Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Three.Poor Grannie.The Langdens had stayed ten days in Gershom. Half the time Miss Langden had passed with Miss Holt, and they had both enjoyed the visit, though not quite in the same way. Her father needed much of Elizabeth’s care and attention at this time, and it would not have been possible for her to devote herself constantly to her visitor. But Miss Essie was not a difficult person to entertain—quite the contrary.She took interest in many things. She had her journal to keep up, and many letters to write. And then Mr Clifton Holt was at home, and at her service. Mr Maxwell was a frequent visitor also; and when he came, Miss Holt felt at liberty to attend to her own affairs, knowing that they did not need her presence. Clifton was not so mindful of their old friendship, or not so well aware of their present relation, for he did not seem to think it was the thing to do to leave their visitors to entertain each other; and certainly he was never made to feel himself to be an intruder, though his sister often feared that he might be so.Then Miss Langden had a great desire to see as much as possible of “this interesting country” as she politely called Canada; and as much of it as could be seen while driving about with Clifton in his sister’s low carriage, or in the larger carriage with Clifton and Mr Maxwell, or her father, she saw, and professed herself delighted with it. She admired the farm-houses and the farmers, and the farmers’ wives and daughters, and laid herself out to captivate them in a way that Clifton declared to be wonderful. To Elizabeth it seemed natural enough.They saw a good deal of company in a quiet way. The Holts took pains to invite, at one time or another, the greater part of Mr Maxwell’s friends, in order that Mr Langden and his daughter might make their acquaintance, and both in different ways won golden opinions among them.The good people of Gershom were naturally well-disposed toward the friends of their minister, and Mr Langden was a quiet, shrewd business man, without a particle of pretence, whose company they would have enjoyed under even less favourable circumstances. He took much interest in listening to the very things they liked best to tell about—the early settlement of that part of the country, its features and resources, agricultural, mineral, commercial; the history of railroads, manufactures, and business ventures generally. If there were anything worth knowing about any of these matters that Mr Langden did not know before his visit came to an end, it was not for want of questions asked, Clifton Holt said, laughing, to his daughter. Which was quite true—and he had asked some questions and received some answers which neither Clifton nor Jacob had heard, and knew more about some things in Gershom than Clifton himself knew at that time. Some hints that there had been thoughts of business as well as pleasure in his mind in visiting Gershom had transpired, and it would have been agreeable to hear more about it, but Mr Langden was better at asking questions than at answering them, and no one knew any more about his plans when he went than when he came. But people liked him, and liked to talk about him and his visit afterward.And his daughter was very much admired also. That is to say, she was admired in her character of visitor to Miss Elizabeth—as a pretty and amiable and beautifully-dressed young lady from “the States.” But when the discussion went farther, and her possible future as a resident of Gershom was hinted at, all were not so sure about her. A minister’s wife! That was another affair. Would she fit into that spot? She did not look much like the ministers’ wives that the Gershom people knew most about.“I suppose it comes as natural to her to have gloves, and boots, and bonnets to match every gown she puts on, as it does for the most of folk to wear one pair as long as they’ll last,” said Miss Smith from Fosbrooke—a much more primitive place than Gershom—“and she looks as if she set a value on such things, as even good folks will do till they’ve learned better.”“And the minister’s salary isn’t equal to all that, and wouldn’t be, not if it was raised to eight hundred dollars, which isn’t likely yet a spell,” said Mrs Coleman, the new deacon’s wife.“Not unless she has money of her own. And if she has—well, ministers’ folks are pretty much so, wherever they be, or whatever they’ve got; and such articles of luxury are not the thing for ministers’ wives—not inthiswooden country.”“I know one thing,” said Miss Hall, the dressmaker. “Her trunk was never packed to come here short of five hundred dollars, to say nothing of jewellery. I’ve handled considerable dry-goods in my time, and I know that much.”“Ah, well. I guess any one that’s lived in ‘the States,’ and that talks as cool as a cucumber about going to travel in Europe, isn’t very likely to settle down in Gershom—not and be contented,” said Myrilla Green, who had lived in “the States” herself, and was supposed to know the difference.“Ah! I guess there’s as good folks as her in Gershom;” and so the talk went on.But it was the opinion of several of the ladies interested in the discussion, that clothes, and even money, did not amount to much in some cases. The young lady had the missionary spirit, as any one who had heard her talk must see, and she was not likely to be influenced by secondary motives.Of course the discussion of the possibility implied by all this was inevitable in the circumstances, though no one in Gershomknewanything about the matter; and the parties most concerned could have given them little satisfactory information with regard to it. The first of the two years of probation, which Mr Langden had insisted upon, had not yet passed, and Mr Maxwell could not have renewed the question of an engagement, if he had wished to do so, or if Miss Essie had given him an opportunity, which she did not. Not a word was spoken between them that all Gershom might not have heard, though nothing could be more friendly and pleasant than their intercourse during these ten days.But then Miss Essie was on friendly terms with every one. Nothing could be more charming than her manners, it was said. She was “not a bit stuck up,” the Gershom girls acknowledged. If she had any “citified airs” they were not of the kind that are especially displeasing to country people. She was friendly with every one, and before her visit came to an end, it came into Elizabeth’s mind that she was particularly pleasant in words and ways with her brother Clifton.It had come into Clifton’s mind also, and Elizabeth longed to tell him just how matters stood between Miss Langden and Mr Maxwell. But she did not feel at liberty to do so, and she could only hope that Clifton’s devotion would be in this case, as it had been in others, only transitory, and that he would not suffer more than was reasonable for his folly. Of what passed between Mr Langden and Jacob Holt very little was known. They went together over the ground which Jacob had so long coveted, and Mr Langden saw the advantages which the locality offered for the purpose proposed. He would have considered the purchase of the land to be a good investment, but Jacob could not bring himself to urge the unpleasant subject of sale on Mr Fleming, now that Davie was so ill, and he knew that urging would avail nothing, but it was a great disappointment to him.He said little about it to Mr Langden; but that gentleman knew more of the relations existing between him and Mr Fleming, and of other things besides, than Jacob fancied. They saw a good many people who were interested in the proposed enterprise, and got information which would help him to decide about future investments, he said, but he took no definite step with regard to the matter before he went away.It had been understood that Mr Maxwell was to take his “vacation” at this time, and that he was to go with his friends through a part of their travels. But Davie Fleming was at the worst, and his mother and his grandparents were in great trouble, and the minister could not bring himself to leave them. Of course his friends were disappointed, but not unreasonably so, for they could understand his feeling, and it was agreed that if it were possible he should join them at some point in their route, and so they said good-bye lightly.Clifton Holt went with them to the city of Montreal, where they stayed a few days, as all American tourists do. Then they sailed down the Saint Lawrence to Quebec and farther, and up the Saguenay, and he sailed with them, and doubtless added to their pleasure by the information he was able to give as to events and places in which all travellers are supposed to interest themselves.Clifton enjoyed it, and would have enjoyed going farther with them. But on their return to Montreal, they met with a party of friends whom they found it expedient to join, and so Clifton returned to Gershom, with the intention of remaining at home for a time. His father was still feeble, and Clifton seemed inclined to take the advice which his sister had long ago given him, to seek to obtain some knowledge of the business which Jacob had hitherto been carrying on in his own name and his father’s.Elizabeth received a little note or two from Miss Langden before she left Canada, in which much admiration was expressed for her friend’s “interesting country,” and much pleasure in her remembrance of the days spent in Gershom; and she had another after her return to her aunt’s house, where she was to pass some time. And then she did not hear from her again for a long time.Davie got better, but not very rapidly. He remained gaunt and stooping, and had little strength, and Miss Betsey, who still considered herself responsible for his health, carried him away to the Hill; and then giving Ben a holiday after his busy summer, sent them both away to visit her cousin Abiah, who had a clearing and a saw-mill ten miles away. There were partridges there, and rumours of a bear having been seen, and there was fishing at any rate, and Davie was assured that ten days of such sport as could be got there in the woods ought to make a new man of him.But Betsey had another reason for sending him away. On the day of her visit, Mrs Fleming, who had acknowledged herself to be weak and weary from anxiety and watching, knew herself to be ill; not very ill, however. She had often, in her younger days, kept about the house, and done all her work when she felt far worse than she did now, she said. But she could not “keep about” now, and that was the difference. Davie would be well away, for he would fret about his grandmother, and that would do neither of them any good.Davie’s visit to the woods did not make a new man of him; but it did him good, and he needed all his strength and courage when he came home again, for grannie, who had been “not just very well” when he went away, was no better when he returned.“And they never told me, grannie,” said he, indignantly.“There was nothing to tell, my laddie, and you are better for going. And now you must help Katie to cheer your grandfather, and keep your brothers at their work.”And Davie saw that his grandfather needed to be cheered. He seemed to have grown a very old man during the last few months, he thought. He had gone about the farm, and kept the boys at their work, and had helped sometimes, Katie said, while Davie was away. But now he gave all that up to him. Mark Varney came now and then when there was anything extra to be done; and though Davie was not so strong as before his illness, they were as well on with their fall work as the neighbours generally.But except with a word of advice, or an answer to questions, which Davie was pertinacious in asking, as to what was to be done, and what left undone, the old man took little part in what had filled his life before. He went about the house and barns, with his head bowed, and his hands clasped behind him, making Katie wild with the wistful, helpless longing of his face.“It is no good for grannie to see you so downcast, grandfather. Courage is what is needed more than anything in a time of sickness, Betsey says. And, grandfather, grannie is no’ so very ill.”“Is she no’, think you, Katie? She says it, but oh, my heart fails me.”“She says it, and I think she is right. And, grandfather, she often says, you ken that the Lord is ay kind.”“Ay, lass! but His kindest touch cuts sore whiles. And if He were to deal with me after my sins—”“But, grandfather; He never does, and He hurts to heal—as I have heard you say yourself.”“Ay. I have said it with my lips, but I doubt I was carrying a sore and angry heart whiles, when I was putting the folk in mind. And, oh, Katie, lassie, He is far awa’. He has hidden His face from me.”“But only for a moment, grandfather; don’t you mind, ‘For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I visit thee’? And grannie is no’ so very ill.”She drew him gently from the room where grannie was slumbering, so that she need not be disturbed. It seemed to her the strangest thing that her grandfather should speak to her in this way, and that she should have courage to answer him. He sat down on a seat by the door, and leaned his chin on the hand that rested on his staff, and looked away over Ythan fields to the hills beyond. But whether he saw them or not was doubtful, for his eyes were dazed and heavy with trouble, and Katie could not bear to see him so.