hands. Your loving mother,

     JANET STRACHAN."

I returned the well worn letter to the unhappy hand from which I had
received it. He tenderly wrapped it about his mother's picture and
thrust the parcel back beside the loyal heart which shared, as it was
bidden, the great sorrow and disgrace.

I then cast about in my mind for the next step which should be taken.
Ordination I knew there could now be none. The pestilence of anger and
shame and sin was upon us all. Dark horror sat upon the faces of the
waiting congregation, their eyes still fixed on these two actors of this
so sudden tragedy. It may have been that the proof of kinship, as
demonstrated by these confronting faces, was finding its way into their
hearts. These faces were still fastened the one upon the other, the
younger with glowing scorn, the older with mingled love and tenderness,
blended with infinite self-reproach.

I could see no course open to me except the dismissal of the
congregation, and so announced my purpose.

"The Kirk Session is adjourned sine die," I said, for this is an ancient
phrase and the proper forms must be observed. Even when our dearest lies
in her coffin, there are certain phrases which announce in cold and
heartless print that the heart's life-blood is flowing from its wound,
and, however sacred that silent form, the undertaker's hands must have
their will with it.

"Moderator." It was Thomas Laidlaw's voice. "Moderator, we hae heard but
ae side. There's aye twa sides. Will ye no' let the accused speak for
himsel'? Fair play is bonny play."

A moment's thought was enough to assure me as to what was right.

"By all means," I answered, sadly enough, for I had but little hope that
any defense could be offered. "Mr. Blake may certainly speak if he
wishes--it is but fair. Have you anything to say, Mr. Blake?"

As I turned towards the older man the younger withdrew his eyes from the
face on which they had so long been fixed, and slowly rising, Angus
walked down the aisle towards the door, conscious that he himself had
proclaimed his bitter shame; but his mother's name seemed written on his
forehead, redeemed by the sacrifice of his own. He had gone but a
quarter of the way or so, when a trembling voice was heard.

"Angus, wait," it said; the voice was faint and tremulous like a
birdling's note--but Angus heard it and stood still. He turned towards
the pew whence it came, and a face met his own, a woman's face, blanched
and pale, except for two burning spots upon her cheeks where the heart
had unfurled its banners. It was a woman's voice, I say, and the eyes
that looked out from it sought his own with a great caress of loyalty
and love. The glowing eyes, and the parted lips, and the quick flowing
breath, all spoke the bridal passion; for the bride's glory is in
surrender, the bodily sacrifice but the pledge of her blended and
surrendered life, lost in another's mastering love.

"Angus, wait," she murmured again, her dainty gloved hand upon the
book-board as she essayed to rise. Her mother sought to restrain her,
but her touch was powerless; for the outgoing tide was at its full.

"He shall not walk down that aisle alone," she faltered to her mother,
the words unheard by others. "We shall go down together."

XXIII

_A MAIDEN PRIESTESS_

Perhaps her mother's woman-heart realized in that moment that the one
path irresistible to a woman's love is the path of sacrifice. In any
case she ceased from her protest and the gentle form arose; moving out
to where he stood, she slipped her dear hand into Angus's, and together
they walked slowly down the aisle of the crowded church. No sideward
glance they cast nor backward did Margaret ever look. Sweet courage was
shining from her face, even joy, as they passed out together--the long
stride of the stalwart man and the gentle step of the dainty maiden, but
ever hand in hand, hidden from the strife of tongues, in love's pavilion
hidden.

They had wandered, knowing not where or whither, some distance from the
church, when Angus stopped, and fixing his reverent look on Margaret's
strangely happy face, he said:

"You don't know what you have done; you have tarnished your name--oh,
Margaret, why did you do it? From henceforth you will share the shame
that belongs to me."

Margaret's face was upturned to his own.

"Is not the sunshine sweet, Angus? And so pure! Surely God loves us
well!"

"It shines upon no man so sad as I," he replied bitterly.

"Angus! After what I did--and the church so full!"

"Nor so happy--and so proud!" concluded Angus. "Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere," answered Margaret; "we shall walk the long walk together."

"No, dear one, not together, that cannot be--but not apart," said Angus,
his voice trembling.

"Do you know, Angus," said Margaret after a pause, "I had often read
about how engagements should be announced. And no one, almost no one
knew that you loved me. And after that first time when you told me you
loved me--and before you told me that other--I so often used to lie
awake and think about how ours should be announced. For I think that is
the sweetest thing in a girl's life, the announcement I mean--no I don't
mean that--the sweetest thing is what has to be told. And now it is all
told--and just to think it was done in a church and before all those
people. And now they all know--and I am so glad! No girl ever had it
done like this before."

"Glad?" said Angus.

"Yes, glad--and proud--aren't you?"

But there was no response, save the old, old silent eloquence of love,
when lip speaks to lip its tender tale, scorning the aid of words.

"Let us go this way," said Margaret at length.

"Where does it lead to?"

"You shall see," she answered; "come away"--and together, still hand in
hand, they walked on.

"Let us rest here, Angus." He threw himself on the grass at her feet.

"Do you not know the place?" she said.

"No," said Angus, "were we ever here before?"

"Oh, Angus, how could you forget? Look again."

He looked again and sacred twilight memories began to pour back upon
him.

"That was in the gloaming, Angus, you remember. And the darkness has
often brooded over it since then--but it is all past now and it never
was so bright before."

"The darkness will come again," said Angus.

"But it will never be able to forget the light--and it will wait----
There is never any real brightness till the waiting's past."

The Sabbath stillness was about them and its peace was in their hearts.
They scarce knew why, and the world would have said that Shadow was
their portion; but, then and ever, true peace passeth all
understanding.

"Kneel down, Angus, kneel here beside me," she suddenly exclaimed.

"Kneel, Margaret! Why shall I kneel?"

"Never mind why--you shall see. Kneel down, Angus."

He knelt, wondering still; she removed his hat with her now ungloved
hands and threw it on the grass.

"Darling, I love you," she said, "and I know you are good and true. And
I was so proud this morning when you were to be ordained to God's holy
service--and it must not be broken off like this. Oh, Angus, when I saw
your face this morning, I feared so that your whole soul would turn to
bitterness and give itself up to hatred of that man. But it must not
be."

"Margaret, stop! Surely you must know----"

"Be still, Angus--it must not be. All this anguish must break in
blessing. Sorrow such as yours will be either a curse or a blessing--and
it must not be a curse. God's love can turn it into blessing--and so can
mine. We shall take up our cross together and shall see it blossom yet.
Oh, Angus, if I can forgive him, you can, for you are dearer to me than
to anybody else." Her hands were now upon his head:--"Angus Strachan, I
ordain you to suffer and to wait. I ordain you to God's service in the
name of love and sorrow and God--and they're all the same name--and I
love you so--and you are an elder now. Oh, dear Lord, take care of our
love and make us true--and patient. And bless our sorrow and make it
sweet and keep us near the Man of Sorrows. Amen."

The white dimpled hands rested long upon the auburn locks of the still
bended head, and her compassion flowed through them to the more than
orphaned heart. It was the same head, she thought, and the same heart,
as had once been blessed by a mother's anguished hand, doomed, as that
mother knew, to the world's unreasoning scorn.

Her own peace seemed to pass into his troubled soul; the anointed head
bowed lower and the yoke was laid upon him, never to be withdrawn. But
its bitterness was gone, purged from it by those white dimpled hands,
and the fragrance of a soul's sweeter life was there instead. For there
had come to him that great moment when secret rebellion turns to secret
prayer, craving blessing from the very hand that had smitten him with
lameness; and Angus was making his ordination vows to God.

Upon that grassy knoll, under heaven's tender sky, with unmoving lips
and broken heart he made the great surrender. Patience he promised God;
and in return he begged the forgiving heart, the strength to bear his
lifelong load, and the aid which might enable him to attain that miracle
of grace when he yet should pray for the man whose sin had foreclothed
his life in shame.

"Let us go back," said Margaret, at length, for the sun was westering.

"Yes, we will go back," said he, for in the gentle words he heard the
bugle call; "we will go back." But first he kissed the ordaining hands,
anointed as they had been to cast out evil from the heart and to bind up
its brokenness.

Homeward they turned their steps, and the noises of the uncaring world
soon fell upon their ears, but their hearts were holden of another song,
and they heard them not.

Backward they bent their way to the world and its cruel pity--but ever
hand in hand.

As the reader already knows, Margaret and Angus went forth from St.
Cuthbert's Church just as Michael Blake was invited to speak in his own
defense and to answer, if he might, the dread charge of his accuser.

"Have you anything to say, Mr. Blake?" were the words I had just uttered
when Margaret and her lover left the church, with all the sequel which
hath been just recorded.

In answer, he watched the retreating forms till they had departed, then
buried his face in his hands. He sat thus so long that I concluded he
had no heart to speak, and again arose, my hand outstretched to give the
blessing, if blessing there might be in such an hour. The congregation
arose to receive the proffered benediction, but before my lips had
opened, a faint hand plucked my gown.

"I will speak, sir," and pale and trembling the unhappy man rose and
stood beside me. I resumed my seat and the people dumbly did the same,
gazing towards their elder with eyes that pleaded for the assurance of
his innocence. Twice or thrice he strove for utterance before the words
would come. At length he spoke.

"Moderator and brethren," he began, "if such as I may call you brethren.
I am a sinful man. My hour has come. God's clock has struck, and it is
the stroke of doom for my unworthy soul. Not that I despair of final
mercy, for mine is a scarlet sin, and for such there is a special
promise. But God's rod hath fallen upon me. The Almighty hath scourged
me through my own son; for he who has just gone forth is none other than
mine own child. My heart went out to him since first I saw his face,
though I knew not till to-day that he is my flesh and blood. The
picture you saw him hold out before me is none other than the picture of
his mother's face.

"I speak it not for my defense--but I thought his mother was dead. I was
told from the old country that she was gone, and more than one letter
was returned to me with the statement that she could not be found. It
was my heart's purpose to make a worthy home for her here in Canada, and
to bring her out to it and to atone if I might for the cruel wrong. The
first is long since done, but the second was beyond my power--at least
so I was led to think.

"And now, Moderator, I place in your hands the resignation of the office
on which I have brought such deep disgrace. It was my pride to be an
elder in St. Cuthbert's, for it was here I first tasted of the Saviour's
forgiving grace; it was here I first learned the luxury of penitence,
and here was born my heart's deep purpose to retrieve the past--it was
my pride, I say to be an elder here, but it is now my shame."

He was about to stop when Saunders McTavish interrupted:

"Moderator, there'll be no need to proceed by libel, for the accused
party has confessed his guilt. But he hasna said anything to the Court
about his soul, about his soul and his sin, and his relation to his God.
At least, not all he might like to say and we might like to hear. Mebbe
he'll have had repentance unto life?"

I waited. Mr. Blake's response came with humble brokenness.

"Please God I have," he said, "and, unworthy though I be, I have a great
word for my fellow men this day--a word the unfallen angels could not
speak. Oh, my brethren, believe me, I have not been leading a double
life. I took the eldership at your hands, I know, saying nothing of the
dark blot that soiled the past. My humble hope was that in service I
might seek to redeem my life and I remembered One who said to a guilty
soul like mine:--'Feed My sheep.' Penitence, and not remorse, I thought,
was well pleasing unto God.

"And you will bear me witness that I have tried to warn all, especially
the young men, against the first approach of sin. I fell long years ago
because I cherished sinful images in my heart till even love went down
before them. Since then, God is my witness, I have made it my lifework
to drive them forth and to make every thought captive to the Redeeming
Christ. My lifework has not been in my foundry, nor in my town, nor in
my church--but in my heart, this guilty heart of mine. I have striven to
drive out evil thoughts--out, in the blessed name of Jesus. For long, I
could not recall my sin without sinning anew. But I had a hope of final
victory, and having this, I purified myself even as He is pure.

"It was my daily prayer that God would make me useful, poor and all but
sunken wreck as I was, that he would yet make me a danger signal to the
young about me--which I am this day. For a wrecked ship does not tell of
danger--it swears to the peril that itself has known. And to every young
man before me I swear to two things this hour. The first is that your
sin will find you out. Be sure of this. All our phrases about lanes that
have no turning and the mills of the gods and justice that smites with
iron hand, and chickens that come home to roost--all these are only
names for God's unsleeping vigilance, all varied statements of the
relentlessness of sin.

"The other truth to which I swear is this, that dark and bitter memories
of evil may be a blessing to the soul, if we but count that sin our
deadly enemy and rest not till we take vengeance of it. It may yet be
God's messenger to us, if we lead humble chastened lives, seeking to
redeem the past and watching unto prayer. There is no discipline so
bitter and so blessed as the discipline of an almost ruined soul. For
old sins do not decay and die; they must be nailed upon the cross. It is
an awful truth that he who was once filthy is filthy still, but it is
still more true, thank God, that there is One whose blood cleanseth
from all sin."

He stopped suddenly, and in a moment he was gone. Down that same aisle
by which his child had passed, he swiftly walked, his head bowed, his
face quivering in pain like one who was being scourged out of the
temple. For there are corded whips, knotted by unseen hands.

After the door had closed behind him the Session Clerk arose:

"I move, Moderator," he said, "that Mr. Blake's resignation be laid on
the table."

Before his motion was seconded Roger Lockie, one of the stalwarts, stood
in the middle of the congregation.

"It's no becomin' in me to interfere," he began, "but we're a' assembled
here as a worshippin' people, an' I move that the Kirk Session be
requested no' to accept the resignation. Oor brother fell, nae doot, but
it was lang syne, and he has walked worthy o' the Lord unto a' pleasin'
since, an' borne a guid witness to his Maister. We a' ken fine what the
great King an' Heid o' the Kirk wad dae wi' his resignation. Wi' my way
o' thinkin', a sinfu' man wha has been saved by grace is juist the ane
to commend the Maister's love. I move the Session be asked to keep him
as oor elder."

