Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Two.Young Mr Petrie.That night Mr Dawson came to invite them to pass a few days at Saughleas. He “wearied” there alone in the mornings and the long evenings, and there was no good reason why he should be alone, when they could come to visit him without leaving any one but Nannie to miss them. Nannie putting in her word, said she would not object to being left since the change would be good for them both.“And as Mrs Petrie asked you for a few days, Marion, my dear, if you like you can go there instead.”“Oh! Miss Jean! If you please?”Marion’s face fell so decidedly that Mr Dawson laughed and insisted that Marion must come also, and Miss Jean had nothing to urge against it since both were pleased.“Mrs Petrie is very kind, but she canna really care very much; and I see some of them every day,” said Marion, fearing to appear ungrateful.“Miss Jean will be all the better o’ her company when ye’re in the toon,” said Nannie privately to Mr Dawson. “And as to thae Petrie’s—we ha’e eneuch o’ some o’ them at a’ conscience;” which was Marion’s opinion also.The days passed happily at Saughleas. Marion enjoyed the garden and the woods and fields, and every growing thing in them, as only they who have been long shut up in a dull house in a dull city street can do, and her delight in all that Saughleas had to offer was pleasant to see. Mr Dawson went to the town every day, but some days he did not stay there long, and Marion and he grew as friendly among the flowers and fields, as they had been among the wonderful sights of London during the first days of their acquaintance. The shyness which old associations had brought back since she came to Portie, passed quite away, and the frankness which had been her chief charm to the old man returned, and they took pleasure in each other’s company.“I’m going over to the brae to see a fine new plough that Mr Maclean has got. Have ye a mind for a walk, my lassie?” said Mr Dawson as they met one afternoon in the kitchen garden behind the house.Marion had been longing for a walk and was delighted to go. There was a cold wind blowing from the sea, and she went to the house for a shawl, but came back in a minute with a clouded face.“The Petrie’s—at least young Mr Petrie is at the gate,” said she.“And ye would rather bide at home? Weel—”“Oh! no! But if I go in for the shawl he will see me; and it is not so very cold.”“I doubt ye may find it some cold on the hill, but run ye away through the wood, and I’ll ask Phemie for a wrap of some kind.”“And it winna be rude?—to Miss Jean, I mean—I’m no’ caring for Jamie Petrie.”Mr Dawson laughed.“He’ll think the mair o’ your company when ye come back,” said he.It was a successful afternoon on the whole. They walked quickly at first through the fields, but when they got over the hill, they took it leisurely. Then Mr Dawson said a word about young Mr Petrie’s disappointment, and Marion looked grave.“He is very kind—they are all very kind, and I am afraid you will think me ungrateful. Oh! yes, I like him well enough, but it was only the other night that he was at Miss Jean’s—”“And I dare say he will come back again.”“Oh! yes, I dare say he will. Oh! I like him well enough, but I get tired of him whiles.”“Well, never think about it.”“I’m no’ caring forhim. But I hope Miss Jean winna be ill-pleased.”“She needna ken that ye saw him,” said Mr Dawson much amused.Marion shook her head.“I doubt I’ll need to tell her.”“Nonsense! It was my fault. Ye would ha’e stayed if I had bidden you.”“Yes, that is true. And Miss Jean must see that I would far rather please you than Jamie Petrie.”“That’s as may be, but for once in a way you may be excused.”Though they were away for a long time, they found Mr Petrie sitting with Miss Jean when they returned.“Come awa’,” said Miss Jean. “Where have ye been? and what can have keepit ye sae lang? Mr James and I have been wearyin’ for our tea.”“Oh! well, ye’ll enjoy it all the mair for that, and so will we,” said Mr Dawson.Marion went away to arrange her hair which the wind had blown about, and when she returned Mr Dawson was asking Mr James what news the afternoon’s post had brought. But Mr James had left before the post came in.“Then you must have been here a good while. It is a pity that ye hadna been in time to go with us. We went over to the brae to see the new plough that the farmer has gotten. Miss Marion explained the philosophy of the thing to us.”“Miss Marion is in some danger of becoming a learned woman, I hear,” said Mr James, with an uncomfortable smile on his lips.“In danger? Oh! weel, I dare say ye’re right. I’m no’ sure but there is danger in it. I canna say that I think very learned women are best fitted for the kind o’ work that most commonly falls to a woman’s hand.”“But for the work of a schoolmistress,” said Marion eagerly. “I am going to be a schoolmistress,—not a governess, not a teacher in a school merely, but the mistress of a school.”“You mean if you cannot do better,” said Mr Petrie. “Better? But that is what I have been thinking about all my life. My plans are all laid—only—”“But then you could just let them all drop, if any thingbettershould present itself, as James says. But what are your plans? if it be fair to ask,” said Mr Dawson. Marion did not laugh, but answered gravely, “First I must make ‘a learned woman’ of myself, and that will take a good while. I used to think I would have a young ladies’ school, but I have changed my mind. Young ladies are troublesome, and I think I would prefer to teach boys.”Mr James whistled. Mr Dawson said, “Well, and what would you teach them?”“Whatever they needed to learn. I can hardly tell yet about it. But Mrs Manners has promised me her boys.”“She is to lose no time it seems,” said Miss Jean smiling.“Oh! but you forget, I have to educate myself first. I am afraid I should have to be a great deal older before people would trust their boys to me. But that is what I mean to do.” Marion spoke gravely.“And ye’ll do it too, if you set yourself to do it,” said Mr Dawson.“And she could hardly set herself to a better work,” said Miss Jean.But Mr Petrie by no means agreed with them, and expressed himself to that effect with sufficient decision. He ridiculed the idea, and being very much in earnest, he was not so guarded as he might have been, and allowed a tone of contempt to mingle with the banter which he meant to be playful, and at the same time severe. Marion answered lightly enough, and was in no danger of being angry as Miss Jean feared, and as, after a time, Mr James hoped she might be. The necessity of making his peace with her would have pleased the young man better, than her laughing indifference to his opinions, or to his manner of expressing them. But she was so friendly in her manner, and so willing to oblige him by singing his favourite songs when Miss Jean sent her to the piano, that he had no excuse for returning to the subject again.His errand, he told them when he rose to go, was to ask Miss Marion to join his sisters and some of their friends in walking to the Castle the next day, and after an inquiring glance at Miss Jean the invitation was accepted with sufficient readiness.“And if the day should not be fine, it is understood that you will spend it with my sisters, and the Castle can wait till fair weather.”To this also Marion assented with a good grace, and the young man went away assuring himself that he ought to be content. He might have been less so, had he seen the shrug of her pretty shoulders, and heard her voice as she said to Miss Jean,—“What should the like of James Petrie ken?”When she was gone for the night, Mr Dawson, laughing, told Miss Jean of the manner of their departure for the brae that afternoon. Miss Jean looked grave.“Ye dinna mean to say that ye think the lassie did any thing out of the way?” said Mr Dawson. “She said she doubted she would need to tell you, though I’m sure I canna see why.”“I wasna thinking about that I was wondering whether after all, I had done a wise thing in bringing her down here.”“I have wondered at that myself, whiles, though I acknowledge I had a part in bringing her. But it depends on what ye brought her for.”Miss Jean said nothing.“If it were to do young Petrie a pleasure, I think ye ha’e nothing to regret.”But Miss Jean shook her head.“I’m no’ so sure o’ that,” said she.“As to how his father may be pleased, that is another matter.”To this Miss Jean made no answer.“And if I mind right, ye once thought Jamie Petrie would ha’e little temptation to look that way, and little chance of success if he did.”“That is just what I thought, but I was wrong it seems as to the temptation. As to the success—I canna say, but—”“But why should you be downcast about it?”“It is for the lad I am sorry, because I doubt he has disappointment before him. He should have been content to bide awhile. She is but a lassie, with no such thoughts in her mind.”“She looks like a woman.”“Ay, she does that. But she is but a bairn in some things. She is no’ thinkin’ o’ him. She doesna even amuse herself with him. He is just Jamie Petrie to her, and that is all. I’m wae for the lad.”“His father and mother will be all the better pleased.”