Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.“Show me what I have to do,Every hour my strength renew.”“Mistress Beaton,” said the old man, “it is a liberty I am taking to trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get speech o’ Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I may see her, and it is of importance.”Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile.“I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me,” said she.“That’s neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again. Ye hae been doin’ your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen.”“And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself,” said Mrs Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was about to leave the room.“Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that you may not hear.”The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as Allison spoke.“That is as ye shall think yoursel’. This is what I hae to say to you. I hae heard o’ yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed. Ay woman! ye’ll need to go. It’s no’ atween you and him now, but atween you and your Maker.”“It has come at last,” said Allison, growing pale.Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in both hers.“It was an accident,” went on Crombie. “He had been drinking too freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead—it was supposed at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet. He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and hemaylive to leave the place, but it’s less than likely.”“And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?” asked Mrs Beaton, gravely. “And are you quite sure it is true?”“Oh! ay, it’s true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel’ to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I’m thinking. The man’s name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o’ his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me who am the only one here beside yoursel’ who kens how these twa stand to ane anither?”But Mrs Beaton’s heart sickened at the thought of what might be before Allison.“What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?”“That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is no saying ‘wherefore?’ to a message from the Lord. And it is between the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now.”But Mrs Beaton shook her head.“I canna see it so. If he really needed her—if it were a matter of life and death—”“A matter of life and death! Do ye no’ see, woman, that it is for more than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not understand, that a’ the evil deeds o’ a’ his evil life will be coming back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and no’ among the least o’ them the evil he brought on her and hers? And what kens he o’ the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of salvation from death through faith in the Son of God?”Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:“And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, it might encourage him to hope in God’s mercy, and to lippen himsel’—sinner as he kens himsel’ to be—in the hands of Him who is gracious, and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being the means, in the Lord’s hand, of saving a sinner like that!”The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison’s face, spoke earnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into his chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, Allison rose and went out into the kitchen.“Mr Crombie,” said Mrs Beaton, softly, “it is a great thing that you are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright.”The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless.“You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out,” said Mrs Beaton.“Ay, have I. And it’s no’ just done yet, and there is a dark house and a silent at the end o’t. But I’ll win through it.”In a few minutes Allison came in quietly.“Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home.”He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose and went with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fire burned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first he refused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leaned back and seemed ready to fall asleep again.“Mr Crombie,” said Allison, stooping and speaking low, “I will think of what you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guide me. Wait here till I come back again.”She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist’s men on his way to the mill with his cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingering about the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in his present state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone. Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safely sent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street, and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked at one another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubled and anxious than Allison herself.“My dear,” said she, “it looks as if all these years that you have been kept safe from his hands, had been in vain.”“No,” said Allison, “much good has come to me in those years. They have not been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell me what I ought to do.”“My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide. Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what may be before you? Think of living your life—ten—twenty years with a man like that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no one can really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comes to part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it is right for you to do.” Allison sat silent.“It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stood firm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine—far more than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of His will in this thing, I wouldna be afraid.”“But, Allison! Think of your brother.”“Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong.”“Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, at least take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken by surprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself do what can never be undone.”“No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting something to happen ever since I came back again.” And then Allison told of her meeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spoken to her of Brownrig.“He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say, has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have been preparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be far easier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all who know me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. My only thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going. Yet I believe I was guided here.”Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look and listen, astonished, as she went on.“Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And I think—I believe, that I wish to follow God’s wul in this, whatever it may be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel.”“You have the minister—and Mrs Hume.”“Yes, I might speak to them—I must speak to them,” said Allison, with a sigh. “Imustsay something to them. They know nothing of me, except what they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they will blame me much, when they know all.”Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either by the minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But in seeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son went away, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew even more of John’s disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. She had made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silence was best.As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped or comforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply and deliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious, and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whether in mercy or in judgment. Could it be God’s will that Allison’s life should be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him? Surely, surely not.Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie’s words:“Life and death! It is the matter of a soul’s salvation! It is not between you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lord himself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and it shall be forgiven unto you—”Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat in silence, till Mrs Beaton said gently:“Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which you have heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it, my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before you suffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be no escape for many a year and day—from which you may never, all your life, escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years, to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence you against your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seek counsel, as I shall seek it for you.”But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden her good-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allison gently withdrew herself from her clasp.“Pray to God to guide me in the right way,” she whispered, and then she went away.Mrs Beaton slept little that night—less than Allison did, though she had much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie. “Seek counsel,” Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of the night, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came to her that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain have given to her friend.Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Not of Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how it might still be God’s will that he should have the desire of his heart. And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having looked again on that man’s face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name. Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence, to whom had come the blessed “afterward” and “the peaceable fruits of righteousness,” surely, for her it could not be God’s will that the worst was yet to come. Who could say?“And yet, ah me! ourworstis whiles Hisbestfor us and ours! I doubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into my ain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself. She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul’s salvation—that is a great thing—”That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day was dawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was once more standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge, and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen.When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes, where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was saying to herself:“I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for a sign.”It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the house was quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand. The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, and Mrs Hume’s face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allison was in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing with her hands firmly clasped.