“She is not so very ill,” she repeated. “She is sometimes better and sometimes worse, but she has no thought that she is going to die. She will be better soon.”“She is a good ten years younger than I am. I should go first by rights. But she has had much to weary her, and she would doubtless be glad to rest.”“No, grandfather, she would not. She is glad at the thought that she will be spared a little while for—all our sakes.”“Who is that coming down the road? It is the minister, I think, and Betsey Holt.”The old man rose hastily.“I’ll awa’ up the brae,” said he. “No, it is no disrespect to the minister, but I canna hear his words to-day.”And up the hill he went to the pasture-bars, and through the pasture “to Pine-tree Hollow,” Katie thought, as her eyes followed him anxiously.“But He may show him His face, up yonder,” said Katie, with tears; “and I am sure, and so is Miss Betsey, that she is no’ so very ill.”Grannie had never thought herself very ill. Even when all her days were spent in bed, she only called herself weary at first. There had been a very warm week about that time, and she had suffered from the heat, and had kept herself quiet. But she did not think herself ill, and certainly Katie did not think it. For though she was not strong, she did not suffer much, except that she was feverish and restless now and then, and she was always sweet and bright and easily pleased, and not at all like the sick people that Katie had seen. It was a pleasure to be with her, to wait on her, and to listen to her. For there were times when she had much to say, soothing her own restlessness with happy talk of many things which Katie liked to hear.She told her about her father—so grave and kind and trustworthy—and about Hughie, who was so good and clever, but who had “gone wrong,” and been lost to them, leaving their life so dreary. And once or twice she spoke of one over whom she had kept the silence of many a year. It was Katie’s own name she heard—but it was of another “bonnie Katie” that her grandmother murmured so fondly, one who had been beguiled—who had sinned and suffered, and died long ago. But she always spoke brokenly of her when she was restless and feverish, and Katie, though she would have liked to hear more, strove always to turn her thoughts away.But almost always her talk was happy and bright. In those days Katie heard more of her grandmother’s youthful days than she had ever heard before. She spoke about her home, and her brothers and sisters, and about “the gowany braes” and “the silver Ythan,” and the songs they used to sing, before it had ever come into her mind that there was trouble and care before her. She even tried to sing again, in her faint sweet voice, some of the dear old songs, laughing softly at her own foolishness.But she never once spoke as though she thought she might not recover; even when she gave Katie words of counsel or caution, it was just in the way she used to do when they were going about their work together, and the girl was sure that she would soon be well again, and that that was Miss Betsey’s thought too.But seeing her as she stood looking down on her grandmother’s sleeping face that morning, Katie was not so sure of what Miss Betsey’s thoughts might be. Still, her grandmother’s eyes opened and she smiled her old cheerful smile, as she said she was glad to see them.“You must tell grandfather that the minister is come, Katie,” said she.Mr Maxwell had seen Mr Fleming stepping up the brae, and he knew well that no words of his could comfort him. He could only hope as Katie did, that his Lord and Master might show him His face in the solitude he sought.He had few words to say to Mrs Fleming, for she seemed inclined to slumber through the afternoon.“I wish you could stay with us to-night, Miss Betsey,” said Katie’s mother. “I am afraid grandmother is not so well.”“There is not much difference either way, I think. I would be glad to stay, but Uncle Gershom has had another bad turn, and I promised cousin Lizzie I would stay with her to-night. But I will come over to-morrow morning before I go home if I can get away.”“Do you think her very ill?” asked Mr Maxwell as they walked down the hill together.“I have not thought her very ill. I don’t know that she is worse to-day, but she is certainly no better. I suppose it depends on whether her strength holds out. She is an old woman now.”These were anxious days to Katie; but her grandfather had more of her thoughts than her grandmother.“And it is a wonder to me that he should be so broken down, a good man like him, even by such sore trouble. Even the loss of grannie would be but for a few days, and he has the Lord Himself in the midst of it all.”But this was a mistake on Katie’s part. For all this time, strangely and sadly enough, he was ringing the changes on his old complaint: “Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.” He had not the Lord Himself in those days. Even when he pleaded, as he did day and night, for Davie’s life, it was the cry of despair that came out of his sore trouble, rather than the “prayer of faith” to which the promise of healing to the sick is given.And as he bowed himself down beneath the pines, it was the same. He was in a maze of perplexity and fear. Had he been sinning against God all this time? Had he been hating not the sin, but the sinner? Had it been beneath God’s hand that he had been refusing to bow? And now was God leaving him to hardness of heart?For he was utterly broken and spent, and in the weakness of mind which exhaustion of body caused, he had almost lost the power to discriminate or reason. He could not command his thoughts. The wind moaned in the pines above him, and the sunshine came and went, flickering and fading, and brightening again, and with the monotonous sound and the ever-changing light, there came voices and visions, and he seemed to listen as in a dream:“It was God’s will, grandfather. God kens, and it was His will. I would fain hear you say once that you have forgiven your enemy.”His enemy! Was Jacob Holt his enemy? And if he were, could even an enemy bring evil on him or his without permission? What had it all come to—the long pain, the persistent shrinking from this man, whom God alone might judge? Had he been hating him all this time—bringing leanness to his own soul, and darkness, and all the evil that hatred must ever bring? And where was it all to end? And what must he do, now that his sin had found him out?For his time was short, and the end near. And then his thoughts wandered away to the old squire lying on his death-bed—the man who had declared himself willing to stand on the same platform with old David Fleming, when his time should come to be judged. And that time was close at hand now, and his own time could not be far away, and then he must stand face to face with Him whose last words were, “Father, forgive them!”—face to face with Him who had said, “Love your enemies,” “Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you.”Over and over the same round his thoughts went, till, worn out with anxiety and watching, and lulled unconsciously by the soft “sough” of the wind in the pines, he fell asleep. Pine-tree Hollow was all in shadow when he awoke, but when he had gone a few steps, he saw the sunlight lying on the high hills to the east. His first thoughts were of what might have been happening at home while he slept, and he quickened his steps.And as he walked he was conscious that his sleep had done him good. He was stronger and calmer, and could command his thoughts again, and he hurried eagerly on. The sight of Katie passing quietly out and in to the dairy quieted him still more. It must be well with grannie or Katie would not be there.“Well, my lassie?”“Yes. Grannie has been sleeping, but she is awake now, and has been asking for you. Mother is with her now.”He went into the house slowly and quietly. Katie’s mother was sitting by the bed, with her sad eyes fastened on the face of the grandmother, who seemed to have fallen into slumber again.“She has been wandering a little, I think,” said Mrs James.“Wandering?” repeated Mr Fleming drearily.Grannie opened her eyes, and looked first at one and then at the other.“No, my dear, it wasna that I was wandering. I was dreaming, I think—a strange grand dream—of a far country. And—Dawvid—I saw our Katie there, and her little bairn—and I saw our Hughie, and James, and many another. But I saw them first and best; and we have no cause to fear.”Even as she spoke her eyes closed again. The old man sat down with a sinking heart. Did not these sound like “last words?” Had she not got a first glimpse of the “far country” to which she was hastening? How vain to struggle against God, he thought. He never uttered a word. His daughter-in-law looked at him with compassionate eyes that he could hardly bear. Katie came in with a glass of milk in her hand.“She is not asleep again, is she? Well, I must waken her, because she must take something. The sleeping is good for her, but she must take something to keep up her strength. Grannie dear, take this,” and she raised her gently.She opened her eyes and smiled.“Oh, ay! I’ll take it. And I could take a bit of bread, I think.”“Well, mother will bring a bit.” But Katie was greatly surprised.“I think I’m better, if I were only stronger a bit,” said grannie.Over Katie’s bright face Mr Fleming saw the grave face of her mother, and though he knew that it was her way rather to fear than to hope, his heart sank.“I’ll soon be better, I think. Are you there, Dawvid? You ken I couldna go and stand before the Lord and tell Him that you hadna forgiven your enemy.”“She is wandering,” whispered Katie’s mother.“No; I’m no wandering, but whiles I feel—as if I were slipping awa’—and you’ll give me your hand, Dawvid, and that will keep me back. Ay. That will do,” and her eyes closed again.Katie followed her mother from the room.“It is not far away now.”“Mother, don’t say it. She is not going to die. Oh, mother! mother! Surely God is not going to take her from us yet. No. I’m not going to cry; I havena time,” said Katie. “And, mother, she says it herself, and I don’t think she is going to die. Oh, if Miss Betsey could have been here to-night!”Katie resolutely put away her tears and her fears, and prepared for a night of watching. First, she made her mother lie down with a warm wrapper on her, so that she might be ready to come at any moment. Then she sent the bairns to their beds, and wished that Davie would come home. Then she remembered, with a pang of remorse, that her grandfather had not had his supper, and she got his accustomed bowl of bread and milk, and carried it into the room. Neither of them had moved, and stooping and listening, it seemed to Katie that her grandmother was sleeping naturally and sweetly. Her grandfather shook his head at the sight of the food.“You must take it, grandfather,” said Katie in a whisper.She put the bowl on a chair, and knelt down beside him.“You need not move,” she said softly, and she fed him as he had often fed her when she was a little child.“My good Katie!” said he, but it would not have been well for him to try to say more.Davie came in before the supper was over. Katie nodded cheerfully, but did not speak till they were both in the kitchen.“Well?” said Davie.“She is no worse. I think she seems better. She has eaten a wee bit of bread, but mother says you cannot always tell by that. We must just wait.”It was a long and anxious night to these two. It was well that grannie should sleep, but in her utter weakness it was also necessary that she should have nourishment often. She had grown sick of the sight of everything in the way of food, and she had had her choice of whatever the best housewives of Gershom could supply. For days she had only taken a little milk, and to-night she seemed to take it with relish. In a little she woke and spoke:“Are you no’ coming to your bed, Dawvid? It is time surely.”Her clasp of his hand loosened as Katie offered the milk to her lips. The old man rose, but he had been sitting in an uneasy posture, and tottered as he moved to the door.“Grandfather,” said Davie, “lie down on the other side. It will be better for you and grannie too. Come grandfather. Katie, lay the pillow straight.”“But I might disturb her—and I might fall asleep.”But he yielded.“She would like it, grandfather, and we can waken you if you fall asleep.”So the two old people slumbered together, and Katie had to steal away to weep a few tears in the dark while her brother watched beside them, and they did not dare to ask themselves whether they hoped or feared in the stillness that fell on them.“They say this is the old squire’s last night,” whispered Davie at last. “I saw Ben coming out as I passed.”“Maybe no,” said Katie, who was determined to be hopeful to-night. “They have said that before. Maybe he’ll win through this time too.”“Ay. But he is an old man, and it must come soon.”Now and then they exchanged a word or two, and Katie put the cup to her grandmother’s lips, and the night wore on. Whether their grandfather slept or not they could not tell, but he made no movement that could disturb her, and he still held her hand, to keep her from “slipping away,” as she had said.Once the mother came in and looked, but she only said she was sleeping quietly, and they made her lie down again. Toward morning Katie brought a quilt and a pillow, and Davie lay down on the floor beside the bed, and Katie prayed and waited for the dawn.