“That may be, but I dinna think it.”Then Miss Jean told in few words a story to which Mr Dawson listened with varying feelings,—the story of James Petrie’s love and what was like to come of it.He had seen her in London about six months since, Miss Jean said, and had made his admiration very evident to the mother whose surprise was great; for like the rest of the world she had given him credit for a degree of worldly wisdom greater than a serious attachment to a penniless girl would seem to imply. He made no formal declaration of his suit, to which indeed Mrs Calderwood would not have listened, as Marion was in her eyes little more than a child. In her heart she believed and hoped that his fancy would pass away, or be put by prudent thoughts out of his head, without a word spoken.For she did not want him for her daughter. He was a rich man’s son, and would be a rich man himself one day. By years of steady attention to business, and by exemplary conduct generally, he had proved himself worthy of a certain confidence and respect. But whatever other people might think of him, he was not in the opinion of Mrs Calderwood worthy to have as his wife her beautiful and intelligent Marion, and she determined that he should not speak if she could prevent him.Marion was pleased when he came, and liked him as she liked all the rest of the folk of Portie, who had been kind to her all her life, liking them all the more that she had left them, and saw little of them. Her mother feared that, flattered by his admiration, she might fancy it was more than liking that she felt for him, and that should he ask her to become his wife, she might accept him, and repent it all her life as many another woman has done. She must hear nothing of this till she was old enough to know her own mind about it, and wise enough to make no such terrible mistake.But by and by, when there came friendly advances from the father and mother, showing that they were aware of their son’s feelings and intentions, and at least did not disapprove of them, Mrs Calderwood was much moved. Marion might at feast hope for a kindly welcome among the Petries. She was not sure that she was right in wishing that nothing might come of it.There was another view to be taken of the matter. Her own health was by no means firm, and she had no expectation of living many years. Her son in his profession could hardly hope to give a home to his sister for years to come, nor could he give her personal care and guardianship should she be left alone. It was well enough for Marion to talk about making herself independent by keeping a school. Her mother had given her every chance to prepare herself for it, if such was to be the work of her life. But the girl was too young and too pretty to be fit for any such position for years to come, and the mother’s heart shrank from the thought of the struggle and the weariness that even in the most favourable circumstances such a life must bring to her child.Was it right for her to hesitate when a home among her own people was opened to her? Might she not live a quiet and happy life, beloved and safe from the manifold difficulties and dangers that beset even the most successful women, making their own way in the world? A word of encouragement from her would make the young man speak, but whether to give it or withhold it she could not decide.In the discomfort of her indecision she sought counsel of Miss Jean. But what could Miss Jean say but just what she had said to herself, that it must depend on Marion’s own feeling whether such a word should be spoken.Out of this had come Miss Jean’s desire to bring Marion to Portie for a little while. The girl would learn to know the young man with so many pleasant chances of intercourse, as she never could do in his brief and infrequent visits to London, and she would also come to a better understanding of her own feelings with regard to him. It is likely that Mrs Calderwood understood her motive and intention, though no word passed between them with regard to it. All this Miss Jean told in as few words as might be to her brother. “I doubt it hasna answered,” added she. “Such plans seldom answer. But why should you take it to heart. They maun please themselves,” said Mr Dawson impatiently. “I acknowledge I am surprised that old Petrie should pitch on a penniless lass for his son. It is nae what I should ha’e expected of him, and I ken him weel.”“He didna pitch on her, I doubt it is but making the best of a bad matter, with him. Mrs Petrie was ay fond o’ Marion, and she is a peacemaker. And James is as determined as his father and not altogether dependent on him. And the old man has the sense to see that his son must judge for himself. And any thing is better than dispeace in a family. And now that he has seen her again, the father likes Marion.”“And are ye satisfied that such a marriage would be the wisest thing for her? James Petrie is a good business man, capable and honest. But when ye ha’e said that, it’s a’ there is to say. As for her—ye ken best about her.”“There are few like her, and there are plenty like him. But if they loved one another, that would make them equal in a sense, and they might live happily enough. But she’s no’ thinkin’ about him.”“But why should you vex yoursel’ about it.”“I doubt I was wrong to bring her. And I’m sorry for the young man.”“Oh! as to that, he’ll win over it, as he has done before. There is no fear.”But Miss Jean still looked grave and troubled. “That was different. Our Jean was the most beautiful woman and the best match in the town, and no doubt he believed that he was in love with her, but this is different; and it will do him harm, I fear.”“Well, I canna see that you are needing to make yourself responsible for Jamie Petrie’s well-being, if that is all.”But that was not all. Miss Jean had anxious thoughts about others besides James Petrie. Her anxiety she could not share with her brother however, and she said no more.Nor was Mr Dawson more inclined to carry on the conversation. The pain of past years was sharply stirring within him, though even his sister did not guess it from his words or his manner. Indeed he hardly knew it himself, till they fell into silence; but that night his head pressed a wakeful pillow, and the ghosts of old troubles came back upon him.How vividly it came back to him, all that he had suffered in those nights long ago when he could not sleep for the pain and the anger and the utter disappointment in his hopes for his son! In those nights he had sometimes had a doubt whether he had wrought wisely toward the desired end, but he had never doubted as to the wisdom of that end—till to-night.Was John Petrie, whose judgment when exercised beyond the even routine of business, he had never highly valued—was John Petrie showing himself wiser in yielding to the wishes of his son, than he had been in resisting the wishes of his?What an influence for good in a man’s life must be the love of such a girl as Marion Calderwood. Had bonny Elsie been one like her? Remembering the sweet, calm eyes of the girl so long dead and gone, the gentle strength, the patient firmness by which she withstood not him alone, but her own mother whom she loved, rather than break her promise to the lad who loved her, he could not but doubt whether he had judged wisely then, and whether he had afterward dealt wisely with his son.Ah, well! That was all past now, and good had come out of it to George. But would he ever forget? Would there ever come to his son’s home in future years one who would be to him all that Mary Keith had been to him. “He has not forgotten her,” he said to himself, remembering his pale looks when first his eyes fell on Elsie’s sister. But he was young yet, scarce five and twenty, and his life was before him, and all might be well. At any rate nothing could be changed now.He had a troubled, restless night, and the first sight he saw when he looked out in the early morning was Marion walking up and down among the flowers. She was walking slowly, with a graver and more thoughtful face than she was used to wear in his presence. She saw the beautiful things around her, for she stooped now and then over a flower as she passed, and touched tenderly the shining leaves as she bent her head beneath the overhanging branches. But she was evidently thinking of other things, and paused now and then looking out upon the sea.“A strong, fair woman,” he said. “She will make a man of James Petrie, if there’s stuff enough in him to work on—which I doubt. If they love one another—that is the chief thing, as Jean says, and the folk that ken them both will mostly think that she has done well.”Miss Jean went in to Portie that day, having her own special work to attend to there, and it was understood that for this time the visit at Saughleas was over.Marion went to the Castle with the rest, but she did not go with them to Mr Petrie’s house to pass the evening. She came straight to Miss Jean’s, having Mr James Petrie as her escort, and it so happened that Mr Dawson met them both on their way thither.“Something has come to her since morning,” he thought as he watched her approaching.She was walking rapidly and steadily, carrying her head high and looking straight before her, with the air of being occupied with her own thoughts, rather than with Mr Petrie’s eager, smiling talk.“I’ll hear about it from Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, with a feeling of discomfort which he did not care to analyse.But he heard nothing from Miss Jean. If she had any thing to tell, it could not be that which he had at first expected to hear. For young Mr Petrie, whom he saw as he saw him every day, did not carry himself like a triumphant lover, neither did he look downcast, as though he had met with a rebuff. He was just as usual, seemingly content with himself and with the world generally.“I dare say it was but my own imagination,” said the old man, wondering a little that he thought about it at all.He did not see Marion the next day when he called at Miss Jean’s house, nor the next, nor for several days, and friendly though they had become, he still felt a certain disinclination to ask Miss Jean about her. He caught a glimpse of her on the third morning as he was coming down the High-street, but she turned toward the shore before he came near. She had not seen him, he thought.When he did see her at last, sitting sedately, her eyes and her hands occupied with her work in Miss Jean’s parlour, the same thought came into his mind.“Something has happened to her. Some one has been saying something to vex her, whatever it may be. But young lasses are whiles easily vexed.”The next time that Miss Jean was asked to spend a day at Saughleas, it rained heavily, and she could not go, and when she was asked again, Marion was engaged to go somewhere else, and Miss Jean went alone.“Oh! ay, she is quite right to please hersel’,” said Mr Dawson coldly, when Miss Jean explained that it was necessary that she should go and visit Miss Spence that day, because the visit had been put off more than once before.“Miss Spence was a friend of her mother lang syne,” said Miss Jean.Mr Dawson did not ask, as he had meant to do, what had happened to vex the girl, though he guessed from Miss Jean’s manner, that whatever happened, it was known to her.

