hands.”In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since Allison was with her.“I will have her all to myself,” said Marjorie.John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm.“Happy little Marjorie,” he whispered in her ear.She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison lingered beside her, John said to his friend:“Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word with Allison.”Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then he started up in great haste.“I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don’t go till I come back, John,” said he. “Can I do anything for you, Allison?”“Nothing more,” said Allison; and Robin disappeared.There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and about other things.“Did you see my mother before you came away?” said John.“Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night.”And then she added that she thought his mother was “wearying” to see him, and that he should go home soon.“Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I have been in the parish of Kilgower.”Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing very pale.“It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one should be sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. It was asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned the leaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why.”Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But it had been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly.He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but John refused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself:“If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tell after I had eaten his bread.”Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemed inclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, even friendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. He told John about the country folk, and about the various farms which they passed; and at last they came round by Grassie.“‘It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likely soon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, much respected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain had gone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father’s death.’“I kenned by this time what he was to be at,” said John to Allison, when he had got thus far. “And I thought it wiser to take the matter into my own hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of William Bain before. Where could it have been?“‘In the tollbooth, likely,’ said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for a minute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could not say which. ‘Yes, it might. I have been there,’ I said. ‘I had a friend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once or twice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been out before ever I went there.’“I saw the change in the man’s face when I said this.“‘He was here in June,’ he said. ‘He’s off to America now, and I would give much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one can trust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I’ll win to the end o’ the clue yet,’ he said. He had an evil look when he said it.“I made haste over my work after that,” went on John, “for I could not trust myself to listen. If he had named your name—”John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out into the darkness.The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrig appeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with him to see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm that was soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and the matter might as well be considered at once.On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden’s name was mentioned.“He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among the rest”; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could not hear, but he answered:“I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap and good, and skilled labour is well paid,” and so on.But Brownrig came back again to Bain.“That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye might let me know.”“I might possibly hear of him,” said John; “but it is hardly likely.”He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could still “take care of himself,” or he thought so. He made some pretence of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his “desertion,” as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay.He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain—that the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the last.“Ye’re wise to go your ways,” said the innkeeper, as John went into the open air. “Yon man’s no easy to do wi’, when he gets past a certain point. He’ll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he calls it, before he’s done. He’s like a madman, drinking himself to death.”John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened while the man went on to tell of Brownrig’s marriage and all that followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the disappointed man.“She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; and it’s my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she’s safe in America by this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder if he were to set out there in search of her some day.”John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of Brownrig’s angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on.It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his eyes with his hand.“I am glad to be going away,” said Allison, after a little; “and I thank you for—all your kindness.”“Kindness!” repeated John. “I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman.”He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly.“I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;” and then she added: “But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away.”John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her.“I am glad—yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?”Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not withdraw her eyes from his.“Speak wisely, John,” said she.“Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man—that brute, I should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God to bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife? Would it be right for you to go to him?”“Even if it were right, I could not go to him,” said she.“And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a servant in another woman’s house—a wanderer on the face of the earth?”“He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away.”“And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?”“I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think—that I pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine—if I onlygetsafe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have trusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to resist him.”John bent toward her and took her hand.“Will you use your strength against me, Allison?”“No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf.”“Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear,” he entreated, as she put up her hand to stop him, “Yes, let me tell you all. From the first moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day? Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true.”Allison’s colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:“John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what is due from him to her?”“Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long life to do it.”“John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he not uphold her honour before the world?”“We would go away together across the sea.”“Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not make me doubt it.”“Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me.”He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him.“And your mother, John?”“She would forgive us, if it were once done.”“And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know? No, John, it cannot be.”“You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me.”“Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; but I could not go with you. No, I could not.”“Allison, I could make you a happy woman,” said John, ending where he had begun.“And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?”“Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, ‘John, I love you.’”She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met his eyes. But she did meet them bravely.“I think I might have learned to love you—as you said—but I will not do you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will not be lost. God be with you, and fare ye well.”She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did not take the hand which she held out to him.“Is that all you have to say to me?”“We shall be friends always, I hope.”“Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothing between us. You must see that.”She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes.“It cannot be all,” said she, speaking low.John turned and went away without a word.That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning in time to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison’s arms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed:“Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?”John looked up to see the tears in Allison’s sad eyes, and his own softened as he looked.“Good-bye, my friend,” said she. “Good-bye.”Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand this time, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, and in a moment they were gone.John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till it disappeared around a corner of the street, “And now,” said he, “I must to my work again.”

“Unless you can swear for life or for deathOh! fear to call it loving.”

“Unless you can swear for life or for deathOh! fear to call it loving.”

Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day in Aberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found a place prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in the university, had taken up his abode.

It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that he could not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, and Marjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad of the rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For how could she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or of those who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten the dull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward with hope.

Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father had asked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes.

“You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder,” said he.

“And so do we,” said Robin.

“It was a good day for me,” said Allison, and her eyes said more than that.

“Yes, better than you know,” said the doctor. “And for you, too, my wee pale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carry you away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she? May God grant it,” added the doctor reverently.