"I second that," said William Watson, a man of fifty years. "He brocht
me to Christ and that's ae soul he saved. He broke the alabaster box
upon his Saviour's head this day and we a' felt the fragrance o't. If
God Himsel' canna despise the contrite hairt, nae mair can we."

I was about to put the motion when the senior elder arose:--"I hae but a
word," he said, "an' it's nae word o' mine. The spirit o' the cross is
wi' us and I will read a bit frae the Buik:--'If a man be overtaken in a
fault ye which are spiritual restore such an one in the spirit of
meekness, considering thyself lest thou also be tempted.'"

"Are you ready for the question?" I asked.

"Aye, we're a' fine an' ready noo," said one of the worshippers.

The vote was taken and there was no dissenting voice. Michael Blake's
long penance had done its work on earth and its eternal outcome was in
other hands than ours.

XXIV

_The SWEET SUNNY SOUTH_

I was strongly inclined to accept the call. Not that I liked changes,
for heart vines bleed freely when uptorn, and friendship's stocks cannot
be bought on margin. But my heart was heavy, and St. Cuthbert's had been
sorely wounded. Therefore, when the South Carolina church opened
correspondence with me regarding their vacant pulpit, I lent an
attentive ear.

All who have known sorrow in their work know how sweet sounds the voice,
even the siren voice, which calls to distant scenes of toil. The world's
weary heart will some day learn that no far-leading path, no journey by
land or sea can separate us from the sorrow we seek to flee; because no
path hath been discovered, no route devised, which shall lead us forth
from our own hearts, where sorrow hath her lair.

Nevertheless, I was strongly minded to go forth from the work which had
become my very life. It is nature's favourite paradox that what we love
the most, the most hath power to give us pain. Could we withhold our
love, no hand could wound us sorely, for it takes a friend to make an
enemy worth the name. And since I loved St. Cuthbert's with that love
which only sacrifice can know, I was oppressed with a corresponding fear
that her frown would quench whatever glimmer of gladness still flickered
in my heart. For I had almost forgotten that ever I was glad. And is it
to be wondered at?

My daughter's love was fixed upon a man whom I deemed impossible, though
by no fault of his. She had renounced all purpose of their immediate
union in deference to her father's protest, but her love was fixed upon
him still, and her father felt like one who was beating back the spring.
Her mother was torn with the torment of an armed neutrality. Further, my
beautiful church had been scarred by the explosive riot of that
ordination day, stricken with a soul's lightning; and the whole tragedy
of our home life had been laid bare to every eye.

Margaret, and her love, and her lover, and her lover's genealogy, and
her father's forbiddal of their marriage, all these were daily herbs to
those who loved us, daily bread to native gossip-mongers, and daily
luxury to all who wished us ill. My attitude towards Margaret's lover,
and whether that attitude was right or wrong, was the especial subject
of debate and all New Jedboro abandoned itself to a carnival of
judgment. Even the most pious and indulgent could not forego the solemn
luxury, and those who denied themselves all of scandal's toothsome
tidbits could not renounce this great repast.

I entertained no actual misgivings as to St. Cuthbert's permanent
loyalty to me; but our self-consciousness had become raw and sore, our
manse had turned suddenly to a house of glass, and the whole situation
was so fraught with embarrassment that no mere man since the fall could
have been free from an instinctive longing to escape.

St. Andrew's, Charleston, an ancient church of that ancient city, had
offered me its pulpit. The Southerners have a taste for British blood,
and they stand alone as connoisseurs of that commodity. Wherefore, the
St. Andrew's folk had cast about for a British minister, preferring the
second growth, hopeful that its advantage of American shade might have
made its excellence complete.

Their committee ranged all Canada, finally dismounting beneath the
stately steeple of St. Cuthbert's, their lasso loosed for action. Or, to
change the metaphor, they informed their church at home that their eyes
were fastened on their game at last; for the duty of such a committee is
to tree their bird, then hold him transfixed by various well-known
sounds till the congregation shall bring him down by well directed aim,
bag him, and bear him off.

The Charleston Committee was composed of four, who attended St.
Cuthbert's both morning and evening, when they came one Sabbath day to
spy out the land.

The proprietor of the Imperial Hotel, himself an extinct Presbyterian,
told me afterwards that they arrived late at night, begged to be excused
from registering and went immediately to their rooms. But he knew in the
morning that they were not to the manner born--for they asked for
"oatmeal" for breakfast, which is called porridge by all who boast even
a tincture of that blood it hath so long enriched.

Then they ate it with outward signs of enjoyment, which also flies in
the face of all Scottish principle. Besides all this, they gave the maid
a quarter, which was the most conclusive evidence of all.

They walked to St. Cuthbert's in four different detachments and sat in
separate sections of the church. But they were not unnoticed; every
Scotch section marked its man, for in New Jedboro strangers were events.
I myself remarked three of them; devout they seemed and yet vigilant--as
was natural, for they had come to both watch and pray.

The psalms were too much for them; they seemed to enter heartily into
the other portions of the service--but the psalms in metre are a great
Shibboleth. My beadle, who always sat where he could command the
congregation, has often assured me that when a psalm was announced he
could soon tell the sheep from the goats.

The service passed without special incident; for, although I suspected
their errand, all thought of it vanished when I came to preach. God's
jealous care will hold to undivided loyalty the heart that seeks to
serve Him.

Monday morning brought the deputation to close range. They interviewed
me in my study, and the house was redolent of Southern courtesy and
grace. Their accent had a foreign tang but their hearts' tone was that
of universal love. This latter word is not too strong to use, for the
Southerner has a rare genius for laying claim to your very heart by the
surrender of his own. Affection blooms fast in the Southern soul, but
our Northern bud needs time. Especially tardy is its ripening in
Scottish hearts, but the fruit is to Eternity.

The conversation was one of great interest and pleasure to myself, and
while I could give no definite promise I made no secret of the
attractiveness of their proposal.

"You will be so good as to present our regards to the mistress of the
manse," said one of them, as they rose to go.

"Thank you, it will give me great pleasure," I responded; "my wife is a
Southerner. Her father, who is not living now, fought at Gettysburg. My
wife's standing instruction is to say that he was not killed in battle,
for that was many years ago, and she has the Southern instinct for
youth."

"And the Southern talent for it too, I reckon," the courtly
gentleman replied. "We are mighty glad to hear that she belongs to
us. Surely we will have a friend at Court. Let her be considered our
plenipotentiary-extraordinary. Does her heart still turn towards her
Southern home?"

"I am sure it does," I made reply, "but it has been long garrisoned
within these rock-bound walls, and I know she has come to love them. I
have often heard her say that there is no trellis for Southern vines
like these mountainous hearts, true and faithful as the eternal hills
themselves."

"I don't wonder at it," another of the deputation interposed. "From what
I have seen and learned of these folk, I think they are our nearest kin.
The Scotch and the Southern nature are alike, the same intensity of
feeling, but with them it glows and burns, while with us it flames and
sparkles."

"The same stream," suggested the first, "but ours breaks easier into
flood."

"Well, I hope the flood will bear her back to her native shore," said
the youngest member of the committee, who was a colonel, having been
born during the Civil War.

We all laughed pleasantly at our racial distinctions and the gentlemen
withdrew.

"We will not tell you good-bye, for we hope to see you soon again," was
the last word I heard, the Southern idiom and the Southern cordiality
both in evidence.

Definite action on the part of the Charleston church soon followed the
return of their representatives. And I knew not what to do.

In the hope of relieving my perplexity, I accepted an invitation to
spend a Sabbath with the St. Andrew's people and occupy their proffered
pulpit.

My heart had sore misgivings when I said good-bye to Issie Hogg; her
years were but thirteen; and every year had bound her closer and closer
to my heart till I knew she was more dear to me than any other child
save one. The sands of life were nearly run and I feared greatly lest
they might be spent before I should return.

New Jedboro was winter-wrapped when I left it, and, taking steamer from
New York, I disembarked at Charleston into almost intoxicating
sweetness. Their dear South land was aflame with early summer, and my
idea of Paradise was revised. How could these Southern hearts be
otherwise than warm and fragrant! All the land about seemed like
nature's temple breathing forth its silent anthem and celebrating its
perpetual mass.

Yet all its vernal beauty seemed but as a portal to the inner shrine,
the sanctuary of Southern hospitality. Which hospitality is a separate
brand and hath no rival this side the Gates of Pearl. Let all who would
feel the surprise of heaven's welcome forego the luxury of a visit to a
Southern home; for they have stolen that celestial fire to kindle their
waiting hearths.

I was committed to the care of one of the families of St. Andrew's whose
household numbered five; and every heart had many doors all open wide.
That is, open wide till you had entered, for then they seemed tight
closed, locked with a golden key. Ancient pride seemed to be their
family possession, never flaunted, but suppressed rather--and you knew
it only because your own heart acknowledged that this must be its
rightful dwelling place.

I noted again the pleasing custom of Southern ladies, who shake hands on
introduction, and forever after. The candid graciousness that marks the
act is in happy contrast to the self-conscious agitation of the
underbred and the torpid panic of their stifled bow.

My host and hostess were persons of rare interest. Some of England's
best blood was in their veins; it had come to them by way of Virginia,
in their eyes the last medium of refinement. The final touch of
sanguinary indigo is given only at Virginia's hands, the Virginian
aristocracy being a blessed union of the English chivalric and the
American intrinsic, the heraldic of the old world blended with the
romantic of the new--which might make the Duke of Devonshire proud to
receive reordination at their hands.

English aristocracy ambles on in an inevitable path, high banked by
centuries--but the Virginian hath leaped the hurdle of the ocean and
still retained its coronet; which proves that it was fashioned in
eternity after the express pattern of their patrician heads.

As I describe the lofty source of this gracious Southern household, I
bethink myself that to this day I cannot tell how I came to know that
theirs was an ancient family. No reference to it from their own lips can
I recall; certainly no boast, except the tranquil boast of proud
serenity and noble bearing, and the noblesse oblige of loving hearts.

Grave courtesy and sweet simplicity and mirthful dignity seemed to be
the heirlooms which they shared as common heritors; and, chiefest of
credentials, when they stood in the library amid the shades of ancestors
preserved in oils, I felt no sense of humour in the situation.

This is a great tribute; for the plebeian may boast his ancestors but he
dare not paint them; and many a pioneer aristocrat hath compassed his
undoing because he thus tried to put new wine into old bottles. Wishing
to found a family, he proceeds to find one, and both are covered with
shame as with a garment.

Many of our new world nobility, finding in sudden wealth the necessity
for sudden pedigree, have resurrected their ancestors and tried in vain
to touch them into gentleness, committing to an artist the secret task
of God. Even those who have made fortune in oils, consistently restoring
their innocent forefathers by the same, have only advertised their
weakness with their wares.

It is true that the Vardell family coat-of-arms was not concealed--but
it was not brandished or expounded. In quiet but vigilant emblazonry, it
seemed to stand apart, like some far back member of the family in whose
pride it shared.

Which reminded me, by contrast, of a call I had once made upon a certain
Northern family, conspicuously rich and conspicuously new. While waiting
in the drawing-room, I observed four different crests, or coats-of-arms,
framed and hanging in a separate place, smirking to one another in token
of their youthful fortune; for the lines had fallen unto them in
pleasant places.

Soon the mistress of the mansion swept into the room, her locomotion
accompanied by a wealthy sound, silk skirts calling unto silk skirts as
deep calleth unto deep. A little pleasant conversation ensued, which,
among other things informed me that the Turkish rug beneath me had cost
six hundred dollars; whereupon I anxiously lifted my unworthy feet, my
emotion rising with them. After both had subsided, I sought to stir the
sacred pool of memory, pointing reverently to one of the aforesaid
emblems of heraldry.

"That is your family coat-of-arms, Mrs. Brown, is it not?" I asked,
throwing wide the door for the return of the noble dead.

"Yes," she answered proudly, "that is my one, and that one there is Mr.
Brown's, and those other two are the children's; the yellow one is
Victoria's and the red one is Louisa Alexandra's. Mr. Brown bought them
in New York, and we thought when we were getting them we might just as
well get one apiece for the children too."

How rich and reckless, I reflected, is the spendthrift generosity of our
new world rich!

I could not but recall how those mean old English families make one such
emblem do for centuries, and the children have to be content with its
rusty symbols. But this lavish enterprise cheered me by its refreshing
contrast; for every one was new, and each child had one for its very
own.

There is no need to dwell on the succeeding Sabbath. St. Andrew's church
bore everywhere the evidences of wealth and refinement. Large and
sympathetic congregations were before me, evidently hospitable to the
truth; for Huguenot and Scotch-Irish blood does not lose its ruling
passion, and South Carolina has its generous portion of them both.

I sorely missed the psalms, without which, to those who have acquired
the stern relish, a service lacks its greatest tonic. But my poor
efforts seemed well received and the flood of Southern fervour burst
forth later on, as we sat around the Vardells' dinner table.

I was being initiated into the mystic sweets of "syllabub," a Southern
concoction of which my sober Scotch folks had never heard. Whoso takes
it may not look upon the wine when it is red, for its glow is muffled by
various other moral things; but the wine, waiting patiently at the
bottom, cometh at last unto its own; and the glow which was absent from
the cup may be soon detected upon the face of him who took it, beguiled
by the innocent foliage amidst which the historic serpent lurks.