That night Mr Dawson came to invite them to pass a few days at Saughleas. He “wearied” there alone in the mornings and the long evenings, and there was no good reason why he should be alone, when they could come to visit him without leaving any one but Nannie to miss them. Nannie putting in her word, said she would not object to being left since the change would be good for them both.

“And as Mrs Petrie asked you for a few days, Marion, my dear, if you like you can go there instead.”

“Oh! Miss Jean! If you please?”

Marion’s face fell so decidedly that Mr Dawson laughed and insisted that Marion must come also, and Miss Jean had nothing to urge against it since both were pleased.

“Mrs Petrie is very kind, but she canna really care very much; and I see some of them every day,” said Marion, fearing to appear ungrateful.

“Miss Jean will be all the better o’ her company when ye’re in the toon,” said Nannie privately to Mr Dawson. “And as to thae Petrie’s—we ha’e eneuch o’ some o’ them at a’ conscience;” which was Marion’s opinion also.

The days passed happily at Saughleas. Marion enjoyed the garden and the woods and fields, and every growing thing in them, as only they who have been long shut up in a dull house in a dull city street can do, and her delight in all that Saughleas had to offer was pleasant to see. Mr Dawson went to the town every day, but some days he did not stay there long, and Marion and he grew as friendly among the flowers and fields, as they had been among the wonderful sights of London during the first days of their acquaintance. The shyness which old associations had brought back since she came to Portie, passed quite away, and the frankness which had been her chief charm to the old man returned, and they took pleasure in each other’s company.

“I’m going over to the brae to see a fine new plough that Mr Maclean has got. Have ye a mind for a walk, my lassie?” said Mr Dawson as they met one afternoon in the kitchen garden behind the house.

Marion had been longing for a walk and was delighted to go. There was a cold wind blowing from the sea, and she went to the house for a shawl, but came back in a minute with a clouded face.

“The Petrie’s—at least young Mr Petrie is at the gate,” said she.

“And ye would rather bide at home? Weel—”

“Oh! no! But if I go in for the shawl he will see me; and it is not so very cold.”

“I doubt ye may find it some cold on the hill, but run ye away through the wood, and I’ll ask Phemie for a wrap of some kind.”

“And it winna be rude?—to Miss Jean, I mean—I’m no’ caring for Jamie Petrie.”

Mr Dawson laughed.

“He’ll think the mair o’ your company when ye come back,” said he.

