Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Gershom Manufacturing Company.The possibility and desirableness of advancing the interests of the town of Gershom by the still further “utilising” of the waters of the Beaver River for manufacturing purposes, had long been a matter earnestly discussed among the people. At various towns within the last five years measures had been proposed, tending toward the accomplishment of this object, but hitherto it had been with little result.As a rule, the various industries which now gave prosperity and importance to the place had grown out of small beginnings. On the spot where now stood Cartwright’s Carriage Factory, well known through all the countryside, old Joshua Cartwright had faithfully and laboriously spent his days in making tubs and stools, sugar-troughs, and axe-helves for the early settlers. The shed where, in those days, Simon Horton had shod their horses and oxen, had grown in the course of years into the Gershom axe-factory, which bade fair to make a rich man of his daughter’s son.But the slow and sure process which had served their fathers in their advances toward wealth were not likely to content the men of Gershom now, and there had been much talk among them about the forming of a company to be called “The Gershom Manufacturing Company,” the object of which was to be the establishment of new industries in the town.Meetings were held, and speeches were made. The “enterprise and public spirit of certain of our fellow-townsmen” were highly lauded, and a wonderful future of prosperity for the town of Gershom and the surrounding country was foretold as the result of the step about to be taken. The Beaver River was made the subject of long and laudatory discussion. Its motive power was calculated and valued, and the long running to waste of its waters deplored. A committee was appointed for the arranging of preliminaries, and that was as far as the matter progressed at that time.Other attempts were made later in the same direction. Some of them passed beyond preliminary arrangements, and more than once the more sanguine among the promoters of these schemes made sure of a successful issue, but all had failed when the practical part of the business had been touched.The cause of this did not always clearly appear. Once at least it was attributed by some of the disappointed towns-people to the obstinacy and avarice of Jacob Holt. The old woollen-mill built by Gershom Holt in the early days of the settlement had served a good purpose in the country for a good many years. But it was time now, it was thought, for the work to be carried on in Gershom on a larger scale. The old building itself was of little value, and the old-fashioned machinery it contained was of less, but the site was considered to be the best in Gershom for a manufactory of the kind. Jacob Holt professed to be quite ready to dispose of it to the company on reasonable terms; but when it came to the point, no agreement could be made as to what were reasonable terms, and so the old mill plodded on in the old way for a while, and within a year a new mill was built in the neighbouring township of Fosbrooke. There was much indignation expressed with regard to this matter in Gershom, but Jacob troubled himself little about it. The old mill had gone the way of most old mills since then; it had caught fire one wintry night and burned to the ground, and the Gershom paper-mill had been built on the site.Jacob had not come down in his ideas as to the value he set upon it, but he had been content to take shares in the building instead of the “cash down” which he had demanded before. In this way, and in other ways, he came by and by to be the largest shareholder in the concern, and when later, partly through the inefficiency of the person who had charge of the business, and partly for other reasons, paper-making began to look like a losing concern, the value of the shares went down, and in course of time most of them fell into his hands. So it was “Holt’s Paper-mill” now, and there was no other manufacturing company as yet in existence in Gershom. The chances were, it was said, that had the first company succeeded with the woollen-mill it might have fallen into the same hands, and as far as the general property of the town was concerned, it might as well have been Jacob Holt’s hands as others’. But those who had lost, or who fancied they had lost, by his part in these two transactions, were watchful and suspicious of his movements when once more the wise men of Gershom began to see visions of what might be done by the combined powers of the Beaver River, the enterprise of the people, and the use of a moderate amount of capital to advance the prosperity of their town.Their ideas had still advanced with the times. Their plans were not limited to a woollen-mill now. Machine shops of all sorts, a match factory, furniture-shops, even a cotton factory was spoken of. Indeed, there were no limits to the manufacturing possibilities of the place, as far as talk went. Money was needed, and a good deal of it, and the people of Gershom wisely contemplated the propriety of making use of other people’s money in building up the town, and for this purpose it was desirable that the company should embrace the rich men of other towns as well. Some of those rich men came in an informal way and looked about, and admired the Beaver River, and talked and thought a good deal about the scheme. The banks of the river above and below the town were examined with a view to deciding on the building of a new dam, and Mr Fleming’s refusal to sell any part of his land had been in answer to Jacob Holt’s offer on behalf of the prospective company.All this had taken place about the time when Mr Maxwell came to Gershom, and when he had been there a year no advance had been made in the way of actual work.The greater part of the land on the north side of the river, as far up as Ythan Brae, had always belonged to the Holts. During the past year the land of Mark Varney, on the south side, had also fallen into their hands. For poor Mark’s wife died, and any hope that his friends were beginning to have that he might redeem his character was quite lost for the time. He sold his place, already heavily burdened with debt, to Jacob Holt; his mother became Mr Maxwell’s housekeeper in the new parsonage, taking her little grandchild with her, and poor Mark went away—none for a while knew whither.But the chief thing that concerned the people of Gershom was that Jacob Holt had got his land, and the conclusion at once arrived at was that at the point on the river where his pasture and wood-lot met, the new dam was to be made, and that on his land, and on the land opposite, the new factories, and the new town that must grow out of them, were to be built.“What Jacob ought to do now would be to go right on and make a good beginning on his own account. If there is ever going to be anything done in Gershom, that is the spot for it, and the company would have to come to his terms at last.”So said Gershom folks, wondering that the rich man of the place should “kind o’ hang back” when such a chance of money-making seemed to lie before him. But Jacob knew several things as yet only surmised by Gershom folks in general. It was by no means certain after all that the Gershom Manufacturing Company would come into existence immediately. And even if it should, the chances were that among its members would be more than one man who would be little likely to yield himself to the dictation or even to the direction of Jacob Holt, as his townsmen had fallen into the way of doing where the outlay of capital was concerned. It would be easy to make a beginning, but Jacob looked further than a beginning.Gershom was not the only place whose inhabitants cherished the ambition to become a manufacturing community and there were other rivers besides the Beaver running to waste, which might be made available as a manufacturing power. A company, with sufficient amount of stock subscribed and paid for, might agree to put Fosbrooke, or Fairfax, or Crowsville down as the name, and carry their money, and their influence, and the chance of acquiring wealth to either of their thriving towns; and a beginning in Gershom would amount to very little in such a case.And then the river bank on the Varney place was not, in Mr Holt’s opinion, the best place for the new mills and the new village. It was not to be compared to the point just below which Bear’s Creek, or, as the Flemings called it, Ythan Brae, flowed into the Beaver, and this also belonged to Mr Fleming. Jacob would have liked to make his beginning there. He knew, for he had taken advice on the matter, that at the Varney place no dam of sufficient capacity to answer all the purposes which were contemplated by the company could be made, without at certain seasons of the year so flooding the land above it as to render it useless for any purpose. He might have taken the risk of probable lawsuits, and gone on with the work, if it had depended on him alone to decide the matter. But it did not. Or he would have bought it, but that it belonged to David Fleming, who would listen to no proposal from his “enemy.”It was not that Mr Fleming was not satisfied with the terms offered. He would listen to no terms. Indeed he refused to discuss the matter with his neighbours, not only with those who might be suspected of wishing for one reason or another to convince him of the folly of not taking advantage of a good offer for his land, but with those who sympathised with him in his dislike to Jacob Holt, who went further than he did even, and called the rich man not only avaricious, but worse. He would listen to nothing about it, but rose and turned his back on the bold man who ventured to approach the subject in his presence.In all this Jacob Holt felt himself to be hardly used. He declared to himself that he wished to do the right thing by Mr Fleming. He was willing to give him the full value of every foot of his land, and above its value. That the advancement of the interests of the town and the welfare of the whole community should be interfered with, because of an obstinate old man’s whim, seemed to him intolerable; he did not want the land. Let Mr Fleming treat with the company—there was no company as yet, however—and let him pay him his just debt, that was all he asked of him.He did not speak often about this to any one—not a man in Gershom but had more to say about it than he. But he thought about it continually. If it had been any other man in Gershom who had so withstood him, he would long ago have taken such measures as would have brought him to his senses. He could do so lawfully, by and by. The law had sustained him in dealing with much harder cases than Mr Fleming’s, though it was not altogether pleasant to remember some of them. But there could be no question but that it would be for the interest of the Flemings, old and young, were his terms agreed to. No one would have a right to say a word, though he were to carry his point against the old man, and claim what was his due.All this he said to himself many times, but still he could not do it, at least he could not bring himself to do it at once. His father, though he acknowledged the unreasonableness of his friend, would yet be grieved at the taking of extreme measures against him; his sister would be indignant, and he was a little afraid of Elizabeth. The church union, which he with all the rest of Gershom had earnestly desired, would be endangered; for he knew by many tokens that some of the North Gore men were hanging back because of him. Public opinion would not sustain him in any steps taken against so old a man, and one who had seen so much trouble since he came among them, and he did not wish to take severe measures, he told himself many times. It is just possible that the remembrance of the lad who had been his companion and friend, who had been cut off in the flower of his youth, to the never-dying sorrow of the old man who opposed him, had something to do with his hesitation in this matter. But even to himself this was never acknowledged; all he could do was to wait and see whether some sudden turn of events might not serve to bring about his purpose better than severity could do.In the meantime, after many thoughts about it, when the few scanty fields on the Varney place were harvested, he did make a beginning. He brought old Joe Middlemas to the place, who walked about with all the appliances for surveying it, and for laying it out in building lots. He had some trees cut down, and some hillocks levelled, and kept several men for a time employed in bringing loads of stone to the river’s bank, in a way that looked very much like making a beginning. But the heavy autumn rains put an end to all this for a while, and as yet there existed no manufacturing company in Gershom, nor was there any immediate prospect that the hopes of the people with regard to it were likely to be realised.“They’re fine at speaking, grannie,” said young Davie, who had been keeping his eyes and his ears open to all that was going on in Gershom. “But grandfather and you may be at peace about the dam and the mischief it might do for a while anyway. It may come in my day, but it winna come in yours, unless that should happen which is not very likely to happen, and all the rich men in the country should put their names and their money at the disposal of King Jacob. He may measure his land, and gather his sticks and his stones together, but that is all it will come to, this while at any rate. Though why grandfather should be so unwilling to part with a few acres of poor land to Jacob Holt is more than I can understand.”“It is a wonder to me, Davie lad, where you got such a conceit of yourself. One would think you were in folks’ secrets, and spoke with authority. It will do here at home with Katie and your mother and me, but I am thinking other folk would laugh to hear you.”But Mrs Fleming was relieved for all that, for Davie was, in her opinion, a lad of sense and discretion for his years, though she did not think it necessary to tell him so, and she took comfort in the thought that her husband would have a while’s peace, as little more could be done till the spring opened again.