Webster defines it as a dish of cream, flavoured with wine, and beaten
to a froth. But Webster was from Massachusetts and his advantages were
few. The cultured Southerner, more versed in luxury than language,
knoweth well that it is a dish of wine, flavoured with cream, and not
beaten at all since the foundation of the world.

Southerners incline to eulogy; and syllabubs insist upon it. Wherefore,
after the third syllabub had run the same course that its fathers had
run, Miss Sadie turned to me and said:

"That was a perfectly lovely sermon you preached to us this morning."

"You are very frank," quoth I, for I was unaccustomed to compliments,
one every six or seven years, and an extra thrown in at death, being the
limit of Scotch enthusiasm.

"Well," replied Miss Sadie, "I hope I am. I think it is sweet and lovely
to tell people if you like them. What's the use of waiting till they're
dead, before you say nice things about your friends? If folks love me,
or think me nice, I want them to tell me so while I'm alive."

"I love you and I think you are sweet and beautiful," said I, obedient.

Then came a dainty Southern cry--not the bold squeal of other girls, nor
the loud honking of those who mourn for girlhood gone--but the
woman-note which only the Southern girl commands in its perfection.

"Father! Do you hear what that preacher said to me just now?" she cried
archly. "Isn't it perfectly dreadful for him to say things like that to
a simple maiden like me? You awful man!"

"Our guest is only flesh and blood, Sadie," answered the courtly father
when his laughing ceased, "so I presume, like the rest of us, he thinks
you lovely. As for his telling you so, he was only carrying out your own
instructions."

"I don't see how you could have done anything else," laughed Mrs.
Vardell. "You shut him up to it, you know, Sadie. After your precept, to
have said nothing nice would have meant that there was nothing nice to
say."

"But seriously," resumed Miss Sadie, turning again to me, "that was
really a lovely sermon this morning. It is beautiful to be able to help
a whole congregation like that."

"Yes," chimed in Miss Vardell, Sadie's sweet senior, "it was perfectly
fascinating. I shall never forget it as long as I live."

"I really think you will have to let us speak our mind," added their
mother. "Your Geneva gown was so becoming; I do so wish our Southern
ministers would adopt it. And the sermon was perfect. I especially
admired the way it seemed to grow out of the text; they seemed to grow
together like a vine twining around a tree."

I endured this tender pelting with the best grace I could command,
though this was the first time I had ever been the centre of such a
hosannah thunder-storm. The tribute to the kinship of text and sermon,
however, was really very pleasing to me. Just at this juncture, when a
new batch of compliments was about to be produced, smoking hot, an aged
aunt, the prisoner of years, ventured an enquiry.

"I wish I could have been there--but I am far past that," she said.
"What was the text, Sadie?"

Sadie flew into the chamber of her memory to catch it before it should
escape. But the sudden invasion had evidently alarmed it, for it had
gone. She silently pursued it into space, but returned empty-handed.

"That's strange," she faltered; "it was a lovely text," she added, by
way of consolation. "But it's gone; I was so taken up with the sermon
that I must have failed to remember the text," she concluded, false to
her first love, but faithful to her guest.

"Well, Josie," said the still unenlightened aunt, "I will have to look
to you. You will tell me what it was."

Josie joined in the chase, but their prey had had a noble start and was
now far beyond them.

"It was in the New Testament, I think," said Josie, pleased with this
pledge of accuracy, and satisfied that she had outrun her sister--"and
it was tolerably long." This was said with the air of one who had almost
identified it and might justly leave the rest to the imagination. "I
reckon I could find it if I had a Bible," she added hopefully.

No Bible was produced, for that would have been taking an unfair
advantage of the fugitive; but the eulogists began their mental search
in unison, quoting various fragments of my morning prayer at family
worship, which they carefully retained as witnesses. After they had
ransacked every mental corridor in vain they acknowledged the
fruitlessness of the quest, and I myself told their aged relative the
text.

"Of course," they cried together, each repeating portions of it again
and again in the spirit of atonement.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Vardell, "that the mind undergoes a kind of
relaxation after a delicious tension such as we experienced to-day."

I marvelled greatly at this relentless sweetness.

"I knew it was in the New Testament," said Josie triumphantly--and we
silently accorded her the praise that was her due.

But I inwardly bethought myself of those silent granite lips in the
frozen North, unthawed by tender speeches, yet each one the reservoir of
my texts and sermons, as unforgotten as they were unsung.

XXV

_ST. CUTHBERT'S SECOND CALL_

My reluctant farewells had been said, my gracious entertainers had grown
dim upon the wharf; and the Atlantic was greeting our ship with
boisterous welcome. For the Atlantic is far travelled and loves to
surprise those Southern shores with the waves of Northern waters.

One by one the passengers retired from the deck, some with slow dignity,
some with solemn haste, and some with volcanic candour.

I remained, sharing the scant survival of the fit, and fell into a
reflective mood, for I love to think to music, none so grand as the
accompaniment of ocean. That mighty throat is attuned to the human; its
cry of deep mysterious passion, its note of conflict, is the epitome of
the universal voice. It accorded well with the mood that possessed me,
for that mood was gray.

The prevailing thought was this--that I was going back to winter. Grim
relapse this, I mused, to go forth from bud and bloom and bird, to
pendant icicle and drifted snow. For the blood soon warms beneath
Southern skies, and a man soon recognizes that a garden was the
ancestral home of him and of all mankind. Even the Eskimo can be traced
to Eden.

Yes, I was going back to winter in very truth, without and within; for
there is a sharper winter than any whose story the thermometer records.
The winter of my discontent, and of another's blighted heart, and of
still another's darkened life, awaited me beyond these turbid waters! My
way was dark, and my path obscure before me. Chart and compass were
blurred and numb. To remain in New Jedboro, and to remove to Charleston,
seemed equally distasteful.

I had given the Southern church no assurance of my purpose, because
purpose I had none. Yet the stern necessity of choice was upon me, this
most sombre enfranchisement of manhood, that we are compelled to choose,
willing or unwilling. Saint and sinner, believer and infidel, are alike
under this compulsion in matters moral--and in all matters. We speak of
the stern pressure which demands that men shall make a living; but its
dread feature is herein, that our living is a succession of pregnant
choices on which our deepest livelihood depends--and these choices melt
into destiny, involving the infinite itself.

My people, I ruminated, could help me to a decision if they only would.
But I knew how non-committal they would be; for they, and all their
kind, are inclined to assume no responsibility of another's soul, and to
surrender no fragment of their own.

New York was reached at last, the waves still tossing heavily. When I
alighted from the train at New Jedboro, the breath of winter greeted me.

One of my parishioners, an Aberdonian born, was on the lookout. He shook
hands, but said nothing of welcome home. Yet his hand was warm, and its
grip had a voice that told me more than even sweet Southern lips could
say. For its voice was bass--which is God's.

"Issie's wantin' ye," he said calmly. "She's far gone an' she's been
askin' for ye."

The dawn as yet had hardly come, and seating myself upon the box, I told
the cabman to drive quickly to Issie's home. As we passed through the
still unstirring town, he said:

"He'll be sittin' up with him," pointing to a dimly-lighted window.

"Who'll be sitting up?" I said.

"Oh, I forgot. You won't have heard. That is Mr. Strachan's room. At
least I think that is the name. I only came here myself to work ten days
ago. A poor homeless woman landed here last week from Ireland. One of
those immigration agent devils over there took her last penny and sent
her over to Canada, to starve for all he cared. She showed smallpox
after she landed here and her little lad was with her. He took it too.
Well, she died--but before she died she told her story. The old story,
you know--had bad luck, you see, and the fellow skipped out and left
her. The woman gets the worst of it every time, don't she?"

"She died!" I exclaimed. "And the little one? Where is the boy you spoke
of?"

"That's him; that's what the light's burnin' for. Angus Strachan, so
they say, paid all the funeral expenses, and they wanted to send the kid
away somewheres--some hospital for them catchin' diseases. But Strachan
acted queer about it. He wouldn't let them touch it. And he took it to
his own room and said he would take care of it himself."

"And did they let him?" I asked.

"Let him. I just guess they did. They couldn't help it. You see he'd
been in, monkeyin' round the smallpox already--so they had to. And he
wrapped the kid up in a blanket and took it to his room. They say his
light's never been out at night since."

"He has not taken the disease himself, has he?" I enquired.

"Oh, no; leastwise, I never heard tell of it. But them was queer actions
for a young fellow, wasn't they? No accountin' for tastes, as the
fellow said! Can you understand it yourself, sir?"

"I think I can," was my reply; "let us hurry on," and in a few minutes
we were at Issie's house.

Little Issie had long since snuggled down in her own separate place in
my heart; she was indeed a favourite with all who knew her--but I saw as
I stepped into the room that God loved her best of all. The white thin
hands were tightly held, one in her father's, the other in her mother's,
as though they would detain her; but the angels heeded not and went on
with the preparations for her flight. These were almost complete when I
arrived; Issie alone knew that they were of God's providing, for the
face she turned to me was full of childish sweetness, and her smile was
touched with other light.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispered, as I bent low beside her. "Please
don't go away again"--and as I kissed her she was gone.

Her curls were gold, still gold, though she was gone. As we stood
weeping beside the precious dust the sun arose, still arose, though she
was gone. And his first errand was to the broken heart. Swift to the
window flew his first-flung rays, like eager couriers who hear the cry
of need. And entering in, unbidden, they set God's brighter seal of love
upon the golden tresses. Up and down among the glowing strands, they
wandered, smiling at God's gain, smiling still, though she was gone.
Unafraid, they caressed the unconscious locks, anointing them for their
burial.

When I went out, the winter seemed past and gone; I knew then what made
these snowbound hearts so warm.

"Margaret has a new sorrow," said my wife, soon after my arrival home.

"What is it?"

"A young woman and her child from Ireland--"

"Yes," I interrupted, "I heard about it; the driver told me. Does
Margaret seem to fret herself about it?"

"I don't know," answered her mother, "but I am afraid it has made it all
the harder for us: I mean that I fear that she is more devoted to him
now than ever. She read me a letter Angus wrote her just before he shut
himself up with the child."

"What did it say?" I asked, with eagerness.

"I don't remember very clearly: but he said that this woman who died of
smallpox, the child's mother, you know, had opened all her heart to him
before she died. And he says there never was a gentler or purer-hearted
woman--the old story, of love, and trust, and anguish. Then he said he
promised her to care for her boy; and he said something about his
ordination vows, said he would try to be true to them, and that this
would help him to banish revenge and hatred from his heart."

"His ordination vows?" I exclaimed, "what do you suppose he means?
Surely he is not trifling with all that unhappy occurrence?"

"I don't think so. There was no trifling tone about his letter. I asked
Margaret about that very thing, but she wouldn't tell me, only she said
there was no elder in St. Cuthbert's more ordained to God's service than
Angus is."

"Did she say anything about their love affairs?" said I, after a man's
poor bungling fashion.

"Not a word--but she wouldn't let me see the letter," this with a little
womanly sigh: for women, like children, have griefs that appear trifling
to grown men, but are very real to them.

After a pause my wife ventured: "Don't you think that perhaps we are
just a little unrelenting about Margaret and Angus?"

"What?" I said.

"Oh, I don't mean that she should marry him, of course, but it does seem
hard, father--and it really wasn't his fault--and perhaps we will regret
it some day."

"But, my dear, you know it is impossible--think of the humiliation of
it, the shame of it, I might say."

"Yes, I know," she answered, "but I do admire Angus more and more. He
seems to be trying to staunch his sorrow, only he does it by love and
service. Everybody is talking about how useful and unselfish he is, in
the church, and among the poor--and everywhere."

"I know it," admitted I, "I know it, and there is no reason why we
should not always be friends--but the other is an entirely different
matter. It cannot be."

"Well," went on my wife, "I do not think I want to stay here; I don't
suppose the people understand everything, but I feel sure many of them
think we are dealing harshly with Margaret. And yet they would nearly
all do the same. What kind of a manse have they in Charleston?" she
concluded eagerly--for a woman's gift of transition is marvellous.

Whereupon I told her all about my Southern experiences and impressions.

There was no tumult in St. Cuthbert's. A man who knows nothing of the
under-currents in the heart's great ocean would have said that my people
were serenely indifferent as to whether I should stay in New Jedboro or
go to Charleston. There was no open attempt to influence the outcome,
for they believed in the sovereignty of God and would not interfere--at
least not till that very sovereignty so constrained them. Of course,
they held prayer to be a legitimate interference. This is a great
mystery, but it is cherished by the soul as persistently as it is
challenged by the reason. Mysterious though this union must ever be, the
Scottish spirit takes full advantage of it, and enjoys its fruit, let
the root be hidden as it may.

"Ye'll be givin' us yir decision some o' these days," was about as far
as the most emotional would go, some even adding: "Charleston's a graun
city, nae doot, an' I'm hopin' ye'll like it fine if you leave us,"
which last proved to me that such an one secretly prayed for my
remaining. The true Scotchman is like the Hebrew language--to be
understood, he must be read backwards.

"It's a graun chance ye're gettin', to be called to sic a kirk as that,"
said Wattie Gardner one day. "I'm fearin' ye'll rue it if ye bide wi' us
here."

This was far from the language of ardent wooing; yet I noticed that this
same Wattie sought to reform his ways, that they might tend to the
increase of my comfort. He had been an incorrigible sleeper in the kirk,
surrendering to sweet repose with the announcement of the text, and
emerging therefrom only to join the closing paraphrase with
unembarrassed unction. For no man was more ready with a verdict on the
sermon than was Wattie, as he walked down the aisle; he never failed to
demand the "heads and particulars" from his family at the dinner table,
resenting all imputation of somnolence for himself.

His defense was plausible, since he never slept exposed; but always with
his head bowed upon the book-board, esteemed by the uncharitable as the
attitude of slumber, but explained by Wattie as the posture of
undistracted thought and pious meditation.