The Langdens had stayed ten days in Gershom. Half the time Miss Langden had passed with Miss Holt, and they had both enjoyed the visit, though not quite in the same way. Her father needed much of Elizabeth’s care and attention at this time, and it would not have been possible for her to devote herself constantly to her visitor. But Miss Essie was not a difficult person to entertain—quite the contrary.

She took interest in many things. She had her journal to keep up, and many letters to write. And then Mr Clifton Holt was at home, and at her service. Mr Maxwell was a frequent visitor also; and when he came, Miss Holt felt at liberty to attend to her own affairs, knowing that they did not need her presence. Clifton was not so mindful of their old friendship, or not so well aware of their present relation, for he did not seem to think it was the thing to do to leave their visitors to entertain each other; and certainly he was never made to feel himself to be an intruder, though his sister often feared that he might be so.

Then Miss Langden had a great desire to see as much as possible of “this interesting country” as she politely called Canada; and as much of it as could be seen while driving about with Clifton in his sister’s low carriage, or in the larger carriage with Clifton and Mr Maxwell, or her father, she saw, and professed herself delighted with it. She admired the farm-houses and the farmers, and the farmers’ wives and daughters, and laid herself out to captivate them in a way that Clifton declared to be wonderful. To Elizabeth it seemed natural enough.

They saw a good deal of company in a quiet way. The Holts took pains to invite, at one time or another, the greater part of Mr Maxwell’s friends, in order that Mr Langden and his daughter might make their acquaintance, and both in different ways won golden opinions among them.

The good people of Gershom were naturally well-disposed toward the friends of their minister, and Mr Langden was a quiet, shrewd business man, without a particle of pretence, whose company they would have enjoyed under even less favourable circumstances. He took much interest in listening to the very things they liked best to tell about—the early settlement of that part of the country, its features and resources, agricultural, mineral, commercial; the history of railroads, manufactures, and business ventures generally. If there were anything worth knowing about any of these matters that Mr Langden did not know before his visit came to an end, it was not for want of questions asked, Clifton Holt said, laughing, to his daughter. Which was quite true—and he had asked some questions and received some answers which neither Clifton nor Jacob had heard, and knew more about some things in Gershom than Clifton himself knew at that time. Some hints that there had been thoughts of business as well as pleasure in his mind in visiting Gershom had transpired, and it would have been agreeable to hear more about it, but Mr Langden was better at asking questions than at answering them, and no one knew any more about his plans when he went than when he came. But people liked him, and liked to talk about him and his visit afterward.

And his daughter was very much admired also. That is to say, she was admired in her character of visitor to Miss Elizabeth—as a pretty and amiable and beautifully-dressed young lady from “the States.” But when the discussion went farther, and her possible future as a resident of Gershom was hinted at, all were not so sure about her. A minister’s wife! That was another affair. Would she fit into that spot? She did not look much like the ministers’ wives that the Gershom people knew most about.