“I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You will try to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but I could see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to do God’s will, and you will tell me what it is.”She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she was very white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading her to a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding her hand.“We shall be glad to help you if we can,” said the minister.Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtful whether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard it then for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here and there of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of the morbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she had suffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as she went on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were not needed. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she had asked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely:“He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away with the child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. It was a friend who wrote to me—Mr Hadden, our minister’s son. Willie is doing well, and some time I am to go out to him—if I can.”She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume’s clasp, and rose, saying:“Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that—the man who married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me. But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me about him. He said he had seen him—on his dying bed, and in God’s name he bade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he did me. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned against me, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgive if I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same—”Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid her hand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said:“I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter.”Allison looked up.“I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombie buried his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on their headstone, and some one there—meaning me no ill—told him about me. And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to me that I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of his mind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night.”“And to-night he spoke?”“Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton’s house, and warned me that it was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, I must go.”She let her face fall again upon her hands.Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter which he held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from Doctor Fleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig was lying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume to decide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig’s condition, and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who had long been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she should come at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy’s request, that as Mr Brownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him, it might be much for Allison’s interest to respond in a friendly spirit to this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be for Allison’s future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she had forgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered it unnecessary to discuss this letter with her.“Allison,” said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, “no one can decide this matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is well that he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be well also for you.”“Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I never wished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying—”Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over her face, but she did not utter her thought.“Allison,” said Mrs Hume, “I think there is much in what Crombie said. If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help him to believe—it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willing to forgive and receive him.”“You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing of present duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you sees it all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannot see the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go,” said Mr Hume, solemnly.Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a moment came the lost look—the look helpless and hopeless, which they had wondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming among them. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying:“Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time.”“And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight of one another. There is no need for many words between us. This is your home. Come back again as soon as you are able.”Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her to the room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women had something to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when she said good-night, the minister’s wife kissed and blessed her with a full heart.Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the point where she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be said that she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on the hilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge, and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway from Nethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turned as home.“Shall I ever see it again?” she asked herself, sadly. “And how will it be with me then?”But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather, she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day, nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town.“Poor soul!” said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else who stood helpless and fearful there. “Ay! poor soul! But was she not well welcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herself again? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days since then? Why should I be so sore afraid?”And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to the place where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait a while. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent on her bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaseless droning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and the oaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angry and afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous as she had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of the house where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was better to go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself among strangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fear now.Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future? A life which she might loathe perhaps—“But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am trying to do God’s will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will is best.”But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had a bad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen. She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his coming had been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed her altogether.He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprised her, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming’s letter to him. He had, however, sent a note by her to the doctor.“Well?” said she, when he had read it. “Does he tell you what I am to do? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tell you—only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think you would wish to help me,—and—my courage is like to fail.”“Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you to tell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do what you believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all my heart.”Allison’s answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had ever seen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away and occupied himself at his desk.“I hope you will excuse me, sir,” said Allison in a little; “I am tired, for one thing, and—you are so kind. And I am not sure—though I thought I was sure—that I am doing right in coming here—”“I think I know what you would say. And—I think you are right in what you desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able to forgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater the blessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire. Nothing can be kept back.”“But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond—I think I desire to do God’s will, but—”“Ah! do not say ‘but.’ Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You will be brought through. And then—you may help to save a sinful soul. Can you seek to look beyond that?”Allison shook her head.“If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since—since I came to trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, so fearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if I could be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I should have trusted God and stood firm,” said Allison, as she had said so many times before. “And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well as mine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me content with my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, who loves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh! no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speak of. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive—if that were all.”“Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now, Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for a time. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall be drawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the bidding of any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to do right. Now, go away to Mrs Robb’s, and try to sleep well, and wait till you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be for several days. Have you any woman’s work to keep you busy till then?”“I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kind words. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will be patient and wait.”“That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kind of work till you hear from me again.”