Shortly after my call to Charleston, however, Wattie abandoned this
pious and reflective posture, sitting bolt upright, beating back his
tendency to thoughtful retirement with the aid of cloves and
peppermints. I knew the meaning of this reform, for I knew Wattie's love
for me, clandestine though it was; he and I had watched death together
once--and after the wave had overswept us, the ground beneath our feet
was firm as rock forever.

By and by St. Cuthbert's began to move. It was known that I purposed
announcing my decision on the approaching Sabbath day, and I was
informed that one or two deputations wished to wait upon me at the
manse. The first was from the women of the church, who had had a meeting
of their own.

To my amazement the spokeswoman was Mrs. Goodall. Now it must be told
that this same Mrs. Goodall, in all sincerity of conscience, had
violently withstood my advent to the pastorate of St. Cuthbert's years
before. The ground of her opposition was that I plied the festive pipe.

Never was there nobler Christian womanhood than hers, never a more
devoted life, never a more loving heart. But no man's character could be
fragrant, so she thought, if it ripened amid the rich aroma of tobacco;
and good old Virginia leaf was to her the poison-ivy of mankind. That
life was indeed beclouded which found shelter in the genial clouds of
the aforesaid leaf. But with all this heroic hostility to our little
weaknesses, there dwelt a sweet strain of innocence in which we had come
to glory.

"Ye needn't tell me," said the good Mrs. Goodall once to a sympathetic
circle, "that they dinna play poker at the taivern--an' in the daytime
too--for I passed by this verra day, an' they were pokin' away, wi'
their coats off, wi' lang sticks in their hands, pokin' at the wee white
balls," and her listeners needed no other proof.

The dear old saint made her plea for those she represented, and it
greatly pleased me, for I loved her well; and I remembered the scores
and hundreds who had felt the power of her godly life. Besides, it
confirmed me in this assurance, that, after all is said and done, if a
man is honestly trying to do his Master's work, even those most sternly
set against the pipe will care but little whether or not he seeks the
comfort it undoubtedly affords. Which very thing had been proved by my
great predecessor, Dr. Grant, half a century agone.

The second, and larger, deputation was composed of ten or more,
appointed to represent the kirk session and the Board. Of this latter
body, the principal spokesman was its chairman, William Collin, an
excerpt from Selkirkshire and one of my chiefest friends. He was long,
very long, almost six feet three, with copious hair that never sank to
rest, and habitually adorned with a cravat that had caught the same
aspiring spirit. This was a rider perpetually attached.

One suit of clothes after another, as the years passed by, bore witness
to the loyalty of his heart; for he would not abandon the pre-historic
tailor who was a sort of heirloom in the Collin family. In consequence,
the rise and fall of William's coat, in its caudal parts, as he walked
down the aisle with the plate on the Sabbath day, had become part of St.
Cuthbert's ritual--and we all thought it beautiful. He was one of the
two, referred to in the opening of our story, who had been sent to spy
out the land, and to report upon the propriety of my conjugal
enterprise. The fluent panegyric in which his report was made is already
recorded and need not be here repeated.

William had a talent for friendship beyond that of any man I ever knew,
and this talent flowered into genius only after the clock struck
midnight. Never yet was there friend who would stay with you to the last
like William Collin, his shortcomings few, his long-stayings many and
delicious.

For never yet was friend so welcome, never speech more sane and
stimulating; never farewell so sweetly innocent when the clock struck
two. May the God of friendship bless thee, William Collin, for all that
thy friendship hath been to me! And if these lines outlive thee, let
them bear witness to that joy which is not denied to the humblest man,
who hath but a fireplace and a friend and a pipe--and four feet on the
fender, while the storm howls without. For, with alternate zeal, we cast
the blocks upon the blaze--and its flame never faltered till thou wert
gone.

William, as chairman, was the first to speak. He presented St.
Cuthbert's case with dignity and force, beginning with the tidings that
the Board wished me henceforth to take two months' holidays instead of
one. This started in my mind a swift reflection upon the native
perversity of the Scotch. To prove that they cannot do without you, they
banish you altogether for an extra month, but William Collin gave the
thing a more graceful turn:

"We love you weel eneuch to do without you--but no' for lang," he said.

Then he concluded, as was his inviolate custom, with a reference to
Burns, in whom he had sat down and risen up for forty years:

"I canna better close what I hae to say," he assured me, "than by the
use o' the plowboy's words, slightly changed for the occasion:

    "'Better lo'ed ye canna be
        Will ye no' abide at hame?'"

With this he reached behind him (this too, a time-honoured custom),
seized the aforesaid caudal parts of his coat, removed them from the
path of descending danger, and lowered his stalwart form with easy
dignity, his kindly eyes aglow with friendship's light.

David Carrick was the next to speak. Cautious and severe, his chief aim
was to express the hope that I was sincere in my indecision.

"We had a sair shock wi' a former minister long years ago," he said, "he
had a call, like yirsel', but he aye kept puttin' us off, tellin' us he
was aye seekin' licht frae above; but Sandy Rutherford saw an or'nary
licht in the manse ae nicht after twal o'clock. He peekit in the window,
an' he saw the minister wi' his coat off, packin' up the things. The twa
lichts kind o' muddled him, ye ken."

His colleagues may have thought David unnecessarily severe. In any case
several of them began signalling to Geordie Bickell to take the floor.
Geordie responded with much modesty and misgiving, for he was the
saintliest man amongst us; and his own estimate of himself was in direct
antagonism to our own.

"We willna urge ye, sir," he said, with a winsome smile, "but I'm sure
the maist of us hae been pleadin' hard afore a higher court than this.
A' I want to tell ye is this--there hasna been wound or bruise upon yir
relation to yir people. An' there's but ae hairt amongst us, an' we're
giein' ye anither call this day--an' we're hopin' it's the will o' God."

The interview was almost closed, when a voice was heard from the back of
the room, a very eager voice, and charged with the import of its
message:

"It's mebbe no' worth mentionin'," said Archie Blackwood, a fiery Scot
whose father had fought at Balaclava, "but it's gey important for a'
that. Gin ye should gang to Charleston ye'll hae to sing sma' on their
Fourth o' July, for that's their screechin' time, they tell me; an' ye
wudna hae a psalm frae year's end to year's end to wet yir burnin'
lips--an' ye wadna ken when it was the Twenty-fourth o' May. They tell
me they haena kept the Twenty-fourth o' May in Ameriky since 1776."
Archie knew his duty better than his dates.

I assured him of the importance of his warnings, and acknowledged the
various deprivations he had foretold.

"Juist ae word afore we pairt," suddenly interjected a humble little
elder who had never been known to speak before. "It's in my conscience,
an' I want to pit it oot. We a' ken fine we haena been ower regular at
the prayer meetin'; but we'll try to dae better in the time to come.
It's death-bed repentance, I ken, but it's better than nane."

One by one the delegates shook hands with me and withdrew, after I had
promised them as early a pronouncement as my still unsettled mind could
hope to give. After they had gone, I sat long by myself, pondering all
that had been said, looking for light indeed, but striving to quench all
other beams than those whose radiance was from above.

While thus employed, a feeble footfall was heard upon the steps, and a
gentle knocking called me to the door. It was no other than little
Issie's grandfather who stood before me.

"Come in, come in," I said cordially, for he was dear to me, and we had
the bond of a common sorrow. "Have you forgotten something?"

"No," he answered, "but I hae minded something. I didna speak when a'
the ithers spoke; but I want to tell ye something by yirsel'. I think ye
ought to ken. It has to dae wi' yir decision.

"Ye mind wee Issie? Well, the mornin' ye came back frae Charleston, she
was lyin' white an' still on the pillow. She hadna spoke a' through the
nicht, an' we a' thocht she wad speak nae mair--but at six o'clock yir
train blew afore it came into the station. An' wee Issie stirred on the
pillow. Her lips moved an' I pit doon my ear.

"'He'll be on that train,' she whispered low. 'Wha'll be on the train?'
I askit her. 'The minister,' was a' she said.

"I was alane wi' her, an' I said: 'Mebbe so, Issie.' Then she spoke nae
mair for a little, but soon she said: 'God'll bring him back to open the
gate for me before I go. Grandfather,' she said, 'he first told me of
the gate and he said I would find it beautiful when I got close--and so
it is--but I want him to push it farther open, for I am so weak and
tired. I'm sure God will bring him home in time.'"

My eyes were wet, and I could only take the old man's hand in mine, the
silent token that the greatest argument of all had been kept until the
last.

"There's mair of us," he said, as the sobs shook his feeble frame,
"there's mair of us wha's comin' near the gate. I'm no' far frae it
mysel'. An' I want ye to wait my turn; I want ye to bide wi' us till ye
see me through the gate. A stranger wadna be the same. I maun be gaun."

It is long now since Issie's grandfather followed her through the gate.
He too found it beautiful; for I walked with him till even I could see
its glory. It swung wide open, for he was welcome home; and I caught a
glimpse of the splendour just beyond. I heard, too, rapturous snatches
of the song they sing in that better land. It may have been fancy, yet I
am sure I heard the old precentor's voice, and Issie's holy strain was
clearer still; but it was the new song, and these two blended wondrous
well.

XXVI

_LOVE'S SINGING SACRIFICE_

Death is kinder than we think. None other knew the way by which the
little foundling's mother had gone forth. But death knew it well, having
often passed over it before; and the orphan's cry was more than he could
bear. So he took him in his kindly arms and bore him on to his mother,
smiling at the cruel names by which he was accustomed to be called.

It is death's way to take the jewel only, for the road is long; and who
will may have the casket. Wherefore the affrighted undertaker bore the
latter by night to its resting-place, for he knew that path and had
often trodden it before. But he was not a deep sea pilot, like the
other.

Angus was left alone. A faithful man, himself a smallpox graduate, was
his only companion. Strict care was kept before the door of the now
deserted house, for panic hath its home in the heart of that dread
disease, though not so dreadful as we think.

Some of the misguided folk of New Jedboro fumigated themselves at every
mention of Angus' name, sleeping meantime side by side with some
consumptive form, knowing not that death slept between them. But the
great science of life is, and hath ever been, the recognition of life's
real enemies.

Angus was alone--and fallen. The foundling's plague was upon him, and
there was none to care for him but the faithful servant, smallpox-proof
as he happily knew himself to be.

The very night of the poor waif's hasty burial, a note was handed in at
our kitchen door. It was from the health officer of New Jedboro:

"Can you find a nurse for Mr. Strachan?" it ran. "He has no one with him
but Foster, who has had the disease, and I need not tell you the
necessity for a woman's care. I have tried the hospital, but no nurse
will volunteer. Whoever goes, of course, will be under quarantine, as
the guard has orders to let no one enter or leave the house. Perhaps you
may know of some poor woman, or some kind of woman, who will undertake
the duty. If you do, I have ordered the guard to let her into the house
on presentation of this note."

My wife and I were sitting in the study when the letter was handed to
me. "I will run down to Mrs. Barrie's," I said, after long thinking.
"She is not so much of a nurse, but she is less of a coward; and I know
she has taken care of diphtheria."

"I will walk down with you," said my wife; "perhaps a woman's influence
won't be amiss on such an errand."

We were soon ready and went out into the winter night.

"Isn't that too bad?" I suddenly exclaimed, as we were turning into Mrs.
Barrie's house. "I have forgotten that letter--and the health officer
says that whoever goes must have it. Shall we go back for it?"

"Not at all, she would have retired before we get back. And in any case
she would not go till the morning, and you can give it to her before
that," said my long tried adviser.

"Very well, let us go in."

We had left Margaret at home. She was often absent from our study fire,
not in peevishness, or gloom, for they were foreign to her nature; but
still she bore evidence of her great renunciation.

As I have said, she was much alone, deeming it, I doubt not, due to her
lover that she should share his solitude, even if separately borne. She
sought to fill up that which was behind of the sufferings of the man she
loved. This I make no doubt was her secret delight; for only a woman
knows the process of that joy which is exhaled when sorrow and love flow
mingled down.

Margaret had not been beside our study fire that winter night. But on
our departure she came down from her half widowed room to sit beside
it. It was the same hearth she had kindled in other days "in expectation
of a guest." As she entered the room, her eye fell upon the note which I
had left lying in my chair. A glance at it revealed to her Angus' name.
It was soon perused and it needed to be read but once. Swift action
followed, for there is no such thinker as the heart; and if women were
on the Bench to-morrow, "Judgment reserved" would vanish from our
judicial records.

Margaret's decision was taken before she laid the letter down, and a
flush of eager joy glowed on her face. In a moment she was back in her
room, quickly moving here and there, gathering this and that together,
bending over a small travelling-bag that lay upon the bed. Her ruling
thought was one of gladness, even joy--and the traveller's joy at that.
Who does not know the sudden thrill of rapture when there comes to us a
sudden summons to a long and unexpected journey?

And Margaret was starting on a long journey, how long, only God could
tell. She thought of this as she glanced about the pretty room that had
shared her secret thoughts since childhood, that had seen the awaking of
her love, and had oftentimes kept with her the vigil of unsleeping joy.
More than once the poor little room had feared it was soon to be
outgrown, and left far behind; but still at night Margaret would return
to its pure protection, and still it knew the fragrance of a virgin's
trembling love.

She was almost through the door when she turned once again and bade it a
long farewell, the same as a maiden on her bridal morn. For she too was
on her way to an altar; and the vows for sickness or health, for life or
death, seemed to be upon her now.

She had got as far as the garden gate when she stopped suddenly.

