Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Twenty Nine.Conclusion.Clifton went southward again not long after his summer visit to the mountains, and on his return he had more to say about what he had seen and done and enjoyed than was usual with him. Whether he was led into doing so by the fact that Mr Maxwell had come in for the evening, and took pleasure in hearing about old friends and familiar scenes, or whether he spoke with intention, Elizabeth could not afterward decide.He had not seen Miss Langden at this time. She was paying a visit to friends at a distance. If she had been visiting her Aunt Maltha, he would have gone there to see her, he said, as though it were quite his right to do so, and a matter of course. Elizabeth listened to all this with much discomfort, and glanced at Mr Maxwell now and then to see how it was taken. The minister met her glance frankly and smilingly, and certainly did not seem to have any thought of resenting the young man’s tone and manner.“He is sure of his ground,” thought Elizabeth; “and he can wait; but, my poor Clifton, I fear he has disappointment before him.”She knew that such a disappointment might be got over, and he be none the worse, but rather the better, for what he might have to pass through. But it hurt her beforehand to think of his suffering, and to think that it must come to him through his friend. Even as the talk went on between them, she was trying to bring her courage to the point of asking Mr Maxwell to tell her brother how matters stood between him and Miss Langden. It was only that they were waiting for the end of the two years of probation, she supposed, and they were nearly over now. She came out of her own thoughts in time to hear Mr Maxwell say:“Yes, I mean to get away for a week or two by and by, and I mean to pass Thanksgiving either there or with Miss Martha at New B—. If I cannot get away at that time I shall certainly go later, but I should like to be there on Thanksgiving Day for various reasons.”Elizabeth looked from one to the other with some surprise. Mr Maxwell spoke, and Clifton listened, with faces that were grave enough, but the eyes of both were smiling as they met hers.“Mr Maxwell ought to tell him,” thought she, with a touch of anger at her heart.But he did not need to be told. When Mr Maxwell was gone, and Clifton had returned from seeing him to the gate, he said to his sister:“Did you know, Lizzie, that Mr Maxwell had once asked Miss Langden to marry him?”Elizabeth was moving about the room, putting things in order, as was her way before going up-stairs for the night. She removed the lamp to the side-table, and sat down before she answered him.“Yes, I have long known it. I have often, often wished to tell you, but I did not feel at liberty to do so.”“And why not, pray? One may surely repeat a rumour of that kind without a breach of confidence.”“But I did not hear it as a rumour, and I had no permission to repeat it. And besides, it was Mr Maxwell who told me.”“Rather queer—his telling you, wasn’t it?”“No. In the circumstances it was natural enough. I knew it, or I had guessed it before he told me.”And then she went on to tell of the first note that Miss Essie had sent her, because she was one of the Gershom friends of her friend “Will Maxwell,” as she called him. “But it is a long time now since one of her pretty notes has come to me. But they correspond, and have always done so, since he came to Gershom.”Clifton said nothing, and his sister was silent for a time. Then she asked:“Who told you of their engagement?”“Engagement! There is no engagement,” said Clifton shortly.“No formal engagement, but that was only because her father thought Miss Essie too young; but the time of waiting is nearly over now.”“Lizzie, if I had been asked who had been most in Mr Maxwell’s thoughts for the last year I should not certainly have said it was Miss Langden.”“Well, your penetration would have been at fault, that is all.”“And I should not have said that Miss Langden had been giving many of her thoughts to him, for the last year at least.”“Of that I can say nothing. But who told you of the proposal? Not Mr Maxwell?”“No. Mr Langden told me.”“Mr Langden!” exclaimed Elizabeth, and by and by she added: “Is that all I am to hear, brother?”“It is all I have to tell at present. Perhaps I may have more by and by.”“Or perhaps it may be Mr Maxwell who may have something to tell,” said Elizabeth gravely, “when he comes home from Thanksgiving.”Clifton laughed.“Possibly he may—but—”“Clifton, I cannot bear to think that Mr Maxwell and you may not always be friends.”“Well, you needn’t fret about it beforehand, need you?” and then he rose and went away.They both had something to tell before Thanksgiving Day, but it was not just what Elizabeth had expected to hear. Clifton did not tell his part before Thanksgiving, however. Indeed, he never told it. He was away a good deal about that time; and was so much occupied when he was at home, that Elizabeth saw less of him, and heard less from him than had ever been the case before during the same length of time, and she could only wait till it should be his pleasure to speak. But Mr Maxwell lost no time in saying to his friend what he had to say.One fair September morning, about a year after her father’s death, Elizabeth saw the minister coming in at the gate with an open letter in his hand, and though she could give no reason for the thought, she told herself at once to prepare for tidings. Her first impulse was to go away, so as to gain time, for a sharp and sudden pain, which she could not but fear was not all for her brother, smote her heart as she caught sight of Mr Maxwell’s moved and smiling face. But she felt that it was better not to go, so she rose and met him at the door.