It was a successful afternoon on the whole. They walked quickly at first through the fields, but when they got over the hill, they took it leisurely. Then Mr Dawson said a word about young Mr Petrie’s disappointment, and Marion looked grave.

“He is very kind—they are all very kind, and I am afraid you will think me ungrateful. Oh! yes, I like him well enough, but it was only the other night that he was at Miss Jean’s—”

“And I dare say he will come back again.”

“Oh! yes, I dare say he will. Oh! I like him well enough, but I get tired of him whiles.”

“Well, never think about it.”

“I’m no’ caring forhim. But I hope Miss Jean winna be ill-pleased.”

“She needna ken that ye saw him,” said Mr Dawson much amused.

Marion shook her head.

“I doubt I’ll need to tell her.”

“Nonsense! It was my fault. Ye would ha’e stayed if I had bidden you.”

“Yes, that is true. And Miss Jean must see that I would far rather please you than Jamie Petrie.”

“That’s as may be, but for once in a way you may be excused.”

Though they were away for a long time, they found Mr Petrie sitting with Miss Jean when they returned.

“Come awa’,” said Miss Jean. “Where have ye been? and what can have keepit ye sae lang? Mr James and I have been wearyin’ for our tea.”

“Oh! well, ye’ll enjoy it all the mair for that, and so will we,” said Mr Dawson.

Marion went away to arrange her hair which the wind had blown about, and when she returned Mr Dawson was asking Mr James what news the afternoon’s post had brought. But Mr James had left before the post came in.

“Then you must have been here a good while. It is a pity that ye hadna been in time to go with us. We went over to the brae to see the new plough that the farmer has gotten. Miss Marion explained the philosophy of the thing to us.”

“Miss Marion is in some danger of becoming a learned woman, I hear,” said Mr James, with an uncomfortable smile on his lips.

“In danger? Oh! weel, I dare say ye’re right. I’m no’ sure but there is danger in it. I canna say that I think very learned women are best fitted for the kind o’ work that most commonly falls to a woman’s hand.”

“But for the work of a schoolmistress,” said Marion eagerly. “I am going to be a schoolmistress,—not a governess, not a teacher in a school merely, but the mistress of a school.”

“You mean if you cannot do better,” said Mr Petrie. “Better? But that is what I have been thinking about all my life. My plans are all laid—only—”

“But then you could just let them all drop, if any thingbettershould present itself, as James says. But what are your plans? if it be fair to ask,” said Mr Dawson. Marion did not laugh, but answered gravely, “First I must make ‘a learned woman’ of myself, and that will take a good while. I used to think I would have a young ladies’ school, but I have changed my mind. Young ladies are troublesome, and I think I would prefer to teach boys.”

Mr James whistled. Mr Dawson said, “Well, and what would you teach them?”

“Whatever they needed to learn. I can hardly tell yet about it. But Mrs Manners has promised me her boys.”

“She is to lose no time it seems,” said Miss Jean smiling.

“Oh! but you forget, I have to educate myself first. I am afraid I should have to be a great deal older before people would trust their boys to me. But that is what I mean to do.” Marion spoke gravely.

“And ye’ll do it too, if you set yourself to do it,” said Mr Dawson.

“And she could hardly set herself to a better work,” said Miss Jean.

But Mr Petrie by no means agreed with them, and expressed himself to that effect with sufficient decision. He ridiculed the idea, and being very much in earnest, he was not so guarded as he might have been, and allowed a tone of contempt to mingle with the banter which he meant to be playful, and at the same time severe. Marion answered lightly enough, and was in no danger of being angry as Miss Jean feared, and as, after a time, Mr James hoped she might be. The necessity of making his peace with her would have pleased the young man better, than her laughing indifference to his opinions, or to his manner of expressing them. But she was so friendly in her manner, and so willing to oblige him by singing his favourite songs when Miss Jean sent her to the piano, that he had no excuse for returning to the subject again.

His errand, he told them when he rose to go, was to ask Miss Marion to join his sisters and some of their friends in walking to the Castle the next day, and after an inquiring glance at Miss Jean the invitation was accepted with sufficient readiness.

“And if the day should not be fine, it is understood that you will spend it with my sisters, and the Castle can wait till fair weather.”

To this also Marion assented with a good grace, and the young man went away assuring himself that he ought to be content. He might have been less so, had he seen the shrug of her pretty shoulders, and heard her voice as she said to Miss Jean,—

“What should the like of James Petrie ken?”

When she was gone for the night, Mr Dawson, laughing, told Miss Jean of the manner of their departure for the brae that afternoon. Miss Jean looked grave.

“Ye dinna mean to say that ye think the lassie did any thing out of the way?” said Mr Dawson. “She said she doubted she would need to tell you, though I’m sure I canna see why.”

“I wasna thinking about that I was wondering whether after all, I had done a wise thing in bringing her down here.”

“I have wondered at that myself, whiles, though I acknowledge I had a part in bringing her. But it depends on what ye brought her for.”

Miss Jean said nothing.

“If it were to do young Petrie a pleasure, I think ye ha’e nothing to regret.”

But Miss Jean shook her head.

“I’m no’ so sure o’ that,” said she.

“As to how his father may be pleased, that is another matter.”

To this Miss Jean made no answer.

“And if I mind right, ye once thought Jamie Petrie would ha’e little temptation to look that way, and little chance of success if he did.”

“That is just what I thought, but I was wrong it seems as to the temptation. As to the success—I canna say, but—”

“But why should you be downcast about it?”

“It is for the lad I am sorry, because I doubt he has disappointment before him. He should have been content to bide awhile. She is but a lassie, with no such thoughts in her mind.”

“She looks like a woman.”

“Ay, she does that. But she is but a bairn in some things. She is no’ thinkin’ o’ him. She doesna even amuse herself with him. He is just Jamie Petrie to her, and that is all. I’m wae for the lad.”

“His father and mother will be all the better pleased.”

“That may be, but I dinna think it.”

Then Miss Jean told in few words a story to which Mr Dawson listened with varying feelings,—the story of James Petrie’s love and what was like to come of it.

He had seen her in London about six months since, Miss Jean said, and had made his admiration very evident to the mother whose surprise was great; for like the rest of the world she had given him credit for a degree of worldly wisdom greater than a serious attachment to a penniless girl would seem to imply. He made no formal declaration of his suit, to which indeed Mrs Calderwood would not have listened, as Marion was in her eyes little more than a child. In her heart she believed and hoped that his fancy would pass away, or be put by prudent thoughts out of his head, without a word spoken.