"I have forgotten the letter," she said to herself. Laying her
travelling-bag upon the ground, she ran swiftly back, but the door had
locked behind her, and her latch-key was in her room.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried to herself. "I cannot get
in without the letter, and they will soon be back."

She flew along the veranda to a window and pressed it upward. It
yielded, and her joy flowed like a river. Up she flung it, far up, and
with a bound the active form was upon the sill and disappeared into the
room. The letter lay where she had left it, and in a moment the precious
passport was in its hiding-place. A moment later, the gate swung shut
behind her. Her bosom throbbed with a new courage as it felt the touch
of the letter that was entrusted to its keeping; for this was her
warrant, her pledge of passage on that long journey towards which she
pressed so eagerly. Oh, woman! who countest pestilence thy friend when
it is in league with love!

On she pressed, on through the frosty night. The snow made music beneath
her hurrying feet, the bridge by which she crossed the river cracked and
echoed with the frost, and the Northern lights flashed the signals of
their heavenly masonry--for what knew they of plague and love and
sorrow, and of the story of this poor tracing-board of time?

But Margaret never thought of this, for she, too, had her own secret
symbols, and her heart its own mighty language, voiced, like the
other's, in alternate floods of light and gloom.

She never paused till she was challenged by the guard before the
plague-struck house. Then she laid down her travelling-bag, for it had
grown heavy; but her eyes never turned from the dim light that shone
from the window. Love and danger were there, and the fascination of both
was upon her.

"Where might you be goin', miss?" said the guard. His voice was thick,
and his breath bore a perfume which proved he had been hospitably
entreated by some sympathetic friend. Doubtless it was the good
Samaritan's wine that had failed of its destination.

"I am going into that house, if you please," replied Margaret. "I am
going to take care of Mr. Strachan. The health officer has asked for a
nurse."

"Oh, no, my lady," said the guard, "no pretty face like yours is going
to be marked by the smallpox." His chivalry was of the moist kind, and
his emotion made him hiccough several times.

Margaret winced: "I am entitled to go in," she said boldly, "and I will
thank you to let me pass," with which she picked up her valise.

"Not by no means," the guard rejoined. "I've got orders not to let no
one in without a letter from the officer."

"I have the letter," said Margaret, for in her excitement she had
forgotten it. She produced it and handed it to the man. He walked over
to a gas lamp across the street. Feeling the need of exercise, he
proceeded thereto by several different routes. Having reached it, he was
seized with a great fear lest the iron post should fall, and lent
himself to its support. Then he read the letter over aloud; three or
four times he read it, punctuating it throughout with the aforesaid
tokens of emotion. He returned to where she stood, selecting several new
paths with fine originality.

"I guess that's all right, an' you're the party," he remarked, "but it
ain't signed."

"What do you mean?" said Margaret in alarm. "It certainly bears the
health officer's name. I saw it myself."

"Oh, yes, that's all right, but that ain't enough--business is business,
you see," he added, with maudlin solemnity. "You've got to sign it
yourself, kind of receipt the bill, you see."

He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil, produced the rump thereof, spread
the letter upon his knee, and began writing on the back of it. It was
like an internal surgical operation, for his tongue protruded as he
wrote, marking his progress by a series of serpentine writhings that
suggested inward pain.

"There, that'll do," he said, when he emerged. "You sign that."

Margaret took the paper and tried to read what he had written. But,
unfamiliar with hieroglyphics, his handiwork was lost upon her.

"I cannot read it," she said presently; "the light is very bad."

"That's so--besides it's too infernal cold to read--I'm awful cold. I
wisht that cove in there'd get a move on him, an' get better. He's got a
snap. Some one sent him a bottle of milk to-day, too," he concluded,
with a solemn wink, the tongue again appearing on the scene to bear
internal witness--"but I forgot--I'll read them words to you myself,"
which he proceeded to do, swaying gently, for the spirit of rhetoric
was within him.

"This is it," he began, "'I'm the party what's meant to nurse the man
what's got the smallpox, an' I got in because I wanted to'--that's all
right, ain't it? Now you sign that, an' if you die, that'll protect me
after you're dead. And I'll sign it too, and if I die, it'll protect you
after I'm dead, see? And if we both die, it'll protect the officer after
we're both dead, see? And if he dies, then we'll all be protected,
because we'll all be dead, see? You keep the paper, and I'll keep the
pencil, and we'll both keep our job, see? Gee whittaker! Ain't it cold!
I wisht they'd send some more milk."

Impatient for a release, Margaret signed the document. After its author
had made another picturesque pilgrimage to the gas lamp and back again,
the signature was fervently commended, with signs of increasing emotion;
he returned the letter to her--and she passed on into the house at which
none but love or death would have asked for bed and board.

There are a thousand streams that flow from Calvary. But the deepest of
these is joy. Wherefore as Margaret walked into the darkened house, her
heart thrilled with a sudden rapture it had never known before. For he
was there--and she would be beside him in a moment--and they would be
together--and none could break in upon them, for grim death himself
would guard the door. He was helpless too, dependent on weak arms that
love would gird with might--and this makes a woman's happiness complete;
when love and service wed, joy is their first-born child.

She was now standing at the door of his room, her eyes fixed upon the
face of the man she loved, radiant with victory.

He had heard her footfall from the threshold, and his heart clutched
each one as it fell. Yes, it was she, and the music of her rustling
garments had the sweet sound of rain--for his was the thirsty heart. It
was surely she, and not another,--and the whole meaning of life seemed
clear to him. He knew not how or why, but he had been alone so long, and
his hungry heart had wondered, and life seemed such a wounded thing.

But now he actually saw those silken strands, gently waving from her
haste, and the parted lips that poured forth her soul's deep loyalty,
and the dear form of ardent love--a maiden's form. All these came upon
him like the dawn, and the citadel of life's frowning mystery was
stormed at last. How voluptuous, after all, in its holiest sense, is
God's purpose for the pure in heart!

She stood, her eyes now suffused with tears, but smiling still; the
panic in her father's house, the comment of cruel tongues, the fight
with death, the pestilence that walks in darkness--these were all
forgotten in the transport of her soul. She had chosen her Gethsemane
long ago, and this was its harvest time.

Angus' eyes drank deeply from the spring.

"Margaret," he said at last, "how beautiful God is!"--and Margaret
understood.

She advanced towards the bed, her hands outstretched--he sought to bid
her back.

"Margaret, you know not what you do; your life----" But it was in vain.

"My life is my love," she cried with defiant passion. "Oh, Angus, how
beautiful God is!" and, stooping down, she overpowered him, spurning
death while love should claim its own.

As she stood above him again, her lips were moist with love's anointing
and she knew that nothing could prevail against them now. Hers the
promised power that could take up serpents, and drink deadly things, and
be unharmed. Hers the commission to lay hands on the sick that they
might recover. Her sombre foes seemed many; shame clouded the name she
fain would bear, opposition frowned from the faces of those who bore
her, and now plague had joined the conspiracy--but in all these things
she was more than conqueror.

The winter had retreated before the conquering spring, and the
vanquished pestilence had also fled when they came forth again, these
prisoners of love. Nearly four long luscious weeks had flown, and their
souls' bridal time was past. They had baffled death together; and they
came forth, each with the great experience--each with the unstained
heart.

Angus bore a scar, only one, as the legacy of pestilence--but it could
be clearly seen, and it was on his brow.

"My life seems doomed to these single scars," he had said, not bitterly,
during one of the sweet convalescent days.

"But not through any fault of yours, dear one," Margaret had answered.
"I have the same wounds, mark for mark, but they are in my heart," and
she kissed his brow, ordained to another burden.

"Where shall we go?" said Margaret. He had heard the words before, and
rich memories came back. The freedom of the world was theirs; for they
had been absolved from the stigma of disease, and the sentinel had
ceased from his labours.

"I must go home now," she continued, "for it will soon be dark."

"I had forgotten about darkness," said Angus. "Come with me. I want to
do something for my mother's sake."

"'Your mother's sake!'" she repeated, "did your mother ever know the
poor woman who died of the disease? or her little child? Did you care
for them for her sake?"

"I cared for them for her sake," Angus answered, "but my mother never
knew her; they lived in different countries--but their sorrows were
related. Let us turn here."

They turned off into a quiet street, and presently entered the old
stone-cutter's shop. Angus spoke to him apart for a time; finally the
old man said:

"Perhaps you'd better write it down."

"Very well, I will," replied Angus.

The old stone-cutter adjusted his glasses: "Nothin' on the big stone
about her age?"

"No, nothing," answered Angus.

"Nor nothin' about her folks?"

"No, nothing," said Angus again.

"And nothin' on the little stone only this?"

"Nothing more," said the other.

"All right, sir, I understand then. The big stone is just to have 'Luke.
7:47: For she loved much,' and the little one: 'My brother.' All right,
I'll set 'em up to-morrow, only I kind o' thought it didn't give a
terrible lot of information. But I suppose you know the meanin' of it."

"Yes, I know," said the man with the mark upon his brow.

XXVII

_The HIDDEN CRUCIFIX_

We had only one incurable sorrow in St. Cuthbert's manse. That of course
had to do with Margaret and her love--for whoso would heal sorrow must
find a cure for love. We could not find it in our hearts to give her up
to a union so wounding to our pride as her marriage to Angus would have
been. The righteous will have cried out long ago against this unseemly
spirit on the part of a gospel minister. But my only care is to set down
things, myself among them, as they really were.

Besides, it is easy to prescribe sacrifices for another, or even for
one's self, provided always that they be made before the necessity
arises. All parents are models in their treatment of each other's
offspring, rivalling, in this regard, even those proverbial patterns who
never took the initial step to parentage.

Our relations with Margaret were happy enough, marked by love and
tenderness as of yore. We were deliberately cheerful, and at times even
resolutely gay. But our house had its skeleton closet, and each of us
kept a key. Apart from this, all our home was bright. Other wounds had
healed. Margaret was home again, and she had been kept from the
scourge's awful breath. I had accepted St. Cuthbert's second call, and I
felt as though my pastorate had begun anew; for young and old gathered
about me, and the chariot wheels rolled gladly.

Yet one dear and long honoured face was absent; and one seat in St.
Cuthbert's, long occupied by a familiar form, was vacant now. For
Michael Blake had gone.

Silently, without telling us why or where, he had departed, although the
heart of all New Jedboro seemed warm to him, and although St. Cuthbert's
had given him its pledge of continued confidence. But he had steadfastly
refused to resume the duties of his office.

This was almost a sorer wound to us than the other; for we somehow could
not but construe it as the collapse of shame. He shirks the discipline
of God, we said, or thought; and some even voiced the darksome fear that
he had cast off the restraints of his office, done with religion when he
could no longer wear its mask. He would be a saint, said some, or
nothing. The rôle of the publican has no charm for him, said others,
because he never really knew its luxuries. And some were secretly angry
that he had escaped, as they chose to term it, for they loved to see the
scarlet letter on another's breast.

It was one of the first genial days of early spring, and an ocean
steamer was swiftly making for the Mersey. The green fields of the
initial isle had been declared the greenest of God's green earth, and
they received the panegyric with national complacency, knowing not that
they had three thousand miles of grassless ocean to thank for it every
bit. The fragrance of the land was sweet to the weary voyagers, and the
most taciturn was disposed to unwonted mirth. The Captain,
question-driven, had taken wing and soared aloft, looking down in safety
from the bridge.

But neither mirth nor gladness was upon the face of one traveller,
though no face was turned more intently towards the shore. Sadness of
heart and seriousness of purpose were there instead, not unmixed with
light; for memory and hope, these old-world combatants, had joined
battle in his soul.

His gaze was fixed on the still distant land, and varying emotions
played upon his face. This very shore enclosed all whose memory filled
his life with shame and sorrow--within it, therefore, by God's
unchanging law, must be found their relief and cure. For the serpent's
bite, the healing is the serpent still, but lifted high.

This man, so silent and self-contained, had been the centre of much
curious wonder among his fellow passengers. Much apart he had been,
unmingled with the ship's social life, despite all allurement. The
children called him blessed, for he had entered with their own relish
into all their games, and when these palled, he had brought forth things
new and old out of the treasure of his mind. The aged and ailing were
his almost worshippers, for he had made their wants his daily care.

"I am sorry to part, Mr. Blake, although we have seen so little of you
on the voyage. One has to be quite young, or quite sick, or quite old,
to see much of you aboard ship."

"You have neither of the last two qualifications," answered the man
addressed, with a pleasant smile.

The voice which had broken in upon his reverie was that of a lady past
middle life, richly and fashionably dressed; for you never know the real
plumage of fair travellers till they are about to leave you. She was
beautifully enamelled, powdered, massaged, and otherwise put in the best
possible repair. Sparkling diamonds adorned her hands. A gold cross hung
upon her bosom.

"Nor the first one either, I fear," she rejoined; "however, I am trying
to keep as young as I can. I do wish we were at Liverpool. There is to
be a bridge party at one of my friends this afternoon and a military
ball to-night, and I had counted on getting in for both. I accepted from
New York! I am not thinking so much about the ball, but I shall die if I
miss the bridge."

"Indeed," replied her companion, glancing at the cross.

"Yes, it will be too cruel. I have picked up some awfully good points on
bridge--got them in New York. I got them from my friend's clergyman, the
Rev. Dyson Bartlett, rector of the Holy Archangels. He is a lovely man.
You'd never think to hear him preach that there was so much in him. Do
you know of him?"

"No," answered Mr. Blake, "I don't think I ever heard of him before."

"Probably not; he lives a very quiet life--very restful sort of nature,
he has; he never gets up till eleven; but of course he is always up very
late at night. Can't burn the candle at both ends, can you? Clergymen
are only human, and must get their rest. But on Sunday mornings he gets
up at half-past six for early mass, and of course he plays on Saturday
nights too, so sometimes he must get very little sleep. Clergymen don't
have such an easy life after all. Are you an Episcopalian, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I don't belong to that church."