“Well,” she said, smiling and preparing to be glad for him, at least.Her face was moved out of its usual quiet too, as Mr Maxwell could not but see, and he said:“Have you heard anything? Has your brother anything to tell?”“Clifton is not at home; I have heard nothing.”“Ah, well! All in good time, I suppose.”Mr Maxwell did not sit down, though Elizabeth did, but walked about the room, looking out first at one window and then at the other in a way that startled her.“Well,” she said after a little, “I am waiting for your news.”“News? I have no news—yes, I have something to say. I have been waiting these two years to say it—may I speak, Elizabeth?”And then he sat down on the sofa beside her. To that which he had to say Elizabeth listened with a surprise which would have been painful to her friend if something more than surprise had not soon appeared.In a few words he told her of the discovery he had made soon after his return home two years ago, and how he had thought nothing else right or possible but to wait patiently till the two years of probation were over to see what might befall. He had not always waited patiently, he acknowledged. He had had little hope that Miss Holt had more than friendship to give him, and believed himself to be content with that for the present, till he had known how, after her father’s death, some one else was asking for the hand for which he had no right to ask, and then it had gone hard with him.He had not been blind to Clifton’s hopes and pretensions, and he had been for some time quite aware that whatever Miss Langden might have to give to Clifton, she had only friendship to give to him. But he had remained silent because he believed himself bound not to speak to Elizabeth till the two years were over. And now they were over.Mr Langden, knowing that his plan was to visit them soon, considered that he ought to know how he was to be received, and had insisted that his daughter should tell him her mind distinctly as to her future. It is not be supposed that she did that altogether, but she acknowledged that her views of life and duty had somewhat changed, and she feared it would not be for their mutual happiness to renew her engagement with Mr Maxwell. A little note to that effect was inclosed in her father’s letter which had reached him this morning, and certainly the minister had lost no time.If Elizabeth hesitated to answer the question which came next, it was not for a reason that seemed to trouble the questioner much. She was not sure that she would make a good minister’s wife—and especially she was not sure that she would make a good minister’s wife for Gershom. But all that was put aside for the present. She was not afraid to trust her happiness in the hands of her friend. She was willing to share his life and his labours, and to do what she could to aid him in his work. And with that her friend was well content.When he said something of the inequality of their relations to each other, because of that which she possessed, she declared herself willing to let all that pass into the hands of her brothers, and to share the parsonage and comparative poverty with him. Whether she was showing her usual wisdom and prudence in making such a declaration, there was no one there to decide, and when the right time came for the decision it was not left in her hands.Clifton did not return home triumphant, as Elizabeth had never doubted that he would. He was well pleased to hear all she had to tell him of the new happiness that had come into her life; but he had nothing to tell her in return. By and by she heard, through Mr Maxwell, that Miss Langden had gone with her aunt to pass at least a year in Europe, and then Clifton told her that he had known her plans all along. He said little about his disappointment, indeed he did not acknowledge himself disappointed. But he did not succeed in concealing it from Elizabeth. He went on as usual with all that he had to do, with no less interest and energy, and with no less success than before.Mr Langden paid a visit to Gershom in the following spring, and there was perfect confidence and satisfaction between him and Clifton as far as business relations were concerned. And hearing his daughter’s name frequently mentioned by him, and taking some other things into consideration, Elizabeth could not but hope that in good time all things would end as her brother desired, and since he was silent, she did not think it would be right for her to speak.But it did not all end as Clifton wished it to end. Miss Langden returned with her aunt at the close of the year, as had been expected, but she returned engaged to marry a New York gentleman whom they had met abroad. She and Clifton had never been engaged. Her father had forbidden the young man to speak to her till the two years of Mr Maxwell’s waiting were over, and before that time the European trip was decided on and close at hand.This meeting and parting at that time had been all that Clifton could desire, except that she had refused to bind herself by a promise to him, and her aunt had sustained her in this, as was perhaps right, knowing all that she knew. Without her promise Clifton had trusted her entirely, and doubtless she meant to be true to him.But temptation came in the form of wealth and family and fashion, and her aunt was at hand to show her the advantages of these things. Indeed, it must be said the young lady saw them for herself only too clearly, and was glad that she had no promise to break to secure them.If there was any comfort in the knowledge that her father was disappointed and indignant at what she had done without his knowledge or consent, Clifton had that comfort, but it possibly did not go far to help him. He said little about it, but it went hard with him for a while.However, he did not make his misery an excuse for neglecting his duty. He was past the age for such folly now and besides, he was too really interested in his work not to find it a resource in the time of his trouble, and the changes which his sister had feared might follow such disappointment, did not come.