The possibility and desirableness of advancing the interests of the town of Gershom by the still further “utilising” of the waters of the Beaver River for manufacturing purposes, had long been a matter earnestly discussed among the people. At various towns within the last five years measures had been proposed, tending toward the accomplishment of this object, but hitherto it had been with little result.

As a rule, the various industries which now gave prosperity and importance to the place had grown out of small beginnings. On the spot where now stood Cartwright’s Carriage Factory, well known through all the countryside, old Joshua Cartwright had faithfully and laboriously spent his days in making tubs and stools, sugar-troughs, and axe-helves for the early settlers. The shed where, in those days, Simon Horton had shod their horses and oxen, had grown in the course of years into the Gershom axe-factory, which bade fair to make a rich man of his daughter’s son.

But the slow and sure process which had served their fathers in their advances toward wealth were not likely to content the men of Gershom now, and there had been much talk among them about the forming of a company to be called “The Gershom Manufacturing Company,” the object of which was to be the establishment of new industries in the town.

Meetings were held, and speeches were made. The “enterprise and public spirit of certain of our fellow-townsmen” were highly lauded, and a wonderful future of prosperity for the town of Gershom and the surrounding country was foretold as the result of the step about to be taken. The Beaver River was made the subject of long and laudatory discussion. Its motive power was calculated and valued, and the long running to waste of its waters deplored. A committee was appointed for the arranging of preliminaries, and that was as far as the matter progressed at that time.

Other attempts were made later in the same direction. Some of them passed beyond preliminary arrangements, and more than once the more sanguine among the promoters of these schemes made sure of a successful issue, but all had failed when the practical part of the business had been touched.

The cause of this did not always clearly appear. Once at least it was attributed by some of the disappointed towns-people to the obstinacy and avarice of Jacob Holt. The old woollen-mill built by Gershom Holt in the early days of the settlement had served a good purpose in the country for a good many years. But it was time now, it was thought, for the work to be carried on in Gershom on a larger scale. The old building itself was of little value, and the old-fashioned machinery it contained was of less, but the site was considered to be the best in Gershom for a manufactory of the kind. Jacob Holt professed to be quite ready to dispose of it to the company on reasonable terms; but when it came to the point, no agreement could be made as to what were reasonable terms, and so the old mill plodded on in the old way for a while, and within a year a new mill was built in the neighbouring township of Fosbrooke. There was much indignation expressed with regard to this matter in Gershom, but Jacob troubled himself little about it. The old mill had gone the way of most old mills since then; it had caught fire one wintry night and burned to the ground, and the Gershom paper-mill had been built on the site.

Jacob had not come down in his ideas as to the value he set upon it, but he had been content to take shares in the building instead of the “cash down” which he had demanded before. In this way, and in other ways, he came by and by to be the largest shareholder in the concern, and when later, partly through the inefficiency of the person who had charge of the business, and partly for other reasons, paper-making began to look like a losing concern, the value of the shares went down, and in course of time most of them fell into his hands. So it was “Holt’s Paper-mill” now, and there was no other manufacturing company as yet in existence in Gershom. The chances were, it was said, that had the first company succeeded with the woollen-mill it might have fallen into the same hands, and as far as the general property of the town was concerned, it might as well have been Jacob Holt’s hands as others’. But those who had lost, or who fancied they had lost, by his part in these two transactions, were watchful and suspicious of his movements when once more the wise men of Gershom began to see visions of what might be done by the combined powers of the Beaver River, the enterprise of the people, and the use of a moderate amount of capital to advance the prosperity of their town.

Their ideas had still advanced with the times. Their plans were not limited to a woollen-mill now. Machine shops of all sorts, a match factory, furniture-shops, even a cotton factory was spoken of. Indeed, there were no limits to the manufacturing possibilities of the place, as far as talk went. Money was needed, and a good deal of it, and the people of Gershom wisely contemplated the propriety of making use of other people’s money in building up the town, and for this purpose it was desirable that the company should embrace the rich men of other towns as well. Some of those rich men came in an informal way and looked about, and admired the Beaver River, and talked and thought a good deal about the scheme. The banks of the river above and below the town were examined with a view to deciding on the building of a new dam, and Mr Fleming’s refusal to sell any part of his land had been in answer to Jacob Holt’s offer on behalf of the prospective company.

All this had taken place about the time when Mr Maxwell came to Gershom, and when he had been there a year no advance had been made in the way of actual work.

The greater part of the land on the north side of the river, as far up as Ythan Brae, had always belonged to the Holts. During the past year the land of Mark Varney, on the south side, had also fallen into their hands. For poor Mark’s wife died, and any hope that his friends were beginning to have that he might redeem his character was quite lost for the time. He sold his place, already heavily burdened with debt, to Jacob Holt; his mother became Mr Maxwell’s housekeeper in the new parsonage, taking her little grandchild with her, and poor Mark went away—none for a while knew whither.

But the chief thing that concerned the people of Gershom was that Jacob Holt had got his land, and the conclusion at once arrived at was that at the point on the river where his pasture and wood-lot met, the new dam was to be made, and that on his land, and on the land opposite, the new factories, and the new town that must grow out of them, were to be built.

“What Jacob ought to do now would be to go right on and make a good beginning on his own account. If there is ever going to be anything done in Gershom, that is the spot for it, and the company would have to come to his terms at last.”

So said Gershom folks, wondering that the rich man of the place should “kind o’ hang back” when such a chance of money-making seemed to lie before him. But Jacob knew several things as yet only surmised by Gershom folks in general. It was by no means certain after all that the Gershom Manufacturing Company would come into existence immediately. And even if it should, the chances were that among its members would be more than one man who would be little likely to yield himself to the dictation or even to the direction of Jacob Holt, as his townsmen had fallen into the way of doing where the outlay of capital was concerned. It would be easy to make a beginning, but Jacob looked further than a beginning.

Gershom was not the only place whose inhabitants cherished the ambition to become a manufacturing community and there were other rivers besides the Beaver running to waste, which might be made available as a manufacturing power. A company, with sufficient amount of stock subscribed and paid for, might agree to put Fosbrooke, or Fairfax, or Crowsville down as the name, and carry their money, and their influence, and the chance of acquiring wealth to either of their thriving towns; and a beginning in Gershom would amount to very little in such a case.

And then the river bank on the Varney place was not, in Mr Holt’s opinion, the best place for the new mills and the new village. It was not to be compared to the point just below which Bear’s Creek, or, as the Flemings called it, Ythan Brae, flowed into the Beaver, and this also belonged to Mr Fleming. Jacob would have liked to make his beginning there. He knew, for he had taken advice on the matter, that at the Varney place no dam of sufficient capacity to answer all the purposes which were contemplated by the company could be made, without at certain seasons of the year so flooding the land above it as to render it useless for any purpose. He might have taken the risk of probable lawsuits, and gone on with the work, if it had depended on him alone to decide the matter. But it did not. Or he would have bought it, but that it belonged to David Fleming, who would listen to no proposal from his “enemy.”

It was not that Mr Fleming was not satisfied with the terms offered. He would listen to no terms. Indeed he refused to discuss the matter with his neighbours, not only with those who might be suspected of wishing for one reason or another to convince him of the folly of not taking advantage of a good offer for his land, but with those who sympathised with him in his dislike to Jacob Holt, who went further than he did even, and called the rich man not only avaricious, but worse. He would listen to nothing about it, but rose and turned his back on the bold man who ventured to approach the subject in his presence.

In all this Jacob Holt felt himself to be hardly used. He declared to himself that he wished to do the right thing by Mr Fleming. He was willing to give him the full value of every foot of his land, and above its value. That the advancement of the interests of the town and the welfare of the whole community should be interfered with, because of an obstinate old man’s whim, seemed to him intolerable; he did not want the land. Let Mr Fleming treat with the company—there was no company as yet, however—and let him pay him his just debt, that was all he asked of him.

He did not speak often about this to any one—not a man in Gershom but had more to say about it than he. But he thought about it continually. If it had been any other man in Gershom who had so withstood him, he would long ago have taken such measures as would have brought him to his senses. He could do so lawfully, by and by. The law had sustained him in dealing with much harder cases than Mr Fleming’s, though it was not altogether pleasant to remember some of them. But there could be no question but that it would be for the interest of the Flemings, old and young, were his terms agreed to. No one would have a right to say a word, though he were to carry his point against the old man, and claim what was his due.

All this he said to himself many times, but still he could not do it, at least he could not bring himself to do it at once. His father, though he acknowledged the unreasonableness of his friend, would yet be grieved at the taking of extreme measures against him; his sister would be indignant, and he was a little afraid of Elizabeth. The church union, which he with all the rest of Gershom had earnestly desired, would be endangered; for he knew by many tokens that some of the North Gore men were hanging back because of him. Public opinion would not sustain him in any steps taken against so old a man, and one who had seen so much trouble since he came among them, and he did not wish to take severe measures, he told himself many times. It is just possible that the remembrance of the lad who had been his companion and friend, who had been cut off in the flower of his youth, to the never-dying sorrow of the old man who opposed him, had something to do with his hesitation in this matter. But even to himself this was never acknowledged; all he could do was to wait and see whether some sudden turn of events might not serve to bring about his purpose better than severity could do.

In the meantime, after many thoughts about it, when the few scanty fields on the Varney place were harvested, he did make a beginning. He brought old Joe Middlemas to the place, who walked about with all the appliances for surveying it, and for laying it out in building lots. He had some trees cut down, and some hillocks levelled, and kept several men for a time employed in bringing loads of stone to the river’s bank, in a way that looked very much like making a beginning. But the heavy autumn rains put an end to all this for a while, and as yet there existed no manufacturing company in Gershom, nor was there any immediate prospect that the hopes of the people with regard to it were likely to be realised.

“They’re fine at speaking, grannie,” said young Davie, who had been keeping his eyes and his ears open to all that was going on in Gershom. “But grandfather and you may be at peace about the dam and the mischief it might do for a while anyway. It may come in my day, but it winna come in yours, unless that should happen which is not very likely to happen, and all the rich men in the country should put their names and their money at the disposal of King Jacob. He may measure his land, and gather his sticks and his stones together, but that is all it will come to, this while at any rate. Though why grandfather should be so unwilling to part with a few acres of poor land to Jacob Holt is more than I can understand.”