"Isn't that too bad? But I don't know why I should say that. I think
lots of people go to heaven who belong to other churches. But then, of
course, I am very broad in my views. I can't bear narrow people--I just
can't stand narrow people; and besides, I met a lovely man once in
Tarrytown, and he was a Presbyterian. I hope I will meet him in heaven."

"I hope you will," said Mr. Blake.

"Yes," she resumed, "that is what I liked about Mr. Bartlett--he was so
broad in his views. I remember I asked him once if he thought dissenters
would go to heaven, and I shall never forget how beautifully he spoke.
We were having a little game at the time--only a dollar stake--and it
was his turn to play. But when I asked him that about the dissenters, he
laid down his cards on the table, and his hands unconsciously took hold
of the cross he always carried on his coat, and he said: 'God is very
merciful, Mrs. Drake'--then he dropped the cross, and took up the cards
again, and gave a little sigh before he played, and there was a
beautiful smile on his face--a kind of sad, sweet smile."

"Did you attend his church when in New York?" said her listener, not
knowing what else to say.

"Yes, sometimes, but you wouldn't think he had such deep thoughts, just
from hearing him preach. He was very deep. One night we were all
discussing whether it was a sin to play for stakes. It was after the
game was over, and Mr. Bartlett had won the whole thing. He put the
money away quietly in his pocket--he gives it to the poor people in the
Holy Archangels, he said, for some of the Holy Archangels are quite
poor--he put it quietly in his pocket, and he took hold of his cross,
and he was silent for a little while. Then he said: 'Stakes are
everywhere in life--faith itself stakes the soul,' and that sad, sweet,
smile came back again. Wasn't that deep?"

"Yes, very deep," answered Mr. Blake, thinking of the pocket.

"Another time, I remember, he said it had often occurred to him that it
was the great Creator who had caused bridge to be discovered; he said
God gave us bridge so that good Christians could give up playing poker.
Wasn't that deep?"

Mr. Blake ventured some reply such as courtesy and conscience could
agree upon. "I really never gave the matter much thought," he concluded.

"Oh, dear! There we are at half speed again! I know I'll be too late.
Yes, even some of his sermons were very deep. He had a beautiful poetic
mind; and he gave everything such a lovely turn. I shall never forget
his last sermon. It was beautiful; he was preaching on the text: 'Wash
me whiter than snow'--the church was so hot, but you could just see the
snow. And his divisions were beautiful. I can tell them yet. His first
point was that we should all be pure and white like the snow. Then the
second one, he said, grew out of the first, that if we were pure and
clean like the snow, we would not be impure or unclean. And the last
point was a very solemn one. He said that if we were not pure and white
like the snow, by and by we would go down where there was no more snow.
That was a beautiful thought, wasn't it? I thought it was such a lovely
ending."

"I never heard a sermon just like that," remarked Mr. Blake, his mind
reverting to St. Cuthbert's.

"Neither did I," went on the worshipper, "and I told him so the next
night when we met at Mrs. Bronson's for a little farewell game. He took
hold of his cross again and he said: 'We must deal faithfully, Mrs.
Drake'--and he was just starting to deal as he spoke. But he never
smiled, except that sad, sweet smile that he always wore--except when he
lost. And he told us that after that service he found the curate
weeping in the vestry. But the curate fairly worships Mr. Bartlett. It
was Mr. Bartlett who first taught him bridge, I think. Do you play
bridge, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I never learned the game."

"Oh, I forgot; you're a Presbyterian, you said. It's pretty much a
church game, I fancy. Excuse my rudeness, but why don't you wear a
cross, Mr. Blake?"

"What?" said Mr. Blake abruptly, "why don't I what?"

"Isn't that dreadful? The engines are scarcely moving; I know we won't
get in till five, and the bridge begins at three. There is nothing but
disappointments in this world. Oh, yes, why don't you wear a cross? Not
so much for the ornament, of course. I got this one at Tiffany's and it
cost me ten pounds. But, as Mr. Bartlett said, the cross stands for
sacrifice, so I don't begrudge it. I think, in this world of sin and
sorrow every one should wear a cross. We're going a little faster now,
don't you think?"

"Yes, madam, I think we are--and I do wear a cross--if you have not
forgotten your question."

"Oh, you do. I am so glad. Where? I suppose you've changed your clothes.
But I never noticed it before."

"No, I don't think you have seen it."

"Oh, I see, lots of men carry them under their vests. But I think we
should let the world see it. Do you carry yours next your heart?"

"No, madam, deeper still," said Mr. Blake.

XXVIII

_The HEATHERY HILLS_

The anchor had been cast, and the good ship, panting, lay at rest. The
bugle note had followed the departing tender with wistful strains of
"Auld Lang Syne," and the emancipated passengers were pouring out upon
old England's hospitable soil. The happy crowd, catching already the
contagion of English jollity, swayed about the landing stage, then
flowed in separate streams into the Customs pen; for this is the first
tug of the tether, just when all who have escaped the sea think they are
safe at last. Out through the fingers of the stern inspectors flowed the
crowd in still thinner streams, till all this community of the deep is
scattered to the winds.

Swift-hurrying, they go their separate ways, and the happy little bubble
has burst and vanished, as its successors, now forming on the bosom of
the deep, will burst and vanish too. What friendships, what ardent
loves, what molten vows, ocean born, have begun to languish on the wharf
at Liverpool, like sunfish separated from their native wave!

Michael Blake hailed a hansom and drove to the North-Western. As he
passed through the turbid streets, dense loneliness settled about him
like a fog. This was old England, this the land which exiles across the
sea in their fondness call the "old country."

But he could not free himself from the thought that, when he left it,
youth's sun was burning bright; and now more than the early afternoon
was gone.

"The evening too will pass, as the afternoon has passed," he said to
himself, "only more quickly." And he glanced at the descending sun,
God's metaphor of warning, the recurring epitome of life. His lips moved
to speak a text, the native instinct strong therefor. They had meant to
say "the night cometh"; but some one interfered and he said to himself:
"The night is far spent--the day is at hand," for, after all, the
setting sun has morning in its heart.

He dismissed the cab, and entering the hotel, made some enquiry about
the trains for the North. He could not start North before midnight. The
evening was fine, and he walked out. St. George's Hall arrested him with
its elaborate grandeur. What beauty, what chastity, what becoming signs
of civic wealth! When he came to its massive steps he cast his eyes upon
them, and behold, they were dripping with poverty! The victims of want
in mid-career were there, and drooping age, unequally yoked with
poverty, and frowzy women with ribald face; and chief among them all,
little children, some blear-eyed, some pallid with want, some with the
legacy of sores--for they had been shapen in iniquity.

But all alike--and herein was the anguish of it--all alike were bent on
play, and persisted pitifully in the cruel farce. The little bare feet
pattered up and down the steps--but the steps were stone.

Michael Blake thought of his adopted home across the sea and its green
fields and tree-graced meadows. Then he thought of the far Western
plains, vast beyond human fancy, waiting and calling for the tired feet
of all who spend weary lives in the old land, playing on stone steps,
while wealth and grandeur smile above them. In a few minutes he turned
away, for the folk of his country are not accustomed to the sight of
hungry children; and a woman under drink is something that many of their
eldest have never seen at all.

The sound of martial music, and the voice of cheering thousands, fell
upon his ear. He moved towards it. Soon the surging procession broke
upon him. "Who are these?" he asked, "these fellows in Khaki?" They had
their rifles in their hands, and some were slightly lame, and some had
the signs of wounds--and all had the rich stain of battle on them. "Art
thou only a stranger?" he is asked in turn, "and knowest not the things
that are come to pass? These are they who have come out of Paardeburg,
homeward bound by way of the ancestral home, and the tide of British
love and gratitude wafts them on their course."

He is soon caught in the swelling throng, his own head bare, his own
voice blending in the Imperial hosannah. He catches a familiar face
among the soldiers; he hears the strain of the "Maple Leaf" mingling
with the mighty bass of the Mother Anthem. He beholds the Union Jack,
enriched with the Canadian emblem. Gazing on the battered few, he sees
the survivors of the battle, and he knows that the unreturning feet rest
in the soil they have won to freedom; Canadian lads were these who have
insisted with dying lips that Britains never shall be slaves. His
adopted land has given of its choicest blood to swell the sacred tide
that for centuries hath laved the shores of liberty.

All this surges in upon him, and the savage joy of empire fills his
heart. His loneliness has fled, and he feels that beyond the ocean he is
at home, the old home, with its ever open gate for its far-flung
children. The mighty roar becomes the gentle whisper of Britain's lips,
bidding him draw closer to the imperial fireside and warm himself at
its imperishable flame.

He follows them for a time, then turns and slowly wends his way back to
the hotel. As he walks on, the shouting and the tumult die, the banners
gleam no more, and he is left alone with the empire of his heart, and
with other worlds to conquer. We need no swift-flying transport to bear
us to life's greatest battle-fields.

A little waif, a boy of ten, pinched and ragged, was gazing in a window
as Mr. Blake passed along. A question from the man, a quick and pathetic
answer from the boy--and they went in together. Then the man came out
alone, and the fervent joy of an hour ago was gone, but a deeper
gladness had taken the room it left behind. It is still there--a
life-tenant--for its lease cannot be broken till memory dies.

When he re-entered the hotel, the clerk recognized him and said:

"Your train goes in an hour, sir. You are going up to Scotland, I think
you said."

Scotland! The word inflamed him; and he hurried to his room to prepare
for departure.

The guard's sharp whistle sounded, and the train, with British
promptness, flew out of the Lime Street station, one heart at least
strangely thrilled, one face steadfastly set towards Scotland's waiting
hills.

He was alone in the compartment, and the long night seemed only like a
watch thereof. He was alone, yet not alone--for Memory sat beside him,
and Conscience, and Hope. No, he was not alone; for there wrestled a Man
with him till the breaking of the day. And still the train flew on, as
though it knew; on it flew, as though the unseen Wrestler himself had
his hand upon the engine's throat.

The sun was rising when he left the train. The train flew on, uncaring,
for trains know not that they are carriers unto destiny.

Michael Blake looked long at the rising sun--it was the same. Then his
eyes caressed the surrounding hills, playfellows of bygone years--they
had not changed. The flowers still were there, the grass had never
withered; the heather, too, in unfading purity.

And the trees, the old mighty elms, these were still the same--the
foliage of a larger life they had, but the selfsame branches held out
their kindly hands as in the long ago. Still upturned were their
reverent heads, still seeking God--and the baptism of the morning was
upon them, attested by the morning light.

He turned towards one of the familiar hills and began the old boyhood
climb.

Midway, he came to a spring, and a great thirst clutched his heart. It
was life's long, quenchless thirst, crying out again for the children's
portion. His face is close to its crystal water, his lips burning with
desire. Another's face moves upward to greet his own--but it is not the
same--and memory swiftly paints another till he actually sees it, the
ardent face of youth. And beside it is a maiden's face--for they had
often stooped together--a maiden's face, laughing for very love. But
they vanish and he sees again his own, worn and wrinkle-signed--and
alone.

Yet the spring still is there, unwrinkled and unworn, and his fevered
lips drink deeply. How sweet, how delicious, and how wondrous cool! It
is still the same as when rosy lips of love sipped from its surface long
ago. He rises and turns from the hallowed spot; but the flood-gates of
memory are unloosed, and his heart melts within him. The tears are
flowing fast and the old luxury, because the old innocence, of
childhood, seems to bathe his broken heart.

"Oh, God," he cries aloud, "hast Thou no fountain for the soul, no
living springs farther up the hill?" and as he cried, he glanced again
into the limpid spring. And lo! that gentle face was there again, love's
laughter still upon its lips, and a great hope looking out from grave
and tender eyes.

Then farther up the hill he climbed, the quick step of boyhood coming
back--and soon he stood upon its brow. He threw himself upon the grass
and cast his eyes over all the unforgotten valley. It was slumbering
still, for the sun is over early in Scottish latitudes, and he quickly
searched the hillside that confronted him. Behind a sheltering bush he
lay, peering far beyond.

All the valley is forgotten now--for, across the ravine beneath him, he
sees a cottage. The same, the very same it is, save that the thatch has
been renewed! A humble shepherd's cottage, only a but and a ben, built
long ago by thrifty hands--but he first learned to worship there.

Yet is it still the same? He knows not--but he knows the risk of passing
years. Unchanged the cottage stands, and the same gate hangs half open
as in the far back yesterday. Yet it is the spirit alone that giveth
life, and of this he may not know. He looks at his watch--it is near six
o'clock, and he had seen a man walk sleepily to the byre from a distant
house. He waits and watches, while a strange fever burns his heart,
unknown to youthful passion. His lips are parched, though the water from
the spring is scarce dry upon them yet.

Still gazing, he sees no sign of life about the house. He thinks, yet
knows not why, of Mary and the empty tomb. Hope is sinking fast, when of
a sudden a timid wreath of smoke flows slowly from the chimney, and
Michael Blake's hand reaches swiftly towards his heart. "Be still, be
still," he murmurs, "who knows that it is for thee?" but his eyes follow
it greedily, for it is to him a soul-signal from afar, God's altar
smoke, and he knows now that the house is not a sepulchre.

"Now I shall go and knock," he said to himself; but a new thought
possessed him, and he bowed again behind the slender furze, his eyes
still fixed upon the house.