“And after all,” she said, comforting herself, “he will get over it in time.” Which was perfectly true.The new dam and the new establishments of various sorts, which followed its completion, did much for Gershom. That is to say, they increased the population and the wealth of the place, and made it more than ever the centre of the surrounding country as to all business transactions. But it is a question whether it made it a pleasanter place of residence for any of our friends there. A state of transition from a country village to a country town of some importance is never pleasant for the old residents for a time. But progress is to be desired for all that, and Gershom is now an incorporated town with a mayor and council-men of its own, and on the whole it may be considered that its prosperity is established on a good foundation.Changes came to the people also, some of them to be rejoiced over, and some of them not. The High-School lost Mr Burnet as a teacher, which, considering his utter inability to fall in with certain new-fangled notions as to schools and schoolmasters, which the influx of new-comers brought with it, was not a bad thing for him, whatever it might be for the school. He went home to Scotland to take possession of some money left to him by an elder brother, who had been a rich man. He came back, however, to make his home in Canada, as people who have lived in it for any length of time are almost sure to do.He brought back with him his two daughters, bonnie lassies of fifteen and sixteen, and took up his abode with them in the house that had been the parsonage. The big house on the hill answered the purpose of a parsonage now. His daughters were nice, merry girls, but they were quite ignorant of housekeeping matters, and they did not get on very well with the new ways of the place for a while. They had, perhaps, been too much restrained by the friends who had brought them up, for some of the staid people of Gershom thought that they did not know how to use their liberty wisely.Perhaps their father thought so too, and that he needed help to guide them; at any rate, to the surprise of most people, he asked Miss Betsey Holt to come and take care of them, and of himself also, and after some hesitation, caused by doubt as to how “mother and Cynthy and Ben would get along without her,” she consented.All eyes were on the household for a time, for dutiful submission on the part of the young step-daughters was considered doubtful by a good many of their friends. It is likely that Betsey had her own troubles with them till they knew her better, but no one in Gershom was the wiser for anything that she told them, and things righted themselves in time, as they always do where good and sensible people are concerned.Mark Varney redeemed his farm and moor, and carried his mother and his little daughter home again when Mr Maxwell was married. His farm was not so large after a time, for a part of it was laid out in building lots for the new village, and Mark, as the neighbours declared, was soon “well-to-do,” and doing well.And though he never made so good a speech again as he made that day at the picnic, he has done for many a suffering and miserable man what in the first days of his coming to Gershom, Mr Maxwell did for him. He has followed, and comforted, and brought back to life and hope more than one or two poor besotted wretches, whom the rising prosperity of Gershom drew thither in the hope of getting bread. And he has never grown weary of the work, though sometimes he has had to grieve over ill-success.It would be going beyond the truth to say that all Gershom was satisfied when the engagement of Miss Holt and the minister was announced, because there are some people who are never satisfied. But they whose opinion they valued most were satisfied. Mrs Fleming and Cousin Betsey had been hoping for it—almost expecting it all along, and one or two of Elizabeth’s special old-lady friends acknowledged that they had been praying for such a marriage all the while. As for Katie, it was in her eyes the only fitting end to the romance which she had guessed at long ago, and which she had been secretly and silently watching all these years.As to whether or not she made a good minister’s wife, Elizabeth was never quite sure. But the minister was content, and so were most of the people. And even those who were never quite contented with anything, acknowledged that “she did as well as she knew how,” and that would be high praise for the most of us.Clifton lived in the old home with them, for his good and their pleasure, till the time came when he made a home of his own, which, considering all things, was not so very long a time after all.Although Jacob’s change from the first place to the second both in the business and in the town was not pleasant to him, it was wholesome. He had never been equal to therôleof the great man of the place, and after the first feelings of humiliation wore away, and their affairs began to look prosperous again, the fact that “two heads are better than