For she did not want him for her daughter. He was a rich man’s son, and would be a rich man himself one day. By years of steady attention to business, and by exemplary conduct generally, he had proved himself worthy of a certain confidence and respect. But whatever other people might think of him, he was not in the opinion of Mrs Calderwood worthy to have as his wife her beautiful and intelligent Marion, and she determined that he should not speak if she could prevent him.

Marion was pleased when he came, and liked him as she liked all the rest of the folk of Portie, who had been kind to her all her life, liking them all the more that she had left them, and saw little of them. Her mother feared that, flattered by his admiration, she might fancy it was more than liking that she felt for him, and that should he ask her to become his wife, she might accept him, and repent it all her life as many another woman has done. She must hear nothing of this till she was old enough to know her own mind about it, and wise enough to make no such terrible mistake.

But by and by, when there came friendly advances from the father and mother, showing that they were aware of their son’s feelings and intentions, and at least did not disapprove of them, Mrs Calderwood was much moved. Marion might at feast hope for a kindly welcome among the Petries. She was not sure that she was right in wishing that nothing might come of it.

There was another view to be taken of the matter. Her own health was by no means firm, and she had no expectation of living many years. Her son in his profession could hardly hope to give a home to his sister for years to come, nor could he give her personal care and guardianship should she be left alone. It was well enough for Marion to talk about making herself independent by keeping a school. Her mother had given her every chance to prepare herself for it, if such was to be the work of her life. But the girl was too young and too pretty to be fit for any such position for years to come, and the mother’s heart shrank from the thought of the struggle and the weariness that even in the most favourable circumstances such a life must bring to her child.

Was it right for her to hesitate when a home among her own people was opened to her? Might she not live a quiet and happy life, beloved and safe from the manifold difficulties and dangers that beset even the most successful women, making their own way in the world? A word of encouragement from her would make the young man speak, but whether to give it or withhold it she could not decide.

In the discomfort of her indecision she sought counsel of Miss Jean. But what could Miss Jean say but just what she had said to herself, that it must depend on Marion’s own feeling whether such a word should be spoken.

Out of this had come Miss Jean’s desire to bring Marion to Portie for a little while. The girl would learn to know the young man with so many pleasant chances of intercourse, as she never could do in his brief and infrequent visits to London, and she would also come to a better understanding of her own feelings with regard to him. It is likely that Mrs Calderwood understood her motive and intention, though no word passed between them with regard to it. All this Miss Jean told in as few words as might be to her brother. “I doubt it hasna answered,” added she. “Such plans seldom answer. But why should you take it to heart. They maun please themselves,” said Mr Dawson impatiently. “I acknowledge I am surprised that old Petrie should pitch on a penniless lass for his son. It is nae what I should ha’e expected of him, and I ken him weel.”

“He didna pitch on her, I doubt it is but making the best of a bad matter, with him. Mrs Petrie was ay fond o’ Marion, and she is a peacemaker. And James is as determined as his father and not altogether dependent on him. And the old man has the sense to see that his son must judge for himself. And any thing is better than dispeace in a family. And now that he has seen her again, the father likes Marion.”

“And are ye satisfied that such a marriage would be the wisest thing for her? James Petrie is a good business man, capable and honest. But when ye ha’e said that, it’s a’ there is to say. As for her—ye ken best about her.”

“There are few like her, and there are plenty like him. But if they loved one another, that would make them equal in a sense, and they might live happily enough. But she’s no’ thinkin’ about him.”

“But why should you vex yoursel’ about it.”

“I doubt I was wrong to bring her. And I’m sorry for the young man.”

“Oh! as to that, he’ll win over it, as he has done before. There is no fear.”

But Miss Jean still looked grave and troubled. “That was different. Our Jean was the most beautiful woman and the best match in the town, and no doubt he believed that he was in love with her, but this is different; and it will do him harm, I fear.”

“Well, I canna see that you are needing to make yourself responsible for Jamie Petrie’s well-being, if that is all.”

But that was not all. Miss Jean had anxious thoughts about others besides James Petrie. Her anxiety she could not share with her brother however, and she said no more.

Nor was Mr Dawson more inclined to carry on the conversation. The pain of past years was sharply stirring within him, though even his sister did not guess it from his words or his manner. Indeed he hardly knew it himself, till they fell into silence; but that night his head pressed a wakeful pillow, and the ghosts of old troubles came back upon him.

How vividly it came back to him, all that he had suffered in those nights long ago when he could not sleep for the pain and the anger and the utter disappointment in his hopes for his son! In those nights he had sometimes had a doubt whether he had wrought wisely toward the desired end, but he had never doubted as to the wisdom of that end—till to-night.

Was John Petrie, whose judgment when exercised beyond the even routine of business, he had never highly valued—was John Petrie showing himself wiser in yielding to the wishes of his son, than he had been in resisting the wishes of his?

What an influence for good in a man’s life must be the love of such a girl as Marion Calderwood. Had bonny Elsie been one like her? Remembering the sweet, calm eyes of the girl so long dead and gone, the gentle strength, the patient firmness by which she withstood not him alone, but her own mother whom she loved, rather than break her promise to the lad who loved her, he could not but doubt whether he had judged wisely then, and whether he had afterward dealt wisely with his son.

Ah, well! That was all past now, and good had come out of it to George. But would he ever forget? Would there ever come to his son’s home in future years one who would be to him all that Mary Keith had been to him. “He has not forgotten her,” he said to himself, remembering his pale looks when first his eyes fell on Elsie’s sister. But he was young yet, scarce five and twenty, and his life was before him, and all might be well. At any rate nothing could be changed now.

He had a troubled, restless night, and the first sight he saw when he looked out in the early morning was Marion walking up and down among the flowers. She was walking slowly, with a graver and more thoughtful face than she was used to wear in his presence. She saw the beautiful things around her, for she stooped now and then over a flower as she passed, and touched tenderly the shining leaves as she bent her head beneath the overhanging branches. But she was evidently thinking of other things, and paused now and then looking out upon the sea.

“A strong, fair woman,” he said. “She will make a man of James Petrie, if there’s stuff enough in him to work on—which I doubt. If they love one another—that is the chief thing, as Jean says, and the folk that ken them both will mostly think that she has done well.”

Miss Jean went in to Portie that day, having her own special work to attend to there, and it was understood that for this time the visit at Saughleas was over.