They were but minutes that he waited, but they came disguised as
hours--for God can compel us to rehearse eternity. He must have felt it
coming, for his eyes have forsaken all else, and are fixed upon the
cottage door. Yes, it moved, it surely moved; and the strong man's eyes
are numb. They rally and renew the vigil. Yes, it moves, wider
still--and the flutter of a dress is seen. His heart leaps wildly, and
his eyes fly at the face that follows. It is too far to see clearly--but
he soon must know!

A comely form emerges from the door, and the face looks up at the
morning sun. The woman walks out and on, lithe grace in every movement.
Then the valley swims before him--for it is, it is, the woman he had
loved. He knows the dainty step, the erect carriage, the shapely frame.
Nearer still she comes, skirting the base of the hill he had climbed,
still often looking towards the sun, pausing now and then to pluck a
flower by the way. Where can she be going?

No bonnet binds her waving hair, and now he can catch the light of the
morning sun upon it. Streaks of gray, here and there, can be seen, but
they are few; the breeze rallies the loose-flowing strands and they make
merry and are glad together. He can see the pure bosom, lightly robed,
that swells with buoyant life. She is nearer to him now, and the face
swims in upon him across the chasm of long silent years, the same pure
face, still bright with tender love. She is now beside the spring--for
thither was she bent--and the overflowing pail is laid down beside her.

She too glances into the bosom of the water and he wonders if memory
guides the wistful gaze. Does she too see another face preserved against
the years in the pure keeping of the spring? He knows not--but he
thinks, yes, he is sure he saw the movement of the lips, and her face is
again upturned--but its thought is far beyond the sun. He uncovers his
head and joins the holy quest.

She has returned to the cottage and the door is closed; but Michael
Blake has never moved. Now he steps out from behind his shelter and
starts towards the house. Then he stops, turns back and begins to
descend the hill by the same course as had led him up. Yet once more he
turns and gazes long at the dwelling-place, starts towards it, stops
again.

"Not now," he said to himself, "I cannot--it is too light."

And he walked back to the hamlet; he was waiting for the tender dark.

XXIX

"_AND ALL BUT HE DEPARTED_"

The little inn seemed to have no guests except the traveller from beyond
the sea. But no such tavern is ever long deserted, for the Scotch
nature, while it may be dry, is ever loyal. Michael Blake had read but a
line or two of the _Edinburgh Scotsman_, ten days of age, when a man
walked solemnly in and sat down beside him. His face, his breath, and
especially his nose, bore eloquent testimony to the aforesaid loyalty of
his nature. He bade Mr. Blake a cheerful good-morning, glancing at the
same time towards the counter beneath which the liquid necessities were
stored.

"It's a fine mornin'," he began.

"A beautiful day," assented Mr. Blake.

"Ye'll no' live aboot these pairts?" inquired the other.

"No, I live far from here."

"Ye'll mebbe be frae Ameriky?" ventured his interrogator, closing in
upon him.

"Yes, I live in Canada," was the response.

"Canady," said the man. "We're gey prood o' Canady the noo. I ken't a
man once wha went to Canady. I had a drink wi' him afore he went," he
continued, his eye lighting with the dewy memory, "ye'll likely ken him?
Oliver was his name, Wattie Oliver, a bow-leggit wee body."

"I cannot say I ever met with him," replied Mr. Blake. "Canada is larger
than you think over here."

"Mebbe so," said the friendly stranger, "mair nor likely he's deid noo;
one o' thae red Indians micht hae killed him, like eneuch."

"Yes, or perhaps a bear," Mr. Blake replied gravely.

There was a pause. A bell was ringing, its notes floating in clear and
sweet upon them.

"What bell is that?" inquired Mr. Blake.

"That's oor bell i' the parish kirk; there's no ither ane."

"What is it ringing for? To-day is Thursday," asked Mr. Blake.

"Aye," responded the other, "this is the fast day. Sabbath's the
sacrament, ye ken, and they're maist awfu' strict aboot the fast day.
They wadna work that day, nae mair than on the Sabbath. They willna even
whustle. Ae mornin' I met Davie Drewry, an' 'twas the fast day. Noo, of
course, it was juist an or'nary day in Dr. Cameron's parish across the
burn--the burn divides the twa, ye ken. Weel, Davie was a lad for
whustlin'--he cudna leeve withoot whustlin'--but he was gey religious
too. Weel, I met Davie that mornin', walkin' awfu' fast, maist
rinnin'--an' his face was red.

"'Whaur micht ye be gaun, Davie?' says I, 'naebody ailin'?'

"'Na, na,' says Davie, 'but it's the fast day, an' I canna stand it ony
longer. I'm gaun ower the burn to hae a whustle.' Wasna that fair
redeek'lus!"

"Quite ingenious," answered Mr. Blake. "You go to that church, I
suppose?"

"Na, I dinna. I quit it when they brocht the kist o' whustles intill't.
I wadna stand it. There's nae real Presbyterians there, forbye me an'
Jock Campbell--an' I'm sair feart aboot Jock. I doot he's weakenin'.
They tell me he speaks to the minister on the street, an' if that's
true, there's no' muckle o' the auld religion aboot Jock, I'm fearin'."

"Do you not speak to the minister?"

"Na, I dinna. There's naething o' the hypocrite aboot me, I'm tellin'
ye. I settled the minister fine the last word I spoke to him. He came to
see me; an' he thocht he could wheedle me aboot the organ i' the hoose
o' God.

"'Div ye no' ken,' he says to me, 'aboot Dauvit, the sweet singer o'
Israel--how he played a' kinds o' instruments i' the Lord's hoose?' He
thocht he had me. But I gied him as guid as he brocht. What think ye I
answered him?"

"I really have no idea," said Mr. Blake. "What was it?"

"'Div ye think,' says I, lookin' fair at him, 'div ye think I tak Dauvit
for a paittern?'--and it did for him. 'I'll hae to be gaein',' says he,
'I hae a funeral.' 'Aye,' says I, 'ye'd better hae a funeral'--an' we
haena spoken to ane anither since."

"That's a pity," said Mr. Blake, "it seems too bad that the soul's
interests should suffer because of a matter of that kind. Of course," he
continued, "I don't say that a man may not be religious because he
doesn't go to church. Men may scorn the bridge and still get across the
river, but they would have got along better by the bridge."

"I dinna ken aboot the brig," said the other, "that isna to the
point,"--for he was not of a metaphorical turn of mind--"but I've nae
doot aboot bein' religious. A man in my walk o' life, in my business, ye
ken, canna weel help bein' religious. He's the same as the Apostle
Paul."

"What?" said Mr. Blake, "are you a tent-maker?"

"Na, na, certainly not; there's nane o' them nowadays. A man in my
callin' doesna _do_ the same as Paul, but he can _say_ the same, ye see.
I can say wi' Paul: 'Death to me is great gain'--I'm an undertaker, ye
ken."

"An undertaker," exclaimed his listener, unconsciously pushing back his
chair, shocked at the gruesome humour. Besides, the man was looking at
him with something like a professional eye, as if making an estimate of
time, and space.

"Aye," responded he of the apostolic claim, "I'm an undertaker--but
times is dull. I was an undertaker ten year in Lockerby, but I left
there lang syne. I had ae fine customer, the bailie; he had eleven o' a
family. But I lost his trade. The bailie was sick--an' my laddie, wee
Sandy, was aye plaguin' me for a sled. I tell't him I'd get him ane when
I had mair siller. Weel, wee Sandy was aye rinnin' ower to the hoose an'
askin' aboot the bailie. 'Twas nat'ral eneuch; the laddie meant nae
harm, but he wanted his sled afore the snaw was gone. Ony way, they tuk
offense."

"Did he get his sled?" asked Mr. Blake mechanically, staring at the man.

"Na, poor wee Sandy never got his sled. I had juist ae ither customer ye
micht ca' guid. He was deein' o' consumption, an' I took guid care o'
Sandy's sympathy. There was no askin' aboot him, mind ye. But there was
a mean man i' the business, wha was never meant to be an undertaker. His
name was Creighton, Tom Creighton, an' what dae ye think Tom did, to get
his trade?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Blake, rising to depart.

"Weel, I'll tell ye. Twa days afore he died, Tom Creighton tuk him oot
for a drive--he was awfu' fair to his face an' he got around him; tell't
him at the gate that he hoped to gie him anither drive later on. Of
course, he got his trade--he had to gie him his trade after that. But I
wadna stoop to sic like tricks for nae man's trade. So I left Lockerby
an' came here--I'm the only yin here."

Mr. Blake was glad to escape his garrulous acquaintance, and had heard
enough of his sombre annals. He walked out, and wandered far--o'er moor
and fen, o'er hill and valley, by many an unforgotten path, he
wandered--past his boyhood's school, where he heard again the laughing
shout that seemed scarcely to have died away from lips now silent long.

He loitered again by the babbling stream which had been the
fishing-ground of boyhood, and lay once more on mossy beds, and bathed
his face in the same friendly tide. He gazed far up into the leafy trees
and saw the very nooks where boyhood's form had rested; again he saw the
sun gleam on the happy heads of those who gambolled far beneath.

He drank his fill of the long yesterday, thirsty still. No familiar
face, no voice of long ago, had he seen or heard; and he tasted that
unreasoning pain which comes to the man who knows, and is wounded by
the truth, that his native heath is reconciled to his exile, careless
of his loneliness, indifferent to bid it cease.

When he returned to the hospitable inn, he was as one seeking rest, and
finding none. He sat, reflective, while memory bathed the soul of love
with tears. Presently the sound of voices floated out from an adjoining
room. He listened eagerly, for one was evidently the voice of a returned
wanderer like himself. The other was that of a man who had never
wandered from his native spot. The home-keeper's tongue had still its
mother-Scotch, but his companion had been cured.

"I know I shouldn't do it, Gavin," he heard the latter say, "I'm really
a teetotaler in Australia. Used to take a drop or two before I
emigrated; but I'm an elder now, and I haven't tasted for years. However
this is a special occasion."

Mr. Blake moved his chair to where he could catch a glimpse of the men.
They were advanced in years, both about sixty-five, and their heads were
gray. Their dress betokened plainness of nature, though that of the
Australian might indicate prosperity. Both would seem uncultured, except
in heart.

"A speecial occasion!" cried the one addressed as Gavin, "a speecial
occasion! I should say it is--verra speecial! It's twa an' forty years
sin we claspit ane anither's hand--man, Andra, friendship's sweet, an'
God's guid! It wad be fair sinfu' no' ta tak a drop at sic a time as
this. The minister himsel' wad taste, gin an auld schulemate came back
after forty year. Sae wad the Apostle Paul--the stomach's sake was
naethin' compared wi' this. What'll ye hae, Andra?"

"Let this be mine, Gavin," answered Andrew, reaching for his pocketbook.
When it appeared, it was fat and full, and Gavin stole a wistful glance;
for, in Scotland, colonial pocketbooks are proverbially plump. "What
shall it be?" he added.

"Whatever ye say, Andra," answered Gavin. He glanced again at the
disappearing purse and heaved a little sigh. Patriotism is not good for
pocketbooks, thought Gavin.

"Well," said his old schoolmate, holding a sovereign between his thumb
and finger as fondly as though he had lived in Scotland all his life;
"well," said he, "I say champagne--here, waiter!"

But Gavin interrupted: "Na, na, Andra, dinna get champagne. I took it
ance when the young Duke came o' age, an' I cudna hae tell't I had
onything, half an hour later. I dinna care for ony o' thae _aeryated_
waters. Forbye, it's awfu' dear, an' we can hae far mair o' the ither,"
he concluded, smiling tenderly at Andrew.

"The other" was produced; and it justified the trust reposed in it. Well
it knew its duty, and well it played its part; for it burnished memory
bright, stirred emotion from its hiding place, and even led tears out by
long deserted paths.

The lonely man in the outer room watched, and envied, and secretly
absolved his brother elder--the latter was giving abundant proof of his
freedom from all narrow bigotry. Like himself, his old prowess had come
back. He was confidential now:

"She wouldn't have me, Gavin. I told her I was rich, and that I loved
her ever since I left. But she wouldn't listen to me. Then I told her I
owned ten thousand sheep, and that I dreamed about her every night. But
it never moved her. I told her I had twenty thousand pounds in the bank,
and her picture next my heart besides--but she wouldn't. She said she
was promised to another. Did you ever hear of Janet Strachan caring for
any one else?"

"Na," said Gavin, absently, "she'll no' hae nocht to dae wi' onybody in
the way o' love--hae anither, Andra. Dinna droon the miller. Wad we no'
hae been fules to tak champagne? It wad hae been a' dune by noo."

Then Gavin stood erect, motioning to Andrew to do the same. Andrew rose;
one on each side of the little table they stood, a glass in the left
hand of each, for they were about to enact one of Scotland's great
scenes. Far scattered are her sons, but they have the homing heart, and
unforgetting cronies wait to welcome them.

Gavin's hand is outstretched and Andrew's goes forth to meet it. They
clasp, the same hands as fought and played together in the golden
boyhood days.

"Andra," said Gavin, "I'll repeat to you the twa best lines o' rhyme i'
the language: An' div ye ken hoo true they are?

    "'We twa hae paidl't i' the burn
        Frae mornin' sun till dine'

--mind ye that, we twa hae paidl't i' the burn--an' it's flowin' yet,
an' God's gey guid--here's to ye, Andra," and the men drank together,
the elder and the unordained, but the past was sacred to them both--and
childhood's tears came back to make that past complete.

About an hour later, Andrew and Gavin passed out through the adjoining
room. They came upon Mr. Blake, whereupon they immediately sat down,
neither being in the mood for walking far. Both greeted him with warmth,
and invited him to try for himself the process which they had undergone
in the adjoining room. Mr. Blake gratefully declined.

"Ye'll have travelled far?" said Gavin, avoiding the direct
interrogative.

"A long way, indeed," said Mr. Blake.