one” made itself apparent to him even more clearly than had been the case in the days when he found his father unable, and his brother unwilling, to give him help and counsel.He came to be much better liked by his neighbours than he used to be, and was really a better man. He had fewer worries and fewer temptations, and though he was not what might be called “a shining light” either in the church or in the world, it was the opinion of his brethren and townsmen that his troubles had been blessed to him, and that he was getting along—not very fast, but in the right direction.But that which did most for Jacob in his time of trouble was the knowledge of Mr Fleming’s forgiveness and friendship. It is not likely that he had ever acknowledged, even to himself, that he had sinned against him through his son more than others had done, but a sense of the old man’s silent anger had always been in him, and had been painful and humiliating to him—how painful he knew by the sense of relief he experienced whenever they came in contact afterward. He no longer stepped aside when he saw him approaching, so that the neighbours should not remark about the old man’s steadily averted face. They had never much to say to each other, but they met and exchanged kindly greetings as other men did, and all Gershom saw the change that had come over them both. Even his cousin Betsey grew friendly and frank in her intercourse with him and his wife, and that was a change certainly.Few people ever knew just what had brought about this changed state of feeling. There was nothing to tell which Jacob cared to repeat. It would have done no good to bring up the old, sad story again, he well knew, and he said little about it even to his wife.As for Mr Fleming—and indeed all the Flemings—the joyful tidings that the letter brought on that fair September morning were too sacred and sweet to be discussed much even among themselves. Katie always held that her grandfather would have forgiven Jacob Holt all the same if the letter had never come, because there was the Lord’s command clear and plain, “Forgive and ye shall be forgiven,” and it must have come to that at last.“And, indeed, Davie, it was near at hand before the letter came. The Lord had touched him. First there was the fear of losing you, and then the fear of losing grannie, and then the letter came from the son he had lost so long, and that was the last touch for which the rest had made him ready. Oh! how good He has been to us! Surely, surely, Davie, we can never through all our lives forget.”Mrs Fleming thought as Katie did, though they had never spoken together of the subject. In her innermost heart she had believed—though even to herself she had hardly put the thought into words—that on the subject of Jacob Holt’s past misdeeds her husband was hardly responsible for his thoughts. The misery of his son’s loss, not for this brief life only, but forever and ever, as he could not but believe, had taken such full possession of him as to leave him no power to struggle against the bitterness which became almost hatred as time went on. If he had died unforgiving, the Lord would have still received him, she had believed, and she had striven to content herself with this belief in silence, feeling how vain were spoken words to him.“Only a miracle would make him see God’s will in this; and I have no right to ask for that.”No miracle was wrought. The letter came, and was the last touch of the loving Hand which even at the worst times had wounded but to heal; and lying with his lips in the dust, but with eyes looking upward, the cloud parted, and he saw the face of God, and was at peace.After this there came nothing to trouble these two old people as they moved softly down the hill together. Grannie was never very strong again after her long illness, and no longer took the lead in all that was done in the house—that was Katie’s part in life for several years to come; but she was quite content to rest and to look at other folk busy with the work which had once been hers, and that does not always happen in the last days of a life so active and so full as hers had been.And what was true of the grandmother was true of the grandfather as well. He seemed to have no more anxious thoughts about anything. He did not need to have while Davie stayed at home; but even after Davie went away, and the management of the farm fell for the most part into the less skillful hands of the younger brothers, their grandfather “took things easy,” the lads said, and rarely found fault.And so they had still a peaceful gloaming, these two old people, when their changeful day of life was drawing to a close. Only it was like the dawn rather than the gloaming, Katie said, because of the soft brightness that shone on them both. It was “light at evening time,” and their last days were their best to themselves and to all by whom they were beloved.For the last days were days of waiting for the change of which they spoke often to the bairns so dear, and to one another. Once, as Katie sat with her grandfather at the pasture-bars on Sabbath afternoon, she said to him—after many other words had been spoken between them—that she would like to put that verse on his grave-stone after he was gone:“At evening time it shall be light.”But her grandfather said:“Na, na, my lassie! If I have a grave-stone—which matters little—and if any verse at all be put upon it, let it be this:—“‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’” Then Katie stooped and touched his hand with her lips, as she had done once long ago, and said softly: “Yes, grandfather, so it shall be.” And so it was.The End.