“It is a wonder to me, Davie lad, where you got such a conceit of yourself. One would think you were in folks’ secrets, and spoke with authority. It will do here at home with Katie and your mother and me, but I am thinking other folk would laugh to hear you.”

But Mrs Fleming was relieved for all that, for Davie was, in her opinion, a lad of sense and discretion for his years, though she did not think it necessary to tell him so, and she took comfort in the thought that her husband would have a while’s peace, as little more could be done till the spring opened again.

Chapter Twelve.The Two Cousins.A great disappointment was preparing for Elizabeth. Her brother completed his studies, and brought home his diploma, whether he deserved it or not, and spent a pleasant six weeks at home, “resting from his labours,” as he said, and then he announced his intention of going to reside in the city of Montreal, to pursue there the study of the law. It had always been taken for granted that when his studies came to an end, he was to go into the business of the Holts, and settle down in Gershom.“And what good should I do in the business?” said he to his sister; “should I stand behind the counter in the store and sell yards of calico and pounds of tea? Or should I take the tannery in hand, or the paper-mill? Or should I go into the new company that Jacob seems so bent on getting up? Now, Lizzie, do be reasonable and tell me what good I should do in the business.”“I know that few young men in the country could hope for such a start in life. It is not necessary that you should sell tea or calico either, except by the hands of those you may employ—though if you were to do it, it would be no discredit to you—and no more than your father did before you many a day.”“Discredit! No, that is not the thing. But I can do something better for myself than that; I am going to try at least.”“If self is your first consideration—But, Clifton, whether you think it or not, you could do much in the business, and you are needed in it. Jacob has more on his hands than he can do well, and even if he had not, it is your affair that the business should prosper as well as his. All we have is in it, and what do any of us know as to how our affairs stand? We are altogether in Jacob’s hands.”“Come, now, Lizzie! Let Cousin Betsey and the rest of them run down Jacob. It is rather hard on him that his own sister should join them. I believe he is an honest man—as honesty among business men goes.”“I am not speaking of honesty or dishonesty. But Jacob is not such a man of business as our father was.”“No, but with his chances, he cannot but be carrying on a prosperous business. Oh, I’ll risk Jacob.”“But, Clifton, all that we have is in the business, and we ought to know.”“Why, Lizzie! who ever thought before that you were mercenary and suspicious, and I don’t know what else besides? What has Jacob been doing to ‘aggravate’ you lately, that you should be down on him?”“Clifton, you must not dismiss the matter so lightly. I am thinking far more of you than of myself. You can never do better for yourself anywhere, and why should you change your plans now, after all these years?”“Have I ever said that I was to stay in Gershom? I don’t say that I won’t come back for good, some time. Gershom does seem to be the place for a halt but as to going into the business right away, no, I thank you.”“I think you are wrong.”“Nonsense! What do you suppose, now, Jacob would do if I were to bring him to book, and claim a right to know all about his business transactions, and his plans and prospects? It would be a mere farce my making believe to go into the business.”“Possibly you might make it so, but it need not be so. But I cannot think it wise or right for you to go to Montreal. It is like setting aside the plans of your whole life to leave Gershom.”“No; you are mistaken. Though I have said nothing about it, I have not this many a day meant to settle down here. I may ultimately ‘hang out my shingle’ here, or I may be appointed judge of the district by and by, and then I’ll come back and be a bigger man than Jacob, even.”But Elizabeth could not laugh at his nonsense. She was afraid for her brother. She had longed for his return home, saying to herself that home influence and a busy life would be better for him than the careless life he had been living as a student; that with responsibility laid upon him, he would forget his follies, and be all that she longed to see him.“Think of our father’s disappointment. How can you ever tell him that you are going away?”“While he has you he will be all right, and he will always be looking forward to the time when I shall come home for good, for I fully intend to settle here by and by. I confess it is hard for you to be kept stationary here, Lizzie. It looks mean in me to go away and leave you, doesn’t it?”“If it were going to be for your good—But, Clifton I don’t believe it.”“I ought to give myself the best chance, ought I not? I must go to Montreal. But, Lizzie, why don’t you say at once that I am not to be trusted in the city with its temptations? That is what you are thinking of.”Elizabeth did not deny it. She was thinking of it sadly enough.“That is one reason against it,” said she.“Well, get rid of that fear. I am all right. I should be worse off loafing round here with little to do, and I shall be home often. Now, Lizzie, don’t spoil the last days by fretting about what is not to be helped. I’m bound to go.”And go he did. Elizabeth could only submit in silence. His father missed him less than she had feared he might. He was home several times during the autumn and winter, and always spoke of the time when he was coming for good, and his father was content with that.Whether her brother Jacob was really disappointed or not at Clifton’s decision, Elizabeth could not tell. “Jacob had never counted much on any help he would be likely to get from his brother,” Mrs Jacob said. She was quite inclined to make a grievance of his going away, as she would probably have made a grievance of his staying, if he had stayed. But Jacob said little about it, and everything went on as before.Elizabeth had the prospect of a quieter winter than even the last had been. Her father was less able to enjoy the company of his old friends than he had been. He grew weary very soon now, and liked better the quiet of the house when only Elizabeth was with him. His active habits and his interest in the business had long survived any real responsibility as to the affairs of the farm, but even these were failing him now. When the weather was bright and fine he usually once a day moved slowly down the village street, where every eye and voice greeted him respectfully, and every hand was ready to guide his feeble steps. He paid a daily visit to the store, or the tannery, or the paper-mill, as he had done for so many years, but it was from habit merely. He often came wearily home to slumber through the rest of the day.He was querulous sometimes and exacting as to his daughter’s care, and she rarely left him for a long time. She looked forward to no social duties in the way of merry-making for the young folks of the place this year. Even Clifton’s coming home now and then did not enliven the house in this respect as it had done in former winters. Many a quiet day and long, silent evening did she pass before the new year came in, and she would have had more of them had it not been for her Cousin Betsey.Once or twice, when her father had suffered from some slight turn of illness, Elizabeth had sent for her cousin, whose reputation as a nurse had been long established, and Betsey had come at first, at some inconvenience to herself, from a sense of duty. Afterward she came because she knew she was welcome, and because she liked to come, and all the work at home, most of which fell to her willing hands, was so planned and arranged that she might at a moment’s notice leave her mother and her sister Cynthia to their own resources and the willing and effective help of Ben. After a time, few weeks passed that she did not look in upon them.“He may drop away most any time, mother,” said she, “and she hasn’t seen trouble enough yet to be good for much to help him or herself either, at a time like that.”“And you are so good in sickness. And your uncle Gershom’s been a good friend to us always,” said her mother. “I’m glad you should be with him when you can, and with her too. And trouble may do Lizzie good.”“Well, it may be. Some folks don’t seem to need so much trouble as others, at least they don’t get so much, but Cousin Lizzie isn’t going to be let alone in that respect, I don’t think. Well, I guess I’ll go along over, and I’ll get back before night if nothing happens, and if I am not, as it’s considerable drifted between here and the corner, Ben might come down after supper and see what is going on.”“Trouble!” repeated Miss Betsey, as she gathered up the reins and laid the whip lightly on the back of “old Samson.”“Trouble is just as folks take it. I have had my own share in my day, or I thought so,” she added, with a sharp little laugh. “I just wonder what I should have done now if the Lord had let me have my own way about some things.”Old Samson moved steadily along, past Joel Bean’s, and the bridge, and up the hill that brought Gershom in sight, and then she said aloud: “But then things might have been different,” and then old Samson felt the whip laid on with a little more decision this time, and this, probably with the anticipation of the measure of oats awaiting him in the squire’s stable, quickened his movements; and in a few minutes Miss Betsey was shaking the snow from her cloak in Sally Griffith’s back kitchen. It had been snowing heavily for a while, and the movement of the sleigh had been unheard by Elizabeth, or she would have taken the shaking of the snowy garments into her own hands.“Folks as usual?” said Miss Betsey, as she came into the front kitchen, where Sally reigned supreme, conscious of her value as “help,” and careful of her dignity as a citizen of Gershom, “as good as anybody.”“Well, pretty much so, I guess. Kind of down these days, in general.”They had been youthful companions, these two, and had plenty to say to each other. So Betsey warmed her feet at the oven door, and they discussed several questions before she went into the sitting-room. She went in softly, so as not to disturb the old man, should he have fallen asleep in his chair, as he sometimes did after dinner; so she had a chance to see Elizabeth’s face before she knew that she was not alone. It was grave and paler than Betsey had ever seen it, and there was a weary, far-away look in her eyes that were following the grey clouds just beginning to drift over the clearing sky. They brightened, however, as they turned at the sound of the opening door.“Cousin Betsey! I’m so glad to see you. You have come to stay?”Friendly as they had become of late, Elizabeth did not often venture to kiss her cousin. She did this time, however, repeating:“You have come to stay?”“Well, yes. I came fixed so as to stay a spell if I was wanted. Joel Bean’s folks heard somewhere that Uncle Gershom hadn’t been seen out in the street these two days, and I thought I’d just come over and see how he was keeping along.”“That was good of you. He was not out yesterday, and to-day has been so snowy. But he is no worse; a little better and brighter, if anything. But all the same, I want you to stay.”“Well, I don’t care if I do a spell. You must be hard up for company to be so glad to see me.”Miss Betsey sat down by the fire, and took her knitting from her pocket. There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes which Betsey pretended not to see, and which Elizabeth did her best to keep back. She went into her father’s room for a minute, and looked cheerful enough as she took her seat on the other side of the hearth opposite her cousin, with her work in her hand. But when she began to answer Betsey’s questions about her father—his appetite, his strength, his nights, his days—the tears came again, and this time they fell over her cheeks. For she found herself sorrowfully telling that though he had comfortable days, and days when he seemed just as he used to do, it was evident that his strength was failing more rapidly than it had ever done during any winter before. She let her work fall on her lap, and leaning her elbow on the table, covered her face with her hands.“He is an old man,” said Betsey, gravely.“Yes. But he is all I have got,” said Elizabeth, speaking with difficulty.“He is your father, but he is not all you’ve got. Don’t say that.”“There is no one else that cares very much about me. If I were sick or in trouble, I think I would have a better right to come to you, Cousin Betsey, than to any one else in the world.”“Well, and why not? You ought to have had a sister,” said Betsey.Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically.“I have—Jacob’s wife,” said she.“Humph,” said Betsey. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you; you’re nervous, and no wonder.”“Oh, Cousin Betsey! don’t be hard on me. I’ll be all right in a minute. I know I’m foolish, and it is a shame now that you are here not to be better company.”“You are nervous,” repeated Betsey. “And what you want is to feel the fresh air blowing about you. See here, old Samson is right here in the shed. You go and put on your things and have a drive. It will do you all the good in the world.”“And will you come with me?”“No, I guess not. Then you’d want to hurry right home again, because of your father. I’ll stay with him, and then you won’t worry. If he’s pretty well, I want to have a talk with him anyway, and now will be as good a time as any. So don’t you hurry back.”“Well, I won’t. But it doesn’t seem worth while to go alone.”“Yes, it does. And see here! You go over as far as Mrs Fleming’s. She’ll do you good, and maybe she’ll let Katie come home with you to stay a day or two. What you want is to have somebody to look at besides Sally Griffith, and I don’t know anybody any better for that than little Katie Fleming. Her grandmother will let her come, seeing you are alone.”It was not a blight day even yet, though the snow had ceased to fall, and the clouds were clearing away. Elizabeth looked out of the window, hesitating.“If any one should come in,” said she.“Well, I guess I could say all that need be said—unless it was anybody very particular, and then I could keep them till you came home again.”“Well, I’ll go; and thank you, cousin,” said Elizabeth, laughing.She did not drive old Samson. He was safely stabled by this time. She drove her own horse and sleigh with its pretty robes, and acknowledged herself better the very first breath of wind that fanned her cheek. The snow had fallen so heavily as to make it not easy to drive rapidly, and so she enjoyed all the more the winter sights and sounds that were about her. The whole earth was dazzlingly white. The evergreen trees in the graveyard looked like pyramids of snow. The trunks of the great maples under which she passed as she drew near Mr Fleming’s house, showed black and rugged, and so did the leafless boughs that met each other overhead.But even the great boughs were bending under their load of new-fallen snow, and every now and then, as the wind stirred them, it fell in great, soft masses silently to the ground. How still and restful it was. The sleigh-bells tinkled softly, and there was a faint rushing of the wind through the trees, and the sharp stroke of an axe was heard now and then in the distance. That was all. Elizabeth put away all troubled thoughts to enjoy it, and there were no traces of tears, no signs of nerves visible, when she drove up to Mrs Fleming’s door. She had been there a good many times since the night she had made the visit with Clifton and the minister, and she never came but that she was heartily welcomed by them all.“Especially welcome to-day, when we never expected to see any one after such a fall of snow. Come awa’ ben, Miss Elizabeth, and when Davie comes down with his load of wood, he’ll put in the horse, and you’ll bide to your tea, and go home by light of the new moon.”But Elizabeth could not stay long. Betsey, who was with her father, would be anxious to be home early, and she must not leave her father alone, though she would like to stay.“Well, you know best, and we winna spoil the time you’re here by teasing you about staying longer. So sit you down here by the fire and warm your hands, though you look anything but chilled and cold. Your cheeks are like twin roses.”Elizabeth thought of Betsey’s dismissal of her and laughed.“My drive has done me good.”She stayed a good while and enjoyed every minute of it. It was a great rest and pleasure to listen to Mrs Fleming’s cheerful talk, with Katie’s quiet mother putting in a word, and now and then Katie herself. Neither Katie nor Davie were at the school this winter. The studies that Davie liked best he would have had to go on with alone, even if he had gone, and he liked as well to get a little help from the master now and then and stay at home. But he had not much time for study. For he had taken “just a wonderful turn for work,” his grandmother said, and much was told of the land he was clearing and the cord-wood he was piling for the market. Katie brought in a wonderful bee-hive he had made, to show Miss Elizabeth, and told her how much honey they had had, and how much more they were to have next year, because of Davie’s skill. Davie had made an ice-house too, for the summer butter—a rather primitive one it seemed to be as Katie described it—on a plan of Davie’s own, and it had to be proved yet, but it gave great satisfaction in the meantime. And the frame of the new dairy was lying ready beside the burn to be put up as soon as the snow melted, and the water was to be made to run round the milk-pans in the warm nights, and Katie, under the direction of her grandmother, was to make the best butter in the country. All this might not seem of much interest to any one but themselves, but listening to them, and watching their happy, eager faces, Elizabeth, who had more than the common power of enjoying other people’s happiness, felt herself to be refreshed and encouraged as she listened, especially to what was said about Davie. The troubles of the Flemings would soon be over should Davie prove to be a prop on which, in their old age, they might lean.“He is wonderfully taken up about the work, and the best way of doing it just now, and I only hope it may last,” said Mrs Fleming, and then Katie said, “Oh, grannie!” so deprecatingly that they all laughed at her.When Mr Fleming came in, and had heard all about the squire, and how Cousin Betsey was staying with him while Elizabeth made her visit and got a breath of fresh air, she took courage to present her petition that Katie might be allowed to go home with her and stay a day or two. It needed some courage to urge it, for she knew that her grandfather was never quite at peace when Katie was not at home. “It was Cousin Betsey, Mrs Fleming, that bade me ask you for Katie for a little while. She said her coming would do me good, and Katie no harm; and she said you would be sure to let her come since I was so lonesome at home.”Katie looked with wistful eyes at her grandmother, and she looked at the old man.“We might spare her a while to Miss Elizabeth, who is kept so close at home with her father. And you must take your seam with you, Katie, my lassie,” added the old lady, as no dissenting frown from the grandfather followed her first words. “And maybe Miss Elizabeth has a new stitch, or some other new thing to teach you. These things are easy carried about with a person, and they ay have a chance to come in use sometime. Oh, ay, you can take a while with a book, too, now and then when Miss Elizabeth is occupied with her father. Only be reasonable, and don’t forget all else, as is awhiles the way with you. And you can put on your bonny blue frock, but be sure and take good care o’ it,” and many more last words the happy Katie heard, and then they went away.