Marion went to the Castle with the rest, but she did not go with them to Mr Petrie’s house to pass the evening. She came straight to Miss Jean’s, having Mr James Petrie as her escort, and it so happened that Mr Dawson met them both on their way thither.

“Something has come to her since morning,” he thought as he watched her approaching.

She was walking rapidly and steadily, carrying her head high and looking straight before her, with the air of being occupied with her own thoughts, rather than with Mr Petrie’s eager, smiling talk.

“I’ll hear about it from Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, with a feeling of discomfort which he did not care to analyse.

But he heard nothing from Miss Jean. If she had any thing to tell, it could not be that which he had at first expected to hear. For young Mr Petrie, whom he saw as he saw him every day, did not carry himself like a triumphant lover, neither did he look downcast, as though he had met with a rebuff. He was just as usual, seemingly content with himself and with the world generally.

“I dare say it was but my own imagination,” said the old man, wondering a little that he thought about it at all.

He did not see Marion the next day when he called at Miss Jean’s house, nor the next, nor for several days, and friendly though they had become, he still felt a certain disinclination to ask Miss Jean about her. He caught a glimpse of her on the third morning as he was coming down the High-street, but she turned toward the shore before he came near. She had not seen him, he thought.

When he did see her at last, sitting sedately, her eyes and her hands occupied with her work in Miss Jean’s parlour, the same thought came into his mind.

“Something has happened to her. Some one has been saying something to vex her, whatever it may be. But young lasses are whiles easily vexed.”

The next time that Miss Jean was asked to spend a day at Saughleas, it rained heavily, and she could not go, and when she was asked again, Marion was engaged to go somewhere else, and Miss Jean went alone.

“Oh! ay, she is quite right to please hersel’,” said Mr Dawson coldly, when Miss Jean explained that it was necessary that she should go and visit Miss Spence that day, because the visit had been put off more than once before.

“Miss Spence was a friend of her mother lang syne,” said Miss Jean.

Mr Dawson did not ask, as he had meant to do, what had happened to vex the girl, though he guessed from Miss Jean’s manner, that whatever happened, it was known to her.

Chapter Twenty Three.Danger and Reconciliation.It had been arranged that Mrs Manners and her children should return with George and Jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that George should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside.Jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister’s entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. She yielded at last, however, and George went home without her.He did not go alone. He had spent many words in trying to persuade Willie Calderwood, who had just come to London for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment Willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. It might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one.In a week he was to sail for Australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. He had been fortunate, during one of his Atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. The offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by Willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen.They reached Portie only just in time, they were told, for the “John Seaton” was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if Captain Saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. They were hardly in time for speech. The ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board.They walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship’s company as well as to the skipper, and Mr Dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. George had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all.“Ye’re no’ to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, Sandy. Miss Dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. Donald, man, be thankful that ye’re leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye’re to sail under the temperance flag this time. Gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. I suppose we must call ye a man now, Jack. Dinna forget the mother and grannie. They winna forget you.”Mr Dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. George’s way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son’s method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. Even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them.“It is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board,” said Mr Dawson, as he took his way to Miss Jean’s house in company with the two young men. “Ye might almost take an hour or two’s sail with them and land at F— or C— and be home to-night, or early in the morning.”Before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. But George and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with Captain Saugster for a few hours’ sail were made. Miss Jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother.“Ye winna bide awa’ long, and make us anxious,” said she.They must not stay long, for Willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in Portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. There was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. Willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to Miss Jean, “She has grown a woman now, our wee Maysie.”And Miss Jean said as softly and a little sadly, “Ay, has she!”Did George’s eyes follow her too? His father could not but think so.“For the sake of the girl who is dead,” he said to himself with a pang.Marion’s eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. They had little time for words. They bade Miss Jean and Marion “good-bye” in the house. By and by, Mr Dawson saw Marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. He was a little disappointed. He thought if they had walked up to his sister’s house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the Petries to the Castle.He would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. Miss Jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the Calderwoods. She had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. But when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor.“Marion went over to the Tangle Stanes with the skipper’s wife and Maggie, and I dare say she has gone hame with her. Her troubles are begun, puir body—Annie Saugster’s—I mean.”“What should ail her? She has just the troubles that ay maun fa’ on sailors’ wives.”“Ay, just that,” said Miss Jean.“And she kenned them a’ beforehand. And what gude could a lassie like that do her? She has had small experience o’ trouble anyway.”“She has a tender heart—and she shows her sympathy without many words. And folk like her,” said Miss Jean. There was a moment’s silence, and then Mr Dawson said hesitating,—“What ails her this while? Is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? Or has any thing happened to vex her? I have hardly got a word from her since she left Saughleas. Is it James Petrie that’s to blame?” added he with a laugh.Miss Jean regarded him gravely for a minute.“Yes, I think it was something he said. I ken it was, for she told me.”“And did she give him his answer?”Miss Jean shook her head.“It’s no’ what ye’re thinkin’. That question hasna been asked yet,” said she. “And I doubt he’ll need to put it off, for a while. He didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. He was telling her about—about George and her sister Elsie.”Mr Dawson said nothing in the pause which followed.“Of course she had heard something,—that they cared for one another,—and that George’s heart was nearly broken when Elsie died. But she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. Though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, I canna tell—unless he may be afraid that—But she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and I hope that no ill may come o’ my bringing her here.”“Nonsense, Jean! What ill should come of it? And why should you take the blame of it? It was her mother’s doing, sending her here. And if it should end in her agreeing with James Petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased.”“I’m no’ sure. Though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o’ that too.”“It is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. James Petrie will be a rich man some day. Doubtless she thinks of that.”“Less than ye would suppose. But she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. She would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the Petries, and in time she might be content enough.”“But how should he think to help his cause by—by telling that tale? And what kens he about it?”“He kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, I dare say. He thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when George looked kindly at her it was for her sister’s sake.”“George!” repeated Mr Dawson in dismay. Miss Jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother’s first thought.“Yes. She is like her sister—and he hasna forgottenher. But I think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her—as against his own father’s kindness.”“But George?” repeated Mr Dawson. “Yes. But it is not George I am thinking about, but Marion. And her mother too. Do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see Mrs Calderwood whenever he has been in London, George had never seen her daughter after the time of May’s marriage till he saw her the ither night at Saughleas? That was her mother’s will. What with one thing and another,—his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long—the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of George. And minding on Elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest Marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. So she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew George was going away. She may have had her ain thoughts of young Mr Petrie—as I had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value.”It was some time before another word was spoken, then Mr Dawson said,—“I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister.”“No, it is not that. But ye ha’e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be away now, and whether she’ll come back again with young Mr Petrie—I canna say. He’ll hardly have the courage to ask her this time.”“I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts—though I canna say I’m of his opinion.”Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go.“A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity—” added Miss Jean.“He’ll get through it. It winna be the first time,” said Mr Dawson angrily.“Are ye awa’? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. They’ll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht,” said Miss Jean.“It depends on several things—the light and the tide and the wind. It was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them.”And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away—sure token that a storm was near.“They ken the signs better than I do. They’ll lose no time.”He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.“It will be a long night, I doubt!”And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away—with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last—a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things.It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his sister’s door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean’s house, and at the door Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked eagerly for tidings.“No word o’ them yet, but they canna be long now,” said Mr Dawson cheerfully. “I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is really no cause to fear for them as yet.”He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.“We maun just ha’e patience,” was all that Miss Jean said.Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.“My dear lassie,” said her old friend, “they are safe in God’s hands.”“Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. But O, Miss Jean!—”“Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o’ that knowledge. It is no’ in the power o’ evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says.”“I might licht the lamp, mem,” said Nannie at the door.“There is no haste,” said Miss Jean.“Only its e’erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha’e anxious thoughts for company. Though there’s no occasion as yet. What’s a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they’ll be baith cauld and hungry.”Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.“I am losing myself, I think,” said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. “I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head.”No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,—to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean—Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean’s mind that God had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.“But as for me—when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It’s like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness.”That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,—“If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they’ll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They’ll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them.”“What could ha’e keepit them but the fog?” said a woman’s voice. “Ye speak as if ye werena expectin’ them.”“I’m no’ sayin’. Only if it’s the fog, they’ll soon be in now.”Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood’s face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh! the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then. Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.“I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o’ the blessedness o’ them that rest themselves on God.”But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being “a changed man,” as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, “it had answered well.” George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.“O! Geordie! Oh! my son!”He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.“Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet,” said Marion Calderwood. “Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson? And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C— Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?”He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.“Ay. We’ll gang in to Jean,” said he.He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,—“All’s weel, Mr Dawson. They’re coming hame safe enough.”“Glad tidings of great joy.” That was what came into Marion’s mind when she heard the words.They had come already. At Miss Jean’s door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father’s hand and brought him in to the light.“The Lord is ay kind, George,” said Miss Jean.But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of George’s coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.“And I canna say that I am proud o’ mysel’ on this occasion,” said Willie laughing.“But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep,” he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend.The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean’s, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion’s friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.But George got the last touch of Marion’s hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before—“My dear little sister.”Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.“How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!” thought the old man with a sigh. “But so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me—a good son. And it’s no’ for what I have to give him,” added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. “Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his portion—that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him.”The old man’s heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when George came in. “Ye’re late the nicht.”“Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be tired, I suppose.”“And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their coming back to Portie again?”“No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off—the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others.”“Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise.”To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. But his father’s first words went back to the same subject.“It is no’ so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because—”“His wisdom has to be proved,” said George gravely. And then he held out a letter to his father.“I don’t believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I thought it as well to let you see this to-night.”His father took it and read it. It was a business letter—important, but still it might have waited till morning.“It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes. It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking,” said his father with a sigh. “His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I could do him a pleasure.” Suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting.“There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give now.”And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still.In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her.For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home.But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt which said,—“The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them.“I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads Jean’s letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to hear it. And as for Marion—I do not wonder that she has stolen my father’s heart in spite of him.”Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. In one way it was very little.Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see George.“I have come to say, ‘let by-ganes be by-ganes’ between us. If you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand.”He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven.“I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson,” said she.“No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser. But—I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son—and—I had lost his mother—”He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again.“The least said the soonest mended,” said he; “if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I—well this while—and the other night when they were in danger together—your son and mine—I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also.”Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name Marion till he put the little packet in her mother’s hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.But even before their sister’s letter came, both George and Jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. When one day they were together in their aunt’s house and she gave them their sister’s letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt’s presence, and she never spoke of it to them.But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father’s company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness George’s face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness fell.

