Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Three.“Let us be content to work—To do the thing we can, and not presumeTo fret because ’tis little.”And it was managed very much to John’s satisfaction, and very easily managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.“Well, yes, I guess so—just as well as not. Glad of your company,” said he, after a second glance at John’s face, and away they went together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as he took his leave of them.“If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you’ve come far enough,” said he, when they came to the top of the hill.He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them.What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands? Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly and naturally as they were cheerfully given.And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the lad’s sake something must be said, something must be done.“He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave,” said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home again.“Yes, we must lose no time,” he repeated, and looked up to meet the lad’s eyes fixed on him.“You have never told me your name,” said he gravely.John laughed.“Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?”“No, I have never heard it.”“And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when they wish to become friends.”There was no answer to this. “Well?” said John, after a little.“I have been thinking—I mean I call myself William Leslie.”“And is that your name?” asked John gravely.“Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter in this new country? My name is nothing to any one.”“But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my father’s before me, and my grandfather’s, and I wouldna change it to be called a lord,” said John gravely. “My lad, I hope you have done nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?”“I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it would give me my revenge!” he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes flashed angrily. “It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to have my name forgotten, and—for Allie’s sake.”He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he rose and turned his back upon him.While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now? Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the barns on a bed of fragrant hay.“I must go back for the plaid and the basket,” said he; and stooping down, he added gently: “My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind that you are Willie Bain.”He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.“Drive right in under cover, Sam,” said the farmer, who followed. “I expect we’ll have to leave it here. We can’t unload in time to do much more. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it had only held up another hour!”The man slid down from the load and made for the field.“Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up,” soliloquised the farmer. “I ’most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!”But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the greatest possible haste to the field.“Perhaps I might help you to unload,” said John from the dimness of the barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second.“I don’t know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead.”John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in embarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the farmer called “pretty considerable quick time.” And then he saw William Bain sitting with John’s plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the corner.“Well! it seems to me that we’re goin’ to have company,” said he.“We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we ventured to take possession of your barn.”“All right. It’s nothing catching he’s had, is it? He’d better go right into the house, hadn’t he?”But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field.“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if we saved most of it now. It’s just possible—with your help,” added he, nodding in a friendly way to John. As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out:“See here, Myra; there’s company out there in the south barn. You tell grandma she’d better have him in, and see to him. There’s nothing catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him comfortable; and she’ll like nothing better.”The rain “held up” for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was triumphant.Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a good sight for John to see.“He’ll do now,” said he to himself. “He has fallen into good hands. I only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up again.”“Be you brothers?” said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them.“We are fellow-countrymen,” said John, “and that makes brothers of us here in a strange land.”The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong’s house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow from the west, when the first heavy shower was over.There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright wood fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged candlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall looking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in another corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the farmer’s wife and his “little daughter,” as Jacob Strong called a slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother’s chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and his household proved true friends to them.Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not that either of the patriarch’s names fitted him exactly. He was not a “supplanter,” and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his character in two words, it would not have been as “a soldier of God” that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his singleness of heart before God.Of course John’s knowledge of his character came later, and by slow degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his talk, which was at once “worldly wise and heavenly simple,” as he afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in nature as in name. He could “hold on.” He had paid every dollar which his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other men’s farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his wife, “who each carried a good head on her shoulders,” as he told John, he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the first hundred, and later, when “the Western fever” set in, and people began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and Jacob’s two hundred acres became four.“And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour comes to cost less, which won’t be for a spell, as things look now,” said he.All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting. Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs Strong’s south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them to know about the lad,—how, though he had known friends of his at home, he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the lake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time.Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend. And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his departure.Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason was soon made clear to him.John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling into the hands of the kind people out at the farm.“It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer he is there, the better it will be for him.”“I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him to-night.”Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and do his best for a while at least.But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his shilling before he laid the hammer down again.“I might have done better, but then I might have done worse,” he admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. “And if I take it up again, it need not be ‘for a continuance,’ as auld Crombie would say. I must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way.”He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages were to be decided upon when his first day’s work should be done, and it need not be said that his wages were of the best.When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had been there before him. Willie Bain’s first word to him was:“Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?”“Do ye no’ mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How was I to ken?” added John, as Willie hung his head. “I did ken you as soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is coming out here to you.”Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have again a home together.“And, Willie, my lad,” added John, gravely, “if I had a sister like yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake.”“You are a man already,” said Willie, with a sound which might have been either a laugh or a sob. “As for me—yes, I ken I havena been taking right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder. But now I have you, and Iwillbe a man for Allie’s sake.”There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not been “taking care of himself,” but John had spoken no word which betrayed his knowledge.They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, John lending his strength to help his friend’s weakness; and he asked:“Would you not like to stay here a little while?”“Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide here for a while.”He spoke eagerly and hopefully.“I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then,” said Willie, looking up at John with Allie’s wistful eyes.“She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for here—in Mr Hadden’s neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. Itis you whowould belookingup to her, because she is wiser than you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength—to walk by your own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things,” said John, gravely.“Do ye ken Allie well?” asked Willie, looking up into his friend’s face.John hesitated a moment.