A great disappointment was preparing for Elizabeth. Her brother completed his studies, and brought home his diploma, whether he deserved it or not, and spent a pleasant six weeks at home, “resting from his labours,” as he said, and then he announced his intention of going to reside in the city of Montreal, to pursue there the study of the law. It had always been taken for granted that when his studies came to an end, he was to go into the business of the Holts, and settle down in Gershom.

“And what good should I do in the business?” said he to his sister; “should I stand behind the counter in the store and sell yards of calico and pounds of tea? Or should I take the tannery in hand, or the paper-mill? Or should I go into the new company that Jacob seems so bent on getting up? Now, Lizzie, do be reasonable and tell me what good I should do in the business.”

“I know that few young men in the country could hope for such a start in life. It is not necessary that you should sell tea or calico either, except by the hands of those you may employ—though if you were to do it, it would be no discredit to you—and no more than your father did before you many a day.”

“Discredit! No, that is not the thing. But I can do something better for myself than that; I am going to try at least.”

“If self is your first consideration—But, Clifton, whether you think it or not, you could do much in the business, and you are needed in it. Jacob has more on his hands than he can do well, and even if he had not, it is your affair that the business should prosper as well as his. All we have is in it, and what do any of us know as to how our affairs stand? We are altogether in Jacob’s hands.”

“Come, now, Lizzie! Let Cousin Betsey and the rest of them run down Jacob. It is rather hard on him that his own sister should join them. I believe he is an honest man—as honesty among business men goes.”

“I am not speaking of honesty or dishonesty. But Jacob is not such a man of business as our father was.”

“No, but with his chances, he cannot but be carrying on a prosperous business. Oh, I’ll risk Jacob.”

“But, Clifton, all that we have is in the business, and we ought to know.”

“Why, Lizzie! who ever thought before that you were mercenary and suspicious, and I don’t know what else besides? What has Jacob been doing to ‘aggravate’ you lately, that you should be down on him?”

“Clifton, you must not dismiss the matter so lightly. I am thinking far more of you than of myself. You can never do better for yourself anywhere, and why should you change your plans now, after all these years?”

“Have I ever said that I was to stay in Gershom? I don’t say that I won’t come back for good, some time. Gershom does seem to be the place for a halt but as to going into the business right away, no, I thank you.”

“I think you are wrong.”

“Nonsense! What do you suppose, now, Jacob would do if I were to bring him to book, and claim a right to know all about his business transactions, and his plans and prospects? It would be a mere farce my making believe to go into the business.”

“Possibly you might make it so, but it need not be so. But I cannot think it wise or right for you to go to Montreal. It is like setting aside the plans of your whole life to leave Gershom.”

“No; you are mistaken. Though I have said nothing about it, I have not this many a day meant to settle down here. I may ultimately ‘hang out my shingle’ here, or I may be appointed judge of the district by and by, and then I’ll come back and be a bigger man than Jacob, even.”

But Elizabeth could not laugh at his nonsense. She was afraid for her brother. She had longed for his return home, saying to herself that home influence and a busy life would be better for him than the careless life he had been living as a student; that with responsibility laid upon him, he would forget his follies, and be all that she longed to see him.

“Think of our father’s disappointment. How can you ever tell him that you are going away?”

“While he has you he will be all right, and he will always be looking forward to the time when I shall come home for good, for I fully intend to settle here by and by. I confess it is hard for you to be kept stationary here, Lizzie. It looks mean in me to go away and leave you, doesn’t it?”

“If it were going to be for your good—But, Clifton I don’t believe it.”

“I ought to give myself the best chance, ought I not? I must go to Montreal. But, Lizzie, why don’t you say at once that I am not to be trusted in the city with its temptations? That is what you are thinking of.”

Elizabeth did not deny it. She was thinking of it sadly enough.

“That is one reason against it,” said she.

“Well, get rid of that fear. I am all right. I should be worse off loafing round here with little to do, and I shall be home often. Now, Lizzie, don’t spoil the last days by fretting about what is not to be helped. I’m bound to go.”

And go he did. Elizabeth could only submit in silence. His father missed him less than she had feared he might. He was home several times during the autumn and winter, and always spoke of the time when he was coming for good, and his father was content with that.