“I suppose it comes as natural to her to have gloves, and boots, and bonnets to match every gown she puts on, as it does for the most of folk to wear one pair as long as they’ll last,” said Miss Smith from Fosbrooke—a much more primitive place than Gershom—“and she looks as if she set a value on such things, as even good folks will do till they’ve learned better.”

“And the minister’s salary isn’t equal to all that, and wouldn’t be, not if it was raised to eight hundred dollars, which isn’t likely yet a spell,” said Mrs Coleman, the new deacon’s wife.

“Not unless she has money of her own. And if she has—well, ministers’ folks are pretty much so, wherever they be, or whatever they’ve got; and such articles of luxury are not the thing for ministers’ wives—not inthiswooden country.”

“I know one thing,” said Miss Hall, the dressmaker. “Her trunk was never packed to come here short of five hundred dollars, to say nothing of jewellery. I’ve handled considerable dry-goods in my time, and I know that much.”

“Ah, well. I guess any one that’s lived in ‘the States,’ and that talks as cool as a cucumber about going to travel in Europe, isn’t very likely to settle down in Gershom—not and be contented,” said Myrilla Green, who had lived in “the States” herself, and was supposed to know the difference.

“Ah! I guess there’s as good folks as her in Gershom;” and so the talk went on.

But it was the opinion of several of the ladies interested in the discussion, that clothes, and even money, did not amount to much in some cases. The young lady had the missionary spirit, as any one who had heard her talk must see, and she was not likely to be influenced by secondary motives.

Of course the discussion of the possibility implied by all this was inevitable in the circumstances, though no one in Gershomknewanything about the matter; and the parties most concerned could have given them little satisfactory information with regard to it. The first of the two years of probation, which Mr Langden had insisted upon, had not yet passed, and Mr Maxwell could not have renewed the question of an engagement, if he had wished to do so, or if Miss Essie had given him an opportunity, which she did not. Not a word was spoken between them that all Gershom might not have heard, though nothing could be more friendly and pleasant than their intercourse during these ten days.

But then Miss Essie was on friendly terms with every one. Nothing could be more charming than her manners, it was said. She was “not a bit stuck up,” the Gershom girls acknowledged. If she had any “citified airs” they were not of the kind that are especially displeasing to country people. She was friendly with every one, and before her visit came to an end, it came into Elizabeth’s mind that she was particularly pleasant in words and ways with her brother Clifton.

It had come into Clifton’s mind also, and Elizabeth longed to tell him just how matters stood between Miss Langden and Mr Maxwell. But she did not feel at liberty to do so, and she could only hope that Clifton’s devotion would be in this case, as it had been in others, only transitory, and that he would not suffer more than was reasonable for his folly. Of what passed between Mr Langden and Jacob Holt very little was known. They went together over the ground which Jacob had so long coveted, and Mr Langden saw the advantages which the locality offered for the purpose proposed. He would have considered the purchase of the land to be a good investment, but Jacob could not bring himself to urge the unpleasant subject of sale on Mr Fleming, now that Davie was so ill, and he knew that urging would avail nothing, but it was a great disappointment to him.

He said little about it to Mr Langden; but that gentleman knew more of the relations existing between him and Mr Fleming, and of other things besides, than Jacob fancied. They saw a good many people who were interested in the proposed enterprise, and got information which would help him to decide about future investments, he said, but he took no definite step with regard to the matter before he went away.

It had been understood that Mr Maxwell was to take his “vacation” at this time, and that he was to go with his friends through a part of their travels. But Davie Fleming was at the worst, and his mother and his grandparents were in great trouble, and the minister could not bring himself to leave them. Of course his friends were disappointed, but not unreasonably so, for they could understand his feeling, and it was agreed that if it were possible he should join them at some point in their route, and so they said good-bye lightly.

Clifton Holt went with them to the city of Montreal, where they stayed a few days, as all American tourists do. Then they sailed down the Saint Lawrence to Quebec and farther, and up the Saguenay, and he sailed with them, and doubtless added to their pleasure by the information he was able to give as to events and places in which all travellers are supposed to interest themselves.

Clifton enjoyed it, and would have enjoyed going farther with them. But on their return to Montreal, they met with a party of friends whom they found it expedient to join, and so Clifton returned to Gershom, with the intention of remaining at home for a time. His father was still feeble, and Clifton seemed inclined to take the advice which his sister had long ago given him, to seek to obtain some knowledge of the business which Jacob had hitherto been carrying on in his own name and his father’s.

Elizabeth received a little note or two from Miss Langden before she left Canada, in which much admiration was expressed for her friend’s “interesting country,” and much pleasure in her remembrance of the days spent in Gershom; and she had another after her return to her aunt’s house, where she was to pass some time. And then she did not hear from her again for a long time.

Davie got better, but not very rapidly. He remained gaunt and stooping, and had little strength, and Miss Betsey, who still considered herself responsible for his health, carried him away to the Hill; and then giving Ben a holiday after his busy summer, sent them both away to visit her cousin Abiah, who had a clearing and a saw-mill ten miles away. There were partridges there, and rumours of a bear having been seen, and there was fishing at any rate, and Davie was assured that ten days of such sport as could be got there in the woods ought to make a new man of him.

But Betsey had another reason for sending him away. On the day of her visit, Mrs Fleming, who had acknowledged herself to be weak and weary from anxiety and watching, knew herself to be ill; not very ill, however. She had often, in her younger days, kept about the house, and done all her work when she felt far worse than she did now, she said. But she could not “keep about” now, and that was the difference. Davie would be well away, for he would fret about his grandmother, and that would do neither of them any good.

Davie’s visit to the woods did not make a new man of him; but it did him good, and he needed all his strength and courage when he came home again, for grannie, who had been “not just very well” when he went away, was no better when he returned.

“And they never told me, grannie,” said he, indignantly.

“There was nothing to tell, my laddie, and you are better for going. And now you must help Katie to cheer your grandfather, and keep your brothers at their work.”

And Davie saw that his grandfather needed to be cheered. He seemed to have grown a very old man during the last few months, he thought. He had gone about the farm, and kept the boys at their work, and had helped sometimes, Katie said, while Davie was away. But now he gave all that up to him. Mark Varney came now and then when there was anything extra to be done; and though Davie was not so strong as before his illness, they were as well on with their fall work as the neighbours generally.

But except with a word of advice, or an answer to questions, which Davie was pertinacious in asking, as to what was to be done, and what left undone, the old man took little part in what had filled his life before. He went about the house and barns, with his head bowed, and his hands clasped behind him, making Katie wild with the wistful, helpless longing of his face.

“It is no good for grannie to see you so downcast, grandfather. Courage is what is needed more than anything in a time of sickness, Betsey says. And, grandfather, grannie is no’ so very ill.”

“Is she no’, think you, Katie? She says it, but oh, my heart fails me.”

“She says it, and I think she is right. And, grandfather, she often says, you ken that the Lord is ay kind.”

“Ay, lass! but His kindest touch cuts sore whiles. And if He were to deal with me after my sins—”

“But, grandfather; He never does, and He hurts to heal—as I have heard you say yourself.”

“Ay. I have said it with my lips, but I doubt I was carrying a sore and angry heart whiles, when I was putting the folk in mind. And, oh, Katie, lassie, He is far awa’. He has hidden His face from me.”

“But only for a moment, grandfather; don’t you mind, ‘For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I visit thee’? And grannie is no’ so very ill.”

She drew him gently from the room where grannie was slumbering, so that she need not be disturbed. It seemed to her the strangest thing that her grandfather should speak to her in this way, and that she should have courage to answer him. He sat down on a seat by the door, and leaned his chin on the hand that rested on his staff, and looked away over Ythan fields to the hills beyond. But whether he saw them or not was doubtful, for his eyes were dazed and heavy with trouble, and Katie could not bear to see him so.

“She is not so very ill,” she repeated. “She is sometimes better and sometimes worse, but she has no thought that she is going to die. She will be better soon.”