"Come from America, stranger?" said Andrew.

"Yes, from Canada."

"Shake, I'm a fellow colonial--I'm from Australia--delightful this, to
come back to the old homestead and meet a brother you never saw before."

"Maist wonderfu', is't no'?" interjected Gavin--then the
responsibilities of a host began to weigh upon him, and he urged Mr.
Blake to reconsider his decision about the process; but Mr. Blake was
firm.

"I ken't fine there was somebody frae Ameriky i' these pairts," said
Gavin. "Brownie Telfer tell't me there was a saxpence i' the plate last
Sabbath day. It'll be yir ain?"

"No, I'm afraid I cannot claim it," said Mr. Blake. "I only landed
yesterday."

"Ye'll be rinnin' aboot at a graun rate," said Gavin, trying a new vein;
"came ower a sicht seein', did ye?"

"No," said Mr. Blake, "not particularly."

"Took a little run over on business, I suppose?" amended the Australian.

"Yes," assented Mr. Blake.

"You said you were born in Scotland; have you any old friends still
about? Kind of lonely business if you haven't," continued Andrew.

"I really cannot say I have," said Mr. Blake, moving towards the door.
"I'm a fish out of its accustomed waters, even in its old
hunting-ground, if you will excuse mixed metaphors. Good-evening to you
both; I'm glad to have met with you."

"Good-evening to you," cried the men.

The Canadian was gone, but the two old cronies sat smoking; and the
twilight, that great gleaner of the past, crept about them, bringing
tender memories that mistrusted the garish day. In the very midst of
them, Gavin said:

"What did the cratur mean when he spoke aboot 'mixed metaphors'? I never
heard tell o' them before."

"I'm not very sure," answered Andrew, cautiously; "he must have meant
something."

"'Mixed metaphors,'" mused Gavin, "an' the body wadna tak onythin';
it'll be somethin' they tak in Ameriky--I'll ask Ronnie."

Now Ronnie was the bartender!

XXX

_LOVE'S VICTORY OVER SIN_

The curtain of the night had fallen--and human souls were on their
trial; for human life is then behind the scenes, and the candour of its
purity or shame comes with the shelter of the falling night. In their
noblest acts, and in their basest deeds, men are aided by the impartial
dark. Both alike she screens, though with fickle folds, retreating when
she hears the first footfall of the dawn; then is every man's work made
manifest of what sort it is--and the great judgment day shall be but
relentless light.

The landscape no longer glimmered on the sight when Michael Blake set
out from the little inn, his heart burning with fear. And hope heaped
fuel on the flame, for fear would die if it were not for hope. He walked
on beneath the stately elms, their far-spread branches whispering as he
passed, for they knew well his step, and wondered that it hurried so. He
paused at the spring and drank again, but his thirst was still
unquenched.

He looked about him at the holy night; and surging shame flooded neck
and face with crimson. For it had been thus and there, amid the
sanctities of the night, and by their trysting-place, that the soul's
great wound was made, the blood oozing ever since, oozing still. Memory,
ermine-robed, half enchantress and half avenger, turned her face full on
his as he sat by the spring; but he turned his own away and started on,
ever on.

"Oh, my God! Give me a chance," he cried, "give me a chance," and the
darkness answered not, but the whispering trees seemed to have the
woman-voice.

He sees the light now; it is the harbour light, and Michael Blake
presses swiftly on, his heart upbraiding the laggard feet.

He stands now before the door, but that same heart, strangely wavering,
refuses to go in. The hour has struck for Michael Blake, the hour for
which his soul has waited long; but strange forces seek to hold him
back. The chiefest of these is fear; he feels he is hurrying his
judgment day, and when God would punish men, thinks he, He endows them
with deep and burning love--for otherwise He cannot speak to them in the
eternal tongue. The trembling man turns as if to go back.

"It is too light," he murmured, "still too light," for the memory of
another night has arisen upon him with judgment in its wings.

As he moves noiselessly from the door-step, he pauses by the window. It
is partly open, for the night is mild. A woman's figure moves before it,
so close that he could almost touch--and his arms go out unbidden, God's
retrievers, though they knew it not. He controls himself, and steps back
a pace, for she has passed to the other side of the room. Beside an old
chest of drawers she kneels, and his heart burns with eager passion as
he beholds the beauty of her face. Time, and sorrow, and God, have
worked together. Unto them all she hath submitted, and they have held to
their holy task till the beauty of peace rewards their secret toil.

She is lifting something from the drawer and the light falls upon it.
Another, and still another, she takes up in her gentle hands, smiling
down on them the while--they are a child's outgrown possessions, bits of
clothing some, and some, broken toys, such as mothers take into their
immortal keeping when children have spurned them from their own.

And what is that, shining bright, held longer than the others, still
smiling down upon it, her bosom heaving more heavily than before? He
knows, he knows--it is a little brooch, so little, but of gold, given
her long ago in the first glad sacrifice of love. She kisses it, and the
tears fall fast upon it, the lovely face suffused. It is tenderly
restored to its hiding-place, and the graceful form is full-bowed now.

He can see the white clasped hands, and the movement of the pure lips he
also sees. The words he cannot catch--for God is close, and the voice is
low. But the fragrance of prayer steals out to him, and the Interpreter,
once called the Man of Sorrows, tells him for whom she prays. "Make me
worthy, oh, God," he cries, his heart melted within him. Again he turns
to the door, and this time he falters not, but knocks. In a moment it is
opened.

"Guid evenin' sir," said the woman's voice. "I canna see ye for the
dark; is it some one I ken?" for wayfarers often sought guidance at her
door.

"No, I fear you do not know me," the man responded, "and I crave your
pardon for thus disturbing you. I have travelled far."

"Will ye come in? Or is there something I can do?"

"No, thank you," said the man; "I have travelled far and am thirsty. I
seek but a draught of water, and I shall go on my way."

"I'll sune gie ye that," replied the woman's cheery voice, "but what's
here is mebbe raither warm. Bide ye here till I rin doon to the spring."

The sweet face gleamed in the candle-light as she turned within, picking
up a light plaid shawl, so strong is habit, which she threw across her
shoulders. The tall gracious form was gone a moment, one darksome
moment, returning instantly, a pitcher in her hand. Down the steps she
tripped, and out into the night, her white gown mingling with the
darkness.

Michael Blake stealthily followed her, his heart in wild tumult again.
Her pace was swift and he found it difficult to keep the path. But again
he saw the flutter of white before him, and he knew that it was Janet,
none other, the same whom he had held so close in other days. He ran a
little, panting as he ran, his thirst a torment now--for the chase was
of the soul. He is not far from her.

"Janet," he cried.

She stopped and stood still, as a deer stops when it hears the hunter's
voice.

He was closer now, and again he cried: "Janet, oh, Janet, wait for me."

Her pitcher was thrown upon the sward and she came back a little way,
eye and heart and bosom calling to each other through the storm.

"Wha's callin' me?" she cried, her voice bleating like a lamb's.

"Oh, Janet, you know who's calling you--I have called you long," and
holy passion burned in the voice that spoke, leaped from the face that
came closer, still closer, to her own.

The white figure swayed in the darkness. Then the night glowed about her
like the noon, and the strong arms held her close, and time and sorrow
and God all gave her up ungrudgingly to the bliss they had planned
together; for in secret had they bedecked her as a bride adorned for her
husband.

It was long after, how long may not be told, for God would let no angel
mark the time; but the dark still was brooding, and the trees whispering
still, when he said: "To-morrow, Janet--all the years have made us
ready--yet not to-morrow, for it is to-day--to-day, please God."

She came closer, closer to him still, for hers had been an unsheltered
life, and the warmth was strangely sweet.

"Let us go to the spring, dear heart. Let us be children again."
Together they went on, these pilgrims of the night. While they were
going the day began to break. "The night is far spent," he heard her
whisper joyously.

They knelt together, nor thought it strange--for the youthful heart of
love was theirs again; and they drank from the unsleeping spring,
smiling back at them as their lips kissed its face together. The same
spring, the same lips--but purer both!

And as they stooped, two faces from the bosom of the water rose again to
meet them. Each of the lovers saw but one, for each saw the other's
face. And lo! each was the face of happy youth, the light of love
within its eyes, unchanged by years, except for a graver innocence. But
each saw the face that had looked up and smiled in the years so long
gone by.

The scientist and the philosopher and the deeply-learned in nature's
laws will read of this with generous disdain; but they forget that this
spring had its charter right from God, and was fed from other fountains
farther up the hill. Besides, optics is God's own science--and this was
the morning light.

XXXI

_LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER ALL_

All things were in readiness, and the people of St. Cuthbert's were
awaiting the Sabbath day with eager souls. For it was the Sabbath of the
sacrament, dispensed but twice a year, according to the custom of their
fathers. I myself looked forward to this communion with a kindling
heart, for I knew its healing grace; and this was the first dispensation
since the shadow of that ordination day had fallen on our church's life.

The morning came, radiant in its robe of early spring, and we knew that
a great multitude would throng St. Cuthbert's. For the aged and long
imprisoned, denied the regular services of the kirk, would yet venture
forth to show the Lord's death once again, some to drink that cup no
more till they should drink it new in their Father's kingdom.

Down the aisle would they come, leaning heavily upon the staff--but they
knew their accustomed places, the places which were so soon to know them
no more forever; when the service was over, they would retrace their
steps to the door of the now deserted church, and backward turning,
would cast one longing, lingering look behind, then set their peaceful
faces towards their home, the long rough journey near its end at last.

The elders, including the four recently added to their number, met as
usual, for preparatory prayer. More than ordinary tenderness seemed to
mark their petitions, for their hearts were with the absent; and the
senior elder thrilled us when he prayed for "him whom we had hoped to
begin his ministry this day, and for Thy servant who was wont in the
days that are past to serve with us before Thine altar."

As I walked into the pulpit, I caught a glimpse of Margaret's face, and
never have I seen sweeter peace than rested upon it. Her eyes reposed on
the snowy cloth that hid the emblems of a greater sacrifice, and she
knew, as few could know, the deep sacramental joy.

But hardly had my heart warmed at sight of her before sorrow chilled its
ardour; for right opposite Margaret's pew was that of Michael Blake--and
its emptiness smote my heart with pain. Not there, nor in his rightful
place among the elders, was my old-time friend. Where, I could not help
but wonder, where to-day is the unhappy man who has cast his ministry
behind him? And bitter memories of varied verdicts flitted before me as
I went up the pulpit steps.

We had begun the psalm, and were in the midst of the line--never can I
forget it:

    "As far as east is distant from
     The west, so far hath he"

when I noticed the volume of song become gradually less, and a nameless
sense of discomfort possessed me.

I looked up, and could scarce restrain a cry.

For I saw the face of Michael Blake--and he was walking down the
aisle---- And that other, who is that? For beside him is a woman's
comely form, her sweet face lowly bent as though it would be hidden, the
light of purity mingling with the conscious flame.

Upon Mr. Blake's face is the humble chastened look of one whom God has
touched--in the hollow of his thigh, mayhap--and the limp may be seen of
all men to the last. But pride is there too, the solemn pride of one who
has wrestled and prevailed, to go henceforth forever halting, but
forever heavenward.

Down the aisle, the same aisle by which he had departed from us, they
walked together, while wondering faces drank in the meaning of it all,
joy breaking forth upon them like the sun when darkening clouds have
gone.

He leads her to his old-time pew, and she takes the place that is
henceforth to be her own. The singing has stopped, save those silent
strains with which God is well pleased, the same as angels echo round
the throne.

It was hard for me to proceed with the service, for I knew that God
Himself had spoken. The sacred bush was in flame before us as in the
olden time, and the place whereon we stood was holy ground. The portion
I had chosen for the reading was from 1 Corinthians, the apostle's great
eulogy on love; and my voice faltered as I read some of its wondrous
words.

Before I had finished it, my resolve was taken. I came down from the
pulpit and stood before it, the elders all about me.

"Let us have our unbroken number," I began; "the kirk session is
constituted, and I call upon such as have been chosen to serve within
it, to come forward and assume the holy office. After this, the
sacrament of forgiving love will be dispensed."

I paused--and no one of all the multitude seemed to breathe. But a
moment passed, and then a sound broke the stillness. It was the sound of
moving feet, and the elder-elect arose and came slowly forward, his head
bowed as he came.

"Kneel down, Angus," I said, softly. He kneeled, and I had almost begun,
my hands outstretched above his head. He raised his face to mine,
lowered to meet it. A moment told me what he wished to say.

"Stand up," I whispered.

When he had risen, I said aloud: "Angus Strachan, ordained already, I
give you the right hand of fellowship into the eldership of St.
Cuthbert's church. The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His
face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift the
light of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."

Again I raised my voice as I faced the worshippers.

"I extend yet another invitation in my Master's name. I call upon any
who may be among us, once serving in the eldership of this church, to
come forward and aid us to dispense the pledges of forgiving love to
other sinful men."

I waited, but there was no response. One sat with bowed head, his hand
held in the gentle keeping of another's. The moments passed, but still
silence reigned.

"Come awa', man,"--it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from among
the elders--"come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye--we're a'
here o' the Saviour's grace alane."

Michael Blake moved slightly, but his head was lower bowed.

"Gang forrit, Michael, gang forrit to the table He's been gey guid to
us baith--an' oor Angus wants ye," whispered the woman beside him.

Then he came; and, as he walked to the table, the meaning of God's
pardoning love seemed borne in upon us as it had never been before.

He had hardly taken his seat beside us when we heard a faint rustling
sound, some one moving. I turned my head, and saw Margaret, her face
lovely through its tears, slip into the empty place and take in her own
the hand that had been just released. Burning hot it was, but she held