Whether her brother Jacob was really disappointed or not at Clifton’s decision, Elizabeth could not tell. “Jacob had never counted much on any help he would be likely to get from his brother,” Mrs Jacob said. She was quite inclined to make a grievance of his going away, as she would probably have made a grievance of his staying, if he had stayed. But Jacob said little about it, and everything went on as before.

Elizabeth had the prospect of a quieter winter than even the last had been. Her father was less able to enjoy the company of his old friends than he had been. He grew weary very soon now, and liked better the quiet of the house when only Elizabeth was with him. His active habits and his interest in the business had long survived any real responsibility as to the affairs of the farm, but even these were failing him now. When the weather was bright and fine he usually once a day moved slowly down the village street, where every eye and voice greeted him respectfully, and every hand was ready to guide his feeble steps. He paid a daily visit to the store, or the tannery, or the paper-mill, as he had done for so many years, but it was from habit merely. He often came wearily home to slumber through the rest of the day.

He was querulous sometimes and exacting as to his daughter’s care, and she rarely left him for a long time. She looked forward to no social duties in the way of merry-making for the young folks of the place this year. Even Clifton’s coming home now and then did not enliven the house in this respect as it had done in former winters. Many a quiet day and long, silent evening did she pass before the new year came in, and she would have had more of them had it not been for her Cousin Betsey.

Once or twice, when her father had suffered from some slight turn of illness, Elizabeth had sent for her cousin, whose reputation as a nurse had been long established, and Betsey had come at first, at some inconvenience to herself, from a sense of duty. Afterward she came because she knew she was welcome, and because she liked to come, and all the work at home, most of which fell to her willing hands, was so planned and arranged that she might at a moment’s notice leave her mother and her sister Cynthia to their own resources and the willing and effective help of Ben. After a time, few weeks passed that she did not look in upon them.

“He may drop away most any time, mother,” said she, “and she hasn’t seen trouble enough yet to be good for much to help him or herself either, at a time like that.”

“And you are so good in sickness. And your uncle Gershom’s been a good friend to us always,” said her mother. “I’m glad you should be with him when you can, and with her too. And trouble may do Lizzie good.”

“Well, it may be. Some folks don’t seem to need so much trouble as others, at least they don’t get so much, but Cousin Lizzie isn’t going to be let alone in that respect, I don’t think. Well, I guess I’ll go along over, and I’ll get back before night if nothing happens, and if I am not, as it’s considerable drifted between here and the corner, Ben might come down after supper and see what is going on.”

“Trouble!” repeated Miss Betsey, as she gathered up the reins and laid the whip lightly on the back of “old Samson.”

“Trouble is just as folks take it. I have had my own share in my day, or I thought so,” she added, with a sharp little laugh. “I just wonder what I should have done now if the Lord had let me have my own way about some things.”

Old Samson moved steadily along, past Joel Bean’s, and the bridge, and up the hill that brought Gershom in sight, and then she said aloud: “But then things might have been different,” and then old Samson felt the whip laid on with a little more decision this time, and this, probably with the anticipation of the measure of oats awaiting him in the squire’s stable, quickened his movements; and in a few minutes Miss Betsey was shaking the snow from her cloak in Sally Griffith’s back kitchen. It had been snowing heavily for a while, and the movement of the sleigh had been unheard by Elizabeth, or she would have taken the shaking of the snowy garments into her own hands.

“Folks as usual?” said Miss Betsey, as she came into the front kitchen, where Sally reigned supreme, conscious of her value as “help,” and careful of her dignity as a citizen of Gershom, “as good as anybody.”

“Well, pretty much so, I guess. Kind of down these days, in general.”

They had been youthful companions, these two, and had plenty to say to each other. So Betsey warmed her feet at the oven door, and they discussed several questions before she went into the sitting-room. She went in softly, so as not to disturb the old man, should he have fallen asleep in his chair, as he sometimes did after dinner; so she had a chance to see Elizabeth’s face before she knew that she was not alone. It was grave and paler than Betsey had ever seen it, and there was a weary, far-away look in her eyes that were following the grey clouds just beginning to drift over the clearing sky. They brightened, however, as they turned at the sound of the opening door.

“Cousin Betsey! I’m so glad to see you. You have come to stay?”

Friendly as they had become of late, Elizabeth did not often venture to kiss her cousin. She did this time, however, repeating:

“You have come to stay?”

“Well, yes. I came fixed so as to stay a spell if I was wanted. Joel Bean’s folks heard somewhere that Uncle Gershom hadn’t been seen out in the street these two days, and I thought I’d just come over and see how he was keeping along.”

“That was good of you. He was not out yesterday, and to-day has been so snowy. But he is no worse; a little better and brighter, if anything. But all the same, I want you to stay.”

“Well, I don’t care if I do a spell. You must be hard up for company to be so glad to see me.”

Miss Betsey sat down by the fire, and took her knitting from her pocket. There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes which Betsey pretended not to see, and which Elizabeth did her best to keep back. She went into her father’s room for a minute, and looked cheerful enough as she took her seat on the other side of the hearth opposite her cousin, with her work in her hand. But when she began to answer Betsey’s questions about her father—his appetite, his strength, his nights, his days—the tears came again, and this time they fell over her cheeks. For she found herself sorrowfully telling that though he had comfortable days, and days when he seemed just as he used to do, it was evident that his strength was failing more rapidly than it had ever done during any winter before. She let her work fall on her lap, and leaning her elbow on the table, covered her face with her hands.

“He is an old man,” said Betsey, gravely.

“Yes. But he is all I have got,” said Elizabeth, speaking with difficulty.

“He is your father, but he is not all you’ve got. Don’t say that.”

“There is no one else that cares very much about me. If I were sick or in trouble, I think I would have a better right to come to you, Cousin Betsey, than to any one else in the world.”

“Well, and why not? You ought to have had a sister,” said Betsey.

Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically.

“I have—Jacob’s wife,” said she.

“Humph,” said Betsey. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you; you’re nervous, and no wonder.”

“Oh, Cousin Betsey! don’t be hard on me. I’ll be all right in a minute. I know I’m foolish, and it is a shame now that you are here not to be better company.”

“You are nervous,” repeated Betsey. “And what you want is to feel the fresh air blowing about you. See here, old Samson is right here in the shed. You go and put on your things and have a drive. It will do you all the good in the world.”

“And will you come with me?”

“No, I guess not. Then you’d want to hurry right home again, because of your father. I’ll stay with him, and then you won’t worry. If he’s pretty well, I want to have a talk with him anyway, and now will be as good a time as any. So don’t you hurry back.”

“Well, I won’t. But it doesn’t seem worth while to go alone.”

“Yes, it does. And see here! You go over as far as Mrs Fleming’s. She’ll do you good, and maybe she’ll let Katie come home with you to stay a day or two. What you want is to have somebody to look at besides Sally Griffith, and I don’t know anybody any better for that than little Katie Fleming. Her grandmother will let her come, seeing you are alone.”

It was not a blight day even yet, though the snow had ceased to fall, and the clouds were clearing away. Elizabeth looked out of the window, hesitating.

“If any one should come in,” said she.

“Well, I guess I could say all that need be said—unless it was anybody very particular, and then I could keep them till you came home again.”

“Well, I’ll go; and thank you, cousin,” said Elizabeth, laughing.

She did not drive old Samson. He was safely stabled by this time. She drove her own horse and sleigh with its pretty robes, and acknowledged herself better the very first breath of wind that fanned her cheek. The snow had fallen so heavily as to make it not easy to drive rapidly, and so she enjoyed all the more the winter sights and sounds that were about her. The whole earth was dazzlingly white. The evergreen trees in the graveyard looked like pyramids of snow. The trunks of the great maples under which she passed as she drew near Mr Fleming’s house, showed black and rugged, and so did the leafless boughs that met each other overhead.

But even the great boughs were bending under their load of new-fallen snow, and every now and then, as the wind stirred them, it fell in great, soft masses silently to the ground. How still and restful it was. The sleigh-bells tinkled softly, and there was a faint rushing of the wind through the trees, and the sharp stroke of an axe was heard now and then in the distance. That was all. Elizabeth put away all troubled thoughts to enjoy it, and there were no traces of tears, no signs of nerves visible, when she drove up to Mrs Fleming’s door. She had been there a good many times since the night she had made the visit with Clifton and the minister, and she never came but that she was heartily welcomed by them all.

“Especially welcome to-day, when we never expected to see any one after such a fall of snow. Come awa’ ben, Miss Elizabeth, and when Davie comes down with his load of wood, he’ll put in the horse, and you’ll bide to your tea, and go home by light of the new moon.”

But Elizabeth could not stay long. Betsey, who was with her father, would be anxious to be home early, and she must not leave her father alone, though she would like to stay.

“Well, you know best, and we winna spoil the time you’re here by teasing you about staying longer. So sit you down here by the fire and warm your hands, though you look anything but chilled and cold. Your cheeks are like twin roses.”

Elizabeth thought of Betsey’s dismissal of her and laughed.

“My drive has done me good.”

She stayed a good while and enjoyed every minute of it. It was a great rest and pleasure to listen to Mrs Fleming’s cheerful talk, with Katie’s quiet mother putting in a word, and now and then Katie herself. Neither Katie nor Davie were at the school this winter. The studies that Davie liked best he would have had to go on with alone, even if he had gone, and he liked as well to get a little help from the master now and then and stay at home. But he had not much time for study. For he had taken “just a wonderful turn for work,” his grandmother said, and much was told of the land he was clearing and the cord-wood he was piling for the market. Katie brought in a wonderful bee-hive he had made, to show Miss Elizabeth, and told her how much honey they had had, and how much more they were to have next year, because of Davie’s skill. Davie had made an ice-house too, for the summer butter—a rather primitive one it seemed to be as Katie described it—on a plan of Davie’s own, and it had to be proved yet, but it gave great satisfaction in the meantime. And the frame of the new dairy was lying ready beside the burn to be put up as soon as the snow melted, and the water was to be made to run round the milk-pans in the warm nights, and Katie, under the direction of her grandmother, was to make the best butter in the country. All this might not seem of much interest to any one but themselves, but listening to them, and watching their happy, eager faces, Elizabeth, who had more than the common power of enjoying other people’s happiness, felt herself to be refreshed and encouraged as she listened, especially to what was said about Davie. The troubles of the Flemings would soon be over should Davie prove to be a prop on which, in their old age, they might lean.