“She is a good ten years younger than I am. I should go first by rights. But she has had much to weary her, and she would doubtless be glad to rest.”

“No, grandfather, she would not. She is glad at the thought that she will be spared a little while for—all our sakes.”

“Who is that coming down the road? It is the minister, I think, and Betsey Holt.”

The old man rose hastily.

“I’ll awa’ up the brae,” said he. “No, it is no disrespect to the minister, but I canna hear his words to-day.”

And up the hill he went to the pasture-bars, and through the pasture “to Pine-tree Hollow,” Katie thought, as her eyes followed him anxiously.

“But He may show him His face, up yonder,” said Katie, with tears; “and I am sure, and so is Miss Betsey, that she is no’ so very ill.”

Grannie had never thought herself very ill. Even when all her days were spent in bed, she only called herself weary at first. There had been a very warm week about that time, and she had suffered from the heat, and had kept herself quiet. But she did not think herself ill, and certainly Katie did not think it. For though she was not strong, she did not suffer much, except that she was feverish and restless now and then, and she was always sweet and bright and easily pleased, and not at all like the sick people that Katie had seen. It was a pleasure to be with her, to wait on her, and to listen to her. For there were times when she had much to say, soothing her own restlessness with happy talk of many things which Katie liked to hear.

She told her about her father—so grave and kind and trustworthy—and about Hughie, who was so good and clever, but who had “gone wrong,” and been lost to them, leaving their life so dreary. And once or twice she spoke of one over whom she had kept the silence of many a year. It was Katie’s own name she heard—but it was of another “bonnie Katie” that her grandmother murmured so fondly, one who had been beguiled—who had sinned and suffered, and died long ago. But she always spoke brokenly of her when she was restless and feverish, and Katie, though she would have liked to hear more, strove always to turn her thoughts away.

But almost always her talk was happy and bright. In those days Katie heard more of her grandmother’s youthful days than she had ever heard before. She spoke about her home, and her brothers and sisters, and about “the gowany braes” and “the silver Ythan,” and the songs they used to sing, before it had ever come into her mind that there was trouble and care before her. She even tried to sing again, in her faint sweet voice, some of the dear old songs, laughing softly at her own foolishness.

But she never once spoke as though she thought she might not recover; even when she gave Katie words of counsel or caution, it was just in the way she used to do when they were going about their work together, and the girl was sure that she would soon be well again, and that that was Miss Betsey’s thought too.

But seeing her as she stood looking down on her grandmother’s sleeping face that morning, Katie was not so sure of what Miss Betsey’s thoughts might be. Still, her grandmother’s eyes opened and she smiled her old cheerful smile, as she said she was glad to see them.

“You must tell grandfather that the minister is come, Katie,” said she.

Mr Maxwell had seen Mr Fleming stepping up the brae, and he knew well that no words of his could comfort him. He could only hope as Katie did, that his Lord and Master might show him His face in the solitude he sought.

He had few words to say to Mrs Fleming, for she seemed inclined to slumber through the afternoon.

“I wish you could stay with us to-night, Miss Betsey,” said Katie’s mother. “I am afraid grandmother is not so well.”

“There is not much difference either way, I think. I would be glad to stay, but Uncle Gershom has had another bad turn, and I promised cousin Lizzie I would stay with her to-night. But I will come over to-morrow morning before I go home if I can get away.”

“Do you think her very ill?” asked Mr Maxwell as they walked down the hill together.

“I have not thought her very ill. I don’t know that she is worse to-day, but she is certainly no better. I suppose it depends on whether her strength holds out. She is an old woman now.”

These were anxious days to Katie; but her grandfather had more of her thoughts than her grandmother.

“And it is a wonder to me that he should be so broken down, a good man like him, even by such sore trouble. Even the loss of grannie would be but for a few days, and he has the Lord Himself in the midst of it all.”

But this was a mistake on Katie’s part. For all this time, strangely and sadly enough, he was ringing the changes on his old complaint: “Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.” He had not the Lord Himself in those days. Even when he pleaded, as he did day and night, for Davie’s life, it was the cry of despair that came out of his sore trouble, rather than the “prayer of faith” to which the promise of healing to the sick is given.

And as he bowed himself down beneath the pines, it was the same. He was in a maze of perplexity and fear. Had he been sinning against God all this time? Had he been hating not the sin, but the sinner? Had it been beneath God’s hand that he had been refusing to bow? And now was God leaving him to hardness of heart?

For he was utterly broken and spent, and in the weakness of mind which exhaustion of body caused, he had almost lost the power to discriminate or reason. He could not command his thoughts. The wind moaned in the pines above him, and the sunshine came and went, flickering and fading, and brightening again, and with the monotonous sound and the ever-changing light, there came voices and visions, and he seemed to listen as in a dream:

“It was God’s will, grandfather. God kens, and it was His will. I would fain hear you say once that you have forgiven your enemy.”

His enemy! Was Jacob Holt his enemy? And if he were, could even an enemy bring evil on him or his without permission? What had it all come to—the long pain, the persistent shrinking from this man, whom God alone might judge? Had he been hating him all this time—bringing leanness to his own soul, and darkness, and all the evil that hatred must ever bring? And where was it all to end? And what must he do, now that his sin had found him out?

For his time was short, and the end near. And then his thoughts wandered away to the old squire lying on his death-bed—the man who had declared himself willing to stand on the same platform with old David Fleming, when his time should come to be judged. And that time was close at hand now, and his own time could not be far away, and then he must stand face to face with Him whose last words were, “Father, forgive them!”—face to face with Him who had said, “Love your enemies,” “Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you.”

Over and over the same round his thoughts went, till, worn out with anxiety and watching, and lulled unconsciously by the soft “sough” of the wind in the pines, he fell asleep. Pine-tree Hollow was all in shadow when he awoke, but when he had gone a few steps, he saw the sunlight lying on the high hills to the east. His first thoughts were of what might have been happening at home while he slept, and he quickened his steps.

And as he walked he was conscious that his sleep had done him good. He was stronger and calmer, and could command his thoughts again, and he hurried eagerly on. The sight of Katie passing quietly out and in to the dairy quieted him still more. It must be well with grannie or Katie would not be there.

“Well, my lassie?”

“Yes. Grannie has been sleeping, but she is awake now, and has been asking for you. Mother is with her now.”

He went into the house slowly and quietly. Katie’s mother was sitting by the bed, with her sad eyes fastened on the face of the grandmother, who seemed to have fallen into slumber again.

“She has been wandering a little, I think,” said Mrs James.

“Wandering?” repeated Mr Fleming drearily.

Grannie opened her eyes, and looked first at one and then at the other.

“No, my dear, it wasna that I was wandering. I was dreaming, I think—a strange grand dream—of a far country. And—Dawvid—I saw our Katie there, and her little bairn—and I saw our Hughie, and James, and many another. But I saw them first and best; and we have no cause to fear.”

Even as she spoke her eyes closed again. The old man sat down with a sinking heart. Did not these sound like “last words?” Had she not got a first glimpse of the “far country” to which she was hastening? How vain to struggle against God, he thought. He never uttered a word. His daughter-in-law looked at him with compassionate eyes that he could hardly bear. Katie came in with a glass of milk in her hand.

“She is not asleep again, is she? Well, I must waken her, because she must take something. The sleeping is good for her, but she must take something to keep up her strength. Grannie dear, take this,” and she raised her gently.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

“Oh, ay! I’ll take it. And I could take a bit of bread, I think.”

“Well, mother will bring a bit.” But Katie was greatly surprised.

“I think I’m better, if I were only stronger a bit,” said grannie.

Over Katie’s bright face Mr Fleming saw the grave face of her mother, and though he knew that it was her way rather to fear than to hope, his heart sank.

“I’ll soon be better, I think. Are you there, Dawvid? You ken I couldna go and stand before the Lord and tell Him that you hadna forgiven your enemy.”

“She is wandering,” whispered Katie’s mother.

“No; I’m no wandering, but whiles I feel—as if I were slipping awa’—and you’ll give me your hand, Dawvid, and that will keep me back. Ay. That will do,” and her eyes closed again.

Katie followed her mother from the room.

“It is not far away now.”