“I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in difficult places, so that all those whodoknow her well, respect her, and some few people love her dearly—my mother among the rest.”“You must tell me all about her some time,” said Willie, with glistening eyes.“Yes,” said John. Then he paused before he added:“I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you should say nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one.”Willie withdrew his hand from John’s arm, and turned upon him with a face white with anger.“Married! Happy! I’ll swear that he has never touched her hand, nor looked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?”“Thank God!” said John; “and may he never touch her hand, nor look upon her face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now.”Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him more about his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how they had valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father and mother had intrusted to Allison’s care, and of the child’s love for her, and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for the child. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no one would harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont’s care. John talked on till the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea.The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together were:“You don’t think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do you? I don’t think you had better—for a day or two, at least.”It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little stronger.“We’re glad to have him stay. Don’t you say a word about it,” was the younger Mrs Strong’s answer, when John tried to thank her for all their kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he should be strong and well.“You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. You could pay your way and his too, and have something over,” said Mr Strong.But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a while.“Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as well as there.”And John answered:“Yes, I will be glad to come.”Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself.“Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happened well, and—not by chance,” added he, reverently, recalling many a one at home who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place—and thinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be “remembering” both him and his friend there.It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, before all the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, in search of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. There was room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and to live honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he bettered himself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours, and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, new comers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend were liked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome which they got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy days came to them through the friends they found there, before all was done.It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in those circumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he was strong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If he had found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himself with leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision of Mr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriend him. But John could not quite free himself from a sense of responsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of him for a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. He would not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant to travel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might do something toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison’s sake.So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day’s work with the rest. It was hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat, and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, and he was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he was himself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for his work as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter which he sent her, after he began.He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As no one else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessary to speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearing of some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write to Allison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John’s kindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him.Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question, whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where he was, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more than once in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to him should he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no haste about it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and he must have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was not making a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him to be alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do the very best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for his mother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst of kind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than content to join him when the right time came.And so John followed his mother’s counsel. He kept his eyes open and “worked away,” and by the end of the first year, he began to see his way clear to “the measure of success” which his mother desired for him. He had proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those who had employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a one besides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, at that time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town of Barstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances of some of the people who lived in the big white houses among the trees along the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a few weeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down.The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year, were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendly with him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and because he was a friend of William Bain’s. Afterward, they were more than friendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprise in finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of wide reading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymen who had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beaton was different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, in that it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made for unconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certain ways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but of which it is desirable that one should be aware.But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. He never had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had “kept himself to himself,” as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must be owned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and in one or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He had no time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but he might have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had not much leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years, he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and in connection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged, he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his best friends.All that need be told of the first three years of his residence in Barstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his mother about that time.“You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desire of your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired for me nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father had done, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I am doing. There is this difference between us—that I have got ‘a measure of success’ on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man, and I have no desire to be one—though even that may come in time. But I stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. I have ‘got on’ well even for this country, where all things move more rapidly than with us at home.“I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They have helped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence. I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, but they have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends.“Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will own that I have sometimes wearied of them—and of everything else. But one’s life must go on till God’s will brings it to an end, and I know of no other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as I have told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along.“And now, dear mother—when are you coming home?—For this is to be your home, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you can wait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on in different parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house is laid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath the maple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinks every night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and I shall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home.“I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall be quite content when that time comes.“William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. He was wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back since then. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannot blame them for their advice—or rather, for their silence. And I cannot blame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her—Amen.”And so the letter ends, without even his name.