“He is wonderfully taken up about the work, and the best way of doing it just now, and I only hope it may last,” said Mrs Fleming, and then Katie said, “Oh, grannie!” so deprecatingly that they all laughed at her.

When Mr Fleming came in, and had heard all about the squire, and how Cousin Betsey was staying with him while Elizabeth made her visit and got a breath of fresh air, she took courage to present her petition that Katie might be allowed to go home with her and stay a day or two. It needed some courage to urge it, for she knew that her grandfather was never quite at peace when Katie was not at home. “It was Cousin Betsey, Mrs Fleming, that bade me ask you for Katie for a little while. She said her coming would do me good, and Katie no harm; and she said you would be sure to let her come since I was so lonesome at home.”

Katie looked with wistful eyes at her grandmother, and she looked at the old man.

“We might spare her a while to Miss Elizabeth, who is kept so close at home with her father. And you must take your seam with you, Katie, my lassie,” added the old lady, as no dissenting frown from the grandfather followed her first words. “And maybe Miss Elizabeth has a new stitch, or some other new thing to teach you. These things are easy carried about with a person, and they ay have a chance to come in use sometime. Oh, ay, you can take a while with a book, too, now and then when Miss Elizabeth is occupied with her father. Only be reasonable, and don’t forget all else, as is awhiles the way with you. And you can put on your bonny blue frock, but be sure and take good care o’ it,” and many more last words the happy Katie heard, and then they went away.

Chapter Thirteen.Two Friends.A day with Miss Elizabeth was one of Katie’s chief pleasures, and it was scarcely less a pleasure to Miss Elizabeth to have her with her; so the faces of both were bright and smiling as they drove away from the door.“It’s no’ often that you see two like these two,” said Mrs Fleming, as they all stood looking after them for a minute. “And it’s only good that they are like to do one another. May the Lord have them both in His keeping. There is nothing else that can keep them safe and happy; but that is enough, and I’m not afraid.”They drove slowly down the slope, and waited at the gate for a word with Davie, who was coming from the wood with his great brown oxen, with the last load for the night. He did not look more than half pleased to see his sister at Miss Elizabeth’s side.“You are not to grudge her to me, Davie, for a little while,” said Miss Holt.“Oh, she can please herself,” said Davie, with a shrug. “When will you be home again, Katie?”“Oh, in a day or two. I cannot just tell; but soon.”They had not time to linger, and the horse did not care to stand, so with a hurried good-bye they were away and moved on rapidly for a while.“I don’t think Davie likes me very well,” said Miss Elizabeth.“Oh, it’s not you he doesn’t like,” said Katie eagerly.“It is Jacob, I suppose?”It was not Jacob that Katie meant, but she said nothing.“Well, never mind; we are going to think and speak only of pleasant things for the next three days, and that was a bad beginning.”Though the snow was deep it was light, and the horse, with the prospect of home before him, was willing to go, and strong as well, so they flew along, down the hill beneath the maples, past the graveyard and the church, into the long street of the town; and then, though it was growing late, Miss Elizabeth turned to the left over the bridge instead of going up the hill toward home. They came into the road on the other side of the bridge that brought most people to the town, and the snow was already well beaten down, and they went on in perfect enjoyment of the easiest of all movements.It was neither sunlight nor moonlight, or rather it was both, for the clouds had all cleared away, and a red glow lingered in the west, and high above hung the moon, a silver crescent, and in the sky beyond a bright star here and there; all the rest was white, with streaks of black where the fences were and the wayside trees, and far in the distance a long stretch of forest hid the line where the white of the earth touched the blue of the sky.In the light so faint, and yet so clear, that shone around them, all things had an unfamiliar look—a look of mystery, and it seemed, even to the sensible Katie, as though almost any strange adventure might happen to them to-night.“I could almost fancy that we were going away together into some strange country, into the country of the ‘wraiths’ maybe, that grannie whiles tells the bairns about. Don’t all things seem to have a strange look to-night, Miss Elizabeth?”Miss Elizabeth started. She had fallen into thought, and Katie could see when she turned her face that her thoughts had not been happy.“What were you saying, Katie? Going away together? Oh, how I wish we were, away beyond the hills yonder, to leave all our troubles behind us.”That was to be considered. Katie was not so ready to assent to her friend’s words as usual.“But we should be leaving our comforts behind us too, all the people who love us, and all those whom we love.”“Ah, yes, I know; and all our work as well. And it would be no good, for we should carry our troubles with us. It was a foolish thing to say, Katie, dear. It must be time to turn back when such foolish words come to one’s lips.”Besides they had come to a place where turning was easy, and it might be some time before they could get another chance, so deep was the snow on either side. So they turned round toward home, and Katie thought it more wonderful still, for the red glow in the sky was before them now, and the new moon, and more stars shone as the glow faded.“But it would be fine to go away with you, Miss Elizabeth, to some far country, to see strange sights—if we could be spared, I mean, and with the thought of coming back again.”“Wouldn’t it be fine!” said Miss Elizabeth, rousing herself. “Some day we’ll go—you and I together, Katie. We’ll cross the sea, and wander through the countries that we read about in books, and among the great cities that have stood for hundreds and hundreds of years. Wouldn’t you like to see Scotland, Katie, and the heather hills that grannie tells us about; and the great castles that they used to hold against all comers in the old times, and the parks, and the deer, and the gardens full of wonderful flowers, and the lakes and the mountains—only we can see lakes and mountains at home.”“And the moors and glens where they worshipped in the dark days.”And so they went on in turn, telling what they would like to see—they were going slowly now—till they came to the bridge again.“I like to think about it, but it could never be,” said Katie gravely.“And why not? It might very easily be, I think.”“But it could never be for me, until—the saddest things had happened. I could never leave my grandfather and my grandmother, and all the rest; only the rest might live till I came back again; but grannie—and him—”“Yes, Katie, and it is as true for me as for you. Our work is here, and our happiness too; and, after all, we have fallen into sad thoughts again. But we are nearly home now.”“There was no light in the minister’s study to-night,” said Katie, as they went slowly up the hill. “Nor in the dining-room either. He must be away from home.”Elizabeth had noticed the darkened window, but she did not say so. Indeed she said nothing. She was thinking: “Perhaps he went in to see my father, knowing I was away.”And so he had, for when they went into the hall they heard his voice, indeed several voices in the sitting-room. But they went first up-stairs to take off their wraps in Miss Elizabeth’s room, and came down just in time to find the tea-table ready, and the company waiting for them. There was coffee on the table too, for Mr Burnet was there, and Sally knew his tastes.“There! You feel better, don’t you?” said Miss Betsey, who was the first to notice their entrance. “You look better, anyway.”“Like two roses,” said Mr Burnet.Elizabeth laughed and thanked him, and then shook hands with Mr Maxwell.“I hope you have had a good time, daughter. I have,” said the squire.“Yes. I see you have had company.”“Yes, Betsey is always good company. Mr Maxwell came when he saw you pass down the street. He didn’t know Betsey was here, and he thought I might be lonesome.”“It was very kind,” said Elizabeth.All the rest sat down, but Mr Maxwell continued standing. The squire would not listen to him, when he said that doubtless his tea would be waiting for him at home, but urged him almost petulantly to remain.“Lizzie, why don’t you ask the minister to stay?”For Elizabeth was listening to something that Mr Burnet was saying to Katie, but she turned round when her father spoke to her.“We haven’t Mr Burnet and Cousin Betsey here very often, Mr Maxwell. You might stay to-night for their sakes.”So he stayed, and the squire had a good time still, and so had all the rest, it seemed, for they were in no haste to leave the table till Sally came to take the things away. When she came in again it was to say that “Ben had been waiting for his Aunt Betsey for the biggest part of an hour, and it was getting on for nine o’clock.” Even then Miss Betsey seemed in no hurry to go, but when she went, Mr Burnet went also, and Elizabeth went out of the room with her cousin, and did not come back for what seemed to Katie a long time. Her father was tired and she went out with him afterward. Mr Maxwell talked with Katie a while, about her mother and her grandparents, about Davie and his bees, and the work that had occupied him all the winter, and then he sat for a long time looking into the fire in silence. When Miss Elizabeth came in again he rose to go away.“It is not very late,” said she.“No—and it is very pleasant here,” said the minister, and he sat down again.Miss Elizabeth took her work, and they were all silent for a while, and in the silence a sudden sense of embarrassment and discomfort seized Katie Fleming. She had a book in her hand, but she was not sure whether she ought to read or not. She would have liked to go with it to the side-table, where Miss Elizabeth had carried the lamp before she sat down, or even out into the kitchen to see Sally for a while.“Are you deep in your story already? Well, take your book to the lamp, if you like, for a little while,” said Miss Elizabeth, just as if she had known her thoughts.But Katie would not have liked her to know her thoughts. She was glad to go to the lamp, but she did not care for her story. She was thinking of something else, of a single word she had heard one day, which put together significantly the names of the minister and her friend. She had been indignant at first. “They were just friends,” she had said to herself. Afterward she could not help giving them a good many of her thoughts, and she was not sure about it. As she sat with the book on the table before her, shading her eyes with her hands, she felt a little guilty and greatly interested, for the story before her was better than any story in a book.Perhaps she ought to go away, she thought again. It was not right to listen, and she could not help listening. But indeed there was nothing said which all the world might not hear. Mrs Varney had burned her hand. Old Mrs Lawrence was sick, and Miss Elizabeth promised to go and see her. Then Mr Maxwell told her about a meeting he had attended in Fairfax, and about another that he meant to attend, and so on.“It might be grannie and he,” said Katie, with a little impatient wonder. “Only grannie would say it all a great deal better, and not just ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ and ‘I hope so indeed,’ like Miss Elizabeth. What has come to her, I wonder? Mrs Stacy’s rheumatism, and the mothers’ meeting at North Gore. That is not how people talk, surely—when—when—”Suddenly looking up she met Miss Elizabeth’s eye, and reddened, and hung her head. Then she rose as Miss Elizabeth beckoned to her, and came to the fireside again, still holding her book in her hand.After that Miss Elizabeth took a letter which she had that day received from her brother Clifton, and read bits of it aloud. It was a very amusing letter, she seemed to think, and so did the minister, but Katie did not understand all the allusions in it, and missed the point. And besides, Clifton Holt was not a favourite with her. She was a little scornful of a lad who seemed to care so little for the opportunities he had, and who did so little good work with them. He was idle, she thought, and conceited, and she could not but wonder at Miss Elizabeth’s delight in him, and listened with some impatience to the discussion of him and his affairs that followed the reading of the letter.“To be sure he is her brother, and she must make the best of him,” said Katie.By and by Mr Maxwell rose to go away, and Miss Elizabeth bade him good-night in the sitting-room, and did not go with him to the hall, as was her way usually with visitors who were going away. Then she said she had to see Sally about something, and was so long away that Katie had time to get fairly into her story, and so she read on after she came in again, and it was a good while before she noticed that her friend was gazing with a strange, fixed look into the embers, and that her roses had paled sadly since Mr Burnet had praised them when they first came in. But she smiled brightly enough when she turned and met Katie’s wistful look.“Well! How do you like it, Katie? But we must do something besides reading to-morrow, dear, or grannie will not be pleased.”And then she went on to tell of some pretty fancy-work that they were to learn together, and was so full of it, and of all they were to do the next three days, that Katie forgot her grave looks for that night. As the days went on, and she saw how feeble Mr Holt had become, she did not wonder at her sadness, and it did not come into Katie’s mind that there could be any other cause for her sadness and her grave looks than her father’s illness gave.“Except, perhaps, her brother may not be doing so well as he ought. And that is enough of itself to make her sad,” said Katie. “For what should I do if it were our Davie?”Katie had a pleasant visit in many ways. The leisure was delightful to her. They had a drive every day. Sometimes Mr Holt went with them, and then they had the large sleigh and a pair of horses, and sometimes Katie laughed, and made Miss Elizabeth laugh too, pretending that she was a rich lady riding in her own sleigh, and taking her friends for a drive. But she liked it best when Miss Elizabeth drove her own horse Lion, and they went alone together. It seemed to Katie that the talks they had at such times, in the keen, clear winter air, were different from the talks they sometimes fell into sitting by the fireside, when all the rest had gone to bed and they had the home to themselves. Under the bright sunshine they seemed to get away from Gershom and its news and its troubles and vexations, into a wider and brighter world, and some of the things that Miss Elizabeth said to her then, Katie told herself she would never forget while she lived.There were visitors now and then, and at such times, if they were strangers to her, Katie took her book into a corner, or into Sally’s bright kitchen, and read it there; but if the visitors were her friends as well, she stayed and enjoyed their visits also. Just one thing happened that it was not pleasant to think about afterward. Indeed it had been very unpleasant at the time, and Katie had some trouble in deciding whether or not she should say anything about it to grannie and her mother when she went home.This was a visit made one day to Elizabeth by Mrs Jacob Holt. Katie did not go away this time, because she was afraid it might not please her friend, but she did not join in the conversation. She sat beyond the flower-stand in the bay-window, reading and knitting; but she was not so interested in her book as not to hear something of what was said. Mrs Jacob told some village news, and then spoke about Clifton, and about a new dress that was to be finished for her to-day, and much more of the same kind.It was not Mrs Jacob’s fault that the conversation took the turn it did. It was the squire, who questioned her about Jacob, and about various matters connected with their business; and then he said something about Silas Bean, who had got hurt in his employment, and the difficulty was to make him understand what Silas Bean should be doing at the Varney place with two yoke of oxen, and what Jacob had to do with it. Elizabeth reminded him that Jacob had bought the Varney place, and that Mark Varney had gone away, and tried to end the discussion of the matter. But Mrs Jacob went still on to remind him of the Gershom Manufacturing Company, that would no doubt be formed by and by, and how Jacob hated to have time lost, and was taking advantage of the snow to have stones and timber drawn that would be needed in the building of the new dam; and that was the way that Silas Bean came to be there with his oxen.“And the company will take the timber off his hands, I suppose,” said she. “Only it’s likely Jacob will be pretty much the company himself—at least he will have most to say in it. He most generally does.”“But it seems to me that Jacob should not have undertaken so much without consulting me,” said the squire, with some excitement. “It seems to me he’s going ahead pretty fast, isn’t he?”“Oh! he’s told you all about it, I expect. You’ve forgotten. Your memory isn’t what it once was, you know.”But the squire was inclined to resent the idea that he could have forgotten a matter of such importance, and though Mrs Jacob assured him that his son had gone away for the day to Fosbrooke, it was all that his daughter could do to prevent him from going in search of him. She almost regretted not permitting him to go, however, for he would not leave the subject, and insisted on Mrs Jacob telling him all about the matter. She, with less sense and more malice than Elizabeth could have supposed possible, went on to tell of what was to be done, and went over the old grievance as to Mr Fleming’s obstinacy in refusing to come to terms for a piece of land which was the best for the mill-site, and good for very little else, “just to spite Jacob.”“We won’t talk about that,” said the squire, seeming to forget the first cause of grievance. “Jacob knows my mind about that matter. And it is doubtful whether the company they talk about will ever amount to much—at least for a time.”“Well, it isn’t for me to say. But I must go. They’ll think at home that I am lost,” and as she rose and pushed away her chair, she added in a voice that the squire could not hear, “It is not for me to say much about it. But Jacob generally does get things fixed pretty much to his mind, and I guess he sees his way clear to get this as well. Of course it will be just as much for Mr Fleming’s benefit as for the rest of the town, and his land will be paid for, he needn’t fear that.”At the first mention of her grandfather’s name, Katie had risen, and she was standing with burning cheeks and shining eyes when Mrs Jacob turned toward her to say good-bye.“I hope you’ll come and make me a visit before you go home. If Lizzie can spare you I shall be pleased to have you come any day—say to-morrow. Will you come?”“No,” said Katie, and then she sat down and put her book to her face lest Mrs Jacob should see the angry tears which she feared would not be kept back. For once in her life Mrs Jacob looked uncomfortable and disconcerted in Elizabeth’s presence. Elizabeth uttered not one of the many angry words that had almost risen to her lips, but opened the door and closed it again with only the usual words of good-bye.