“Show me what I have to do,Every hour my strength renew.”

“Show me what I have to do,Every hour my strength renew.”

“Mistress Beaton,” said the old man, “it is a liberty I am taking to trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get speech o’ Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I may see her, and it is of importance.”

Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile.

“I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me,” said she.

“That’s neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again. Ye hae been doin’ your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen.”

“And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself,” said Mrs Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was about to leave the room.

“Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that you may not hear.”

The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as Allison spoke.

“That is as ye shall think yoursel’. This is what I hae to say to you. I hae heard o’ yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed. Ay woman! ye’ll need to go. It’s no’ atween you and him now, but atween you and your Maker.”

“It has come at last,” said Allison, growing pale.

Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in both hers.

“It was an accident,” went on Crombie. “He had been drinking too freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead—it was supposed at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet. He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and hemaylive to leave the place, but it’s less than likely.”

“And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?” asked Mrs Beaton, gravely. “And are you quite sure it is true?”

“Oh! ay, it’s true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel’ to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I’m thinking. The man’s name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o’ his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me who am the only one here beside yoursel’ who kens how these twa stand to ane anither?”

But Mrs Beaton’s heart sickened at the thought of what might be before Allison.

“What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?”

“That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is no saying ‘wherefore?’ to a message from the Lord. And it is between the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now.”

But Mrs Beaton shook her head.

“I canna see it so. If he really needed her—if it were a matter of life and death—”

“A matter of life and death! Do ye no’ see, woman, that it is for more than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not understand, that a’ the evil deeds o’ a’ his evil life will be coming back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and no’ among the least o’ them the evil he brought on her and hers? And what kens he o’ the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of salvation from death through faith in the Son of God?”

Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:

“And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, it might encourage him to hope in God’s mercy, and to lippen himsel’—sinner as he kens himsel’ to be—in the hands of Him who is gracious, and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being the means, in the Lord’s hand, of saving a sinner like that!”

The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison’s face, spoke earnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into his chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, Allison rose and went out into the kitchen.

“Mr Crombie,” said Mrs Beaton, softly, “it is a great thing that you are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright.”

The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless.

“You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out,” said Mrs Beaton.

“Ay, have I. And it’s no’ just done yet, and there is a dark house and a silent at the end o’t. But I’ll win through it.”

In a few minutes Allison came in quietly.

“Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home.”

He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose and went with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fire burned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first he refused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leaned back and seemed ready to fall asleep again.

“Mr Crombie,” said Allison, stooping and speaking low, “I will think of what you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guide me. Wait here till I come back again.”

She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist’s men on his way to the mill with his cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingering about the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in his present state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone. Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safely sent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street, and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked at one another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubled and anxious than Allison herself.

“My dear,” said she, “it looks as if all these years that you have been kept safe from his hands, had been in vain.”

“No,” said Allison, “much good has come to me in those years. They have not been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell me what I ought to do.”

“My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide. Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what may be before you? Think of living your life—ten—twenty years with a man like that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no one can really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comes to part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it is right for you to do.” Allison sat silent.

“It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stood firm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine—far more than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of His will in this thing, I wouldna be afraid.”

“But, Allison! Think of your brother.”

“Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong.”

“Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, at least take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken by surprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself do what can never be undone.”

“No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting something to happen ever since I came back again.” And then Allison told of her meeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spoken to her of Brownrig.

“He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say, has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have been preparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be far easier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all who know me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. My only thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going. Yet I believe I was guided here.”

Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look and listen, astonished, as she went on.

“Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And I think—I believe, that I wish to follow God’s wul in this, whatever it may be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel.”

“You have the minister—and Mrs Hume.”

“Yes, I might speak to them—I must speak to them,” said Allison, with a sigh. “Imustsay something to them. They know nothing of me, except what they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they will blame me much, when they know all.”

Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either by the minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But in seeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son went away, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew even more of John’s disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. She had made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silence was best.

As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped or comforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply and deliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious, and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whether in mercy or in judgment. Could it be God’s will that Allison’s life should be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him? Surely, surely not.

Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie’s words:

“Life and death! It is the matter of a soul’s salvation! It is not between you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lord himself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and it shall be forgiven unto you—”

Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat in silence, till Mrs Beaton said gently:

“Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which you have heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it, my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before you suffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be no escape for many a year and day—from which you may never, all your life, escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years, to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence you against your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seek counsel, as I shall seek it for you.”

But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden her good-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allison gently withdrew herself from her clasp.

“Pray to God to guide me in the right way,” she whispered, and then she went away.

Mrs Beaton slept little that night—less than Allison did, though she had much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie. “Seek counsel,” Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of the night, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came to her that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain have given to her friend.

Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Not of Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how it might still be God’s will that he should have the desire of his heart. And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having looked again on that man’s face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name. Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence, to whom had come the blessed “afterward” and “the peaceable fruits of righteousness,” surely, for her it could not be God’s will that the worst was yet to come. Who could say?

“And yet, ah me! ourworstis whiles Hisbestfor us and ours! I doubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into my ain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself. She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul’s salvation—that is a great thing—”

That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day was dawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was once more standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge, and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen.

When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes, where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was saying to herself:

“I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for a sign.”

It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the house was quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand. The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, and Mrs Hume’s face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allison was in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing with her hands firmly clasped.

“I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You will try to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but I could see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to do God’s will, and you will tell me what it is.”

She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she was very white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading her to a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding her hand.

“We shall be glad to help you if we can,” said the minister.

Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtful whether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard it then for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here and there of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of the morbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she had suffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as she went on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were not needed. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she had asked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely:

“He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away with the child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. It was a friend who wrote to me—Mr Hadden, our minister’s son. Willie is doing well, and some time I am to go out to him—if I can.”