It had been arranged that Mrs Manners and her children should return with George and Jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that George should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside.

Jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister’s entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. She yielded at last, however, and George went home without her.

He did not go alone. He had spent many words in trying to persuade Willie Calderwood, who had just come to London for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment Willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. It might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one.

In a week he was to sail for Australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. He had been fortunate, during one of his Atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. The offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by Willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen.

They reached Portie only just in time, they were told, for the “John Seaton” was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if Captain Saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. They were hardly in time for speech. The ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board.

They walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship’s company as well as to the skipper, and Mr Dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. George had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all.

“Ye’re no’ to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, Sandy. Miss Dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. Donald, man, be thankful that ye’re leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye’re to sail under the temperance flag this time. Gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. I suppose we must call ye a man now, Jack. Dinna forget the mother and grannie. They winna forget you.”

Mr Dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. George’s way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son’s method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. Even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them.

“It is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board,” said Mr Dawson, as he took his way to Miss Jean’s house in company with the two young men. “Ye might almost take an hour or two’s sail with them and land at F— or C— and be home to-night, or early in the morning.”

Before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. But George and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with Captain Saugster for a few hours’ sail were made. Miss Jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother.

“Ye winna bide awa’ long, and make us anxious,” said she.

They must not stay long, for Willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in Portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. There was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. Willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to Miss Jean, “She has grown a woman now, our wee Maysie.”

And Miss Jean said as softly and a little sadly, “Ay, has she!”

Did George’s eyes follow her too? His father could not but think so.

“For the sake of the girl who is dead,” he said to himself with a pang.

Marion’s eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. They had little time for words. They bade Miss Jean and Marion “good-bye” in the house. By and by, Mr Dawson saw Marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. He was a little disappointed. He thought if they had walked up to his sister’s house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the Petries to the Castle.

He would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. Miss Jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the Calderwoods. She had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. But when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor.

“Marion went over to the Tangle Stanes with the skipper’s wife and Maggie, and I dare say she has gone hame with her. Her troubles are begun, puir body—Annie Saugster’s—I mean.”

“What should ail her? She has just the troubles that ay maun fa’ on sailors’ wives.”

“Ay, just that,” said Miss Jean.

“And she kenned them a’ beforehand. And what gude could a lassie like that do her? She has had small experience o’ trouble anyway.”