“Mother, don’t say it. She is not going to die. Oh, mother! mother! Surely God is not going to take her from us yet. No. I’m not going to cry; I havena time,” said Katie. “And, mother, she says it herself, and I don’t think she is going to die. Oh, if Miss Betsey could have been here to-night!”

Katie resolutely put away her tears and her fears, and prepared for a night of watching. First, she made her mother lie down with a warm wrapper on her, so that she might be ready to come at any moment. Then she sent the bairns to their beds, and wished that Davie would come home. Then she remembered, with a pang of remorse, that her grandfather had not had his supper, and she got his accustomed bowl of bread and milk, and carried it into the room. Neither of them had moved, and stooping and listening, it seemed to Katie that her grandmother was sleeping naturally and sweetly. Her grandfather shook his head at the sight of the food.

“You must take it, grandfather,” said Katie in a whisper.

She put the bowl on a chair, and knelt down beside him.

“You need not move,” she said softly, and she fed him as he had often fed her when she was a little child.

“My good Katie!” said he, but it would not have been well for him to try to say more.

Davie came in before the supper was over. Katie nodded cheerfully, but did not speak till they were both in the kitchen.

“Well?” said Davie.

“She is no worse. I think she seems better. She has eaten a wee bit of bread, but mother says you cannot always tell by that. We must just wait.”

It was a long and anxious night to these two. It was well that grannie should sleep, but in her utter weakness it was also necessary that she should have nourishment often. She had grown sick of the sight of everything in the way of food, and she had had her choice of whatever the best housewives of Gershom could supply. For days she had only taken a little milk, and to-night she seemed to take it with relish. In a little she woke and spoke:

“Are you no’ coming to your bed, Dawvid? It is time surely.”

Her clasp of his hand loosened as Katie offered the milk to her lips. The old man rose, but he had been sitting in an uneasy posture, and tottered as he moved to the door.

“Grandfather,” said Davie, “lie down on the other side. It will be better for you and grannie too. Come grandfather. Katie, lay the pillow straight.”

“But I might disturb her—and I might fall asleep.”

But he yielded.

“She would like it, grandfather, and we can waken you if you fall asleep.”

So the two old people slumbered together, and Katie had to steal away to weep a few tears in the dark while her brother watched beside them, and they did not dare to ask themselves whether they hoped or feared in the stillness that fell on them.

“They say this is the old squire’s last night,” whispered Davie at last. “I saw Ben coming out as I passed.”

“Maybe no,” said Katie, who was determined to be hopeful to-night. “They have said that before. Maybe he’ll win through this time too.”

“Ay. But he is an old man, and it must come soon.”

Now and then they exchanged a word or two, and Katie put the cup to her grandmother’s lips, and the night wore on. Whether their grandfather slept or not they could not tell, but he made no movement that could disturb her, and he still held her hand, to keep her from “slipping away,” as she had said.

Once the mother came in and looked, but she only said she was sleeping quietly, and they made her lie down again. Toward morning Katie brought a quilt and a pillow, and Davie lay down on the floor beside the bed, and Katie prayed and waited for the dawn.