She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume’s clasp, and rose, saying:

“Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that—the man who married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me. But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me about him. He said he had seen him—on his dying bed, and in God’s name he bade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he did me. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned against me, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgive if I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same—”

Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid her hand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said:

“I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter.”

Allison looked up.

“I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombie buried his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on their headstone, and some one there—meaning me no ill—told him about me. And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to me that I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of his mind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night.”

“And to-night he spoke?”

“Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton’s house, and warned me that it was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, I must go.”

She let her face fall again upon her hands.

Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter which he held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from Doctor Fleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig was lying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume to decide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig’s condition, and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who had long been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she should come at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy’s request, that as Mr Brownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him, it might be much for Allison’s interest to respond in a friendly spirit to this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be for Allison’s future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she had forgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered it unnecessary to discuss this letter with her.

“Allison,” said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, “no one can decide this matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is well that he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be well also for you.”

“Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I never wished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying—”

Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over her face, but she did not utter her thought.

“Allison,” said Mrs Hume, “I think there is much in what Crombie said. If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help him to believe—it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willing to forgive and receive him.”

“You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing of present duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you sees it all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannot see the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go,” said Mr Hume, solemnly.

Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a moment came the lost look—the look helpless and hopeless, which they had wondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming among them. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying:

“Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time.”

“And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight of one another. There is no need for many words between us. This is your home. Come back again as soon as you are able.”

Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her to the room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women had something to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when she said good-night, the minister’s wife kissed and blessed her with a full heart.

Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the point where she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be said that she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on the hilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge, and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway from Nethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turned as home.

“Shall I ever see it again?” she asked herself, sadly. “And how will it be with me then?”

But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather, she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day, nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town.

“Poor soul!” said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else who stood helpless and fearful there. “Ay! poor soul! But was she not well welcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herself again? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days since then? Why should I be so sore afraid?”

And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to the place where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait a while. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent on her bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaseless droning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and the oaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angry and afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous as she had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of the house where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was better to go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself among strangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fear now.

Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future? A life which she might loathe perhaps—

“But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am trying to do God’s will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will is best.”

But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had a bad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen. She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his coming had been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed her altogether.

He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprised her, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming’s letter to him. He had, however, sent a note by her to the doctor.

“Well?” said she, when he had read it. “Does he tell you what I am to do? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tell you—only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think you would wish to help me,—and—my courage is like to fail.”

“Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you to tell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do what you believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all my heart.”

Allison’s answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had ever seen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away and occupied himself at his desk.

“I hope you will excuse me, sir,” said Allison in a little; “I am tired, for one thing, and—you are so kind. And I am not sure—though I thought I was sure—that I am doing right in coming here—”

“I think I know what you would say. And—I think you are right in what you desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able to forgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater the blessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire. Nothing can be kept back.”

“But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond—I think I desire to do God’s will, but—”

“Ah! do not say ‘but.’ Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You will be brought through. And then—you may help to save a sinful soul. Can you seek to look beyond that?”

Allison shook her head.

“If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since—since I came to trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, so fearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if I could be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I should have trusted God and stood firm,” said Allison, as she had said so many times before. “And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well as mine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me content with my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, who loves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh! no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speak of. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive—if that were all.”

“Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now, Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for a time. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall be drawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the bidding of any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to do right. Now, go away to Mrs Robb’s, and try to sleep well, and wait till you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be for several days. Have you any woman’s work to keep you busy till then?”

“I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kind words. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will be patient and wait.”

“That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kind of work till you hear from me again.”