“She has a tender heart—and she shows her sympathy without many words. And folk like her,” said Miss Jean. There was a moment’s silence, and then Mr Dawson said hesitating,—

“What ails her this while? Is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? Or has any thing happened to vex her? I have hardly got a word from her since she left Saughleas. Is it James Petrie that’s to blame?” added he with a laugh.

Miss Jean regarded him gravely for a minute.

“Yes, I think it was something he said. I ken it was, for she told me.”

“And did she give him his answer?”

Miss Jean shook her head.

“It’s no’ what ye’re thinkin’. That question hasna been asked yet,” said she. “And I doubt he’ll need to put it off, for a while. He didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. He was telling her about—about George and her sister Elsie.”

Mr Dawson said nothing in the pause which followed.

“Of course she had heard something,—that they cared for one another,—and that George’s heart was nearly broken when Elsie died. But she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. Though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, I canna tell—unless he may be afraid that—But she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and I hope that no ill may come o’ my bringing her here.”

“Nonsense, Jean! What ill should come of it? And why should you take the blame of it? It was her mother’s doing, sending her here. And if it should end in her agreeing with James Petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased.”

“I’m no’ sure. Though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o’ that too.”

“It is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. James Petrie will be a rich man some day. Doubtless she thinks of that.”

“Less than ye would suppose. But she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. She would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the Petries, and in time she might be content enough.”

“But how should he think to help his cause by—by telling that tale? And what kens he about it?”

“He kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, I dare say. He thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when George looked kindly at her it was for her sister’s sake.”

“George!” repeated Mr Dawson in dismay. Miss Jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother’s first thought.

“Yes. She is like her sister—and he hasna forgottenher. But I think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her—as against his own father’s kindness.”

“But George?” repeated Mr Dawson. “Yes. But it is not George I am thinking about, but Marion. And her mother too. Do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see Mrs Calderwood whenever he has been in London, George had never seen her daughter after the time of May’s marriage till he saw her the ither night at Saughleas? That was her mother’s will. What with one thing and another,—his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long—the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of George. And minding on Elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest Marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. So she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew George was going away. She may have had her ain thoughts of young Mr Petrie—as I had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value.”

It was some time before another word was spoken, then Mr Dawson said,—

“I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister.”

“No, it is not that. But ye ha’e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be away now, and whether she’ll come back again with young Mr Petrie—I canna say. He’ll hardly have the courage to ask her this time.”

“I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts—though I canna say I’m of his opinion.”

Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go.

“A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity—” added Miss Jean.

“He’ll get through it. It winna be the first time,” said Mr Dawson angrily.

“Are ye awa’? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. They’ll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht,” said Miss Jean.

“It depends on several things—the light and the tide and the wind. It was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them.”

And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away—sure token that a storm was near.

“They ken the signs better than I do. They’ll lose no time.”

He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.

“It will be a long night, I doubt!”

And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away—with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last—a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things.

It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his sister’s door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.

What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean’s house, and at the door Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked eagerly for tidings.

“No word o’ them yet, but they canna be long now,” said Mr Dawson cheerfully. “I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is really no cause to fear for them as yet.”

He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.

“We maun just ha’e patience,” was all that Miss Jean said.

Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.

“My dear lassie,” said her old friend, “they are safe in God’s hands.”

“Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. But O, Miss Jean!—”

“Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o’ that knowledge. It is no’ in the power o’ evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says.”

“I might licht the lamp, mem,” said Nannie at the door.

“There is no haste,” said Miss Jean.

“Only its e’erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha’e anxious thoughts for company. Though there’s no occasion as yet. What’s a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they’ll be baith cauld and hungry.”

Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.

Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?

How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?

But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.

“I am losing myself, I think,” said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. “I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head.”

No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,—to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean—

Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean’s mind that God had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.

“But as for me—when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It’s like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness.”

That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.

He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,—

“If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they’ll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They’ll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them.”

“What could ha’e keepit them but the fog?” said a woman’s voice. “Ye speak as if ye werena expectin’ them.”

“I’m no’ sayin’. Only if it’s the fog, they’ll soon be in now.”

Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.

As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood’s face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh! the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then. Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.

“I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o’ the blessedness o’ them that rest themselves on God.”

But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being “a changed man,” as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.

That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, “it had answered well.” George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.

George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?

Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.

“O! Geordie! Oh! my son!”

He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.

“Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet,” said Marion Calderwood. “Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson? And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C— Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?”

He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.

“Ay. We’ll gang in to Jean,” said he.

He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,—

“All’s weel, Mr Dawson. They’re coming hame safe enough.”

“Glad tidings of great joy.” That was what came into Marion’s mind when she heard the words.

They had come already. At Miss Jean’s door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father’s hand and brought him in to the light.

“The Lord is ay kind, George,” said Miss Jean.

But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.

Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.

They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of George’s coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.

“And I canna say that I am proud o’ mysel’ on this occasion,” said Willie laughing.

“But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep,” he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend.

The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean’s, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion’s friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.

And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.

But George got the last touch of Marion’s hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before—

“My dear little sister.”

Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.

“How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!” thought the old man with a sigh. “But so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me—a good son. And it’s no’ for what I have to give him,” added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. “Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his portion—that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him.”

The old man’s heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when George came in. “Ye’re late the nicht.”

“Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be tired, I suppose.”

“And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their coming back to Portie again?”

“No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off—the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others.”

“Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise.”

To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. But his father’s first words went back to the same subject.

“It is no’ so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because—”

“His wisdom has to be proved,” said George gravely. And then he held out a letter to his father.

“I don’t believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I thought it as well to let you see this to-night.”

His father took it and read it. It was a business letter—important, but still it might have waited till morning.

“It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes. It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking,” said his father with a sigh. “His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I could do him a pleasure.” Suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting.

“There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give now.”

And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still.

In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her.

For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home.

But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt which said,—

“The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them.

“I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads Jean’s letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to hear it. And as for Marion—I do not wonder that she has stolen my father’s heart in spite of him.”

Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. In one way it was very little.

Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see George.

“I have come to say, ‘let by-ganes be by-ganes’ between us. If you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand.”

He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven.

“I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson,” said she.

“No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser. But—I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son—and—I had lost his mother—”

He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again.

“The least said the soonest mended,” said he; “if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I—well this while—and the other night when they were in danger together—your son and mine—I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also.”

Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.

And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name Marion till he put the little packet in her mother’s hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.

But even before their sister’s letter came, both George and Jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. When one day they were together in their aunt’s house and she gave them their sister’s letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt’s presence, and she never spoke of it to them.

But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father’s company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness George’s face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness fell.

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