Chapter Twenty Four.Poor Old Squire.Betsey Holt had not found the old squire so low as she expected to find him when she went to his house after leaving Mr Fleming’s, and seeing him comfortable, and apparently no weaker than she had seen him before, she hesitated as to what she ought to do.“There will be nights when you will need me more cousin,” said she, “and I think—”But Elizabeth’s face made her pause.“Dear cousin, stay with me to-night. No, I do not think he is going to die to-night, though Dr Wainwright thought it could not be long. But do stay with me, cousin. I seem to be alone and good for nothing.”“You are tired, and no wonder. You look sick. Yes, I’ll stay. I think, on the whole, I’d better.”Betsey did not say that it was Mrs Fleming she had been thinking of when she hesitated. She took off her bonnet and prepared to stay.“I made up my mind to be here to-night as soon as I heard that your father wasn’t well. I thought once I’d go home and come back after sundown, but it doesn’t matter about going. They’ll know why I stay, and I guess likely Ben will come along over after milking is done.”“Is there no one we could get to help your mother and Cynthia for a few days? I would send anywhere for help to them if you could only stay with me till—”“Oh, I guess they’ll get along, and Hepsey Bean is near by. If they get into a fix they can send for her. I’ll stay anyway. Isn’t your brother Clifton round?”“No, he went to the city yesterday; he left before we thought my father worse. I hope he will be home to-morrow.”“Well, I hope he will, and I guess he’d better stay a spell next time he comes.”Elizabeth had been up for the night, and after a visit to her father, who was still sleeping quietly, Betsey persuaded her to go and lie down, promising to call her at the turn of the night, or sooner if there should be any change. Elizabeth was glad to go, for she was very tired.“I feel so safe in leaving him with you, cousin,” said Elizabeth, the tears starting in her eyes. “You must not think that I am always so—downhearted, but I feel as if I might give way—as if I might lay a little of my burden on you, and—”“And so you may, with noifabout it, only there is a better place to lay it, as you don’t need me to tell you by this time. She thinks she knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does,” continued Betsey as she followed Elizabeth with her thoughts. “For trouble is just as folks take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto. But I guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to. The Lord sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn’t worry about her. She’ll be kept safe through it all.”But she gave a good many thoughts to Elizabeth’s possible troubles as she sat there alone. Before the “turn of the night” Elizabeth came down rested and refreshed, she said. Jacob came in and sat a while, but scarcely a word was spoken. He offered to stay, but it was not necessary, his sister said.“No! When is Clifton coming back?” asked he.“To-morrow, I hope,” said Elizabeth.“He must not go away again.”“No. Not for a time.”Elizabeth’s rest and refreshment “did not seem to amount to much,” Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth’s face the look it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds in her father’s room, she sat perfectly motionless, “limp and hopeless,” Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:“Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be ‘swallowed up of overmuch sorrow,’ are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep of misery to a Christian than that.”Elizabeth looked up startled.“I don’t think I rebel, but—”“You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very old man now, Lizzie.”“He is all I have got.”“You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn’t all you’ve got by many.”“He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not, though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little while.”“Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less truth than of most.”Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.“You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make them. I don’t believe anybody ever saw your face who didn’t want to see it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness.”Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.“How you talk, Cousin Betsey!” said she.“Well, that’s the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there you’ll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And you’ll get your wages—rest, and a quiet mind.”Elizabeth’s eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be in the shadow, and then she went on:“You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left.”Elizabeth said nothing to this.“Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won’t be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes.”There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.“It will not be to-night,” said she softly. Then she sat down again.“Cousin,” said she gravely in a little, “you are not worrying about your father, as though it may—not be well with him now?”Elizabeth looked at her startled.Betsey went on:“I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord’s side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them.”Elizabeth’s face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.“A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him more than a little. I couldn’t bear to have him miss the privilege—deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He appointed. He didn’t consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I said a word to him about it—at the time my father died that was.“I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough—a hypocrite, almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one sense. But out Lord said, ‘Except ye be converted and become as little children,’ and he had the heart of a little child about some things, more than any one I ever knew.“Cousin, if I were to tell you—but I couldn’t begin to tell you, all he has done for us—for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he needn’t be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness—yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn’t been for Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a man your father was.”Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but she said nothing.“I never could tell you—never! My father, for a good while, wasn’t easy to get along with. Well, he wasn’t himself all the time, and if it hadn’t been for Uncle Gershom—“But there—I mustn’t talk about it, not to-night,” she said, rising and walking about the room. “It kind of puts me off the balance to go back to those days, and I’d better let it alone to-night.”“Some time you will tell me,” said Elizabeth.“Well, I don’t promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face of an angel your father’s face has been to me many and many a time.”“I think I know,” said Elizabeth.“And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don’t deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went—to sit down at the Lord’s table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it above, and I wish he might even yet.”“I’ll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real difference—”“Betsey,” said the squire’s voice from the other room.They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.“Did I hear Betsey’s voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie? Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I’ve got something to say to Betsey. It isn’t best to put off these things too long.”Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered. After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.“Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn’t here, is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn’t know now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is, and your mother’s little wheel, and you’ll find what I want—the old saddle-bag—in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but you’d better bring the bag down.”Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he did not.“I feel rested. It won’t hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it over with—”Elizabeth looked at her cousin.“You’d better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do anything about it.”Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.“I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago,” said the old man, laying his hand on it. “Where are my glasses? But I guess you’ll find what I want, Lizzie.”There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire’s first marriage, his wife’s letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, “well-nigh on fifty year ago.” Then there was a bundle of papers marked “Brother Reuben.”“That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you’ll have to do it, Lizzie.”There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was written, “Paid for my Joe,” and a date; on another, “Lent to my son. Parley, at the time he went west,” and several more of the same kind. The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.“He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always,” said the squire. “He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn’t have it. I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly.”He seemed to have forgotten Betsey’s presence, for he went on:“I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn’t hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn’t a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed—the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn’t mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble.”“Father, I will burn them now; that will be best,” said Elizabeth, eagerly.“And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it.”“Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together.”“Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I’m tirednow. Look out the rest of them when you have time, and you’ll know what to burn. There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I often have been sorry that I didn’t just take old Mr Fleming’s note, instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings. There, that’s all. I feel better, I’ll try and sleep again.”They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.“Cousin Lizzie,” said Betsey, “wait a minute. I don’t more than half believe it’s lawful to burn these notes and things.”“It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them.”“But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?”“Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary, and that—that I should hear more about it soon.”“They say it’s pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin.”“I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe.”She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one into the fire.“Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will never speak of this again.”Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she might see it.“It is Hughie Fleming’s writing! I know it well,” said Betsey.“It looks as if it had never been opened,” Elizabeth said, turning it over and over in her hand. “How strange! My father must surely have read it?”“Who knows? It is possible he never did.”“I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?”Betsey shook her head.“It isn’t likely he’d remember it, and it might trouble him. It is about that old trouble likely.”“Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?”“It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would make me think less of poor Hugh.”“But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?”Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or two.“It looks like a message from the dead,” said she.“Open it, cousin. You remember him and his trouble better than I can. Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to know, you shall burn it without a word.”Betsey still hesitated.“It comes from the dead,” said she, but she opened it at last, cutting round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first letter:“Honoured Sir:—I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full restitution shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?”And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.“Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!” said Betsey softly. “Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy’s death,” added she, looking at the date on the letter.“My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this,” said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, “I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked.”She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.“And now what shall we do about this?” asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.“I don’t know, the least in the world,” said Betsey, much moved. “It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison.”“But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also.”“Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him.”They were greatly at a loss what to do.“If we could consult some one.”“It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it. If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There is no better time to give it.”Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.“I hope it is not wrong.”“It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now.”A single glance was enough.“Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight.”Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden weeping.“And he never saw his father again.”“No. And the father never saw the words his son had written,” said Betsey, scarcely less moved.Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps at the door. Then Jacob’s voice was heard, and remembering that the squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth’s eyes alone, Betsey lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the night had been passed.“He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly,” said Elizabeth.“And he seemed quite revived when he was awake last,” Betsey added, as she came out of his room.“Mr Maxwell, Jacob,” said Elizabeth, “the strangest thing has happened. Jacob, look at this,” and she put into his hand the letter with the red seal on it, on which his eyes had been fixed since ever he came in.He grew pale when he saw his father’s name in the once familiar handwriting, and when he saw the money, and read the words to his father, written on the other side, he sat down suddenly without a word. If Elizabeth had thought a moment, she might have hesitated about giving it to him while others were looking on. Betsey was glad that she had done it. Elizabeth took the letter which Jacob had laid down and gave it to Mr Maxwell:“You have heard of Hugh Fleming, the lad who went wrong. Betsey can tell you more than I can. I found the letter among some old papers of my father’s. I think he cannot have read it, for the seal was not broken. There must have been some mistake.”Mr Maxwell read it in silence.“But it is this that has troubled us. A letter from Hugh to his father. Think of it, Jacob. After all these years!”Yes. After all these years! “Be sure your sin will find you out.” That is what Jacob was saying to himself. Even Betsey could have found it in her heart to pity the misery seen in his face.“He can’t be so cold-blooded as people suppose,” thought she.“Should it be given to his father at once? I think the worst part of the trouble to him has been the thought that his son was cut off so suddenly—that he died unrepenting.”Mr Maxwell looked at the folded paper and then at Jacob.“It may trouble the old man, but I do not think we have a right to withhold it.”Elizabeth was about to say that she had looked at the note, but Betsey interrupted her:“He was sorry for his sin—whatever it was. His written words to Uncle Gershom prove that. And if there is in it any kind of sorrow, or any proof that others were more guilty than he, it might comfort the old man.”“Will you take it to him by and by, Mr Maxwell?” said Elizabeth.“If I am the best person to take it. But he has never spoken to me of his son.”“He has never spoken a word to any one but the mother. And I feel that there is comfort to him in this little letter, and you will be glad to carry him comfort, I know.”“Thank you. Well, I will take it at once. Some one will be up at this early hour with the grandmother. I will go now.”Elizabeth put the folded paper in her father’s letter with the money and gave it to him.“I will go too,” said Jacob, rising.“Had you better?”Both Elizabeth and Betsey spoke these words with a little excitement. He turned a strange look from one to the other. Whether it was of pain or anger, neither knew, and he went out with the minister. Elizabeth watching, saw them turn into the path that led a near way to the North Gore road.“Oh, Betsey! I hope we have done right. God comfort the poor father by these words,” cried Elizabeth, with a sudden rush of tears.“Amen!” said Betsey, solemnly.

Betsey Holt had not found the old squire so low as she expected to find him when she went to his house after leaving Mr Fleming’s, and seeing him comfortable, and apparently no weaker than she had seen him before, she hesitated as to what she ought to do.

“There will be nights when you will need me more cousin,” said she, “and I think—”

But Elizabeth’s face made her pause.

“Dear cousin, stay with me to-night. No, I do not think he is going to die to-night, though Dr Wainwright thought it could not be long. But do stay with me, cousin. I seem to be alone and good for nothing.”

“You are tired, and no wonder. You look sick. Yes, I’ll stay. I think, on the whole, I’d better.”

Betsey did not say that it was Mrs Fleming she had been thinking of when she hesitated. She took off her bonnet and prepared to stay.

“I made up my mind to be here to-night as soon as I heard that your father wasn’t well. I thought once I’d go home and come back after sundown, but it doesn’t matter about going. They’ll know why I stay, and I guess likely Ben will come along over after milking is done.”

“Is there no one we could get to help your mother and Cynthia for a few days? I would send anywhere for help to them if you could only stay with me till—”

“Oh, I guess they’ll get along, and Hepsey Bean is near by. If they get into a fix they can send for her. I’ll stay anyway. Isn’t your brother Clifton round?”

“No, he went to the city yesterday; he left before we thought my father worse. I hope he will be home to-morrow.”

“Well, I hope he will, and I guess he’d better stay a spell next time he comes.”

Elizabeth had been up for the night, and after a visit to her father, who was still sleeping quietly, Betsey persuaded her to go and lie down, promising to call her at the turn of the night, or sooner if there should be any change. Elizabeth was glad to go, for she was very tired.

“I feel so safe in leaving him with you, cousin,” said Elizabeth, the tears starting in her eyes. “You must not think that I am always so—downhearted, but I feel as if I might give way—as if I might lay a little of my burden on you, and—”

“And so you may, with noifabout it, only there is a better place to lay it, as you don’t need me to tell you by this time. She thinks she knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does,” continued Betsey as she followed Elizabeth with her thoughts. “For trouble is just as folks take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto. But I guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to. The Lord sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn’t worry about her. She’ll be kept safe through it all.”

But she gave a good many thoughts to Elizabeth’s possible troubles as she sat there alone. Before the “turn of the night” Elizabeth came down rested and refreshed, she said. Jacob came in and sat a while, but scarcely a word was spoken. He offered to stay, but it was not necessary, his sister said.

“No! When is Clifton coming back?” asked he.

“To-morrow, I hope,” said Elizabeth.

“He must not go away again.”

“No. Not for a time.”