Chapter Twenty Six.“What we win and hold, is through some strife.”Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously through the second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming, formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary, which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was a little startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment in deciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he had requested her to do.“Yes,” said the doctor as she entered, “I was sure you would come; you are wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to take up your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be at hand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abode with Mistress Robb. And, my dear,” added the doctor gravely, “I would advise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain it will answer the purpose none the worse for that. You’ll be better pleased with as little notice as may be for the present.”Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in her straight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin covering all her pretty hair.And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay there came back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy. On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage had come to her since then.“I will trust and not be afraid,” she said to herself as she came in at the door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed to another. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten her own care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her.There were no “bad cases” in the room in which she had been placed. There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age, brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk who were taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making ready for another turn or two of hard work before the end should come.“It is no’ that I’m sae ill. I hae done mony a day’s work with more suffering on me than I have now. But oh! I’m weary, weary, I hae lost heart, and it’s time I was awa’,” said one old woman who held Allison’s hand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes.“What brings the like o’ you here?” said another, “to such a place as this. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu’ and ye can lift a head and shake up a pillow without gieing a body’s neck a thraw. But I doubt it’s just that ye’re new to it yet. Ye’ll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (the rest).”“Whisht, woman,” said her neighbour, “be thankful for sma’ mercies. Ye would be but ill off at hame.”“And beyethankfu’ that ye are an auld wife and near done wi’t,” said the neighbour on the other side. “As for mysel’, I’m bowed with rheumatics, and me no’ fifty yet. I may live many years, says the doctor, and what’s to ’come o’ me, the Lord alone kens.”“But,” said Allison, speaking very softly, “He doesken. Dinna you mind, ‘Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you.’”“Ay, but ye see, I’m no’ sae sure that He’s with me now, or that He has ever been with me. That mak’s an awfu’ differ.”“But He is willing to come,—waiting to be asked.”“It may be; I dinna ken,” said the woman gravely.They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered. She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before her work there was done.A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her with her as she went on.“Dinna be troublesome, Nannie,” said a voice from a distant bed.“Come and see my mother,” said the child.Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then.“Ye can do naething for me,” she said as Allison set down the child beside her.“No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?”“Ill enough. But it’s no’ the pain that troubles me. It’s the fear that I mayna get the use o’ my hand again.”“Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that,” said Allison, shaking up the pillows and smoothing the woman’s rough hair, and tying her crumpled cap-strings under her chin. “What does the doctor say about it?”“Ye’ll need to speir at himsel’ to find that out. He says naething to me.”“We will hope better things for you,” said Allison.She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes. She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison’s arms in perfect content.“Come and see Charlie,” said she.Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change.“What ails you, my laddie?” asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright eyes.“Just a sair leg. It’s better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but no’ so bad. Have you ony books?”“No, I brought no book with me except my Bible.”“Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a’.”“Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?” said a voice behind him. “And there’s Bibles here—plenty o’ them.”“Are ye comin’ the morn?” asked the lad.“Yes, I am,” said Allison.“And could ye no’ get a book to bring with you—a book of ony kind—except the catechis?”“Heard ye ever the like o’ that! Wha has had the up-bringin’ o’ you?”“Mysel’ maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin’? Will ye hae a book for me the morn?” said he to Allison.“If I can, and if it’s allowed.”“Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It’s no’ my head, but my leg that’s sair. Readin’ winna do that ony ill, I’m thinkin’.”And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh! the pain, and the weariness!—the murmurs of some, and the dull patience of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever “get used with it,” as the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely it would never come to that with her.Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers—help which she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to prepare her for such a work.For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do.“Allison Bain,” said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood. Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly still from the lips of the speaker.“I saw you—and I couldna keep mysel’ from speaking. But ye needna fear. I will never tell that it is you—or that I have seen you. Oh! I thought I would never see a kenned face again.”The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison had given her.“Is it Mary Brand?” whispered Allison, after a little.“No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and—safe,” and she turned her face away and lay quiet for a while.Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand.“Wait a minute. I must speak to some one—before I die—and I may die this night,” she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. “I’m Annie,” she said. “You’ll mind how my mother died, and my father married again—ower-soon maybe—and we were all angry, and there was no peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,—one went here and another there. We were ower young to take right heed,—and not very strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and—went home to die at last. As for me—I fell into trouble—and I dared na go home. Sometime I may tell you—but I’m done out now. I’m near the end—and oh! Allie—I’m feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord were to forgive me—how could I ever look into my mother’s face in Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I’m sair feared, Allie.”Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on her cheeks.“Annie,” said she, “never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you. I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you. You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no’ mind how Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, ‘Oh! Thou who art mighty to save’?Mightytosave! Think of it, dear. ‘Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’ Jesus said that Himself. Ah! ye are weary and spent—but ye have strength to say, ‘Save me, I perish.’ And that is enough.”“Weary and spent!” Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said faintly, “Come again,” and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before she went away.She came often—every day, and many times a day, and she always had a good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much. Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away—sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, saying to herself: “To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and forget.”But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the end of the first week of Dickson’s stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, there came to her the message for which she had through all the days been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, “Come.”“Is he dying?” she found voice to say, as they passed into the room together.“No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to be roused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannot really harm him.”And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seized her when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, her husband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said to herself, “My husband.”The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to one another, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm, at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answered sensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be let alone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had all their physic done him yet.They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on her face for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and in a little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then they let down the curtain, and the room was in shadow.“A dream—the old dream, ay coming—coming—only a dream,” they heard him say with a sigh.Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room.“He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be more himself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you when he wakens again.”“I am not afraid,” said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she added with a firmer voice, “No, I am not afraid.”“You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will be with you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and come away.”Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone of sympathy escape from him. “I’ll see you again before I leave the place,” said he.So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wondering how this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spoke nor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Fleming returned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door.“That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again? If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora has returned, and I will speak to her.”