“Let us be content to work—To do the thing we can, and not presumeTo fret because ’tis little.”

“Let us be content to work—To do the thing we can, and not presumeTo fret because ’tis little.”

And it was managed very much to John’s satisfaction, and very easily managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.

“Well, yes, I guess so—just as well as not. Glad of your company,” said he, after a second glance at John’s face, and away they went together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as he took his leave of them.

“If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you’ve come far enough,” said he, when they came to the top of the hill.

He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them.

What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands? Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly and naturally as they were cheerfully given.

And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the lad’s sake something must be said, something must be done.

“He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave,” said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home again.

“Yes, we must lose no time,” he repeated, and looked up to meet the lad’s eyes fixed on him.

“You have never told me your name,” said he gravely.

John laughed.

“Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?”

“No, I have never heard it.”

“And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when they wish to become friends.”

There was no answer to this. “Well?” said John, after a little.

“I have been thinking—I mean I call myself William Leslie.”

“And is that your name?” asked John gravely.

“Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter in this new country? My name is nothing to any one.”

“But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my father’s before me, and my grandfather’s, and I wouldna change it to be called a lord,” said John gravely. “My lad, I hope you have done nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?”

“I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it would give me my revenge!” he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes flashed angrily. “It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to have my name forgotten, and—for Allie’s sake.”

He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he rose and turned his back upon him.

While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now? Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the barns on a bed of fragrant hay.

“I must go back for the plaid and the basket,” said he; and stooping down, he added gently: “My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind that you are Willie Bain.”

He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.

“Drive right in under cover, Sam,” said the farmer, who followed. “I expect we’ll have to leave it here. We can’t unload in time to do much more. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it had only held up another hour!”

The man slid down from the load and made for the field.

“Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up,” soliloquised the farmer. “I ’most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!”

But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the greatest possible haste to the field.

“Perhaps I might help you to unload,” said John from the dimness of the barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second.

“I don’t know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead.”

John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in embarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the farmer called “pretty considerable quick time.” And then he saw William Bain sitting with John’s plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the corner.

“Well! it seems to me that we’re goin’ to have company,” said he.

“We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we ventured to take possession of your barn.”

“All right. It’s nothing catching he’s had, is it? He’d better go right into the house, hadn’t he?”

But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field.

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if we saved most of it now. It’s just possible—with your help,” added he, nodding in a friendly way to John. As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out:

“See here, Myra; there’s company out there in the south barn. You tell grandma she’d better have him in, and see to him. There’s nothing catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him comfortable; and she’ll like nothing better.”

The rain “held up” for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was triumphant.

Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a good sight for John to see.

“He’ll do now,” said he to himself. “He has fallen into good hands. I only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up again.”

“Be you brothers?” said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them.

“We are fellow-countrymen,” said John, “and that makes brothers of us here in a strange land.”

The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong’s house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow from the west, when the first heavy shower was over.

There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright wood fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged candlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall looking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in another corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the farmer’s wife and his “little daughter,” as Jacob Strong called a slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother’s chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and his household proved true friends to them.

Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not that either of the patriarch’s names fitted him exactly. He was not a “supplanter,” and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his character in two words, it would not have been as “a soldier of God” that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his singleness of heart before God.

Of course John’s knowledge of his character came later, and by slow degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his talk, which was at once “worldly wise and heavenly simple,” as he afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in nature as in name. He could “hold on.” He had paid every dollar which his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other men’s farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his wife, “who each carried a good head on her shoulders,” as he told John, he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the first hundred, and later, when “the Western fever” set in, and people began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and Jacob’s two hundred acres became four.

“And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour comes to cost less, which won’t be for a spell, as things look now,” said he.

All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting. Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs Strong’s south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them to know about the lad,—how, though he had known friends of his at home, he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the lake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time.

Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend. And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his departure.

Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason was soon made clear to him.

John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling into the hands of the kind people out at the farm.

“It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer he is there, the better it will be for him.”

“I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him to-night.”

Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and do his best for a while at least.

But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his shilling before he laid the hammer down again.

“I might have done better, but then I might have done worse,” he admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. “And if I take it up again, it need not be ‘for a continuance,’ as auld Crombie would say. I must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way.”

He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages were to be decided upon when his first day’s work should be done, and it need not be said that his wages were of the best.

When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had been there before him. Willie Bain’s first word to him was:

“Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?”

“Do ye no’ mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How was I to ken?” added John, as Willie hung his head. “I did ken you as soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is coming out here to you.”

Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have again a home together.

“And, Willie, my lad,” added John, gravely, “if I had a sister like yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake.”

“You are a man already,” said Willie, with a sound which might have been either a laugh or a sob. “As for me—yes, I ken I havena been taking right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder. But now I have you, and Iwillbe a man for Allie’s sake.”

There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not been “taking care of himself,” but John had spoken no word which betrayed his knowledge.