Clifton went southward again not long after his summer visit to the mountains, and on his return he had more to say about what he had seen and done and enjoyed than was usual with him. Whether he was led into doing so by the fact that Mr Maxwell had come in for the evening, and took pleasure in hearing about old friends and familiar scenes, or whether he spoke with intention, Elizabeth could not afterward decide.

He had not seen Miss Langden at this time. She was paying a visit to friends at a distance. If she had been visiting her Aunt Maltha, he would have gone there to see her, he said, as though it were quite his right to do so, and a matter of course. Elizabeth listened to all this with much discomfort, and glanced at Mr Maxwell now and then to see how it was taken. The minister met her glance frankly and smilingly, and certainly did not seem to have any thought of resenting the young man’s tone and manner.

“He is sure of his ground,” thought Elizabeth; “and he can wait; but, my poor Clifton, I fear he has disappointment before him.”

She knew that such a disappointment might be got over, and he be none the worse, but rather the better, for what he might have to pass through. But it hurt her beforehand to think of his suffering, and to think that it must come to him through his friend. Even as the talk went on between them, she was trying to bring her courage to the point of asking Mr Maxwell to tell her brother how matters stood between him and Miss Langden. It was only that they were waiting for the end of the two years of probation, she supposed, and they were nearly over now. She came out of her own thoughts in time to hear Mr Maxwell say:

“Yes, I mean to get away for a week or two by and by, and I mean to pass Thanksgiving either there or with Miss Martha at New B—. If I cannot get away at that time I shall certainly go later, but I should like to be there on Thanksgiving Day for various reasons.”

Elizabeth looked from one to the other with some surprise. Mr Maxwell spoke, and Clifton listened, with faces that were grave enough, but the eyes of both were smiling as they met hers.

“Mr Maxwell ought to tell him,” thought she, with a touch of anger at her heart.

But he did not need to be told. When Mr Maxwell was gone, and Clifton had returned from seeing him to the gate, he said to his sister:

“Did you know, Lizzie, that Mr Maxwell had once asked Miss Langden to marry him?”

Elizabeth was moving about the room, putting things in order, as was her way before going up-stairs for the night. She removed the lamp to the side-table, and sat down before she answered him.

“Yes, I have long known it. I have often, often wished to tell you, but I did not feel at liberty to do so.”

“And why not, pray? One may surely repeat a rumour of that kind without a breach of confidence.”

“But I did not hear it as a rumour, and I had no permission to repeat it. And besides, it was Mr Maxwell who told me.”

“Rather queer—his telling you, wasn’t it?”

“No. In the circumstances it was natural enough. I knew it, or I had guessed it before he told me.”

And then she went on to tell of the first note that Miss Essie had sent her, because she was one of the Gershom friends of her friend “Will Maxwell,” as she called him. “But it is a long time now since one of her pretty notes has come to me. But they correspond, and have always done so, since he came to Gershom.”

Clifton said nothing, and his sister was silent for a time. Then she asked:

“Who told you of their engagement?”

“Engagement! There is no engagement,” said Clifton shortly.

“No formal engagement, but that was only because her father thought Miss Essie too young; but the time of waiting is nearly over now.”

“Lizzie, if I had been asked who had been most in Mr Maxwell’s thoughts for the last year I should not certainly have said it was Miss Langden.”

“Well, your penetration would have been at fault, that is all.”

“And I should not have said that Miss Langden had been giving many of her thoughts to him, for the last year at least.”

“Of that I can say nothing. But who told you of the proposal? Not Mr Maxwell?”

“No. Mr Langden told me.”

“Mr Langden!” exclaimed Elizabeth, and by and by she added: “Is that all I am to hear, brother?”

“It is all I have to tell at present. Perhaps I may have more by and by.”

“Or perhaps it may be Mr Maxwell who may have something to tell,” said Elizabeth gravely, “when he comes home from Thanksgiving.”

Clifton laughed.

“Possibly he may—but—”

“Clifton, I cannot bear to think that Mr Maxwell and you may not always be friends.”

“Well, you needn’t fret about it beforehand, need you?” and then he rose and went away.

They both had something to tell before Thanksgiving Day, but it was not just what Elizabeth had expected to hear. Clifton did not tell his part before Thanksgiving, however. Indeed, he never told it. He was away a good deal about that time; and was so much occupied when he was at home, that Elizabeth saw less of him, and heard less from him than had ever been the case before during the same length of time, and she could only wait till it should be his pleasure to speak. But Mr Maxwell lost no time in saying to his friend what he had to say.