“I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me. Yes, I would like better to come back again.”And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought an odd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a late rose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor Annie Brand.The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called, and sat beside the sick man’s bed for an hour or two. He followed her with his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. He was restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power to move himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hoped he might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt her sorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and a gleam of anger.“If I could do something for him,” thought she. “But to sit here useless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me.”She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyeswerefollowing her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a small New Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his face away, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then as some one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heard from him yet:“Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away—if she be a woman and not a wraith (spirit),” he added, as he turned his face from the light.It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison’s startled look as he came in at the door.“You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?” said he.“He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and—not with good-will.”“You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made a step in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show your face in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for a long walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must do as I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I ken they keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. But you may have a good while of this work yet,—weeks it may be, ormonths,” and in his heart he said, “God grant it may not be for years.”“Yes, I will go,” said Allison faintly.“And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you have set out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you would help to save this man’s soul.”“I have no thought of turning back,” said Allison.“That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye’ll also need to have a’ your wits about you. You’ll need perfect health and your natural strength, and ye’ll just do my bidding in all things, that you may be fit to meet all that is before you—since it seems to be God’s will that this work is to fall to you.”Allison went at the doctor’s bidding. She wrapped herself up and went down to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than a breeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were coming grandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood and watched them for a while musing.“And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Him could quiet them now, as His ‘Peace, be still,’ quieted the waves on the Sea of Galilee so long ago. ‘Oh! ye of little faith!’ said He, ‘wherefore do ye doubt?’ As He might well say to me this day, for oh! I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sin finding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with? God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, let me never, never doubt Him.”And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her way against it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down to rest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind to struggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemed to her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the place where she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight was lifted a little from her heart.“It is only a day at a time, however long it may be,” she told herself. “It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though I do not.”Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, as she went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the need of its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. It was the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silent lips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in the eyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said to herself that she could not long bear it.“In one way he is better,” said the doctor. “He is coming to himself, and his memory—his power of recalling the past—is improving. He is stronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory his accident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it. He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he may escape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can never recover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will never walk a step again—never. But he may live for years. He may even recover so as to be able to attend to business again—in a way.”Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on.“I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason for speaking now. I do not ask if you have ‘counted the cost.’ I know you have not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which might enable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced in life, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life would be—and might be for years,—spent with this man as his nurse, or his servant—for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand could bear it,—unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slow martyrdom.”Allison sat silent, with her face turned away.“What I have to say to you is this,” went on the doctor. “Since it is impossible—if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should be required at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer, or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he would greatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better.”Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in her eyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waited patiently.“No,” said Allison, “I do not love him, but I have great pity for him—and—I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God’s will. If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet,—till—it is made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well as he. I should have stood fast against him. I hope—I believe, that I wish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way.”“That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men who are not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of what you may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, your life at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care and trouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land.”“That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me, why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might be before me?”“I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but I thought the man was going to die.”“No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day in the street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait to hear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me that night, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he was going to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am not afraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my way clearer, whether I should go or stay.”“Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am not sure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in a thousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed, and you may be that woman. My only fear is—no, I will not say it. I do believe that you are seeking to do God’s will in this matter. Let us hope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you, and to me also.”But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this.“If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I would never have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, I was sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do him some good maybe—pray for him, and all that, and that his conscience might be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. But well ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for the loss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have to live with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havena asked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly to your brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. And if ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, I would help you against him, and all the world, with right good will.”Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not to be moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, and then she must decide. Before those days were over something had happened.One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual among her “auld wives,” and it was late when she came into Brownrig’s room.“What has keepit you?” said he impatiently.It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her.“I have been detained,” said Allison quietly. “Can I do anything for you, now that I am here?”“Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon ye, I should like to ken?”“The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to help them—or any one in distress—my best pleasure.”To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her work with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking, and there was silence, as on other days.“What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?” said Brownrig after a little.“I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way.”No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at the wages.“It must end,” said he angrily.“Mr Brownrig,” said the doctor gravely, “you may not care to take a word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run away, I’ll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane. Be thankfu’ for sma’ mercies, which when ye come to consider them are not so very sma’. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is paid nurse’s wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her patients. But ca’ canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own free will she shall stay—and—if such a time comes,—of her own free will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her care and kindness that you can.”“Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy’s meeting her on the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I doubt that was the best reason for her coming.”“You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the soul of her enemy.”“Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something to leave behind him,” said Brownrig, with a scowl.“As you say,—who has something to leave behind him, and who is as little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, if he did. But that’s neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she’ll go her own way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns can spare her.”And with that the doctor bade him ‘good-day,’ and took his departure.