They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, John lending his strength to help his friend’s weakness; and he asked:

“Would you not like to stay here a little while?”

“Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide here for a while.”

He spoke eagerly and hopefully.

“I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then,” said Willie, looking up at John with Allie’s wistful eyes.

“She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for here—in Mr Hadden’s neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. Itis you whowould belookingup to her, because she is wiser than you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength—to walk by your own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things,” said John, gravely.

“Do ye ken Allie well?” asked Willie, looking up into his friend’s face.

John hesitated a moment.

“I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in difficult places, so that all those whodoknow her well, respect her, and some few people love her dearly—my mother among the rest.”

“You must tell me all about her some time,” said Willie, with glistening eyes.

“Yes,” said John. Then he paused before he added:

“I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you should say nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one.”

Willie withdrew his hand from John’s arm, and turned upon him with a face white with anger.

“Married! Happy! I’ll swear that he has never touched her hand, nor looked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?”

“Thank God!” said John; “and may he never touch her hand, nor look upon her face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now.”

Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him more about his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how they had valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father and mother had intrusted to Allison’s care, and of the child’s love for her, and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for the child. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no one would harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont’s care. John talked on till the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea.

The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together were:

“You don’t think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do you? I don’t think you had better—for a day or two, at least.”

It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little stronger.

“We’re glad to have him stay. Don’t you say a word about it,” was the younger Mrs Strong’s answer, when John tried to thank her for all their kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he should be strong and well.

“You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. You could pay your way and his too, and have something over,” said Mr Strong.

But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a while.

“Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as well as there.”

And John answered:

“Yes, I will be glad to come.”

Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself.

“Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happened well, and—not by chance,” added he, reverently, recalling many a one at home who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place—and thinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be “remembering” both him and his friend there.

It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, before all the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, in search of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. There was room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and to live honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he bettered himself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours, and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, new comers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend were liked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome which they got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy days came to them through the friends they found there, before all was done.

It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in those circumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he was strong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If he had found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himself with leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision of Mr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriend him. But John could not quite free himself from a sense of responsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of him for a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. He would not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant to travel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might do something toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison’s sake.

So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day’s work with the rest. It was hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat, and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, and he was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he was himself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for his work as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter which he sent her, after he began.

He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As no one else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessary to speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearing of some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write to Allison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John’s kindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him.

Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question, whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where he was, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more than once in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to him should he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no haste about it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and he must have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was not making a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him to be alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do the very best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for his mother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst of kind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than content to join him when the right time came.

And so John followed his mother’s counsel. He kept his eyes open and “worked away,” and by the end of the first year, he began to see his way clear to “the measure of success” which his mother desired for him. He had proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those who had employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a one besides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, at that time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town of Barstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances of some of the people who lived in the big white houses among the trees along the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a few weeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down.

The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year, were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendly with him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and because he was a friend of William Bain’s. Afterward, they were more than friendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprise in finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of wide reading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymen who had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beaton was different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, in that it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made for unconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certain ways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but of which it is desirable that one should be aware.

But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. He never had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had “kept himself to himself,” as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must be owned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and in one or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He had no time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but he might have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had not much leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years, he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and in connection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged, he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his best friends.

All that need be told of the first three years of his residence in Barstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his mother about that time.

“You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desire of your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired for me nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father had done, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I am doing. There is this difference between us—that I have got ‘a measure of success’ on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man, and I have no desire to be one—though even that may come in time. But I stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. I have ‘got on’ well even for this country, where all things move more rapidly than with us at home.

“I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They have helped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence. I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, but they have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends.

“Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will own that I have sometimes wearied of them—and of everything else. But one’s life must go on till God’s will brings it to an end, and I know of no other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as I have told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along.

“And now, dear mother—when are you coming home?—For this is to be your home, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you can wait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on in different parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house is laid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath the maple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinks every night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and I shall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home.

“I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall be quite content when that time comes.

“William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. He was wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back since then. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannot blame them for their advice—or rather, for their silence. And I cannot blame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her—Amen.”

And so the letter ends, without even his name.