Elizabeth’s rest and refreshment “did not seem to amount to much,” Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth’s face the look it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds in her father’s room, she sat perfectly motionless, “limp and hopeless,” Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:

“Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be ‘swallowed up of overmuch sorrow,’ are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep of misery to a Christian than that.”

Elizabeth looked up startled.

“I don’t think I rebel, but—”

“You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very old man now, Lizzie.”

“He is all I have got.”

“You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn’t all you’ve got by many.”

“He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not, though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little while.”

“Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less truth than of most.”

Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.

“You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make them. I don’t believe anybody ever saw your face who didn’t want to see it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness.”

Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.

“How you talk, Cousin Betsey!” said she.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there you’ll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And you’ll get your wages—rest, and a quiet mind.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be in the shadow, and then she went on:

“You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left.”

Elizabeth said nothing to this.

“Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won’t be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes.”

There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.

“It will not be to-night,” said she softly. Then she sat down again.

“Cousin,” said she gravely in a little, “you are not worrying about your father, as though it may—not be well with him now?”

Elizabeth looked at her startled.

Betsey went on:

“I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord’s side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them.”

Elizabeth’s face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.

“A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him more than a little. I couldn’t bear to have him miss the privilege—deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He appointed. He didn’t consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I said a word to him about it—at the time my father died that was.

“I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough—a hypocrite, almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one sense. But out Lord said, ‘Except ye be converted and become as little children,’ and he had the heart of a little child about some things, more than any one I ever knew.

“Cousin, if I were to tell you—but I couldn’t begin to tell you, all he has done for us—for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he needn’t be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness—yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn’t been for Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a man your father was.”

Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but she said nothing.

“I never could tell you—never! My father, for a good while, wasn’t easy to get along with. Well, he wasn’t himself all the time, and if it hadn’t been for Uncle Gershom—

“But there—I mustn’t talk about it, not to-night,” she said, rising and walking about the room. “It kind of puts me off the balance to go back to those days, and I’d better let it alone to-night.”

“Some time you will tell me,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, I don’t promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face of an angel your father’s face has been to me many and many a time.”

“I think I know,” said Elizabeth.

“And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don’t deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went—to sit down at the Lord’s table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it above, and I wish he might even yet.”

“I’ll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real difference—”

“Betsey,” said the squire’s voice from the other room.

They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.

“Did I hear Betsey’s voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie? Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I’ve got something to say to Betsey. It isn’t best to put off these things too long.”

Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered. After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.

“Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn’t here, is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn’t know now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is, and your mother’s little wheel, and you’ll find what I want—the old saddle-bag—in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but you’d better bring the bag down.”

Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he did not.

“I feel rested. It won’t hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it over with—”

Elizabeth looked at her cousin.

“You’d better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do anything about it.”

Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.

“I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago,” said the old man, laying his hand on it. “Where are my glasses? But I guess you’ll find what I want, Lizzie.”

There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire’s first marriage, his wife’s letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, “well-nigh on fifty year ago.” Then there was a bundle of papers marked “Brother Reuben.”

“That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you’ll have to do it, Lizzie.”

There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was written, “Paid for my Joe,” and a date; on another, “Lent to my son. Parley, at the time he went west,” and several more of the same kind. The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.

“He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always,” said the squire. “He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn’t have it. I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly.”

He seemed to have forgotten Betsey’s presence, for he went on:

“I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn’t hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn’t a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed—the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn’t mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble.”

“Father, I will burn them now; that will be best,” said Elizabeth, eagerly.

“And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it.”

“Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together.”

“Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I’m tirednow. Look out the rest of them when you have time, and you’ll know what to burn. There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I often have been sorry that I didn’t just take old Mr Fleming’s note, instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings. There, that’s all. I feel better, I’ll try and sleep again.”

They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.

“Cousin Lizzie,” said Betsey, “wait a minute. I don’t more than half believe it’s lawful to burn these notes and things.”

“It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them.”

“But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?”

“Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary, and that—that I should hear more about it soon.”

“They say it’s pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin.”

“I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe.”

She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one into the fire.

“Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will never speak of this again.”

Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she might see it.

“It is Hughie Fleming’s writing! I know it well,” said Betsey.

“It looks as if it had never been opened,” Elizabeth said, turning it over and over in her hand. “How strange! My father must surely have read it?”

“Who knows? It is possible he never did.”

“I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?”

Betsey shook her head.

“It isn’t likely he’d remember it, and it might trouble him. It is about that old trouble likely.”

“Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?”

“It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would make me think less of poor Hugh.”

“But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?”

Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or two.

“It looks like a message from the dead,” said she.

“Open it, cousin. You remember him and his trouble better than I can. Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to know, you shall burn it without a word.”

Betsey still hesitated.

“It comes from the dead,” said she, but she opened it at last, cutting round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first letter:

“Honoured Sir:—I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full restitution shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?”

And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.

“Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!” said Betsey softly. “Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy’s death,” added she, looking at the date on the letter.

“My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this,” said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, “I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked.”

She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.

“And now what shall we do about this?” asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.

It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.

“I don’t know, the least in the world,” said Betsey, much moved. “It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison.”

“But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also.”

“Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him.”

They were greatly at a loss what to do.

“If we could consult some one.”

“It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it. If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There is no better time to give it.”

Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.

“I hope it is not wrong.”

“It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now.”

A single glance was enough.

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight.”

Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden weeping.

“And he never saw his father again.”

“No. And the father never saw the words his son had written,” said Betsey, scarcely less moved.

Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps at the door. Then Jacob’s voice was heard, and remembering that the squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth’s eyes alone, Betsey lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the night had been passed.

“He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly,” said Elizabeth.

“And he seemed quite revived when he was awake last,” Betsey added, as she came out of his room.

“Mr Maxwell, Jacob,” said Elizabeth, “the strangest thing has happened. Jacob, look at this,” and she put into his hand the letter with the red seal on it, on which his eyes had been fixed since ever he came in.

He grew pale when he saw his father’s name in the once familiar handwriting, and when he saw the money, and read the words to his father, written on the other side, he sat down suddenly without a word. If Elizabeth had thought a moment, she might have hesitated about giving it to him while others were looking on. Betsey was glad that she had done it. Elizabeth took the letter which Jacob had laid down and gave it to Mr Maxwell:

“You have heard of Hugh Fleming, the lad who went wrong. Betsey can tell you more than I can. I found the letter among some old papers of my father’s. I think he cannot have read it, for the seal was not broken. There must have been some mistake.”

Mr Maxwell read it in silence.

“But it is this that has troubled us. A letter from Hugh to his father. Think of it, Jacob. After all these years!”

Yes. After all these years! “Be sure your sin will find you out.” That is what Jacob was saying to himself. Even Betsey could have found it in her heart to pity the misery seen in his face.

“He can’t be so cold-blooded as people suppose,” thought she.

“Should it be given to his father at once? I think the worst part of the trouble to him has been the thought that his son was cut off so suddenly—that he died unrepenting.”

Mr Maxwell looked at the folded paper and then at Jacob.

“It may trouble the old man, but I do not think we have a right to withhold it.”

Elizabeth was about to say that she had looked at the note, but Betsey interrupted her:

“He was sorry for his sin—whatever it was. His written words to Uncle Gershom prove that. And if there is in it any kind of sorrow, or any proof that others were more guilty than he, it might comfort the old man.”

“Will you take it to him by and by, Mr Maxwell?” said Elizabeth.

“If I am the best person to take it. But he has never spoken to me of his son.”

“He has never spoken a word to any one but the mother. And I feel that there is comfort to him in this little letter, and you will be glad to carry him comfort, I know.”

“Thank you. Well, I will take it at once. Some one will be up at this early hour with the grandmother. I will go now.”

Elizabeth put the folded paper in her father’s letter with the money and gave it to him.

“I will go too,” said Jacob, rising.

“Had you better?”

Both Elizabeth and Betsey spoke these words with a little excitement. He turned a strange look from one to the other. Whether it was of pain or anger, neither knew, and he went out with the minister. Elizabeth watching, saw them turn into the path that led a near way to the North Gore road.

“Oh, Betsey! I hope we have done right. God comfort the poor father by these words,” cried Elizabeth, with a sudden rush of tears.

“Amen!” said Betsey, solemnly.

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