“What we win and hold, is through some strife.”

“What we win and hold, is through some strife.”

Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously through the second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming, formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary, which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was a little startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment in deciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he had requested her to do.

“Yes,” said the doctor as she entered, “I was sure you would come; you are wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to take up your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be at hand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abode with Mistress Robb. And, my dear,” added the doctor gravely, “I would advise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain it will answer the purpose none the worse for that. You’ll be better pleased with as little notice as may be for the present.”

Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in her straight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin covering all her pretty hair.

And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay there came back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy. On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage had come to her since then.

“I will trust and not be afraid,” she said to herself as she came in at the door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed to another. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten her own care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her.

There were no “bad cases” in the room in which she had been placed. There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age, brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk who were taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making ready for another turn or two of hard work before the end should come.

“It is no’ that I’m sae ill. I hae done mony a day’s work with more suffering on me than I have now. But oh! I’m weary, weary, I hae lost heart, and it’s time I was awa’,” said one old woman who held Allison’s hand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes.

“What brings the like o’ you here?” said another, “to such a place as this. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu’ and ye can lift a head and shake up a pillow without gieing a body’s neck a thraw. But I doubt it’s just that ye’re new to it yet. Ye’ll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (the rest).”

“Whisht, woman,” said her neighbour, “be thankful for sma’ mercies. Ye would be but ill off at hame.”

“And beyethankfu’ that ye are an auld wife and near done wi’t,” said the neighbour on the other side. “As for mysel’, I’m bowed with rheumatics, and me no’ fifty yet. I may live many years, says the doctor, and what’s to ’come o’ me, the Lord alone kens.”

“But,” said Allison, speaking very softly, “He doesken. Dinna you mind, ‘Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you.’”

“Ay, but ye see, I’m no’ sae sure that He’s with me now, or that He has ever been with me. That mak’s an awfu’ differ.”

“But He is willing to come,—waiting to be asked.”

“It may be; I dinna ken,” said the woman gravely.

They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered. She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before her work there was done.

A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her with her as she went on.

“Dinna be troublesome, Nannie,” said a voice from a distant bed.

“Come and see my mother,” said the child.

Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then.

“Ye can do naething for me,” she said as Allison set down the child beside her.

“No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?”

“Ill enough. But it’s no’ the pain that troubles me. It’s the fear that I mayna get the use o’ my hand again.”

“Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that,” said Allison, shaking up the pillows and smoothing the woman’s rough hair, and tying her crumpled cap-strings under her chin. “What does the doctor say about it?”

“Ye’ll need to speir at himsel’ to find that out. He says naething to me.”

“We will hope better things for you,” said Allison.

She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes. She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison’s arms in perfect content.

“Come and see Charlie,” said she.

Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change.

“What ails you, my laddie?” asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright eyes.

“Just a sair leg. It’s better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but no’ so bad. Have you ony books?”

“No, I brought no book with me except my Bible.”

“Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a’.”

“Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?” said a voice behind him. “And there’s Bibles here—plenty o’ them.”

“Are ye comin’ the morn?” asked the lad.

“Yes, I am,” said Allison.

“And could ye no’ get a book to bring with you—a book of ony kind—except the catechis?”

“Heard ye ever the like o’ that! Wha has had the up-bringin’ o’ you?”

“Mysel’ maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin’? Will ye hae a book for me the morn?” said he to Allison.

“If I can, and if it’s allowed.”

“Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It’s no’ my head, but my leg that’s sair. Readin’ winna do that ony ill, I’m thinkin’.”

And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh! the pain, and the weariness!—the murmurs of some, and the dull patience of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever “get used with it,” as the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely it would never come to that with her.

Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers—help which she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to prepare her for such a work.

For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?

She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do.

“Allison Bain,” said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood. Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly still from the lips of the speaker.

“I saw you—and I couldna keep mysel’ from speaking. But ye needna fear. I will never tell that it is you—or that I have seen you. Oh! I thought I would never see a kenned face again.”

The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison had given her.

“Is it Mary Brand?” whispered Allison, after a little.

“No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and—safe,” and she turned her face away and lay quiet for a while.

Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand.

“Wait a minute. I must speak to some one—before I die—and I may die this night,” she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. “I’m Annie,” she said. “You’ll mind how my mother died, and my father married again—ower-soon maybe—and we were all angry, and there was no peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,—one went here and another there. We were ower young to take right heed,—and not very strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and—went home to die at last. As for me—I fell into trouble—and I dared na go home. Sometime I may tell you—but I’m done out now. I’m near the end—and oh! Allie—I’m feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord were to forgive me—how could I ever look into my mother’s face in Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I’m sair feared, Allie.”

Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on her cheeks.

“Annie,” said she, “never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you. I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you. You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no’ mind how Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, ‘Oh! Thou who art mighty to save’?Mightytosave! Think of it, dear. ‘Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’ Jesus said that Himself. Ah! ye are weary and spent—but ye have strength to say, ‘Save me, I perish.’ And that is enough.”

“Weary and spent!” Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said faintly, “Come again,” and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before she went away.

She came often—every day, and many times a day, and she always had a good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much. Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away—sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, saying to herself: “To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and forget.”

But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the end of the first week of Dickson’s stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, there came to her the message for which she had through all the days been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, “Come.”

“Is he dying?” she found voice to say, as they passed into the room together.

“No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to be roused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannot really harm him.”

And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seized her when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, her husband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said to herself, “My husband.”

The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to one another, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm, at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answered sensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be let alone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had all their physic done him yet.

They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on her face for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and in a little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then they let down the curtain, and the room was in shadow.

“A dream—the old dream, ay coming—coming—only a dream,” they heard him say with a sigh.

Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room.

“He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be more himself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you when he wakens again.”

“I am not afraid,” said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she added with a firmer voice, “No, I am not afraid.”