One fair September morning, about a year after her father’s death, Elizabeth saw the minister coming in at the gate with an open letter in his hand, and though she could give no reason for the thought, she told herself at once to prepare for tidings. Her first impulse was to go away, so as to gain time, for a sharp and sudden pain, which she could not but fear was not all for her brother, smote her heart as she caught sight of Mr Maxwell’s moved and smiling face. But she felt that it was better not to go, so she rose and met him at the door.

“Well,” she said, smiling and preparing to be glad for him, at least.

Her face was moved out of its usual quiet too, as Mr Maxwell could not but see, and he said:

“Have you heard anything? Has your brother anything to tell?”

“Clifton is not at home; I have heard nothing.”

“Ah, well! All in good time, I suppose.”

Mr Maxwell did not sit down, though Elizabeth did, but walked about the room, looking out first at one window and then at the other in a way that startled her.

“Well,” she said after a little, “I am waiting for your news.”

“News? I have no news—yes, I have something to say. I have been waiting these two years to say it—may I speak, Elizabeth?”

And then he sat down on the sofa beside her. To that which he had to say Elizabeth listened with a surprise which would have been painful to her friend if something more than surprise had not soon appeared.

In a few words he told her of the discovery he had made soon after his return home two years ago, and how he had thought nothing else right or possible but to wait patiently till the two years of probation were over to see what might befall. He had not always waited patiently, he acknowledged. He had had little hope that Miss Holt had more than friendship to give him, and believed himself to be content with that for the present, till he had known how, after her father’s death, some one else was asking for the hand for which he had no right to ask, and then it had gone hard with him.

He had not been blind to Clifton’s hopes and pretensions, and he had been for some time quite aware that whatever Miss Langden might have to give to Clifton, she had only friendship to give to him. But he had remained silent because he believed himself bound not to speak to Elizabeth till the two years were over. And now they were over.

Mr Langden, knowing that his plan was to visit them soon, considered that he ought to know how he was to be received, and had insisted that his daughter should tell him her mind distinctly as to her future. It is not be supposed that she did that altogether, but she acknowledged that her views of life and duty had somewhat changed, and she feared it would not be for their mutual happiness to renew her engagement with Mr Maxwell. A little note to that effect was inclosed in her father’s letter which had reached him this morning, and certainly the minister had lost no time.

If Elizabeth hesitated to answer the question which came next, it was not for a reason that seemed to trouble the questioner much. She was not sure that she would make a good minister’s wife—and especially she was not sure that she would make a good minister’s wife for Gershom. But all that was put aside for the present. She was not afraid to trust her happiness in the hands of her friend. She was willing to share his life and his labours, and to do what she could to aid him in his work. And with that her friend was well content.

When he said something of the inequality of their relations to each other, because of that which she possessed, she declared herself willing to let all that pass into the hands of her brothers, and to share the parsonage and comparative poverty with him. Whether she was showing her usual wisdom and prudence in making such a declaration, there was no one there to decide, and when the right time came for the decision it was not left in her hands.

Clifton did not return home triumphant, as Elizabeth had never doubted that he would. He was well pleased to hear all she had to tell him of the new happiness that had come into her life; but he had nothing to tell her in return. By and by she heard, through Mr Maxwell, that Miss Langden had gone with her aunt to pass at least a year in Europe, and then Clifton told her that he had known her plans all along. He said little about his disappointment, indeed he did not acknowledge himself disappointed. But he did not succeed in concealing it from Elizabeth. He went on as usual with all that he had to do, with no less interest and energy, and with no less success than before.

Mr Langden paid a visit to Gershom in the following spring, and there was perfect confidence and satisfaction between him and Clifton as far as business relations were concerned. And hearing his daughter’s name frequently mentioned by him, and taking some other things into consideration, Elizabeth could not but hope that in good time all things would end as her brother desired, and since he was silent, she did not think it would be right for her to speak.

But it did not all end as Clifton wished it to end. Miss Langden returned with her aunt at the close of the year, as had been expected, but she returned engaged to marry a New York gentleman whom they had met abroad. She and Clifton had never been engaged. Her father had forbidden the young man to speak to her till the two years of Mr Maxwell’s waiting were over, and before that time the European trip was decided on and close at hand.

This meeting and parting at that time had been all that Clifton could desire, except that she had refused to bind herself by a promise to him, and her aunt had sustained her in this, as was perhaps right, knowing all that she knew. Without her promise Clifton had trusted her entirely, and doubtless she meant to be true to him.