A day with Miss Elizabeth was one of Katie’s chief pleasures, and it was scarcely less a pleasure to Miss Elizabeth to have her with her; so the faces of both were bright and smiling as they drove away from the door.

“It’s no’ often that you see two like these two,” said Mrs Fleming, as they all stood looking after them for a minute. “And it’s only good that they are like to do one another. May the Lord have them both in His keeping. There is nothing else that can keep them safe and happy; but that is enough, and I’m not afraid.”

They drove slowly down the slope, and waited at the gate for a word with Davie, who was coming from the wood with his great brown oxen, with the last load for the night. He did not look more than half pleased to see his sister at Miss Elizabeth’s side.

“You are not to grudge her to me, Davie, for a little while,” said Miss Holt.

“Oh, she can please herself,” said Davie, with a shrug. “When will you be home again, Katie?”

“Oh, in a day or two. I cannot just tell; but soon.”

They had not time to linger, and the horse did not care to stand, so with a hurried good-bye they were away and moved on rapidly for a while.

“I don’t think Davie likes me very well,” said Miss Elizabeth.

“Oh, it’s not you he doesn’t like,” said Katie eagerly.

“It is Jacob, I suppose?”

It was not Jacob that Katie meant, but she said nothing.

“Well, never mind; we are going to think and speak only of pleasant things for the next three days, and that was a bad beginning.”

Though the snow was deep it was light, and the horse, with the prospect of home before him, was willing to go, and strong as well, so they flew along, down the hill beneath the maples, past the graveyard and the church, into the long street of the town; and then, though it was growing late, Miss Elizabeth turned to the left over the bridge instead of going up the hill toward home. They came into the road on the other side of the bridge that brought most people to the town, and the snow was already well beaten down, and they went on in perfect enjoyment of the easiest of all movements.

It was neither sunlight nor moonlight, or rather it was both, for the clouds had all cleared away, and a red glow lingered in the west, and high above hung the moon, a silver crescent, and in the sky beyond a bright star here and there; all the rest was white, with streaks of black where the fences were and the wayside trees, and far in the distance a long stretch of forest hid the line where the white of the earth touched the blue of the sky.

In the light so faint, and yet so clear, that shone around them, all things had an unfamiliar look—a look of mystery, and it seemed, even to the sensible Katie, as though almost any strange adventure might happen to them to-night.

“I could almost fancy that we were going away together into some strange country, into the country of the ‘wraiths’ maybe, that grannie whiles tells the bairns about. Don’t all things seem to have a strange look to-night, Miss Elizabeth?”

Miss Elizabeth started. She had fallen into thought, and Katie could see when she turned her face that her thoughts had not been happy.

“What were you saying, Katie? Going away together? Oh, how I wish we were, away beyond the hills yonder, to leave all our troubles behind us.”

That was to be considered. Katie was not so ready to assent to her friend’s words as usual.

“But we should be leaving our comforts behind us too, all the people who love us, and all those whom we love.”

“Ah, yes, I know; and all our work as well. And it would be no good, for we should carry our troubles with us. It was a foolish thing to say, Katie, dear. It must be time to turn back when such foolish words come to one’s lips.”

Besides they had come to a place where turning was easy, and it might be some time before they could get another chance, so deep was the snow on either side. So they turned round toward home, and Katie thought it more wonderful still, for the red glow in the sky was before them now, and the new moon, and more stars shone as the glow faded.

“But it would be fine to go away with you, Miss Elizabeth, to some far country, to see strange sights—if we could be spared, I mean, and with the thought of coming back again.”

“Wouldn’t it be fine!” said Miss Elizabeth, rousing herself. “Some day we’ll go—you and I together, Katie. We’ll cross the sea, and wander through the countries that we read about in books, and among the great cities that have stood for hundreds and hundreds of years. Wouldn’t you like to see Scotland, Katie, and the heather hills that grannie tells us about; and the great castles that they used to hold against all comers in the old times, and the parks, and the deer, and the gardens full of wonderful flowers, and the lakes and the mountains—only we can see lakes and mountains at home.”

“And the moors and glens where they worshipped in the dark days.”

And so they went on in turn, telling what they would like to see—they were going slowly now—till they came to the bridge again.

“I like to think about it, but it could never be,” said Katie gravely.

“And why not? It might very easily be, I think.”

“But it could never be for me, until—the saddest things had happened. I could never leave my grandfather and my grandmother, and all the rest; only the rest might live till I came back again; but grannie—and him—”

“Yes, Katie, and it is as true for me as for you. Our work is here, and our happiness too; and, after all, we have fallen into sad thoughts again. But we are nearly home now.”