Chapter Twenty Four.“Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child.”“Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?” said Marjorie Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend’s face, for Allison had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time.They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child repeated the question:“Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?”“I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us again.”“And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay wishing to win away to your brother in America—at least for a while?”“No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry,” said Allison, after a pause. “And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is too early yet to see Dr Fleming.”“But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long—the sea that has helped to make me strong and well.”“It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same sun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to lose.”They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, a hand was laid on Allison’s arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father.“Mr Rainy!” cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.“Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he would say, ‘Put yourself into my old friend’s hand, and be advised and guided by him, and ye’ll never have cause to repent it.’ And now I say it for him.”Allison shook her head.“I cannot do that—blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child.”“The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is,” said Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. “And whose child may she be?”“She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all this time, and I need help from no one.”“In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I’ll be bound! Well! well! And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that has gone by since you—were lost sight of. That is well.”“It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to account,” said Allison, coldly.Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street together.“A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise.”“Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands.”And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him standing there.Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great house on the laird’s business, he had given counsel to Allison’s father with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstances of Allison’s unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base.But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over. For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she would remain within a short day’s journey of the place where all her life had been spent.Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of a brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who had married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it might have gone ill with them both.“But it is different now,” he said to himself, as he went down the street. “Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And his heart is softening—yes, I think his heart must be softening. He might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him. A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him at once.”Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the doctor had much before him in his day’s work. The patience with which he listened, soon changed to eager interest. “It is about Brownrig—the man whose horse fell with him in the street—that I want to ask. He was brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him.”Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the story of Allison Bain.“I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named your name, and I thought you might help in the matter.”Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain. He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that shehada story, and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:“What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to die.” And then he added, with an oath, “If I thought he might live, I would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he is to die—that is another thing.”Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two together, and he said no more.“I will see the man to-day,” said the doctor, gravely.As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first.“My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie Hume. You’ll mind on me, I think.”Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, kissed her, “cheek and chin.”“My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?”“Oh! yes. I’m quite well and strong now—just like other bairns. I’m not very big yet,” added she, as he set her down again. “But I am well. Allie will tell you.”Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling.“She is much better indeed,” said she.“You should say quite well, Allie dear,” urged Marjorie, in a whisper.“Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your time is precious.”“Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?”No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with interest till they passed round the corner out of sight.When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in answer to the doctor’s questions Allison told briefly and directly all that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it up, he said:“The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words.”“Yes,” said Allison. “You are right there.”She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on.“I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and healing. But in a while, it was not just acasewith him. He soon came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying so much,” said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her.“Oh! yes. I understand well.” And then he opened his letter and read a line or two.“‘It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it has paid me ten times over for my trouble.’”“I am sure of it,” said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. “I could never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life. It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see her father’s face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child.”Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few words more from it.“‘You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She is a woman among a thousand—a born nurse—’”Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes.“Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because—if a time should come when—”And then she paused as she met Marjorie’s wondering eyes. The doctor had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of Brownrig’s condition. But he could not bring himself to do it.“I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming.”“A happy homecoming!” It was that truly. When they came to the mill, where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that she could walk, and even run, “like the other bairns.” And then everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending her away to a good man’s care. But Robert laughed at her, and said there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very first steps at home.The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people to see them as they passed down the street. Every window and door showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before she made the turn which brought the manse in sight.And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in Allison’s arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And now she was “strong and well,” she told them all, and the eager, smiling face was “bonnier and sweeter than ever,” her admiring friends agreed.And those who could not come to see her, she went to see—auld Maggie and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the child.In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink tea at Mrs Beaton’s, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton read to them bits out of her John’s last letters, which told a good many interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her old friend’s kindly face with wistful eyes.That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things to tell John’s mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who had helped one another through the time when they were making the first doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But Willie had told his sister of his friend’s success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for “kenning a good man when they saw him.”“For,” said Willie, “it is not just an imagination, or a way of speaking, to say, that in this land ‘all men are free and equal.’ Of course, there are all kinds of men—rich and poor, good, bad, and indifferent—here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than another because of his family, or his father’s wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.“He has been a good friend to me—better than I could ever tell you, and nothing shall come between us to separate us,thatI say, and swear. Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. There is surely no danger now after nearly three years.”All this Allison read to John’s mother, and there was something more which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had betrayed, that the “something” which was never to be permitted to come between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where she had been for a year or more, “has been as changeable as the wind with me,” wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first intended to do.The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was going to build a house upon it.“It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be hard for him to part from her.“The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I take up land of my own—and you must come when I have got it—”All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring herself to read it to Mrs Beaton.“He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it to me. I am glad—or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor lad.”And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came stumbling in.

“Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child.”

“Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child.”

“Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?” said Marjorie Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend’s face, for Allison had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time.

They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child repeated the question:

“Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?”

“I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us again.”

“And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay wishing to win away to your brother in America—at least for a while?”

“No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry,” said Allison, after a pause. “And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is too early yet to see Dr Fleming.”