But temptation came in the form of wealth and family and fashion, and her aunt was at hand to show her the advantages of these things. Indeed, it must be said the young lady saw them for herself only too clearly, and was glad that she had no promise to break to secure them.

If there was any comfort in the knowledge that her father was disappointed and indignant at what she had done without his knowledge or consent, Clifton had that comfort, but it possibly did not go far to help him. He said little about it, but it went hard with him for a while.

However, he did not make his misery an excuse for neglecting his duty. He was past the age for such folly now and besides, he was too really interested in his work not to find it a resource in the time of his trouble, and the changes which his sister had feared might follow such disappointment, did not come.

“And after all,” she said, comforting herself, “he will get over it in time.” Which was perfectly true.

The new dam and the new establishments of various sorts, which followed its completion, did much for Gershom. That is to say, they increased the population and the wealth of the place, and made it more than ever the centre of the surrounding country as to all business transactions. But it is a question whether it made it a pleasanter place of residence for any of our friends there. A state of transition from a country village to a country town of some importance is never pleasant for the old residents for a time. But progress is to be desired for all that, and Gershom is now an incorporated town with a mayor and council-men of its own, and on the whole it may be considered that its prosperity is established on a good foundation.

Changes came to the people also, some of them to be rejoiced over, and some of them not. The High-School lost Mr Burnet as a teacher, which, considering his utter inability to fall in with certain new-fangled notions as to schools and schoolmasters, which the influx of new-comers brought with it, was not a bad thing for him, whatever it might be for the school. He went home to Scotland to take possession of some money left to him by an elder brother, who had been a rich man. He came back, however, to make his home in Canada, as people who have lived in it for any length of time are almost sure to do.

He brought back with him his two daughters, bonnie lassies of fifteen and sixteen, and took up his abode with them in the house that had been the parsonage. The big house on the hill answered the purpose of a parsonage now. His daughters were nice, merry girls, but they were quite ignorant of housekeeping matters, and they did not get on very well with the new ways of the place for a while. They had, perhaps, been too much restrained by the friends who had brought them up, for some of the staid people of Gershom thought that they did not know how to use their liberty wisely.

Perhaps their father thought so too, and that he needed help to guide them; at any rate, to the surprise of most people, he asked Miss Betsey Holt to come and take care of them, and of himself also, and after some hesitation, caused by doubt as to how “mother and Cynthy and Ben would get along without her,” she consented.

All eyes were on the household for a time, for dutiful submission on the part of the young step-daughters was considered doubtful by a good many of their friends. It is likely that Betsey had her own troubles with them till they knew her better, but no one in Gershom was the wiser for anything that she told them, and things righted themselves in time, as they always do where good and sensible people are concerned.

Mark Varney redeemed his farm and moor, and carried his mother and his little daughter home again when Mr Maxwell was married. His farm was not so large after a time, for a part of it was laid out in building lots for the new village, and Mark, as the neighbours declared, was soon “well-to-do,” and doing well.

And though he never made so good a speech again as he made that day at the picnic, he has done for many a suffering and miserable man what in the first days of his coming to Gershom, Mr Maxwell did for him. He has followed, and comforted, and brought back to life and hope more than one or two poor besotted wretches, whom the rising prosperity of Gershom drew thither in the hope of getting bread. And he has never grown weary of the work, though sometimes he has had to grieve over ill-success.

It would be going beyond the truth to say that all Gershom was satisfied when the engagement of Miss Holt and the minister was announced, because there are some people who are never satisfied. But they whose opinion they valued most were satisfied. Mrs Fleming and Cousin Betsey had been hoping for it—almost expecting it all along, and one or two of Elizabeth’s special old-lady friends acknowledged that they had been praying for such a marriage all the while. As for Katie, it was in her eyes the only fitting end to the romance which she had guessed at long ago, and which she had been secretly and silently watching all these years.

As to whether or not she made a good minister’s wife, Elizabeth was never quite sure. But the minister was content, and so were most of the people. And even those who were never quite contented with anything, acknowledged that “she did as well as she knew how,” and that would be high praise for the most of us.

Clifton lived in the old home with them, for his good and their pleasure, till the time came when he made a home of his own, which, considering all things, was not so very long a time after all.