“There was no light in the minister’s study to-night,” said Katie, as they went slowly up the hill. “Nor in the dining-room either. He must be away from home.”

Elizabeth had noticed the darkened window, but she did not say so. Indeed she said nothing. She was thinking: “Perhaps he went in to see my father, knowing I was away.”

And so he had, for when they went into the hall they heard his voice, indeed several voices in the sitting-room. But they went first up-stairs to take off their wraps in Miss Elizabeth’s room, and came down just in time to find the tea-table ready, and the company waiting for them. There was coffee on the table too, for Mr Burnet was there, and Sally knew his tastes.

“There! You feel better, don’t you?” said Miss Betsey, who was the first to notice their entrance. “You look better, anyway.”

“Like two roses,” said Mr Burnet.

Elizabeth laughed and thanked him, and then shook hands with Mr Maxwell.

“I hope you have had a good time, daughter. I have,” said the squire.

“Yes. I see you have had company.”

“Yes, Betsey is always good company. Mr Maxwell came when he saw you pass down the street. He didn’t know Betsey was here, and he thought I might be lonesome.”

“It was very kind,” said Elizabeth.

All the rest sat down, but Mr Maxwell continued standing. The squire would not listen to him, when he said that doubtless his tea would be waiting for him at home, but urged him almost petulantly to remain.

“Lizzie, why don’t you ask the minister to stay?”

For Elizabeth was listening to something that Mr Burnet was saying to Katie, but she turned round when her father spoke to her.

“We haven’t Mr Burnet and Cousin Betsey here very often, Mr Maxwell. You might stay to-night for their sakes.”

So he stayed, and the squire had a good time still, and so had all the rest, it seemed, for they were in no haste to leave the table till Sally came to take the things away. When she came in again it was to say that “Ben had been waiting for his Aunt Betsey for the biggest part of an hour, and it was getting on for nine o’clock.” Even then Miss Betsey seemed in no hurry to go, but when she went, Mr Burnet went also, and Elizabeth went out of the room with her cousin, and did not come back for what seemed to Katie a long time. Her father was tired and she went out with him afterward. Mr Maxwell talked with Katie a while, about her mother and her grandparents, about Davie and his bees, and the work that had occupied him all the winter, and then he sat for a long time looking into the fire in silence. When Miss Elizabeth came in again he rose to go away.

“It is not very late,” said she.

“No—and it is very pleasant here,” said the minister, and he sat down again.

Miss Elizabeth took her work, and they were all silent for a while, and in the silence a sudden sense of embarrassment and discomfort seized Katie Fleming. She had a book in her hand, but she was not sure whether she ought to read or not. She would have liked to go with it to the side-table, where Miss Elizabeth had carried the lamp before she sat down, or even out into the kitchen to see Sally for a while.

“Are you deep in your story already? Well, take your book to the lamp, if you like, for a little while,” said Miss Elizabeth, just as if she had known her thoughts.

But Katie would not have liked her to know her thoughts. She was glad to go to the lamp, but she did not care for her story. She was thinking of something else, of a single word she had heard one day, which put together significantly the names of the minister and her friend. She had been indignant at first. “They were just friends,” she had said to herself. Afterward she could not help giving them a good many of her thoughts, and she was not sure about it. As she sat with the book on the table before her, shading her eyes with her hands, she felt a little guilty and greatly interested, for the story before her was better than any story in a book.

Perhaps she ought to go away, she thought again. It was not right to listen, and she could not help listening. But indeed there was nothing said which all the world might not hear. Mrs Varney had burned her hand. Old Mrs Lawrence was sick, and Miss Elizabeth promised to go and see her. Then Mr Maxwell told her about a meeting he had attended in Fairfax, and about another that he meant to attend, and so on.

“It might be grannie and he,” said Katie, with a little impatient wonder. “Only grannie would say it all a great deal better, and not just ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ and ‘I hope so indeed,’ like Miss Elizabeth. What has come to her, I wonder? Mrs Stacy’s rheumatism, and the mothers’ meeting at North Gore. That is not how people talk, surely—when—when—”

Suddenly looking up she met Miss Elizabeth’s eye, and reddened, and hung her head. Then she rose as Miss Elizabeth beckoned to her, and came to the fireside again, still holding her book in her hand.

After that Miss Elizabeth took a letter which she had that day received from her brother Clifton, and read bits of it aloud. It was a very amusing letter, she seemed to think, and so did the minister, but Katie did not understand all the allusions in it, and missed the point. And besides, Clifton Holt was not a favourite with her. She was a little scornful of a lad who seemed to care so little for the opportunities he had, and who did so little good work with them. He was idle, she thought, and conceited, and she could not but wonder at Miss Elizabeth’s delight in him, and listened with some impatience to the discussion of him and his affairs that followed the reading of the letter.

“To be sure he is her brother, and she must make the best of him,” said Katie.

By and by Mr Maxwell rose to go away, and Miss Elizabeth bade him good-night in the sitting-room, and did not go with him to the hall, as was her way usually with visitors who were going away. Then she said she had to see Sally about something, and was so long away that Katie had time to get fairly into her story, and so she read on after she came in again, and it was a good while before she noticed that her friend was gazing with a strange, fixed look into the embers, and that her roses had paled sadly since Mr Burnet had praised them when they first came in. But she smiled brightly enough when she turned and met Katie’s wistful look.

“Well! How do you like it, Katie? But we must do something besides reading to-morrow, dear, or grannie will not be pleased.”

And then she went on to tell of some pretty fancy-work that they were to learn together, and was so full of it, and of all they were to do the next three days, that Katie forgot her grave looks for that night. As the days went on, and she saw how feeble Mr Holt had become, she did not wonder at her sadness, and it did not come into Katie’s mind that there could be any other cause for her sadness and her grave looks than her father’s illness gave.

“Except, perhaps, her brother may not be doing so well as he ought. And that is enough of itself to make her sad,” said Katie. “For what should I do if it were our Davie?”

Katie had a pleasant visit in many ways. The leisure was delightful to her. They had a drive every day. Sometimes Mr Holt went with them, and then they had the large sleigh and a pair of horses, and sometimes Katie laughed, and made Miss Elizabeth laugh too, pretending that she was a rich lady riding in her own sleigh, and taking her friends for a drive. But she liked it best when Miss Elizabeth drove her own horse Lion, and they went alone together. It seemed to Katie that the talks they had at such times, in the keen, clear winter air, were different from the talks they sometimes fell into sitting by the fireside, when all the rest had gone to bed and they had the home to themselves. Under the bright sunshine they seemed to get away from Gershom and its news and its troubles and vexations, into a wider and brighter world, and some of the things that Miss Elizabeth said to her then, Katie told herself she would never forget while she lived.

There were visitors now and then, and at such times, if they were strangers to her, Katie took her book into a corner, or into Sally’s bright kitchen, and read it there; but if the visitors were her friends as well, she stayed and enjoyed their visits also. Just one thing happened that it was not pleasant to think about afterward. Indeed it had been very unpleasant at the time, and Katie had some trouble in deciding whether or not she should say anything about it to grannie and her mother when she went home.

This was a visit made one day to Elizabeth by Mrs Jacob Holt. Katie did not go away this time, because she was afraid it might not please her friend, but she did not join in the conversation. She sat beyond the flower-stand in the bay-window, reading and knitting; but she was not so interested in her book as not to hear something of what was said. Mrs Jacob told some village news, and then spoke about Clifton, and about a new dress that was to be finished for her to-day, and much more of the same kind.

It was not Mrs Jacob’s fault that the conversation took the turn it did. It was the squire, who questioned her about Jacob, and about various matters connected with their business; and then he said something about Silas Bean, who had got hurt in his employment, and the difficulty was to make him understand what Silas Bean should be doing at the Varney place with two yoke of oxen, and what Jacob had to do with it. Elizabeth reminded him that Jacob had bought the Varney place, and that Mark Varney had gone away, and tried to end the discussion of the matter. But Mrs Jacob went still on to remind him of the Gershom Manufacturing Company, that would no doubt be formed by and by, and how Jacob hated to have time lost, and was taking advantage of the snow to have stones and timber drawn that would be needed in the building of the new dam; and that was the way that Silas Bean came to be there with his oxen.

“And the company will take the timber off his hands, I suppose,” said she. “Only it’s likely Jacob will be pretty much the company himself—at least he will have most to say in it. He most generally does.”

“But it seems to me that Jacob should not have undertaken so much without consulting me,” said the squire, with some excitement. “It seems to me he’s going ahead pretty fast, isn’t he?”

“Oh! he’s told you all about it, I expect. You’ve forgotten. Your memory isn’t what it once was, you know.”

But the squire was inclined to resent the idea that he could have forgotten a matter of such importance, and though Mrs Jacob assured him that his son had gone away for the day to Fosbrooke, it was all that his daughter could do to prevent him from going in search of him. She almost regretted not permitting him to go, however, for he would not leave the subject, and insisted on Mrs Jacob telling him all about the matter. She, with less sense and more malice than Elizabeth could have supposed possible, went on to tell of what was to be done, and went over the old grievance as to Mr Fleming’s obstinacy in refusing to come to terms for a piece of land which was the best for the mill-site, and good for very little else, “just to spite Jacob.”

“We won’t talk about that,” said the squire, seeming to forget the first cause of grievance. “Jacob knows my mind about that matter. And it is doubtful whether the company they talk about will ever amount to much—at least for a time.”

“Well, it isn’t for me to say. But I must go. They’ll think at home that I am lost,” and as she rose and pushed away her chair, she added in a voice that the squire could not hear, “It is not for me to say much about it. But Jacob generally does get things fixed pretty much to his mind, and I guess he sees his way clear to get this as well. Of course it will be just as much for Mr Fleming’s benefit as for the rest of the town, and his land will be paid for, he needn’t fear that.”

At the first mention of her grandfather’s name, Katie had risen, and she was standing with burning cheeks and shining eyes when Mrs Jacob turned toward her to say good-bye.

“I hope you’ll come and make me a visit before you go home. If Lizzie can spare you I shall be pleased to have you come any day—say to-morrow. Will you come?”

“No,” said Katie, and then she sat down and put her book to her face lest Mrs Jacob should see the angry tears which she feared would not be kept back. For once in her life Mrs Jacob looked uncomfortable and disconcerted in Elizabeth’s presence. Elizabeth uttered not one of the many angry words that had almost risen to her lips, but opened the door and closed it again with only the usual words of good-bye.

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