“But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long—the sea that has helped to make me strong and well.”

“It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same sun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to lose.”

They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, a hand was laid on Allison’s arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father.

“Mr Rainy!” cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.

“Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he would say, ‘Put yourself into my old friend’s hand, and be advised and guided by him, and ye’ll never have cause to repent it.’ And now I say it for him.”

Allison shook her head.

“I cannot do that—blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child.”

“The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is,” said Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. “And whose child may she be?”

“She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all this time, and I need help from no one.”

“In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I’ll be bound! Well! well! And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that has gone by since you—were lost sight of. That is well.”

“It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to account,” said Allison, coldly.

Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street together.

“A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise.”

“Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands.”

And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him standing there.

Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great house on the laird’s business, he had given counsel to Allison’s father with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstances of Allison’s unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base.

But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over. For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she would remain within a short day’s journey of the place where all her life had been spent.

Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of a brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who had married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it might have gone ill with them both.

“But it is different now,” he said to himself, as he went down the street. “Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And his heart is softening—yes, I think his heart must be softening. He might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him. A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him at once.”

Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the doctor had much before him in his day’s work. The patience with which he listened, soon changed to eager interest. “It is about Brownrig—the man whose horse fell with him in the street—that I want to ask. He was brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him.”

Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the story of Allison Bain.

“I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named your name, and I thought you might help in the matter.”

Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain. He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that shehada story, and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:

“What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to die.” And then he added, with an oath, “If I thought he might live, I would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he is to die—that is another thing.”

Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two together, and he said no more.

“I will see the man to-day,” said the doctor, gravely.

As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first.

“My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie Hume. You’ll mind on me, I think.”

Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, kissed her, “cheek and chin.”

“My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?”

“Oh! yes. I’m quite well and strong now—just like other bairns. I’m not very big yet,” added she, as he set her down again. “But I am well. Allie will tell you.”

Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling.

“She is much better indeed,” said she.

“You should say quite well, Allie dear,” urged Marjorie, in a whisper.

“Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your time is precious.”

“Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?”

No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with interest till they passed round the corner out of sight.

When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in answer to the doctor’s questions Allison told briefly and directly all that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it up, he said:

“The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words.”

“Yes,” said Allison. “You are right there.”

She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on.

“I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and healing. But in a while, it was not just acasewith him. He soon came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying so much,” said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her.

“Oh! yes. I understand well.” And then he opened his letter and read a line or two.

“‘It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it has paid me ten times over for my trouble.’”

“I am sure of it,” said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. “I could never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life. It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see her father’s face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child.”

Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few words more from it.

“‘You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She is a woman among a thousand—a born nurse—’”

Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes.

“Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because—if a time should come when—”

And then she paused as she met Marjorie’s wondering eyes. The doctor had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of Brownrig’s condition. But he could not bring himself to do it.

“I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming.”

“A happy homecoming!” It was that truly. When they came to the mill, where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that she could walk, and even run, “like the other bairns.” And then everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending her away to a good man’s care. But Robert laughed at her, and said there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very first steps at home.

The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people to see them as they passed down the street. Every window and door showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before she made the turn which brought the manse in sight.

And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.

For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in Allison’s arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.

That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And now she was “strong and well,” she told them all, and the eager, smiling face was “bonnier and sweeter than ever,” her admiring friends agreed.

And those who could not come to see her, she went to see—auld Maggie and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the child.

In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink tea at Mrs Beaton’s, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton read to them bits out of her John’s last letters, which told a good many interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her old friend’s kindly face with wistful eyes.

That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things to tell John’s mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who had helped one another through the time when they were making the first doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But Willie had told his sister of his friend’s success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for “kenning a good man when they saw him.”

“For,” said Willie, “it is not just an imagination, or a way of speaking, to say, that in this land ‘all men are free and equal.’ Of course, there are all kinds of men—rich and poor, good, bad, and indifferent—here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than another because of his family, or his father’s wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.

“He has been a good friend to me—better than I could ever tell you, and nothing shall come between us to separate us,thatI say, and swear. Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. There is surely no danger now after nearly three years.”

All this Allison read to John’s mother, and there was something more which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had betrayed, that the “something” which was never to be permitted to come between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where she had been for a year or more, “has been as changeable as the wind with me,” wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first intended to do.

The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was going to build a house upon it.

“It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be hard for him to part from her.

“The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I take up land of my own—and you must come when I have got it—”

All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring herself to read it to Mrs Beaton.

“He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it to me. I am glad—or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor lad.”

And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came stumbling in.

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