Although Jacob’s change from the first place to the second both in the business and in the town was not pleasant to him, it was wholesome. He had never been equal to therôleof the great man of the place, and after the first feelings of humiliation wore away, and their affairs began to look prosperous again, the fact that “two heads are better than one” made itself apparent to him even more clearly than had been the case in the days when he found his father unable, and his brother unwilling, to give him help and counsel.

He came to be much better liked by his neighbours than he used to be, and was really a better man. He had fewer worries and fewer temptations, and though he was not what might be called “a shining light” either in the church or in the world, it was the opinion of his brethren and townsmen that his troubles had been blessed to him, and that he was getting along—not very fast, but in the right direction.

But that which did most for Jacob in his time of trouble was the knowledge of Mr Fleming’s forgiveness and friendship. It is not likely that he had ever acknowledged, even to himself, that he had sinned against him through his son more than others had done, but a sense of the old man’s silent anger had always been in him, and had been painful and humiliating to him—how painful he knew by the sense of relief he experienced whenever they came in contact afterward. He no longer stepped aside when he saw him approaching, so that the neighbours should not remark about the old man’s steadily averted face. They had never much to say to each other, but they met and exchanged kindly greetings as other men did, and all Gershom saw the change that had come over them both. Even his cousin Betsey grew friendly and frank in her intercourse with him and his wife, and that was a change certainly.

Few people ever knew just what had brought about this changed state of feeling. There was nothing to tell which Jacob cared to repeat. It would have done no good to bring up the old, sad story again, he well knew, and he said little about it even to his wife.

As for Mr Fleming—and indeed all the Flemings—the joyful tidings that the letter brought on that fair September morning were too sacred and sweet to be discussed much even among themselves. Katie always held that her grandfather would have forgiven Jacob Holt all the same if the letter had never come, because there was the Lord’s command clear and plain, “Forgive and ye shall be forgiven,” and it must have come to that at last.

“And, indeed, Davie, it was near at hand before the letter came. The Lord had touched him. First there was the fear of losing you, and then the fear of losing grannie, and then the letter came from the son he had lost so long, and that was the last touch for which the rest had made him ready. Oh! how good He has been to us! Surely, surely, Davie, we can never through all our lives forget.”

Mrs Fleming thought as Katie did, though they had never spoken together of the subject. In her innermost heart she had believed—though even to herself she had hardly put the thought into words—that on the subject of Jacob Holt’s past misdeeds her husband was hardly responsible for his thoughts. The misery of his son’s loss, not for this brief life only, but forever and ever, as he could not but believe, had taken such full possession of him as to leave him no power to struggle against the bitterness which became almost hatred as time went on. If he had died unforgiving, the Lord would have still received him, she had believed, and she had striven to content herself with this belief in silence, feeling how vain were spoken words to him.

“Only a miracle would make him see God’s will in this; and I have no right to ask for that.”

No miracle was wrought. The letter came, and was the last touch of the loving Hand which even at the worst times had wounded but to heal; and lying with his lips in the dust, but with eyes looking upward, the cloud parted, and he saw the face of God, and was at peace.

After this there came nothing to trouble these two old people as they moved softly down the hill together. Grannie was never very strong again after her long illness, and no longer took the lead in all that was done in the house—that was Katie’s part in life for several years to come; but she was quite content to rest and to look at other folk busy with the work which had once been hers, and that does not always happen in the last days of a life so active and so full as hers had been.

And what was true of the grandmother was true of the grandfather as well. He seemed to have no more anxious thoughts about anything. He did not need to have while Davie stayed at home; but even after Davie went away, and the management of the farm fell for the most part into the less skillful hands of the younger brothers, their grandfather “took things easy,” the lads said, and rarely found fault.

And so they had still a peaceful gloaming, these two old people, when their changeful day of life was drawing to a close. Only it was like the dawn rather than the gloaming, Katie said, because of the soft brightness that shone on them both. It was “light at evening time,” and their last days were their best to themselves and to all by whom they were beloved.

For the last days were days of waiting for the change of which they spoke often to the bairns so dear, and to one another. Once, as Katie sat with her grandfather at the pasture-bars on Sabbath afternoon, she said to him—after many other words had been spoken between them—that she would like to put that verse on his grave-stone after he was gone:

“At evening time it shall be light.”

But her grandfather said:

“Na, na, my lassie! If I have a grave-stone—which matters little—and if any verse at all be put upon it, let it be this:—

“‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’” Then Katie stooped and touched his hand with her lips, as she had done once long ago, and said softly: “Yes, grandfather, so it shall be.” And so it was.

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