“You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will be with you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and come away.”

Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone of sympathy escape from him. “I’ll see you again before I leave the place,” said he.

So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wondering how this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spoke nor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Fleming returned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door.

“That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again? If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora has returned, and I will speak to her.”

“I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me. Yes, I would like better to come back again.”

And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought an odd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a late rose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor Annie Brand.

The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called, and sat beside the sick man’s bed for an hour or two. He followed her with his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. He was restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power to move himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hoped he might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt her sorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and a gleam of anger.

“If I could do something for him,” thought she. “But to sit here useless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me.”

She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyeswerefollowing her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a small New Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his face away, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then as some one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heard from him yet:

“Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away—if she be a woman and not a wraith (spirit),” he added, as he turned his face from the light.

It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison’s startled look as he came in at the door.

“You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?” said he.

“He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and—not with good-will.”

“You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made a step in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show your face in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for a long walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must do as I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I ken they keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. But you may have a good while of this work yet,—weeks it may be, ormonths,” and in his heart he said, “God grant it may not be for years.”

“Yes, I will go,” said Allison faintly.

“And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you have set out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you would help to save this man’s soul.”

“I have no thought of turning back,” said Allison.

“That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye’ll also need to have a’ your wits about you. You’ll need perfect health and your natural strength, and ye’ll just do my bidding in all things, that you may be fit to meet all that is before you—since it seems to be God’s will that this work is to fall to you.”

Allison went at the doctor’s bidding. She wrapped herself up and went down to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than a breeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were coming grandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood and watched them for a while musing.

“And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Him could quiet them now, as His ‘Peace, be still,’ quieted the waves on the Sea of Galilee so long ago. ‘Oh! ye of little faith!’ said He, ‘wherefore do ye doubt?’ As He might well say to me this day, for oh! I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sin finding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with? God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, let me never, never doubt Him.”

And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her way against it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down to rest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind to struggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemed to her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the place where she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight was lifted a little from her heart.

“It is only a day at a time, however long it may be,” she told herself. “It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though I do not.”

Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, as she went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the need of its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. It was the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silent lips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in the eyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said to herself that she could not long bear it.

“In one way he is better,” said the doctor. “He is coming to himself, and his memory—his power of recalling the past—is improving. He is stronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory his accident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it. He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he may escape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can never recover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will never walk a step again—never. But he may live for years. He may even recover so as to be able to attend to business again—in a way.”

Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on.

“I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason for speaking now. I do not ask if you have ‘counted the cost.’ I know you have not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which might enable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced in life, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life would be—and might be for years,—spent with this man as his nurse, or his servant—for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand could bear it,—unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slow martyrdom.”

Allison sat silent, with her face turned away.

“What I have to say to you is this,” went on the doctor. “Since it is impossible—if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should be required at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer, or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he would greatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better.”

Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in her eyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waited patiently.

“No,” said Allison, “I do not love him, but I have great pity for him—and—I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God’s will. If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet,—till—it is made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well as he. I should have stood fast against him. I hope—I believe, that I wish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way.”

“That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men who are not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of what you may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, your life at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care and trouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land.”

“That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me, why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might be before me?”

“I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but I thought the man was going to die.”

“No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day in the street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait to hear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me that night, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he was going to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am not afraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my way clearer, whether I should go or stay.”

“Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am not sure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in a thousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed, and you may be that woman. My only fear is—no, I will not say it. I do believe that you are seeking to do God’s will in this matter. Let us hope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you, and to me also.”

But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this.

“If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I would never have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, I was sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do him some good maybe—pray for him, and all that, and that his conscience might be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. But well ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for the loss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have to live with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havena asked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly to your brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. And if ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, I would help you against him, and all the world, with right good will.”

Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not to be moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, and then she must decide. Before those days were over something had happened.

One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual among her “auld wives,” and it was late when she came into Brownrig’s room.

“What has keepit you?” said he impatiently.

It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her.

“I have been detained,” said Allison quietly. “Can I do anything for you, now that I am here?”

“Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon ye, I should like to ken?”

“The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to help them—or any one in distress—my best pleasure.”

To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her work with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking, and there was silence, as on other days.

“What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?” said Brownrig after a little.

“I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way.”

No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at the wages.

“It must end,” said he angrily.

“Mr Brownrig,” said the doctor gravely, “you may not care to take a word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run away, I’ll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane. Be thankfu’ for sma’ mercies, which when ye come to consider them are not so very sma’. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is paid nurse’s wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her patients. But ca’ canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own free will she shall stay—and—if such a time comes,—of her own free will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her care and kindness that you can.”

“Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy’s meeting her on the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I doubt that was the best reason for her coming.”

“You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the soul of her enemy.”

“Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something to leave behind him,” said Brownrig, with a scowl.

“As you say,—who has something to leave behind him, and who is as little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, if he did. But that’s neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she’ll go her own way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns can spare her.”

And with that the doctor bade him ‘good-day,’ and took his departure.

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