“I will try to take good care of her,” said Allison.

“I am sure of that.”

When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door.

“I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named over yonder,” said she, casting down her eyes.

“Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has come to inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heard his voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of his sight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be others who would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you.” And then he went away.

“I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfully wedded wife, but I cannot—I have not the heart to betray her into his hands.”

In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since Allison was with her.

“I will have her all to myself,” said Marjorie.

John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm.

“Happy little Marjorie,” he whispered in her ear.

She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison lingered beside her, John said to his friend:

“Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word with Allison.”

Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then he started up in great haste.

“I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don’t go till I come back, John,” said he. “Can I do anything for you, Allison?”

“Nothing more,” said Allison; and Robin disappeared.

There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and about other things.

“Did you see my mother before you came away?” said John.

“Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night.”

And then she added that she thought his mother was “wearying” to see him, and that he should go home soon.

“Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I have been in the parish of Kilgower.”

Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing very pale.

“It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one should be sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. It was asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned the leaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why.”

Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But it had been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly.

He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but John refused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself:

“If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tell after I had eaten his bread.”

Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemed inclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, even friendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. He told John about the country folk, and about the various farms which they passed; and at last they came round by Grassie.

“‘It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likely soon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, much respected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain had gone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father’s death.’

“I kenned by this time what he was to be at,” said John to Allison, when he had got thus far. “And I thought it wiser to take the matter into my own hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of William Bain before. Where could it have been?

“‘In the tollbooth, likely,’ said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for a minute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could not say which. ‘Yes, it might. I have been there,’ I said. ‘I had a friend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once or twice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been out before ever I went there.’

“I saw the change in the man’s face when I said this.

“‘He was here in June,’ he said. ‘He’s off to America now, and I would give much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one can trust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I’ll win to the end o’ the clue yet,’ he said. He had an evil look when he said it.

“I made haste over my work after that,” went on John, “for I could not trust myself to listen. If he had named your name—”

John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out into the darkness.

The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrig appeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with him to see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm that was soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and the matter might as well be considered at once.

On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden’s name was mentioned.

“He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among the rest”; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could not hear, but he answered:

“I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap and good, and skilled labour is well paid,” and so on.

But Brownrig came back again to Bain.

“That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye might let me know.”

“I might possibly hear of him,” said John; “but it is hardly likely.”

He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could still “take care of himself,” or he thought so. He made some pretence of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his “desertion,” as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay.

He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain—that the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the last.

“Ye’re wise to go your ways,” said the innkeeper, as John went into the open air. “Yon man’s no easy to do wi’, when he gets past a certain point. He’ll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he calls it, before he’s done. He’s like a madman, drinking himself to death.”

John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened while the man went on to tell of Brownrig’s marriage and all that followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the disappointed man.

“She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; and it’s my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she’s safe in America by this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder if he were to set out there in search of her some day.”

John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of Brownrig’s angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on.

It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his eyes with his hand.

“I am glad to be going away,” said Allison, after a little; “and I thank you for—all your kindness.”

“Kindness!” repeated John. “I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman.”

He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly.

“I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;” and then she added: “But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away.”

John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her.

“I am glad—yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?”

Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not withdraw her eyes from his.

“Speak wisely, John,” said she.

“Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man—that brute, I should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God to bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife? Would it be right for you to go to him?”

“Even if it were right, I could not go to him,” said she.

“And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a servant in another woman’s house—a wanderer on the face of the earth?”

“He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away.”

“And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?”

“I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think—that I pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine—if I onlygetsafe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have trusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to resist him.”

John bent toward her and took her hand.

“Will you use your strength against me, Allison?”

“No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf.”

“Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear,” he entreated, as she put up her hand to stop him, “Yes, let me tell you all. From the first moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day? Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true.”

Allison’s colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:

“John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what is due from him to her?”

“Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long life to do it.”

“John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he not uphold her honour before the world?”

“We would go away together across the sea.”

“Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not make me doubt it.”

“Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me.”

He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him.

“And your mother, John?”

“She would forgive us, if it were once done.”

“And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know? No, John, it cannot be.”

“You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me.”

“Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; but I could not go with you. No, I could not.”

“Allison, I could make you a happy woman,” said John, ending where he had begun.

“And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?”

“Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, ‘John, I love you.’”

She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met his eyes. But she did meet them bravely.

“I think I might have learned to love you—as you said—but I will not do you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will not be lost. God be with you, and fare ye well.”

She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did not take the hand which she held out to him.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“We shall be friends always, I hope.”

“Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothing between us. You must see that.”

She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes.

“It cannot be all,” said she, speaking low.

John turned and went away without a word.

That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning in time to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison’s arms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed:

“Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?”

John looked up to see the tears in Allison’s sad eyes, and his own softened as he looked.

“Good-bye, my friend,” said she. “Good-bye.”

Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand this time, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, and in a moment they were gone.

John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till it disappeared around a corner of the street, “And now,” said he, “I must to my work again.”

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